sk.everythingseventual-第75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！


　　He　leaned　back　and　closed　his　eyes。　It　was　true；　he　did。　'Uh…huh。　How　was　the　movie？'
　　'Good。　Harrison　Ford　looks　wonderful　in　a　uniform。　Now；　if　he'd　just　get　rid　of　that　little　bump　on　his　chin　。　。　。'
　　'Good　night；　Aunt　Trudy。　We'll　talk　tomorrow。'
　　'Will　we？'
　　'Yes；'　he　said。　'I　think　so。'
　　He　hung　up；　went　over　to　the　fireplace　again；　and　stirred　the　ashes　with　the　poker。　He　could　see　a　scrap　of　fender　and　a　ragged　little　flap　of　road；　but　that　was　it。　Fire　was　what　it　had　needed　all　along；　apparently。　Wasn't　that　how　you　usually　killed　supernatural　emissaries　of　evil？　Of　course　it　was。　He'd　used　it　a　few　times　himself；　most　notably　in　The　Departing；　his　haunted　train　station　novel。
　　'Yes；　indeed；'　he　said。　'Burn；　baby；　burn。'
　　He　thought　about　getting　the　drink　he'd　promised　himself；　then　remembered　the　spilled　bottle　of　vinegar　（which　by　now　would　probably　be　soaking　into　the　spilled　oatmeal…what　a　thought）。　He　decided　he　would　simply　go　on　upstairs　instead。　In　a　book…one　by　Richard　Kinnell；　for　instance…sleep　would　be　out　of　the　question　after　the　sort　of　thing　which　had　just　happened　to　him。
　　In　real　life；　he　thought　he　might　sleep　just　fine。
　　
　　He　actually　dozed　off　in　the　shower；　leaning　against　the　back　wall　with　his　hair　full　of　shampoo　and　the　water　beating　on　his　chest。　He　was　at　the　yard　sale　again；　and　the　TV　standing　on　the　paper　ashtrays　was　broadcasting　Judy　Diment。　Her　head　was　back　on；　but　Kinnell　could　see　the　medical　examiner's　primitive　industrial　stitch…work；　it　circled　her　throat　like　a　grisly　necklace。　'Now　this　New　England　Newswire　update；'　she　said；　and　Kinnell；　who　had　always　been　a　vivid　dreamer；　could　actually　see　the　stitches　on　her　neck　stretch　and　relax　as　she　spoke。　'Bobby　Hastings　took　all　his　paintings　and　burned　them；　including　yours；　Mr。　Kinnell　。　。　。　and　it　is　yours；　as　I'm　sure　you　know。　All　sales　are　final；　you　saw　the　sign。　Why；　you　just　ought　to　be　glad　I　took　your　check。'
　　Burned　all　his　paintings；　yes；　of　course　he　did；　Kinnell　thought　in　his　watery　dream。　He　couldn't　stand　what　was　happening　to　him；　that's　what　the　note　said；　and　when　you　get　to　that　point　in　the　festivities；　you　don't　pause　to　see　if　you　want　to　except　one　special　piece　of　work　from　the　bonfire。　It's　just　that　you　got　something　special　into　The　Road　Virus　Heads　North；　didn't　you；　Bobby？　And　probably　pletely　by　accident。　You　were　talented；　I　could　see　that　right　away；　but　talent　has　nothing　to　do　with　what's　going　on　in　that　picture。
　　'Some　things　are　just　good　at　survival；'　Judy　Diment　said　on　the　TV。　'They　keep　ing　back　no　matter　how　hard　you　try　to　get　rid　of　them。　They　keep　ing　back　like　viruses。'
　　Kinnell　reached　out　and　changed　the　channel；　but　apparently　there　was　nothing　on　all　the　way　around　the　dial　except　for　The　Judy　Diment　Show。
　　'You　might　say　he　opened　a　hole　into　the　basement　of　the　universe；'　she　was　saying　now。　'Bobby　Hastings；　I　mean。　And　this　is　what　drove　out。　Nice；　isn't　it？'
　　Kinnell's　feet　slid　then；　not　enough　to　go　out　from　under　him　pletely；　but　enough　to　snap　him　to。
　　He　opened　his　eyes；　winced　at　the　immediate　sting　of　the　soap　（Prell　had　run　down　his　face　in　thick　white　rivulets　while　he　had　been　dozing）；　and　cupped　his　hands　under　the　shower…spray　to　splash　it　away。　He　did　this　once　and　was　reaching　out　to　do　it　again　when　he　heard　something。　A　ragged　rumbling　sound。
　　Don't　be　stupid；　he　told　himself。　All　you　hear　is　the　shower。　The　rest　is　only　imagination。　Your　stupid；　overtrained　imagination。
　　Except　it　wasn't。
　　Kinnell　reached　out　and　turned　off　the　water。
　　The　rumbling　sound　continued。　Low　and　powerful。　ing　from　outside。
　　He　got　out　of　the　shower　and　walked；　dripping；　across　his　bedroom　on　the　second　floor。　There　was　still　enough　shampoo　in　his　hair　to　make　him　look　as　if　it　had　turned　white　while　he　was　dozing…as　if　his　dream　of　Judy　Diment　had　turned　it　white。
　　Why　did　I　ever　stop　at　that　yard　sale？　he　asked　himself；　but　for　this　he　had　no　answer。　He　supposed　no　one　ever　did。
　　The　rumbling　sound　grew　louder　as　he　approached　the　window　overlooking　the　driveway…the　driveway　that　glimmered　in　the　summer　moonlight　like　something　out　of　an　Alfred　Noyes　poem。
　　As　he　brushed　aside　the　curtain　and　looked　out；　he　found　himself　thinking　of　his　ex…wife；　Sally；　whom　he　had　met　at　the　World　Fantasy　Convention　in　1978。　Sally；　who　now　published　two　newsletters　out　of　her　trailer　home；　one　called　Survivors；　one　called　Visitors。　Looking　down　at　the　driveway；　these　two　titles　came　together　in　Kinnell's　mind　like　a　double　image　in　a　stereopticon。
　　He　had　a　visitor　who　was　definitely　a　survivor。
　　The　Grand　Am　idled　in　front　of　the　house；　the　white　haze　from　its　twin　chromed　tailpipes　rising　in　the　still　night　air。　The　Old　English　letters　on　the　back　deck　were　perfectly　readable。　The　driver's…side　door　stood　open；　and　that　wasn't　all；　the　light　spilling　down　the　porch　steps　suggested　that　Kinnell's　front　door　was　also　open。
　　Forgot　to　lock　it；　Kinnell　thought；　wiping　soap　off　his　forehead　with　a　hand　he　could　no　longer　feel。　Forgot　to　reset　the　burglar　alarm；　too　。　。　。　not　that　it　would　have　made　much　difference　to　this　guy。
　　Well；　he　might　have　caused　it　to　detour　around　Aunt　Trudy；　and　that　was　something；　but　just　now　the　thought　brought　him　no　fort。
　　Survivors。
　　The　soft　rumble　of　the　big　engine；　probably　at　least　a　442　with　a　four…barrel　carb；　reground　valves；　fuel　injection。
　　He　turned　slowly　on　legs　that　had　lost　all　feeling；　a　naked　man　with　a　headful　of　soap；　and　saw　the　picture　over　his　bed；　just　as　he'd　known　he　would。　In　it；　the　Grand　Am　stood　in　his　driveway　with　the　driver's　door　open　and　two　plumes　of　exhaust　rising　from　the　chromed　tailpipes。　From　this　angle　he　could　also　see　his　own　front　door；　standing　open；　and　a　long　man…shaped　shadow　stretching　down　the　hall。
　　Survivors。
　　Survivors　and　visitors。
　　Now　he　could　hear　feet　ascending　the　stairs。　It　was　a　heavy　tread；　and　he　knew　without　having　to　see　that　the　blond　kid　was　wearing　motorcycle　boots。　People　with　DEATH　BEFORE　DISHONOR　tattooed　on　their　arms　always　wore　motorcycle　boots；　just　as　they　always　smoked　unfiltered　Camels。　These　things　were　like　a　national　law。
　　And　the　knife。　He　would　be　carrying　a　long；　sharp　knife…more　of　a　machete；　actually；　the　sort　of　knife　that　could　strike　off　a　person's　head　in　a　single　stroke。
　　And　he　would　be　grinning；　showing　those　filed　cannibal　teeth。
　　Kinnell　knew　these　things。　He　was　an　imaginative　guy；　after　all。
　　He　didn't　need　anyone　to　draw　him　a　picture。
　　'No；'　he　whispered；　suddenly　conscious　of　his　global　nakedness；　suddenly　freezing　all　the　way　around　his　skin。　'No；　please；　go　away。'　But　the　footfalls　kept　ing；　of　course　they　did。　You　couldn't　tell　a　guy　like　this　to　go　away。　It　didn't　work；　it　wasn't　the　way　the　story　was　supposed　to　end。
　　Kinnell　could　hear　him　nearing　the　top　of　the　stairs。　Outside；　the　Grand　Am　went　on　rumbling　in　the　moonlight。
　　The　feet　ing　down　the　hall　now；　worn　bootheels　rapping　on　polished　hardwood。
　　A　terrible　paralysis　had　gripped　Kinnell。　He　threw　it　off　with　an　effort　and　bolted　toward　the　bedroom　door；　wanting　to　lock　it　before　the　thing　could　get　in　here；　but　he　slipped　in　a　puddle　of　soapy　water　and　this　time　he　did　go　down；　flat　on　his　back　on　the　oak　planks；　and　what　he　saw　as　the　door　clicked　open　and　the　motorcycle　boots　crossed　the　room　toward　where　he　lay；　naked　and　with　his　hair　full　of　Prell；　was　the　picture　hanging　on　the　wall　over　his　bed；　the　picture　of　the　Road　Virus　idling　in　front　of　his　house　with　the　driver's…side　door　open。
　　The　driver's…side　bucket　seat；　he　saw；　was　full　of　blood。　I'm　going　outside；　I　think；　Kinnell　thought；　and　closed　his　eyes。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　LUNCH　AT　THE　GOTHAM　CAFé
　　
　　
　　One　day　when　I　was　in　New　York；　I　walked　past　a　very　nice…looking　restaurant。　Inside；　the　ma？tre　d'　was　showing　a　couple　to　their　table。　The　couple　was　arguing。　The　ma？tre　d'　caught　my　eye　and　tipped　me　what　may　have　been　the　most　cynical　wink　in　the　universe。　I　went　back　to　my　hotel　and　wrote　this　story。　For　the　three　days　it　was　in　work；　I　was　totally　possessed　by　i