sk.cujo-第5部分

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on　carry　him　in　。。。　where　he　promptly　stuck　like　a　cork　in　a　bottle。
Joe　Camber　had　owned　Seven　Oaks　Farm　out　at　the　end　of　Town　Road　No。　3　for　seventeen　years；　but　he　had　no　idea　this　hole　was　here。　He　surely　would　have　discovered　it　if　farming　was　his　business；　but　it　wasn't。　There　was　no　livestock　in　the　big　red　barn；　it　was　his　garage　and　auto…body　shop。　His　son　Brett　rambled　the　fields　and　woods　behind　the　home　place　frequently；　but　he　had　never　noticed　the　hole　either；　although　on　several　occasions　he　had　nearly　put　his　foot　in　it；　which　might　have　earned　him　a　broken　ankle。　On　clear　days　the　hole　could　pass　for　a　shadow；　on　cloudy　days；　overgrown　with　grass　as　it　was；　it　disappeared　altogether。
John　Mousam；　the　farm's　previous　owner；　had　known　about　the　hole　but　had　never　thought　to　mention　it　to　Joe　Camber　when　Joe　bought　the　place　in　1963。　He　might　have　mentioned　it；　as　a　caution；　when　Joe　and　his　wife；　Charity；　had　their　son　in　1970；　but　by　then　the　cancer　had　carried　old　John　off。
It　was　just　as　well　Brett　had　never　found　it。　There's　nothing　in　the　world　quite　so　interesting　to　a　small　boy　as　a　hole　in　the　ground；　and　this　one　opened　on　a　small　natural　limestone　cave。　It　was　about　twenty　feet　deep　at　its　deepest；　and　it　would　have　been　quite　possible　for　a　small　squirty　boy　to　eel　his　way　in；　slide　to　the　bottom；　and　then　find　it　impossible　to　get　out。　It　had　happened　to　other　small　animals　in　the　past。　The　cave's　limestone　surface　made　a　good　slide　but　a　bad　climb；　and　its　bottom　was　Littered　with　bones：　a　woodchuck；　a　skunk；　a　couple　of　chipmunks；　a　couple　of　squirrels；　and　a　housecat。　The　housecat's　name　had　been　Mr。　Clean。　The　Cambers　had　Lost　him　two　years　before　and　assumed　he　had　been　hit　by　a　car　or　had　just　run　off。　but　here　he　was；　along　with　the　bones　of　the　good…sized　fieldmouse　he　had　chased　inside。
Cujo's　rabbit　had　rolled　and　slid　ad　the　way　to　the　bottom　and　now　quivered　there；　ears　up　and　nose　vibrating　like　a　tuning　fork；　as　Cujo's　furious　barking　filled　the　place。　The　echoes　made　it　sound　as　though　there　was　a　whole　pack　of　dogs　up　there。
The　small　cave　had　also　attracted　bats　from　time　to　time　…never　many；　because　the　cave　was　only　a　small　one；　but　its　rough　ceiling　made　a　perfect　place　for　them　to　roost　upside　down　and　snooze　the　daylight　away。　The　bats　were　another　good　reason　that　Brett　Camber　had　been　lucky；　especialy　this　year。　This　year　the　brown　insectivorous　bats　inhabiting　the　small　cave　were　crawling　with　a　particularly　virulent　strain　of　rabies。
Cujo　had　stuck　at　the　shoulders。　He　dug　furiously　with　his　back　legs　to　no　effect　at　all。　He　could　have　reversed　and　pulled　himself　back　out；　but　for　now　he　still　wanted　the　rabbit。　He　sensed　it　was　trapped；　his　for　the　taking。　His　eyes　were　not　particularly　keen；　his　large　body　blocked　out　almost　all　the　light　anyway；　and　he　had　no　sense　of　the　drop　just　beyond　his　front　paws。　He　could　smell　damp；　and　he　could　smell　bat　guano；　both　old　and　fresh　。。。　but　most　important　of　all；　he　could　smell　rabbit。　Hot　and　tasty。　Dinner　is　served。
His　barking　roused　the　bats。　They　were　terrified。　Something　had　invaded　their　home。　They　flew　en　masse　toward　the　exit；　squeaking。　But　their　sonar　recorded　a　puzzling　and　distressing　fact：　the　entrance　was　no　longer　there。　The　predator　was　where　the　entrance　had　been。
They　wheeled　and　swooped　in　the　darkness；　their　membranous　wings　sounding　like　small　pieces　of　clothing　diapers；　perhaps　…　flapping　from　a　line　in　a　gusty　wind。　Below　them；　the　rabbit　cringed　and　hoped　for　the　best。
Cujo　felt　several　of　the　bats　flutter　against　the　third　of　him　that　had　managed　to　get　into　the　hole；　and　he　became　frightened。　He　didn't　like　their　scent　or　their　sound；　he　didn't　like　the　odd　heat　that　seemed　to　emanate　from　them。
He　barked　louder　and　snapped　at　the　things　that　were　wheeling　and　squeaking　around　his　head。　His　snapping　jaws　closed　on　one　brown…black　wing。　Bones　thinner　than　those　in　a　baby's　hand　crunched。　The　bat　slashed　and　bit　at　him；　slicing　open　the　skin　of　the　dog's　sensitive　muzzle　in　a　long；　curving　wound　that　was　shaped　like　a　question　mark。　A　moment　later　it　went　skittering　and　cartwheeling　down　the　limestone　slope；　already　dying。　But　the　damage　had　been　done；　a　bite　from　a　rabid　animal　is　most　serious　around　the　head；　for　rabies　is　a　disease　of　the　central　nervous　system。　Dogs；　more　susceptible　than　their　human　masters；　cannot　even　hope　for　plete　protection　from　the　inactivatedvirus　vaccine　which　every　veterinarian　administers。　And　Cujo　had　never　had　a　single　rabies　shot　in　his　life。
Not　knowing　this；　but　knowing　that　the　unseen　thing　he　had　bitten　had　tasted　foul　and　horrible；　Cujo　decided　the　game　was　not　worth　the　candle。　With　a　tremendous　yank　of　his　shoulders　he　pulled　himself　out　of　the　hole；　causing　a　little　avalanche　of　dirt。　He　shook　himself；　and　more　dirt　and　smelly　crumbled　limestone　flew　from　his　pelt。　Blood　dripped　from　his　muzzle。　He　sat　down；　tilted　his　head　skyward；　and　uttered　a　single　low　howl。
The　bats　exited　their　hole　in　a　small　brown　cloud；　whirled　confusedly　in　the　bright　June　sunshine　for　a　couple　of　seconds；　and　then　went　back　in　to　roost。　They　were　brainless　things；　and　within　the　course　of　two　or　three　minutes　they　had　forgotten　all　about　the　barking　interloper　and　were　sleeping　again；　hung　from　their　heels　with　their　wings　wrapped　around　their　ratty　little　bodies　like　the　shawls　of　old　women。
Cujo　trotted　away。　He　shook　himself　again。　He　pawed　helplessly　at　his　muzzle。　The　blood　was　already　clotting；　drying　to　a　cake；　but　it　hurt。　Dogs　have　a　sense　of　self…consciousness　that　is　far　out　of　proportion　to　their　intelligence；　and　Cujo　was　disgusted　with　himself。　He　didn't　want　to　go　home。　If　he　went　home；　one　of　his　trinity　…　THE　MAN；　THE　WOMAN；　or　THE　BOY　…　would　see　that　he　had　done　something　to　himself。　It　was　possible　that　one　of　them　might　call　him　BADDOG。　And　at　this　particular　moment　he　certainly　considered　himself　to　be　a　BADDOG。
So　instead　of　going　home；　Cujo　went　down　to　the　stream　that　separated　Camber　land　from　the　property　of　Gary　Pervier；　the　Cambers'　nearest　neighbour。　He　waded　upstream；　he　drank　deeply；　he　rolled　over　in　the　water；　trying　to　get　rid　of　the　nasty　taste　in　his　mouth；　trying　to　get　rid　of　the　dirt　and　the　watery　green　stink　of　limestone；　trying　to　get　rid　of　that　BADDOG　feeling。
Little　by　little；　he　began　to　feel　better。　He　came　out　of　the　stream　and　shook　himself；　the　spray　of　water　forming　a　momentary　rainbow　of　breathless　clarity　in　the　air。
The　BADDOG　feeling　was　fading；　and　so　was　the　pain　in　his　nose。　He　started　up　toward　the　house　to　see　if　THE　Boy　might　be　around。　He　had　gotten　used　to　the　big　yellow　schoolbus　tat　came　to　pick　THE　Boy　up　every　morning　and　which　dropped　him　back　off　again　in　midafternoon；　but　this　last　week　the　schoolbus　had　not　shown　up　with　its　flashing　eyes　and　its　yelling　cargo　of　children。　THE　Boy　was　always　at　home。　Usually　he　was　out　in　the　barn；　doing　things　with　THE　~。　Maybe　the　yellow　schoolbus　had　e　again　today。　Maybe　not。　He　would　see。　He　had　forgotten　about　the　hole　and　the　nasty　taste　of　the　batwing。　His　nose　hardly　hurt　at　all　low。
Cujo　breasted　his　way　easily　through　the　high　grass　of　the　north　field；　driving　up　an　occasional　bird　but　not　bothering　DO　give　chase。　He　had　had　his　chase　for　the　day；　and　his　body　remembered　even　if　his　brain　did　not。　He　was　a　Saint　Bernard　in　his　prime；　five　years　old；　nearly　two　hundred　pounds　in　weight；　and　now；　on　the　morning　of　June　16；　1980；　he　was　pre…rabid。
Seven　days　later　and　thirty　miles　from　Seven　Oaks　Farm　in　Castle　Rock；　two　men　met　in　a　downtown　Portland　restaurant　called　the　Yellow　Submarine。　The　Sub　featured　a　large　selection　of　hero　sandwiches；　pizzas；　and　Dagwoods　in　Lebanese　pouches。　There　was　a　pinball　machine　in　the　back。
There　was　a　sign　over　the　counter　saying　that　if　you　could　cat　two　Yellow　Sub　Nightmares；　you　ate　free；　below　that；　in　parentheses；　the　codicil　IF　YOU　PUKE　YOU　PAY　had　been　added。
Ordinarily　there　was　nothing　Vic　Trenton　would　have　liked　better　than　one　of　the　Yellow　Sub's　meatball　heroes；　but　he　suspected　he　would　get　nothing　from　today's　but　a　really　good　case　of　acid　burn。
'Looks　like　we're　going　to　lose　the　ball；　doesn't　it？'　Vic　said　t