sk.dreamcatcher-第123部分

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　　　　'Maybe　not　there　at　all？'
　　　　'Oh；　something's　there；'　Perlmutter　said。　'It's　like　a　black　hole。'　Dreamily；　he　said：　'I　hear　so　many　voices。　They're　already　sending　in　the　reinforcements　。　。　。'
　　　　As　if　Perlmutter　had　conjured　it；　the　biggest　convoy　Kurtz　had　seen　in　twenty　years　appeared　in　the　northbound　lanes　of　1…95。　First　came　two　enormous　plows；　as　big　as　elephants；　running　side　by　side　with　their　clifflike　blades　spurning　up　snow　on　either　side；　baring　both　lanes　all　the　way　down　to　the　pavement。　Behind　them；　a　pair　of　sand…trucks；　also　running　in　tandem。　And　behind　the　sand…trucks；　a　double　line　of　Army　vehicles　and　heavy　ordnance。　Kurtz　saw　shrouded　shapes　on　flatbed　haulers　and　knew　they　could　only　be　missiles。　Other　flatbeds　held　radar　dishes；　range…finders；　God　knew　what　else。　Interspersed　among　them　were　big　canvasback　troop…carriers；　their　headlamps　glaring　in　the　brightening　daylight。　Not　hundreds　of　men　but　thousands；　prepared　for　God　knew　what　World　War　Three；　hand…to…hand　bat　with　two…headed　creatures　or　maybe　the　intelligent　bugs　from　Starship　Troopers；　plague；　madness；　death；　doomsday。　If　any　of　Katie　Gallagher's　Imperial　Valleys　were　still　operating　up　there；　Kurtz　hoped　they　would　soon　cease　what　they　were　doing　and　head　for　Canada。　Raising　their　hands　in　the　air　and　calling　out　Il　n'y　a　pas　d'infection　ici　wouldn't　do　them　any　good；　certainly；　that　ploy　had　already　been　tried。　And　it　was　all　so　meaningless。　In　his　heart　of　hearts；　Kurtz　knew　Owen　had　been　right　about　at　least　one　thing：　it　was　over　up　there。　They　could　shut　the　barn　door；　praise　God；　but　the　horse　had　been　stolen。
　　　　'They're　going　to　close　it　down　for　good；'　Perlmutter　said。　'The　Jefferson　Tract　just　became　the　fifty…first　state。　And　it's　a　police　state。'
　　　　'You　can　still　key　on　Owen？'
　　　　'Yes；'　Perlmutter　said　absently。　'But　not　for　long。　He's　getting　better；　too。　Losing　the　telepathy。'
　　　　'Where　is　he；　buck？'
　　　　'They　just　passed　Exit　25。　They　might　have　fifteen　miles　on　us。　Not　much　more。'
　　　　'Want　me　to　punch　it　a　little？'　Freddy　asked。
　　　　They　had　lost　their　chance　to　head　Owen　off　because　of　the　goddam　semi。　The　last　thing　in　the　world　Kurtz　wanted　was　to　lose　another　chance　by　skidding　off　the　road。
　　　　'Negative；'　Kurtz　said。　'For　the　time　being；　I　think　we'll　just　lay　back　and　let　em　run。'　He　crossed　his　arms　and　looked　out　at　the　linen…white　world　passing　by。　But　now　the　snow　had　stopped；　and　as　they　continued　south；　road　conditions　would　doubtless　improve。
　　　　It　had　been　an　eventful　twenty…four　hours。　He　had　blown　up　an　alien　spacecraft；　been　betrayed　by　the　man　he　had　regarded　as　his　logical　successor；　had　survived　a　mutiny　and　a　civilian　riot；　and　to　top　it　all　off；　he　had　been　relieved　of　his　mand　by　a　sunshine　soldier　who　had　never　heard　a　shot　fired　in　anger。　Kurtz's　eyes　slipped　shut。　After　a　few　moments；　he　dozed。


18

Jonesy　sat　moodily　behind　his　desk　for　quite　awhile；　sometimes　looking　at　the　phone　which　no　longer　worked；　sometimes　at　the　dreamcatcher　which　hung　from　the　ceiling　（it　wafted　in　some　barely　felt　air…current）；　sometimes　at　the　new　steel　shutters　with　which　that　bastard　Gray　had　blocked　his　vision。　And　always　that　low　rumble；　both　in　his　ears　and　shivering　his　buttocks　as　he　sat　in　his　chair。　It　could　have　been　a　rather　noisy　furnace；　one　in　need　of　servicing；　but　it　wasn't。　It　was　the　plow；　beating　its　way　south　and　south　and　south。　Mr　Gray　behind　the　wheel；　likely　wearing　a　DPW　cap　stolen　from　his　most　recent　victim；　horsing　the　plow　along；　working　the　wheel　with　Jonesy's　muscles；　listening　to　developments　on　the　plow's　CB　with　Jonesy's　ears。
　　　　So；　Jonesy；　how　long　you　going　to　sit　here　feeling　sorry　for　yourself？
　　　　Jonesy；　who　had　been　slumping　in　his　seat　…　almost　dozing；　in　fact　…　straightened　up　at　that。　Henry's　voice。　Not　arriving　telepathically　…　there　were　no　voices　now；　Mr　Gray　had　blocked　all　but　his　own　…　but；　rather；　coining　from　his　own　mind。　Nonetheless；　it　stung　him。
　　　　I'm　not　feeling　sorry　for　myself；　I'm　blocked　off！　Not　liking　the　sulky；　defensive　quality　of　the　thought；　vocalized；　it　would　no　doubt　have　e　out　as　a　whine。　Can't　fall　out；　can't　see　out；　can't　go　out；　I　don't　know　where　you　are；　Henry；　but　I'm　in　a　goddam　isolation　booth。
　　　　Did　he　steal　your　brains？
　　　　'Shut　up。'　Jonesy　rubbed　at　his　temple。
　　　　Did　he　take　your　memories？
　　　　No。　Of　course　not。　Even　in　here；　with　a　double…locked　door　between　him　and　those　billions　of　labeled　cartons；　he　could　recall　wiping　a　booger　on　the　end　of　Bonnie　Deal's　braid　in　first　grade　（and　then　asking　that　same　Bonnie　to　dance　at　the　seventh…grade　Harvest　Hop　six　years　later）；　watching　carefully　as　Lamar　Clarendon　taught　them　to　play　the　game　（known　as　cribbage　to　the　low　and　the　uninitiated）；　seeing　Rick　McCarthy　e　out　of　the　woods　and　thinking　he　was　a　deer。　He　could　remember　all　those　things。　There　might　be　an　advantage　in　that；　but　Jonesy　was　damned　if　he　knew　what　it　was。　Maybe　because　it　was　too　big；　too　obvious。
　　　　To　be　stuck　like　this　after　all　the　mysteries　you've　read；　his　mind's　version　of　Henry　taunted　him。　Not　to　mention　all　those　science…fiction　movies　where　the　aliens　arrive；　everything　from　The　Day　the　Earth　Stood　Still　to　The　Attack　of　the　Killer　Tomatoes。　All　of　that　and　you　still　can't　figure　this　guy　out？　Can't　follow　his　smoke　down　from　the　sky　and　see　where　he's　camped？
　　　　Jonesy　rubbed　harder　at　his　temple。　This　wasn't　ESP；　it　was　his　own　mind；　and　why　couldn't　he　shut　it　up？　He　was　fucking　trapped；　so　what　difference　did　it　make；　anyway？　He　was　a　motor　without　a　transmission；　a　cart　without　a　horse；　he　was　Donovan's　Brain；　kept　alive　in　a　tank　of　cloudy　fluid　and　dreaming　useless　dreams。
　　　　What　does　he　want？　Start　there。
　　　　Jonesy　looked　up　at　the　dreamcatcher；　dancing　in　the　vague　currents　of　warm　air。　Felt　the　rumble　of　the　plow；　strong　enough　to　vibrate　the　pictures　on　the　walls。　Tina　Jean　Schlossinger；　that　had　been　her　name；　and　supposedly　there　had　been　a　picture　of　her　in　here；　a　picture　of　her　holding　her　skirt　up　so　you　could　see　her　pussy；　and　how　many　adolescent　boys　had　been　caught　by　such　a　dream？
　　　　Jonesy　got　up　…　almost　leaped　up　…　and　began　to　pace　around　the　office；　limping　only　a　little。　The　storm　was　over；　and　his　hip　hurt　a　bit　less　now。
　　　　Think　like　Hercule　Poirot；　he　told　himself　Exercise　those　little　gray　cells。　Never　mind　your　memories　for　the　time　being；　think　about　Mr　Gray。　Think　logically。　What　does　he　want？
　　　　Jonesy　stopped。　What　Gray　wanted　was　obvious；　really。　He　had　gone　to　the　Standpipe　…　where　the　Standpipe　had　been；　anyway　because　he　wanted　water。　Not　just　any　water；　drinking　water。　But　the　Standpipe　was　gone；　destroyed　in　the　big　blow　of　'85　…　ha；　ha；　Mr　Gray；　gotcha　last　…　and　Derry's　current　water　supply　was　north　and　east；　probably　not　reachable　because　of　the　storm；　and　not　concentrated　in　one　place；　anyway。　So　Mr　Gray　had；　after　consulting　Jonesy's　available　store　of　knowledge；　turned　south　again。　Toward…
　　　　Suddenly　it　was　all　clear。　The　strength　ran　out　of　his　legs　and　he　collapsed　to　the　carpeted　floor；　ignoring　the　flare　of　pain　in　his　hip。
　　　　The　dog。　Lad。　Did　he　still　have　the　dog？
　　　　'Of　course　he　does；'　Jonesy　whispered。　'Of　course　the　son　of　a　bitch　does；　I　can　smell　him　even　in　here。　Fartin　just　like　McCarthy。'
　　　　This　world　was　inimical　to　the　byrus；　and　this　world's　inhabitants　fought　with　a　surprising　vigor　which　arose　from　deep　wells　of　emotion。　Bad　luck。　But　now　the　last　surviving　grayboy　had　had　an　unbroken　chain　of　good　luck；　he　was　like　some　daffy　in…the…zone　Vegas　crapshooter　rolling　a　string　of　sevens：　four；　six；　eight；　oh　goddam；　a　dozen　in　a　row。　He　had　found　Jonesy；　his　Typhoid　Mary；　had　invaded　him　and　conquered　him。　He　had　found　Pete；　who　had　gotten　him　where　he　wanted　to　go　after　the　flashlight　the　kim　…　had　given　out。　Next；　Andy　Janas；　the　Minnesota　boy。　He　had　been　hauling　the　corpses　of　two　deer　killed　by　the　Ripley。　The　deer　had　been　useless　to　Mr　Gray　。　。　。　but　Janas　had　also　been　hauling　the　deposing　body　of　one　of　the　aliens。
　　　　Fruiting　bodies；　Jonesy　thought　randomly。　Fruiting　bodies；　what's　that　from？
　　　　No　matter。　Because　Mr　Gray's　next　seven　had　been　the　Dodge　Ram；　old　Mr　I