sk.dreamcatcher-第59部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


his　goofy　old　leather　jacket；　Beaver　taking　Duddits's　lunchbox　and　saying　You　like　this　show？　But　they　never　change　their　clothes！　And　then　saying…
　　　　'Fuck　me　Freddy；'　Henry　told　the　overgrown　cabin。　'That's　what　he　said；　what　he　always　said。'　Tears　running　from　his　eyes　and　down　his　cheeks。　If　it　was　just　wetness　the　fungus　wanted　and　judging　by　the　jungle　growing　out　of　the　toilet…bowl；　it　liked　wetness　just　fine　…　it　could　land　on　him　and　have　a　feast。
　　　　Henry　didn't　much　care。　He　had　Jonesy's　rifle。　The　fungus　could　start　on　him；　but　he　could　make　sure　that　he　was　long　gone　before　it　ever　got　to　the　dessert　course。　If　it　came　to　that。
　　　　It　probably　would。


5

He　was　sure　he'd　seen　a　few　rug…remnants　heaped　up　in　one　er　of　the　shed。　Henry　debated　going　out　and　getting　them。　He　could　lay　them　down　on　the　bathroom　floor；　walk　over　them；　and　get　a　better　look　into　the　tub。　But　to　what　purpose？　He　knew　that　was　Beaver；　and　he　had　no　real　desire　to　see　his　old　friend；　author　of　such　witticisms　as　Kiss　my　bender；　being　overgrown　by　red　fungus　as　the　pallid　corpse　in　that　long…ago　medical　offprint　had　been　growing　its　own　colony　of　toadstools。　If　it　might　have　answered　some　of　his　questions　about　what　had　happened；　yes；　perhaps。　But　Henry　didn't　think　that　likely。
　　　　Mostly　what　he　wanted　was　to　get　out　of　here。　The　fungus　was　creepy；　but　there　was　something　else。　An　even　creepier　sensation　that　he　was　not　alone。
　　　　Henry　backed　away　from　the　bathroom　door。　There　was　a　paperback　on　the　dining　table；　a　pattern　of　dancing　devils　with　pitchforks　on　its　cover。　One　of　Jonesy's；　no　doubt；　already　growing　its　own　little　colony　of　crud。
　　　　He　became　aware　of　a　whickering　noise　from　the　west；　one　that　quickly　rose　to　a　thunder。　Helicopters；　and　not　just　one；　this　time。　A　lot。　Big　ones。　They　sounded　as　if　they　were　ing　in　at　rooftop　level；　and　Henry　ducked　without　even　being　aware　of　it。　Images　from　a　dozen　Vietnam　War　movies　filled　his　head　and　he　was　momentarily　sure　that　they　would　open　up　with　their　machine…guns；　spraying　the　house。　Or　maybe　they'd　hose　it　down　with　napalm。
　　　　They　passed　over　without　doing　either；　but　came　close　enough　to　rattle　the　cups　and　dishes　on　the　kitchen　shelves。　Henry　straightened　up　as　the　thunder　began　to　fade；　being　first　a　chatter　and　then　a　harmless　drone。　Perhaps　they　had　gone　off　to　join　the　animal　slaughter　at　the　east　end　of　Jefferson　Tract。　Let　them。　He　was　going　to　get　the　fuck　out　of　here　and…
　　　　And　what？　Exactly　what？
　　　　While　he　was　thinking　this　question　over；　there　was　a　sound　from　one　of　the　two　downstairs　bedrooms。　A　rustling　sound。　This　was　followed　by　a　moment　of　silence；　just　long　enough　for　Henry　to　decide　it　was　his　imagination　pulling　a　little　more　overtime。　Then　there　came　a　series　of　low　clicks　and　chitters；　almost　the　sound　of　a　mechanical　toy　…　a　tin　monkey　or　parrot；　maybe　…　on　the　verge　of　running　down。　Gooseflesh　broke　out　all　over　Henry's　body。　The　spit　dried　up　in　his　mouth。　The　hairs　on　the　back　of　his　neck　began　to　straighten　in　bunches。
　　　　Get　out　of　here；　run！
　　　　Before　he　could　listen　to　that　voice　and　let　it　get　a　hold　on　him；　he　crossed　to　the　bedroom　door　in　big　steps；　unshouldering　the　Garand　as　he　went。　The　adrenaline　dumped　into　his　blood；　and　the　world　stood　forth　brightly。　Selective　perception；　that　unacknowledged　gift　to　the　safe　and　cozy；　fell　away　and　he　saw　every　detail：　the　trail　of　blood　which　ran　from　bedroom　to　bathroom；　a　discarded　slipper；　that　weird　red　mold　growing　on　the　wall　in　the　shape　of　a　handprint。　Then　he　went　through　the　door。
　　　　It　was　on　the　bed；　whatever　it　was；　to　Henry　it　looked　like　a　weasel　or　a　woodchuck　with　its　legs　amputated　and　a　long；　bloody　tail　strung　out　behind　it　like　an　afterbirth。　Only　no　animal　he'd　ever　seen　…　with　the　possible　exception　of　the　moray　eel　at　the　Boston　Seaquarium　…　had　such　disproportionately　large　black　eyes。　And　another　similarity：　when　it　yawned　open　the　rudimentary　line　that　was　its　mouth；　it　revealed　a　nest　of　shocking　fangs；　as　long　and　thin　as　hatpins。
　　　　Behind　it；　pulsing　on　the　blood…soaked　sheet；　were　a　hundred　or　more　orange…and…brown　eggs。　They　were　the　size　of　large　marbles　and　coated　with　a　murky；　snotlike　slime。　Within　each　Henry　could　see　a　moving；　hairlike　shadow。
　　　　The　weasel…thing　rose　up　like　a　snake　emerging　from　a　snake…charmer's　basket　and　chittered　at　him。　It　lurched　on　the　bed　Jonesy's　bed　…　but　seemed　unable　to　move　much。　Its　glossy　black　eyes　glared。　Its　tail　（except　Henry　thought　it　might　actually　be　some　sort　of　gripping　tentacle）　lashed　back　and　forth；　then　laid　itself　over　as　many　of　the　eggs　as　it　could　reach；　as　if　protecting　them。
　　　　Henry　realized　he　was　saying　the　same　word；　no；　over　and　over　in　a　monotonous　drone；　like　a　helpless　neurotic　who　has　been　loaded　up　on　Thorazine。　He　shouldered　the　rifle；　aimed；　and　tracked　the　thing's　repulsive　wedge　of　a　head　as　it　twitched　and　dodged。　It　knows　what　this　is；　it　knows　at　least　that　much；　Henry　thought　coldly；　and　then　he　squeezed　the　trigger。
　　　　It　was　close　range　and　the　creature　wasn't　up　to　much　in　the　way　of　evasion；　either　laying　its　eggs　had　exhausted　it　or　it　wasn't　doing　well　in　the　cold　…　with　the　main　door　open；　Hole　in　the　Wan　had　gotten　quite　cold　indeed。　The　report　was　very　loud　in　the　closed　room；　and　the　thing's　upraised　head　disintegrated　in　a　liquid　splatter　that　blew　back　against　the　wall　in　strings　and　clots。　Its　blood　was　the　same　red…gold　as　the　fungus。　The　decapitated　body　tumbled　off　the　bed　and　onto　a　litter　of　clothes　Henry　didn't　recognize：　a　brown　coat；　an　orange　flagman's　vest；　a　pair　of　jeans　with　cuffs　（none　of　them　had　ever　worn　cuffed　jeans；　in　junior　high　school；　those　who　did　had　been　branded　shitkickers）。　Several　of　the　eggs　tumbled　off　with　the　body。　Most　landed　on　either　the　clothes　or　the　litter　of　Jonesy's　books　and　remained　whole；　but　a　couple　hit　the　floor　and　broke　open。　Cloudy　stuff　like　spoiled　eggwhite　oozed　out；　about　a　tablespoonful　from　each　egg。　Within　it　were　those　hairs；　writhing　and　twisting　and　seeming　to　glare　at　Henry　with　black　eyes　the　size　of　pinheads。　Looking　at　them　made　him　feel　like　screaming。
　　　　He　turned　and　walked　jerkily　out　of　the　room　on　legs　with　no　more　feeling　in　them　than　the　legs　of　a　table。　He　felt　like　a　puppet　being　manipulated　by　someone　who　means　well　but　has　just　begun　to　learn　his　craft。　He　had　no　real　idea　where　he　was　going　until　he　reached　the　kitchen　and　bent　over　the　cabinet　under　the　sink。
　　　　'I　am　the　eggman；　I　am　the　eggman；　I　am　the　walrus！　Goo…goo…joob！'
　　　　He　didn't　sing　this　but　declaimed　it　in　a　loud；　hortatory　voice　he　hadn't　realized　was　in　his　repertoire。　It　was　the　voice　of　a　ham　actor　from　the　nineteenth　century。　That　idea　called　up　an　image　God　knew　why　…　of　Edwin　Booth　dressed　as　d'Artagnan；　plumed　hat　and　all；　quoting　from　the　lyrics　of　John　Lennon；　and　Henry　uttered　two　loud　laugh…syllables　…　Ha！　Ha！
　　　　I'm　going　insane；　he　thought　。　。　。　but　it　was　okay。　Better　d'Artagnan　reciting　'I　Am　the　Walrus'　than　the　image　of　that　thing's　blood　splattering　onto　the　wall；　or　the　mold…covered　Doc　Marten　sticking　out　of　the　bathtub；　or；　worst　of　all；　those　eggs　splitting　open　and　releasing　a　load　of　twitching　hairs　with　eyes。　All　those　eyes　looking　at　him。
　　　　He　moved　aside　the　dish　detergent　and　the　floor…bucket；　and　there　it　was；　the　yellow　can　of　Sparx　barbecue　lighter　fluid。　The　inept　puppeteer　who　had　taken　him　over　advanced　Henry's　arm　in　a　series　of　jerks；　then　clamped　his　right　hand　on　the　Sparx　can。　He　carried　it　back　across　the　living　room；　pausing　long　enough　to　take　the　box　of　wooden　matches　from　the　mantel。
　　　　'I　am　he　and　you　are　me　and　we　are　all　together！'　he　declaimed；　and　stepped　briskly　back　into　Jonesy's　bedroom　before　the　terrified　person　inside　his　head　could　seize　the　controls；　turn　him；　and　make　him　run　away。　That　person　wanted　to　make　him　run　until　he　fell　down　unconscious。　Or　dead。
　　　　The　eggs　on　the　bed　were　also　splitting　open。　Two　dozen　or　more　of　those　hairs　were　crawling　around　on　the　blood…soaked　sheet　or　squirming　on　Jonesy's　pillow。　One　raised　its　nub　of　a　head　and　chittered　at　Henry；　a　sound　almost　too　thin　and　high…pitched　to　be　heard。
　　　　Still　not　all