sk.dreamcatcher-第62部分

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thy　for　the　devil？　Please。　There　was　no　god；　no　devil；　no　sympathy。　And　once　you　realized　that；　you　were　in　trouble。　Your　days　as　a　viable；　paying　customer　in　the　great　funhouse　that　was　Kulture　Amerika　were　numbered。
　　　　He　heard　himself　signing　it　again　…　But　what's　puzzling　you　is　the　nature　of　my　game　…　and　made　himself　stop　it。　What；　then？　Something　really　Undress。　Mindless　and　pointless　and　tasty；　something　just　oozing　Kulture　Amerika。　How　about　that　one　by　the　Pointer　Sisters？　That　was　a　good　one。
　　　　Looking　down　at　his　shuffling　skis　and　the　horizontal　crimps　left　by　the　snowmobile　treads；　he　began　to　sing　it。　Soon　he　was　droning　it　over　and　over　in　a　whispery；　tuneless　monotone　while　the　sweat　soaked　through　his　shirts　and　clear　mucus　ran　from　his　nose　to　freeze　on　his　upper　lip：　'I　know　we　can　make　it；　I　know　we　can；　we　can　work　it　out；　yes　we　can…can　yes　we　can　yes　we　can　。　。　。'
　　　　Better。　Much　better。　All　those　yes　we　can…cans　were　as　Amerikan　Kulture　as　a　Ford　pickup　in　a　bowling　alley　parking　lot；　a　lingerie　sale　at　JC　Penney；　or　a　dead　rock　star　in　a　bathtub。


9

And　so　he　eventually　returned　to　the　shelter　where　he　had　left　Pete　and　the　woman。　Pete　was　gone。　No　sign　of　him　at　all。
　　　　The　rusty　tin　roof　of　the　lean…to　had　fallen；　and　Henry　lifted　it；　peeking　under　it　like　a　metal　bedsheet　to　make　sure　Pete　wasn't　there。　He　wasn't；　but　the　woman　was。　She　had　crawled　or　been　moved　from　where　she'd　been　when　Henry　set　out　for　Hole　in　the　Wall；　and　somewhere　along　the　line　she'd　e　down　with　a　bad　case　of　dead。　Her　clothes　and　face　were　covered　with　the　rust…colored　mold　that　had　choked　the　cabin；　but　Henry　noticed　an　interesting　thing：　while　the　growth　on　her　was　doing　pretty　well　（especially　in　her　nostrils　and　her　visible　eye；　which　had　sprouted　a　jungle）；　the　stuff　which　had　spread　out　from　her；　outlining　her　body　in　a　ragged　sunburst；　was　in　trouble。　The　fungus　behind　her；　on　the　side　blocked　from　the　fire；　had　turned　gray　and　stopped　spreading。　The　stuff　in　front　of　her　was　doing　a　little　better　…　it　had　had　warmth；　and　ground　to　grow　on　which　had　been　melted　clear　of　snow　…　but　the　tips　of　the　tendrils　were　turning　the　powdery　gray　of　volcanic　ash。
　　　　Henry　was　pretty　sure　it　was　dying。
　　　　So　was　the　daylight　…　no　question　of　that　now。　Henry　dropped　the　rusty　piece　of　corrugated　tin　back　on　the　body　of　Becky　Shue　and　on　the　embery　remains　of　the　fire。　Then　he　looked　at　the　track　of　the　Cat　again；　wishing　as　he　had　back　at　the　cabin　that　he　had　Natty　Bumppo　with　him　to　explain　what　he　was　seeing。　Or　maybe　Jonesy's　good　friend　Hercule　Poirot；　he　of　the　little　gray　cells。
　　　　The　track　swerved　in　toward　the　collapsed　roof　of　the　lean…to　before　continuing　on　northwest　toward　Gosselin's。　There　was　a　pressed…down　area　in　the　snow　that　almost　made　the　shape　of　a　human　body。　To　either　side；　there　were　round　divots　in　the　snow。
　　　　'What　do　you　say；　Hercule？'　Henry　asked。　'What　means　this；　mon　ami？'　But　Hercule　said　nothing。
　　　　Henry　began　to　sing　under　his　breath　again　and　leaned　closer　to　one　of　the　round　divots；　unaware　that　he　had　left　the　Pointer　Sisters　behind　and　switched　back　to　the　Rolling　Stones。
　　　　There　was　enough　light　for　him　to　see　a　pattern　in　the　three　dimples　to　the　left　of　the　body　shape；　and　he　recalled　the　patch　on　the　right　elbow　of　Pete's　duffel　coat。　Pete　had　told　him　with　an　odd　sort　of　pride　that　his　girlfriend　had　sewed　that　on　there；　declaring　he　had　no　business　going　off　hunting　with　a　ripped　jacket。　Henry　remembered　thinking　it　was　sad　and　funny　at　the　same　time；　how　Pete　had　built　up　a　wistful　fantasy　of　a　happy　future　from　that　single　act　of　kindness　。　。　。　an　act　which　probably　had　more　to　do；　in　the　end；　with　how　the　lady　in　question　had　been　raised　than　with　any　feelings　she　might　have　for　her　beer…soaked　boyfriend。
　　　　Not　that　it　mattered。　What　mattered　was　that　Henry　felt　he　could　draw　a　bona　fide　deduction　at　last。　Pete　had　crawled　out　from　under　the　collapsed　roof　Jonesy　…　or　whatever　was　now　running　Jonesy；　the　cloud　…　had　e　along；　swerved　over　to　the　remains　of　the　lean…to；　and　picked　Pete　up。
　　　　Why？
　　　　Henry　didn't　know。
　　　　Not　all　of　the　splotches　in　the　flattened　shape　of　his　thrashing　friend；　who　had　crawled　out　from　under　the　piece　of　tin　by　hooking　himself　along　on　his　elbows；　were　that　mold　stuff。　Some　of　it　was　dried　blood。　Pete　had　been　hurt。　Cut　when　the　roof　fell　in？　Was　that　all？
　　　　Henry　spotted　a　wavering　trail　leading　away　from　the　depression　which　had　held　Pete's　body。　At　the　end　of　it　was　what　he　first　took　to　be　a　fire…charred　stick。　Closer　examination　changed　his　mind。　It　was　another　of　the　weasel　things；　this　one　burned　and　dead；　now　turning　gray　where　it　wasn't　seared。　Henry　flipped　it　aside　with　the　toe　of　his　boot。　Beneath　it　was　a　small　frozen　mass。　More　eggs。　It　must　have　been　laying　them　even　as　it　died。
　　　　Henry　kicked　snow　over　both　the　eggs　and　the　little　monster's　corpse；　shuddering。　He　unwrapped　the　makeshift　bandage　for　another　look　at　the　wound　on　his　leg；　and　as　he　did　it　he　realized　what　song　was　ing　out　of　his　mouth。　He　quit　singing。　New　snow；　just　a　scattering　of　light　flakes；　began　to　skirt　down。
　　　　'Why　do　I　keep　singing　that？'　he　asked。　'Why　does　that　fucking　song　keep　ing　back？'
　　　　He　expected　no　answer；　these　were　questions　uttered　aloud　mostly　for　the　fort　of　hearing　his　own　voice　（this　was　a　death　place；　perhaps　even　a　haunted　place）；　but　one　came　anyway。
　　　　'Because　it's　our　song。　It's　the　Squad　Anthem；　the　one　we　play　when　we　go　in　hot。　We're　Cruise's　boys。'　Cruise？　Was　that　right？　As　in　Tom　Cruise？　Maybe　not　quite。
　　　　The　gunfire　from　the　east　was　much　lighter　now。　The　slaughter　of　the　animals　was　almost　done。　But　there　were　men；　a　long　skirmish　line　of　hunters　who　were　wearing　green　or　black　instead　of　orange；　and　they　were　listening　to　that　song　over　and　over　again　as　they　did　their　work；　adding　up　the　numbers　of　an　incredible　butcher's　bill：　I　rode　a　tank；　held　a　general's　rank；　when　the　blitzkrieg　raged　and　the　bodies　stank　。　。　。　Pleased　to　meet　you；　hope　you　guess　my　name。
　　　　What　exactly　was　going　on　here？　Not　in　the　wild；　wonderful；　wacky　Outside　World；　but　inside　his　own　head？　He'd　had　flashes　of　understanding　his　whole　life　…　his　life　since　Duddits；　anyway　…　but　nothing　like　this。　What　was　this？　Was　it　time　to　examine　this　new　and　powerful　way　of　seeing　the　line？
　　　　No。　No；　no；　no。
　　　　And；　as　if　mocking　him；　the　song　in　his　head：　general's　rank；　bodies　stank。
　　　　'Duddits！'　he　exclaimed　in　the　graying；　dying　afternoon；　lazy　flakes　falling　like　feathers　from　a　split　pillow。　Some　thought　struggled　to　be　born　but　it　was　too　big；　too　big。
　　　　'Duddits！'　he　cried　again　in　his　hortatory　eggman's　voice；　and　one　thing　he　did　understand：　the　luxury　of　suicide　had　been　denied　him。　Which　was　the　most　horrible　thing　of　all；　because　these　weird　thoughts　…　I　shouted　out　who　killed　the　Kennedys　…　were　tearing　him　apart。　He　began　to　weep　again；　bewildered　and　afraid；　alone　in　the　woods。　All　his　friends　except　Jonesy　were　dead；　and　Jonesy　was　in　the　hospital。　A　movie　star　in　the　hospital　with　Mr　Gray。
　　　　'What　does　that　mean？'　Henry　groaned。　He　clapped　his　hands　to　his　temples　（he　felt　as　though　his　head　were　bulging；　bulging）　and　his　rusty　old　ski…poles　flapped　aimlessly　at　the　ends　of　their　wrist…loops　like　broken　propeller　blades。　'Oh　Christ；　what　does　that　MEAN？'
　　　　Only　the　song　came　in　answer：　Pleased　to　meet　you！　Hope　you　guess　my　name！
　　　　Only　the　snow：　red　with　the　blood　of　slaughtered　animals　and　they　lay　everywhere；　a　Dachau　of　deer　and　raccoon　and　rabbit　and　weasel　and　bear　and　groundhog　and…
　　　　Henry　screamed；　held　his　head　and　screamed　so　loud　and　so　hard　that　he　felt　sure　for　a　moment　that　he　was　going　to　pass　out。　Then　his　lightheartedness　passed　and　his　rm'nd　seemed　to　clear；　at　least　for　the　time　being。　He　was　left　with　a　brilliant　image　of　Duddits　as　he　had　been　when　they　first　met　him；　Duddits　not　under　the　light　of　a　blitzkrieg　winter　as　in　that　Stones　song　but　under　the　sane　light　of　a　cloudy　October　afternoon；　Duddits　looking　up　at　them　with　his　tilted；　somehow　wise　Chinese　eyes。　Duddits　was　our　finest　hour；　he　had　told　Pete。
　　　　'Fit　wha？'　Henry　said　now。　'Fit　neek？