sk.dreamcatcher-第97部分

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　　　　'In　hen　wif　Eeeyer？'
　　　　'Yes；　honey。'
　　　　'I　eee　Eeeyer　n　Eeet　in　hen？'
　　　　'Yes；　you　will。　Of　course　you　will。　But　not　for　a　long　while。'
　　　　His　eyes　had　closed。　Roberta　had　sat　beside　him　on　the　bed；　looking　down　at　her　hands；　feeling　sadder　than　sad；　more　alone　than　lonely。
　　　　Now　she　hurried　downstairs　and　yes；　it　was　singing；　all　right。　Because　she　spoke　such　fluent　Duddits　（and　why　not？　it　had　been　her　second　language　for　over　thirty　years）；　she　translated　the　rolling　syllables　without　even　thinking　much　about　them：　Scooby…Dooby…Doo；where　are　you？　We　got　some　work　to　do　now。　I've　been　telling　you；　Scooby…Doo；　we　need　a　helping　hand；　now。
　　　　She　went　into　his　room；　not　knowing　what　to　expect。　Certainly　not　what　she　found：　every　light　blazing；　Duddits　fully　dressed　for　the　first　time　since　his　last　（and　very　likely　final；　according　to　Dr　Briscoe）　remission。　He　had　put　on　his　favorite　corduroy　pants；　his　down　vest　over　his　Grinch　tee…shirt；　and　his　Red　Sox　hat。　He　was　sitting　in　his　chair　by　the　window　and　looking　out　into　the　night。　No　frown　now；　no　tears；　either。　He　looked　out　into　the　storm　with　a　bright…eyed　eagerness　that　took　her　back　to　long　before　the　disease；　which　had　announced　itself　with　such　stealthy；　easy…to…overlook　symptoms：　how　tired　and　out　of　breath　he　got　after　just　a　short　game　of　Frisbee　in　the　back　yard；　how　big　the　bruises　were　from　even　little　thumps　and　bumps；　and　how　slowly　they　faded。　This　was　the　way　he　used　to　look　when　。　。　。
　　　　But　she　couldn't　think。　She　was　too　flustered　to　think。
　　　　'Duddits！　Duddle；　what…'
　　　　'Umma！　Ere　I　unnox？'
　　　　Mumma！　Where's　my　lunchbox？
　　　　'In　the　kitchen；　but　Duddie；　it's　the　middle　of　the　night。　It's　snowing！　You　aren't　。　。　。'
　　　　Going　anywhere　was　the　way　that　one　ended；　of　course；　but　the　words　wouldn't　cross　her　tongue。　His　eyes　were　so　brilliant；　so　alive。　Perhaps　she　should　have　been　glad　to　see　that　light　so　strongly　in　his　eyes；　that　energy；　but　instead　she　was　terrified。
　　　　'I　eed　I　unnox！　I　eed　I　unch！'
　　　　I　need　my　lunchbox；　I　need　my　lunch。
　　　　'No；　Duddits。'　Trying　to　be　firm。　'You　need　to　take　off　your　clothes　and　get　back　into　bed。　That's　what　you　need　and　all　you　need。　Here。　I'll　help　you。'
　　　　But　when　she　approached；　he　raised　his　amis　and　crossed　them　over　his　narrow　chest；　the　palm　of　his　right　hand　pressed　against　his　left　cheek；　the　palm　of　his　left　against　the　right　cheek。　From　earliest　childhood；　it　was　all　he　could　muster　in　the　way　of　defiance。　It　was　usually　enough；　and　it　was　now。　She　didn't　want　to　upset　him　again；　perhaps　start　another　nosebleed。　But　she　wasn't　going　to　put　up　a　lunch　for　him　in　his　Scooby　lunchbox　at　one…fifteen　in　the　morning。　Absolutely　not。
　　　　She　retreated　to　the　side　of　his　bed　and　sat　down　on　it。　The　room　was　warm；　but　she　was　cold；　even　in　her　heavy　flannel　nightgown。　Duddits　slowly　lowered　his　arms；　watching　her　wanly。
　　　　'You　can　sit　up　if　you　want；'　she　said；　'but　why？　Did　you　have　a　dream；　Duddie？　A　bad　dream？'
　　　　Maybe　a　dream　but　not　a　bad　one。　Not　with　that　eager　look　on　his　face；　and　now　she　recognized　it　well　enough：　it　was　the　way　he　had　looked　so　often　back　in　the　eighties；　in　the　good　years　before　Henry；　Pete；　Beaver；　and　Jonesy　had　all　gone　their　separate　ways；　calling　less　frequently　and　ing　by　to　see　him　less　frequently　still　as　they　raced　toward　their　grownup　lives　and　forgot　the　one　who　had　to　stay　behind。
　　　　It　was　the　look　he　got　when　his　special　sense　told　him　that　his　friends　were　ing　by　to　play。　Sometimes　they'd　all　go　off　together　to　Strawford　Park　or　the　Barrens　（they　weren't　supposed　to　go　there　but　they　did；　both　she　and　Alfie　had　known　that　they　did；　and　one　of　their　trips　there　had　gotten　them　all　on　the　front　page　of　the　newspaper）。　Sometimes　Alfie　or　one　of　their　moms　or　dads　would　take　them　to　Airport　Minigolf　or　to　Fun　Town　in　Newport；　and　on　those　days　she　would　always　pack　Duddits　sandwiches　and　cookies　and　a　thermos　of　milk　in　his　Scooby…Doo　lunchbox。
　　　　He　thinks　his　friends　are　ing。　It　must　be　Henry　and　Jonesy　he's　thinking　of；　because　he　says　Pete　and　Beav…
　　　　Suddenly　a　terrible　image　came　to　her　as　she　sat　on　Duddits's　bed　with　her　hands　folded　in　her　lap。　She　saw　herself　opening　the　door　to　a　knock　that　came　at　the　empty　hour　of　three　in　the　morning；　not　wanting　to　open　it　but　helpless　to　stop　herself。　And　the　dead　ones　were　there　instead　of　the　living　ones。　Beaver　and　Pete　were　there；　returned　to　the　childhood　in　which　they　had　been　living　on　the　day　she　had　first　met　them；　the　day　they　had　saved　Duddie　from　God　knew　what　nasty　trick　and　then　brought　him　home　safe。　In　her　mind's　eye　Beaver　was　wearing　his　many…zippered　motorcycle　jacket　and　Pete　was　wearing　the　crewneck　sweater　of　which　he　had　been　so　proud；　the　one　with　NASA　on　the　left　breast。　She　saw　them　cold　and　pale；　their　eyes　the　lusterless　grape…black　glaze　of　corpses。　She　saw　Beaver　step　forward　…　no　smile　for　her　now；　no　recognition　of　her　now；　when　Joe　'Beaver'　Clarendon　put　out　his　pallid　starfish　hands；　he　was　all　business。　We've　e　for　Duddits；　Missus　Cavell。　We're　dead；　and　now　he　is；　too。
　　　　She　clasped　her　hands　tighter　as　a　shudder　twisted　through　her　body。　Duddits　didn't　see；　he　was　looking　out　the　window　again；　his　face　eager　and　expectant。　And　very　softly；　he　began　to　sing　again。
　　　　'Ooby…Ooby…Ooo；　eh　ah　ooo？　Eee　aht…sum　urk…ooo　ooo　ow　。　。　。'


10

'Mr　Gray？'
　　　　No　answer。　Jonesy　stood　at　the　door　of　what　was　now　most　definitely　his　office；　not　a　trace　of　Tracker　Brothers　left　except　for　the　dirt　on　the　windows　（the　matter…of…fact　pornography　of　the　girl　with　her　skirt　raised　had　been　replaced　by　Van　Gogh's　Marigolds）；　feeling　more　and　more　uneasy。　What　was　the　bastard　looking　for？
　　　　'Mr　Gray；　where　are　you？'
　　　　No　answer　this　time　either；　but　there　was　a　sense　of　Mr　Gray　returning　。　。　。　and　he　was　happy。　The　son　of　a　bitch　was　happy。
　　　　Jonesy　didn't　like　that　at　all。
　　　　'Listen；'　Jonesy　said。　Hands　still　pressed　to　the　door　of　his　sanctuary；　forehead　now　pressed　to　it；　as　well。　'I've　got　a　proposal　for　you；　my　friend　…　you're　halfway　human　already；　why　not　just　go　native？　We　can　coexist；　I　guess；　and　I'll　show　you　around。　Ice　cream's　good；　beer's　even　better。　What　do　you　say？'
　　　　He　suspected　Mr　Gray　was　tempted；　as　only　an　essentially　formless　creature　could　be　tempted　when　offered　form　…　a　trade　right　out　of　a　fairy…tale。
　　　　Not　tempted　enough；　however。
　　　　There　was　the　spin　of　the　starter；　the　roar　of　the　truck's　motor。
　　　　'Where　are　we　going；　chum？　Always　assuming　we　can　get　off　Standpipe　Hill；　that　is？'
　　　　No　answer；　only　that　disquieting　sense　that　Mr　Gray　had　been　looking　for　something　。　。　。　and　found　it。
　　　　Jonesy　hurried　across　to　the　window　and　looked　out　in　time　to　see　the　truck's　headlights　sweep　across　the　pillar　erected　to　memorialize　the　lost。　The　plaque　had　drifted　in　again；　which　meant　they　must　have　been　here　awhile。
　　　　Slowly；　carefully；　now　pushing　its　way　through　bumper…high　drifts；　the　Dodge　Ram　started　back　down　the　hill。
　　　　Twenty　minutes　later　they　were　on　the　turnpike　again；　once　more　headed　south。

CHAPTER　SEVENTEEN

HEROES


1
　　　　
Owen　couldn't　raise　Henry　by　calling　out　loud；　the　man　was　too　deep　in　exhausted　sleep；　and　so　he　called　with　his　mind。　He　found　this　was　easier　as　the　byrus　continued　to　spread。　It　was　growing　on　three　of　the　fingers　on　his　right　hand　now；　and　had　all　but　plugged　the　cup　of　his　left　ear　with　its　spongy；　itching　growth。　He　had　also　lost　a　couple　of　teeth；　although　nothing　seemed　to　be　growing　in　the　sockets；　at　least　not　yet。
　　　　Kurtz　and　Freddy　had　stayed　clean；　thanks　to　Kurtz's　finely　honed　instincts；　but　the　crews　of　the　two　surviving　Blue　Boy　gunships；　Owen's　and　Joe　Blakey's；　were　lousy　with　byrus。　Ever　since　talking　to　Henry　in　the　shed；　Owen　had　heard　the　voices　of　his　patriots；　calling　to　each　other　across　a　previously　unsuspected　void。　They　were　covering　up　the　infection　for　now；　as　he　himself　was；　lots　of　heavy　winter　clothing　helped。　But　that　wouldn't　be　possible　for　much　longer；　and　they　didn't　know　what　to　do。
　　　　In　that　regard；　Owen　supposed　he　was　lucky。　He　at　least　had　a　wheel　to　which　he　could　put　his　shoulder。
　　　　Standing　outside　the　back