sk.petsematary-第96部分

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　him。　Gage　fell　awkwardly；　and　Louis　was　on　him　before　he　could　get　up；　straddling　him；　one　knee　pinning　the　hand　which　held　the　scalpel。
　　〃No；〃　the　thing　under　him　panted。　Its　face　twisted　and　writhed。　Its　eyes　were　baleful；　insectile　in　their　stupid　hate。　〃No；　no；　no…〃
　　Louis　clawed　for　one　of　the　hypos；　got　it　out。　He　would　have　to　be　quick。　The　thing　under　him　was　like　a　greased　fish　and　it　would　not　let　go　of　the　scalpel　no　matter　how　hard　he　bore　down　on　its　wrist。　And　its　face　seemed　to　ripple　and　change　even　as　he　looked　at　it。　It　was　Jud's　face；　dead　and　staring；　it　was　the　dented；　ruined　face　of　Victor　Pascow；　eyes　rolling　mindlessly；　it　was；　mirrorlike；　Louis's　own；　so　dreadfully　pale　and　lunatic。　Then　it　changed　again　and　became　the　face　of　that　creature　in　the　woods…the　low　brow；　the　dead　yellow　eyes；　the　tongue　long　and　pointed　and　bifurcated；　grinning　and　hissing。
　　〃No；　no；　no…no…no…〃
　　It　bucked　beneath　him。　The　hypo　flew　out　of　Louis's　hand　and　rolled　a　short　way　down　the　hail。　He　groped　for　another；　brought　it　out；　and　jammed　it　straight　down　into　the　small　of　Gage's　back。
　　It　screamed　beneath　him；　body　straining　and　sunfishing；　nearly　throwing　him　off。　Grunting；　Louis　got　the　third　syringe　and　jammed　this　one　home　in　Gage's　arm；　depressing　the　plunger　all　the　way。　He　got　off　then　and　began　to　back　slowly　down　the　hallway。　Cage　got　slowly　to　his　feet　and　began　to　stagger　toward　him。　Five　steps　and　the　scalpel　fell　from　its　hand。　It　struck　the　floor　blade　first　and　stuck　itself　in　the　wood；　quivering。　Ten　steps　and　that　strange　yellow　light　in　its　eyes　began　to　fade。　A　dozen　and　it　fell　to　its　knees。
　　Now　Cage　looked　up　at　him　and　for　a　moment　Louis　saw　his　son…his　real　son…his　face　unhappy　and　filled　with　pain。
　　〃Daddy！〃　he　cried；　and　then　fell　forward　on　his　face。
　　Louis　stood　there　for　a　moment；　then　went　to　Gage；　moving　carefully；　expecting　some　trick。　But　there　was　no　trick；　no　sudden　leap　with　clawed　hands。　He　slid　his　fingers　expertly　down　Gage's　throat；　found　the　pulse；　and　held　it。　He　was　then　a　doctor　for　the　last　time　in　his　life；　monitoring　the　pulse；　monitoring　until　there　was　nothing；　nothing　inside；　nothing　outside。
　　When　it　was　gone　at　last；　Louis　got　up　and　sauntered　down　the　hail　to　a　far　corner。　He　crouched　there；　pulling　himself　into　a　ball；　cramming　himself　into　the　corner；　tighter　and　tighter。　He　found　he　could　make　himself　smaller　if　he　put　a　thumb　in　his　mouth　and　so　he　did　that。
　　He　remained　that　way　for　better　than　two　hours。　。　。　and　then；　little　by　little；　a　dark　and　oh…so…plausible　idea　came　to　him。　He　pulled　his　thumb　from　his　mouth。　It　made　a　small　pop。　Louis　got　himself
　　（hey…ho　let's　go）
　　going　again。
　　In　the　room　where　Gage　had　hidden；　he　stripped　the　sheet　from　the　bed　and　took　it　out　into　the　hail。　He　wrapped　his　wife's　body　in　it；　gently；　with　love。　He　was　humming　but　did　not　realize　it。
　　He　found　gasoline　in　Jud's　garage。　Five　gallons　of　it　in　a　red　can　next　to　the　Lawnboy。　More　than　enough。　He　began　in　the　kitchen　where　Jud　still　lay　under　the　Thanksgiving　tablecloth。　He　drenched　that；　then　moved　into　the　living　room　with　the　can　still　upended；　spraying　amber　gas　over　the　rug；　the　sofa；　the　magazine　rack；　the　chairs；　and　so　out　into　the　downstairs　hail　and　toward　the　back　bedroom。　The　smell　of　gas　was　strong　and　rich。
　　Jud's　matches　were　by　the　chair　where　he　had　kept　his　fruitless　watch；　on　top　of　his　cigarettes。　Louis　took　them。　At　the　front　door　he　tossed　a　lighted　match　back　over　his　shoulder　and　stepped　out。　The　blast　of　the　heat　was　immediate　and　savage；　making　the　skin　on　his　neck　feel　too　small。　He　shut　the　door　neatly　and　only　stood　on　the　porch　for　a　moment；　watching　the　orange　flickers　behind　Norma's　curtains。　Then　he　crossed　the　porch；　pausing　for　a　moment；　remembering　the　beers　he　and　Jud　had　drunk　here　a　million　years　ago；　listening　to　the　soft；　gathering　roar　of　fire　within　the　house。
　　Then　he　stepped　out。
　　　62
　　Steve　Masterton　came　around　the　curve　just　before　Louis's　house　and　saw　the　smoke　immediately…not　from　Louis's　place；　but　from　the　house　that　belonged　to　the　old　duck　across　the　street。
　　He　had　e　out　this　morning　because　he　had　been　worried　about　Louis…deeply　worried。　Chariton　had　told　him　about　Rachel's　call　of　the　day　before；　and　that　had　set　him　to　wondering　just　where　Louis　was。　。　。　and　what　he　was　up　to。
　　His　worry　was　vague；　but　it　itched　at　his　mind…he　wasn't　going　to　feel　right　until　he　had　gone　out　there　and　checked　to　see　if　things　were　okay。　。　。　or　as　okay　as　they　could　be　under　the　circumstances。
　　The　spring　weather　had　emptied　the　infirmary　like　white　magic；　and　Surrendra　had　told　him　to　go　ahead；　he　could　handle　whatever　came　up。　So　Steve　had　jumped　onto　his　Honda；　which　he　had　liberated　from　the　garage　only　last　weekend；　and　headed　out　for　Ludlow。　Maybe　he　pushed　the　cycle　a　little　faster　than　was　strictly　necessary；　but　the　worry　was　there；　it　gnawed。　And　with　it　came　the　absurd　feeling　that　he　was　already　too　late。　Stupid；　of　course；　but　in　the　pit　of　his　stomach　there　was　a　feeling　similar　to　the　one　he'd　had　there　last　fall　when　that　Pascow　thing　cropped　up…a　feeling　of　miserable　surprise　and　almost　leaden　disillusion。　He　was　by　no　means　a　religious　man　（in　college　Steve　had　been　a　member　of　the　Atheist's　Society　for　two　semesters　and　had　dropped　out　only　when　his　advisor　had　told　him…privately　and　very　much　off　the　record…that　it　might　hurt　his　chances　to　obtain　a　med　school　scholarship　later　on）；　but　he　supposed　he　fell　as　much　heir　to　whatever　biological　or　biorhythmic　conditions　passed　for　premonitions　as　any　other　human　being；　and　the　death　of　Pascow　had　seemed　to　set　a　tone　for　the　year　which　followed；　somehow。　Not　a　good　year　by　any　means。　Two　of　Surrendra's　relatives　had　been　clapped　in　jail　back　home；　some　political　thing；　and　Surrendra　had　told　him　that　he　believed　one　of　them…an　uncle　he　cared　for　very　much…might　well　now　be　dead。　Surrendra　had　wept；　and　the　tears　from　the　usually　benign　Indian　had　frightened　Steve。　And　Charlton's　mother　had　had　a　radical　mastectomy。　The　tough　nurse　was　not　very　optimistic　about　her　mother's　chances　for　joining　the　Five…Year　Club。　Steve　himself　had　attended　four　funerals　since　the　death　of　Victor　Pascow…his　wife's　sister；　killed　in　a　car　crash；　a　cousin；　killed　in　a　freak　accident　as　the　result　of　a　barroom　bet　（he　had　been　electrocuted　while　proving　he　could　shinny　all　the　way　to　the　top　of　a　power　pole）；　a　grandparent；　and　of　course　Louis's　little　boy。
　　He　liked　Louis　enormously；　and　he　wanted　to　make　sure　Louis　was　all　right。　Louis　had　been　through　hell　lately。
　　When　he　saw　the　billows　of　smoke；　his　first　thought　was　that　this　was　something　else　to　lay　at　the　door　of　Victor　Pascow；　who　seemed；　in　his　dying；　to　have　removed　some　sort　of　crash　barrier　between　these　ordinary　people　and　an　extraordinary　run　of　bad　luck。　But　that　was　stupid；　and　Louis's　house　was　the　proof。　It　stood　calm　and　white；　a　little　piece　of　clean…limbed　New　England　architecture　in　the　midmorning　sun。
　　People　were　running　toward　the　old　duck's　house；　and　as　Steve　banked　his　bike　across　the　road　and　pulled　into　Louis's　driveway；　he　saw　a　man　dash　up　onto　the　old　duck's　porch；　approach　the　front　door；　and　then　retreat。　It　was　well　that　he　did；　a　moment　later　the　glass　pane　in　the　center　of　the　door　blew　out；　and　flames　boiled　through　the　opening。　If　the　fool　actually　had　gotten　the　door　open；　the　blowout　would　have　cooked　him　like　a　lobster。
　　Steve　dismounted　and　put　the　Honda　on　its　kickstand；　Louis　momentarily　forgotten。　He　was　drawn　by　all　the　old　mystery　of　fire。　Maybe　half　a　dozen　people　had　gathered；　except　for　the　would…be　hero；　who　lingered　on　the　Crandalls'　lawn；　they　kept　a　respectful　distance。　Now　the　windows　between　the　porch　and　the　house　blew　out。　Glass　danced　in　the　air。　The　would…be　hero　ducked　and　ran　for　it。　Flames　ran　up　the　inner　wail　of　the　porch　like　groping　hands；　blistering　the　white　paint。　As　Steve　watched；　one　of　the　rattan　easy　chairs　smouldered　and　then　exploded　into　flame。
　　Over　the　crackling　sounds；　he　heard　the　would…be　hero　cry　out　with　a　shrill　and　absurd　sort　of　optimism：　〃Gonna　lose　her！　Gon