js&cs.thebridge-第49部分

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n　what　he　was　doing；　because　of　all　that
　　　hammering　on　the　damn　front　door。　For　God's　sake；　she　knew　how　important　it　was！　He'd　told　her　a　million　times：　if　you　plained　loudly　enough；　eventually　they　had　to　listen！
　　No　question　about　it。　It　had　to　be　kids。　From　his　perspective…stuck　in　the　paper…cluttered　corner　of　the　basement　he　called　his　office…it　was　a　distant；　persistent　tattoo　of　thudlike　sound。　He　had　half　a　mind　to　march　up　there　and　sue　their　parents；　but　God　did　he　ever　have　a　headache！　And　he　had　to　finish　this　letter。　Strike　while　the　iron　was　hot。
　　　our　911　numbers；　and　the　so…called　〃Peace　Officers〃　who　are　supposed　to　protect　us！
　　Today；　my　son　and　I　were　NEARLY　KILLED　by　teenage　hoodlums　（I　can　only　assume　they　were　involved　in　〃Illegal　Drug　Activity；〃　which　is　just　a　fancy　name　for　plain　old　dope　dealing！）。　That　in　itself　was　〃bad　enough〃！　But　it　was　nothing　pared　to　the　treatment　I　got　from　the　〃Friendly　People〃　（HAH！！！）　at　911
　　
　　〃GOD　DAMN　IT！〃
　　Now　they　were　stomping　around　up　there；　and　he　could　definitely　hear　laughter；　high…pitched　and　giddy。　Who　the　hell　were　these　kids？　They　sure　weren't　friends　of　Billy's；　so　far　as　he　knew；　Billy　didn't　have　any　friends。　It　just　didn't　make　any　sense　。。。
　　Then　Millie　screamed。
　　And　Billy　screamed。
　　And　Bernard　S。　Kleigel；　the　Conscience　of　a　Nation；　just　sat　there：　paralyzed；　sweating；　with　a　hammer　for　a　heart。
　　〃No；〃　he　whimpered；　as　the　footsteps　thundered　down　the　hallway：　Millie's　in　the　lead；　two　other　sets　in　hot　pursuit。　Billy's　persistent　screams　moved　with　her。　Bernie　could　picture　his　son　in　her　arms　as　she　ran；　crying　out　as　well。
　　Crying　out　for　him　。。。
　　But　there　was　nothing　he　could　do。　She　had　to　understand　that。　She　had　to　understand　that　he　was　helpless；　that　he　had　no　choice；　that　he　absolutely　could　not　move；　he　had　spent　his　whole　life　imagining　the　worst　and　now　that　it　was　here；　he　was　pletely　unprepared　for　it。
　　〃Please；〃　he　whined；　as　if　it　would　help。　As　if　he　were　tapped　into　some　cosmic　911　line；　relaying　his　message　directly　to　God　for　immediate　customer　satisfaction。　As　if　he　could　wish　his　cares　away。
　　As　if　God　were　actually　taking　his　calls　。。。
　　And　he　didn't　want　to　picture　it；　to　envision　in　his　mind　the　apocalyptic　WHOOMP　that　shook　the　house　to　its　foundation；　construct　a　visual　of　his　wife　as　she　hit　the　floorboards　above　his　head；　match　her　scream　with　the　face　he　knew　she　must　be　making。　He　didn't　want　to　see　the　sources　of　that　terrible　laughter；　was　unable　to　conjure　up　images　adequate　for　describing　the　sounds　being　torn　from　his　son。
　　But　when　the　meat　like　gravy　oozed　down　through　the　cracks；　he　no　longer　had　to　use　his　imagination。　It　spattered　the　floor　in　a　rich　red　rain；　drove　him　screaming　from　his　chair　and　his　sanity。　He　was　halfway　to　the　stairs　before　he　knew　he　was　moving；　halfway　up　the　stairs　before　he　saw　his　salvation。
　　It　was　his　old　pal；　Officer　Hal　Thoman。
　　911　had　e　through；　after　all。
　　〃NO！〃　Bernie　screamed　as　the　dead　cop　descended。　〃NO！〃　as　the　shadows　pulled　back　to　reveal　Hal's　full　green　open…skulled　glory。　One　last　full…throated　〃NOOOOOOH！〃　as　he　slipped　in　the　widening　pool　of　thickly　coagulant　family…style　sauce。
　　And　then　no　mean　old　kids　could　ever　bother　poor　old　Bernie　again。
　　
　　
　　　Thirty…Five
　　　
　　Bill　Teague　had　to　admit：　he　liked　being　his　own　boss。
　　He　lit　a　smoke　and　reflected　on　that　fact　as　they　rolled　down　the　twisty　roads；　en　route　to　number　two。　Bill　and　Ted　loved　their　job。　Not　the　killing；　especially；　although　Bill　would　confess　a　craftsman's　appreciation　of　a　job　well　executed；　pardon　the　pun。　They　just　liked　the　hours；　the　freedom；　the　excellent　adventures。
　　What　they　hated　were　the　boonies。
　　Travel　was　a　given；　which　meant　a　lot　of　runs　down　a　lot　of　secondary　highways　and　back　roads；　where　brain…dead　rubes　bred　like　rabbits　and　lived　in　nasty　little　cracker…boxes　with　concrete　jockeys　by　the　driveways　or　little　propeller…ducks　whizzing　on　their　squalid　little　lawns。　Give　Bill　and　Ted　a　city　any　day：　New　York；　Pittsburgh；　Philly。　Even　Baltimore；　if　it　came　down　to　it。　Anywhere　but　here。
　　Oh；　well。　Bill　sucked　smoke　and　fiddled　with　the　radio。　Came　with　the　territory。　〃Fuckin'　radio　wasteland；〃　he　muttered　to　Ted；　who　manned　the　wheel。
　　〃Fuckin'　worthless　radio；〃　Ted　addended；　and　Bill　agreed。　The　Impala's　radio　sucked。　At　the　moment；　the　only　tune　ing　through　on　the　dial　was　the　loathsome　Terry　Jacks；　crooning　〃Seasons　in　the　Sun。〃　Then　even　that　was　lost；　overwhelmed　in　a　loud　wash　of　static。
　　And　that　was　when　they　heard　it。　From　below；　around　the　bend　and　unseen；　rose　a　crazed　industrial　clamor。　Clanging；　smashing。
　　Roaring　to　life。
　　〃What　the　fuck　is　that？〃　he　asked。　They'd　been　apprised　that　Pusser　ran　a　scrap　and　salvage　yard；　but　this　sounded　more　like　a　demolition　derby；　minus　the　roar　of　the　crowds。
　　Ted　Ames　and　Bill　Teague　were　a　team。　They'd　been　in　the　business　for　eleven　years；　which　was　a　remarkably　long　lifespan　for　their　line　of　work。　They'd　seen　some　pretty　strange　shit　in　their　day：　lots　of　death　and　brutality；　too　many　dark　pockets　of　the　soul　to　fill；　and　muchisimo　weirdness　of　every　stripe。　That　came　with　the　territory；　too。
　　But　he　had　to　admit　that；　in　all　his　travels；　they'd　never　seen　anything　so　flat…out　deranged　as　what　lay　down　the　Dark　Hollow　Road。
　　They　rounded　the　bend　and　Ted　slammed　on　the　brakes。　The　Impala　swerved　and　jackknifed　nose…down　off　the　shoulder　and　half　into　a　ditch。　〃Fuck　me；〃　Ted　gasped；　incredulous。
　　〃Jesus；〃　Bill　croaked。　They　couldn't　believe　what　they　were　seeing；　accept　the　evidence　of　their　eyes。　Bill　could　only　shake　his　head；　seeing　his　own　worst　nightmare　breeding　before　him。
　　There　were　easily　a　hundred　of　them；　skittering　little　forms　in　concrete　and　plaster　and　wood；　a　frenzied　fantasyland　of　warped　animate　copulating　kitsch。　It　was　a　lawn　ornament　orgy　by　Bosch；　leprechauns　in　motion；　mounting　fleeced；　bleating　plywood　lambs。　Jockeys　sploshing　through　the　mud；　riding　pink　flamingos　from　behind。　Little　Dutch　girls　with　their　butts　in　the　air；　humping　the　heads　of　their　little　Dutch　boys。
　　And　at　the　center　of　it　all　was　the　fountain：　pumping　up　black　rank　jetties　of　noxious　antilife…giving　sludge　that　slicked　and　sluiced　and　enveloped　the　yard　。。。
　　〃Look　at　the　house；〃　Ted　said；　his　voice　high　and　thin　as　a　razor。
　　Bill　craned；　searchlighting　his　gaze。　〃Omigod　。。。　〃
　　It　was　a　regular　rural　tract　house；　like　a　large　brick　trailer。　Every　single　window　was　broken；　a　dozen　black　holes　like　wounds　in　the　walls。　Cement　squirrels　scurried　up　one　wall　and　down　another；　burrowed　furiously　into　the　asphalt…shingled　roof。　A　hundred　lawn　ornaments　surrounded　the　house；　pounding　on　the　walls；　the　doors。　The　air　filled　with　the　clicking　and　snapping　of　brittle　little　limbs。
　　Then；　from　beneath；　came　a　roiling　rumbling　sound。
　　〃Jesus！〃　Bill　hissed。　The　earth　around　the　house　was　turning　lividly　liquid；　sucking　the　structure　down　greedily；　swallowing　it。　The　house　creaked　and　crumbled　as　beams　gave　way　and　walls　buckled；　something　inside　crackled　and　sparked　into　flame。
　　From　inside；　Bill　could　hear　screaming。
　　〃GET　THE　FUCK　OUT　OF　HERE！〃　he　yelled。　〃NOW！〃
　　Ted　ratcheted　the　shifter　into　reverse　and　hit　the　gas。　The　rear　tires　spun　wildly；　sinking　into　the　mushy　shoulder。　Mud　and　gravel　sprayed　every　which　way；　spattering　the　windows。
　　〃GO！　GO！　GO！　GO！〃　Bill　chanted；　pounding　the　dash。　The　tires　caught　on　something　solid；　squealed　and　yanked　the　Impala　out　of　its　rut；　tires　smoking　onto　the　road。
　　And　at　that　moment；　something　heavy　thudded　onto　the　hood　of　the　car。　A　neon…green　lantern　ignited；　klieg…light　bright；　less　than　a　foot　from　his　eyes。　He　blinked　back　the　glare；　instantly　blinded；　tried　to　see　through　the　pain　and　the　puke…green　floating　dots。
　　The　light　swung　away；　and　Bill　stared　into　the　black…faced　rictus　of　the　little　concrete　jockey　with　the　lantern。
　　It　showed　him　its　teeth。
　　〃YAHH！！〃　Bill　screamed　as　the　jockey　rode　the　hood　like　a　miniature　concrete　Terminator；　smashing　through　the　window　with　one　lantern…fisted　blow