pzb.lostsouls-第8部分

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　　'I'm　a　hundred；〃　said　Zillah；　studying　his　long　fingernails　critically。　He　produced　a　bottle　of　black　nail　polish　and　began　painting　his　nails；　neatly；　carefully。　〃You　two　are　only　seventy…five；　but　I　am　one　hundred　years　old　this　very　year。　I　have　been　bored。　I'm　bored　now。
　　〃I'm　a　hundred。〃　Twig　reached　under　the　driver's　seat　and　found　a　bottle。　〃And　this　wine　was　born　last　Tuesday！　Let's　drink　to　it。〃
　　'I'm　a　hundred；〃　Molochai　mumbled　around　the　neck　of　the　bottle。　The　wine　was　sticky；　sweet　as　rotten　grapes。　He　licked　his　lips　and　took　another　swig。
　　They　kept　driving；　kept　drinking；　never　looked　at　a　map。　They　did　not　need　maps；　the　possibility　of　alternate　routes；　charted　yellow　and　red　and　green　roads；　cryptic　legends；　held　no　fascination　for　them。　By　some　warm　alcoholic　magnetism　in　their　blood　they　were　drawn　on　to　the　next　city　and　the　next。　Twig　always　knew　what　roads　to　take；　what　highways　he　could　roar　along　the　fastest；　what　country　blacktops　were　haunted　by　state　troopers　and　God…fearing　folk。　They　had　just　e　from　New　York　City　where　they　were　able　to　sate　their　appetites　every　night　on　blood　rich　with　strange　drugs；　where　a　hophead　chick　they　met　had　let　them　sleep　the　days　away　in　her　East　Village　apartment　until　they　grew　careless　and　left　a　shredded　mess　in　her　bathtub。　Kinky　stuff　was　fine；　she　said；　but　she　wasn't　into　death。　And　there　were　gore　stains　on　her　only　set　of　towels。　She　had　still　been　trying　to　decide　how　to　get　rid　of　the　body　when　they　sneaked　out。
　　Molochai；　Twig；　and　Zillah　were　good　at　sneaking　out。　They　had　plenty　of　practice　at　it：　Zillah　had　taught　Molochai　and　Twig　how　to　act　nonchalant；　how　to　wipe　the　blood　off　their　faces　and　control　their　passionate　breathing　before　they　left　the　scene　of　a　kill。　Without　his　guidance；　Zillah　reflected；　they　would　both　have　been　dead　several　times　over；　probably　with　stakes　driven　through　their　punky　little　hearts。　It　was　true　that　Zillah　was　a　hundred　and　the　others　only　seventy…　five；　even　so；　they　were　just　teenagers　by　the　standard　of　their　race。　Zillah　remembered　the　depthless　eyes　of　Christian；　his　quiet；　almost　painful　dignity。　How　old　would　Christian　be　now？　Three　hundred　years？　Four？　But　even　when　Christian　had　been　a　mere　babe　of　fifty；　Zillah　found　it　hard　to　imagine　him　acting　as　stupid　as　Molochai　and　Twig。　
　　Still；　they　were　his　charges。　They　took　orders　without　question；　and　in　return　they　expected　Zillah　to　take　care　of　them；　to　do　their　thinking　for　them。　They　had　perhaps　half　a　brain　between　them。　They　knew　Zillah　was　the　smart　one。　But　they　were　good　fun。　
　　Zillah　had　met　them　at　an　elegant　garden　party　in　the　roaring　twenties；　a　Great　Gatsby…ish　affair　with　paper　lanterns　and　drunken　croquet　games　on　the　lawn。　Molochai　and　Twig　were　huddled　in　a　corner　of　the　garden　making　fun　of　the　women's　fancy　dresses。　Whenever　a　waiter　came　by　with　a　tray　of　champagne　flutes；　they　would　reach　out　and　grab　two　glasses　apiece；　one　in　each　hand。　When　Zillah　approached　them；　they　were　too　drunk　to　recognize　him　as　one　of　their　own；　but　they　liked　his　pretty　face　and　his　natty　suit　of　white　linen。　They　led　him　into　the　big　house；　thinking　they　were　luring　him　to　his　death；　and　tried　to　attack　him　in　an　upstairs　parlor　decorated　entirely　in　animal　skins　and　trophy　heads。　Zillah　threw　them　across　the　room；　hoisted　them　up；　and　cracked　their　heads　together　beneath　the　eternally　roaring　jaws　of　a　stuffed　lion。　Then　he　opened　a　vein　in　his　wrist　and　tenderly　gave　them　to　drink。　After　that　they　were　his　forever。　Or　nearly　so。　
　　Several　miles　outside　the　town；　they　gave　up　on　finding　the　doughnut　shop　that　Molochai　thought　he　remembered　once　seeing　along　this　highway。　They　stopped　at　a　7…Eleven　instead。　Molochai　filled　a　big　bag　with　candy　and　Hostess　cakes。　Twig　chose　a　package　of　sliced　bologna　and　stocked　up　on　cheap　wine。　
　　The　cashier　watched　them　with　an　absorption　that　bordered　on　awe；　readjusting　her　heavy　ass　on　the　stool　behind　the　register；　pushing　at　the　colored　plastic　barrettes　that　held　her　stringy　hair　in　place。　When　Zillah's　eyes　met　hers；　she　felt　her　insides　go　runny。　The　unfamiliar　territory　between　her　legs　twitched；　suddenly　moist。
　　She　had　moles　on　her　face；　and　she　was　vastly　overweight；　and　she　figured　she　would　reach　forty　untouched　by　a　man。　But　something　in　his　green　eyes　made　her　feel　the　way　she　used　to　when　she　would　look　at　the　Playboy　and　Penthouse　magazines　that　were　sold　in　the　store；　before　she　told　herself　she　wasn't　interested　and　started　going　to　church　again。　Something　in　his　eyes　made　her　wonder　how　it　would　feel　to　let　a　man　lie　on　top　of　her；　to　push　his　thing　inside　her。　She　felt　for　her　pack　of　Moms；　lit　one；　and　sucked　the　smoke　up　hungrily；　watching　the　black　van　pull　away；　wondering　if　that　green…eyed　angel　would　ever　return。
　　On　the　read　again；　Twig　peeled　off　slices　of　bologna　and　stuffed　them　into　his　mouth；　tossing　his　head　like　a　feeding　leopard　as　he　swallowed；　hardly　chewing　the　soft　meat。　Molochai　gulped　sticky　mouthfuls　of　cake　and　cream。　Zillah　licked　at　a　sliver　of　bologna；　nibbled　delicately　around　the　edges　of　a　Twinkie；　sipped　from　the　bottle　of　Thunderbird。　None　of　them　were　satisfied。
　　〃Will　we　be　in　DC　by　tonight？〃　Molochai　asked；　licking　chocolate　off　his　fingers。
　　Twig　stared　at　the　road。　〃Shit；　we'll　be　there　in　an　hour。　But　you　can　count　on　staying　hungry　till　way　after　dark。〃　No　one　bothered　asking　why。　They　knew　where　the　best　city　pickings　were…in　the　clubs；　in　the　alleys；　under　the　midnight　moon。
　　〃Yeah。〃　Molochai　managed　a　sticky　smile；　thinking　of　nights　in　the　city。　〃So　we　stay　in　DC　for　a　couple　of　nights。　Then　what？〃
　　Twig　thought。　〃We　could　check　out　California　again。　You　liked　the　ice　cream　shops　in　Chinatown。〃
　　〃But　that's　so　far。　And　the　whole　desert　in　between　us　and　it。　Nothing　to　eat。　Nothing　to　drink。　No　people。　No　blood。〃　
　　Zillah　closed　his　eyes；　stroked　his　eyelashes　with　the　tip　of　one　shiny　black　nail。　〃We　could　drive　down　to　New　Orleans；〃　he　said。　〃We　could　visit　Christian。〃
　　Twig's　eyes　lit　up。　〃Christian！　Remember　Christian？〃　〃Good　old　Christian！〃　
　　〃He　doesn't　drink…wine！〃　
　　They　all　laughed。
　　〃Yeah；　but　he　might　still　be　tending　bar。　Free　drinks！〃
　　〃And　everyone's　blood　full　of　wine　and　beer　and　whiskey。〃
　　〃And　Chartreuse；〃　said　Zillah。
　　They　paused　for　a　moment；　tongues　tasting　a　memory　of　altars；　of　the　Garden　of　Eden。
　　〃Let's　do　it。〃
　　〃Let's　go　see　good　old　Christian。〃
　　〃Good　old　Chrissy；〃　said　Molochai。
　　〃Chrissy！〃　Twig　collapsed　in　giggles　over　the　wheel。
　　Zillah　passed　the　wine　up　to　Molochai。　〃Let's　start　saving　our　empties。　We'll　need　to　bottle　some　up　tonight。　Things　may　be　quite　a　bit　drier　after　DC。〃
　　Molochai　and　Twig　were　quiet；　considering　the　possibility　of　a　long　dry　spell。　Then　Twig　shrugged　and　said；　〃Yeah；　but　fuck　it…we're　going　to　New　Orleans！〃
　　Molochai　turned　the　music　back　on；　and　they　sang　along　with　Bowie；　leaning　on　each　other；　their　voices　soft　and　lilting　as　they　got　drunker。　Zillah　ran　his　hands　through　Molochai's　hair；　pulling　out　the　knots。　Twig　grinned　as　the　road　stretched　out　ahead；　long　and　smooth　and　magical；　unrolling　like　a　carpet　all　the　way　down　to　Christian's　bar　in　New　Orleans。
　　
　　　Chapter　4
　　
　　Heading　south　again；　away　from　the　Virginia　border　toward　home；　Steve　swung　the　car　onto　a　side　road　and　drove　toward　the　hill。　The　town　of　Roxboro　usually　fascinated　Ghost；　made　him　press　his　face　to　the　window　trying　to　see　all　its　barbecue　shacks　and　barbershops；　its　Southern　Pride　car　wash　whose　sign　read；　mysteriously；　AS　WE　THINK；　SO　WE　ARE；　its　one　dilapidated　nightclub　outside　which　dark　shapes　always　lurked；　regardless　of　hour　or　temperature。
　　But　tonight　Ghost　had　been　silent　all　through　Roxboro；　his　eyes　open　and　vacant；　he　seemed　still　lost　in　his　story。　Steve　wanted　to　take　him　away　from　those　twins；　those　dream　twins　dying　or　dead。　Too　often　the　phantoms　of　Ghost's　dreams　possessed　him　even　after　he　woke；　claimed　all　his　attention　and　a　little　of　his　soul。
　　The　visions　worried　Steve　as　much　as　they　enchanted　him。　Ever　since　they　had　bee　friends；　Steve　had　thought　of　himself