gns.thegraveyardvultures-第2部分

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st　hand　some　of　the　voodoo　rites；　houngans　digging　up　corpses　in　the　graveyard　at　night　for　a　number　of　revolting　ceremonies；　the　dead　walked　and　having　seen　it　with　his　own　eyes　Mark　Sabat　did　not　dispute　it。　And　Quentin　had　been　there；　too；　learning　his　trade；　pandering　to　these　witch　doctors　who　held　the　secret　of　the　living　dead。
　　
　　Mark　could　see　clearly　now　that　his　eyes　had　accustomed　themselves　to　the　dark。　Three　corpses；　peasants；　a　man　and　a　woman　in　middle…age；　the　hessian　sacking　in　which　they　had　been　buried　having　rotted　away　to　reveal　their　emaciated　nakedness；　putrid　green　flesh　hanging　in　strips；　the　whiteness　of　the　bones　beneath　almost　luminous。　And　their　faces　had　expressions　on　them　even　though　they　were　virtually　skeletal。　Masks　of　terror　fixed　on　he　who　had　disturbed　their　final　peace；　arms　entwined　in　a　horrific　embrace。　And　the　child　between　them；　that　was　the　worst　of　all；　a　young　girl；　hairless　as　a　babe；　her　flesh　somehow　having　defied　the　damp　cold　earth　and　the　nibbling　worms　and　remained　almost　intact。　Indeed；　she　might　still　have　been　alive　。。。　a　movement；　she　lurched　against　the　woman　as　though　seeking　parental　protection　a　limp　hand　swinging。　Oh　Jesus　God；　Sabat　thought；　she's　still　got　her　eyes！　Orbs　wide　with　terror　seeing　him；　pleading　with　him　to　save　them　all　from　this　monster　of　darkness。
　　
　　'You'll　join　them。'　Quentin　held　the　axe　easily　now；　no　longer　struggling　to　lift　it。　'You'll　soon　be　one　of　the　walking　dead；　Mark。　Or　perhaps　my　Master　will　find　other　uses　for　your　dismembered　body　while　your　soul。　。　。　'
　　
　　'Stop　Mark　Sabat　advanced　into　the　clearing；　the　crucifix　now　clear　of　his　pocket　and　held　out　at　arms　length。　'Enough　of　these　vile　practices；　Quentin。　These　people　must　have　eternal　peace　。　。　。　and　you　as　well！'
　　
　　But　Quentin　stood　his　ground。　He　should　have　cowered　before　the　power　of　the　cross　and　the　pungent　smell　of　herbs　which　emanated　from　the　intruder。　Instead　he　gave　a　hollow　faugh　and　that　was　when　the　younger　Sabat　knew　。　。　。　knew　that　his　own　loss　of　faith　had　failed　him　in　his　greatest　hour　of　need；　that　he　was　but　a　mere　mortal　facing　up　to　a　devil　incarnate。　And　Quentin　was　fully　aware　of　this；　too！　No　longer　was　the　evil　brother　a　helpless　figure；　age　and　decay　still　ravaged　him　hideously　but　his　muscles　powered　him　with　the　speed　and　strength　of　one　in　the　prime　of　life。　The　cold　air　hissed　as　the　axe　went　back　and　up；　a　whistling　arc　of　instant　death；　its　blade　honed　to　razor　sharpness。　A　cry　left　those　toothless　lips　that　was　more　animal　than　human；　reverberating　in　the　still　atmosphere；　the　mountains　all　around　starting　to　take　up　the　echoes。
　　
　　Sabat　fought　against　shock　and　horror　which　were　threatening　to　petrify　him　into　an　easy　target。　A　sideways　leap　just　as　the　blade　came　down；　hearing　it　strike　the　rocky　ground　amid　a　shower　of　sparks。　Whirling；　flinging　the　crucifix　with　desperation；　seeing　it　hit　his　adversary　full　in　the　chest。　But　Quentin　only　swivelled　round；　a　horrific　sneer　on　his　aged　features。　'The　cross　is　powerless　without　you；　Mark。　Not　even　a　symbol；　just　a　lump　of　meaningless　metal。'
　　
　　Panicking　now；　a　Christian　in　a　roman　lion　pit；　knowing　that　his　agility　can　only　postpone　the　inevitable　mauling。
　　
　　Mental　torture　added　to　bursting　lungs　and　weakening　muscles。　Mark　Sabat　hurled　garlic　bulbs　and　saw　them　bounce　off　his　brother　and　roll　away。　Quentin　followed　him；　the　axe　poised　effortlessly；　awaiting　the　death　blow。　It　was　crazy　that　such　a　decrepit　body　could　move　so　swiftly；　the　brain　within　the　shrunken　bald　skull　tuned　perfectly　to　outwit　its　retreating　foe。
　　
　　Suddenly　Mark　Sabat　was　airborne　and　falling；　a　wave　of　vertigo　sweeping　through　him；　a　sensation　akin　to　having　stepped　off　a　block　of　high…rise　flats　into　a　black　nothingness。　Then　a　jerk　checked　him。　He　was　lying　on　his　back　staring　up　at　an　oblong　that　was　lighter　than　the　darkness　all　around；　twinkling　pinpoints　which　he　recognised　as　stars。　It　took　him　some　seconds　to　realise　what　had　happened　and　then　it　all　came　to　him；　the　musty　damp　smell　of　soil　which　showered　down　on　him　from　the　narrow；　sharp　sides　of　the　grave　into　which　he　had　fallen；　sharp　slivers　of　rock　gouging　his　back。
　　
　　A　familiar　silhouette　above　him　obliterated　the　starlight。　Quentin。　Old　or　young；　it　was　the　Quentin　he　had　hunted　from　Haiti　to　Bavaria；　axe　poised　for　the　final　blow；　savouring　this　moment　of　fratricide。　And　it　was　at　that　instant；　even　as　he　was　preparing　himself　for　death；　that　Mark's　fingers　closed　over　the　cold　metal　of　the　。38　in　his　jacket　pocket。　His　movements　were　instinctive；　an　act　of　hopelessness　tinged　with　defiance；　a　condemned　man　spitting　in　the　face　of　his　executioner。　A　salvo　of　shots；　so　rapid　that　they　sounded　like　a　single　peal　of　cannonfire　ing　up　out　of　the　ground；　stabbing　flame　that　burned　its　way　through　the　material　of　the　pocket　in　which　the　gun　was　fired；　and　gave　off　a　stench　that　was　a　mixture　of　singed　cloth　and　cordite。　And　bullets　thudding　into　a　human　body　with　a　noise　like　catapult　slugs　striking　wet　cardboard。
　　
　　Quentin　was　thrown　back　up　to　his　full　height　even　as　he　started　to　bring　the　axe　down；　the　hail　of　slugs　ploughing　up　his　body；　churning　a　furrow　that　began　in　his　groin　and　ended　with　a　savage　gash　across　his　throat；　as　though　a　ferocious　wild　beast　had　savaged　him。　His　scream　of　anger　was　drowned　by　the　blood　gushing　from　the　severed　jugular　vein；　the　agony　arching　his　back　so　that　his　bowed　spine　threatened　to　snap。　One　suspended　second　when　he　tottered　on　the　narrow　brink　that　divides　the　chasms　of　life　and　death；　his　own　death…wish　suddenly　expedited　yet　instinctively　clinging　to　the　life　he　had　known；　reluctant　to　relinquish　it。　Tottering；　swaying。
　　
　　Mark's　finger　checked　in　the　trigger。　He　heard　the　axe　thud　harmlessly　on　the　ground；　saw　Quentin　ing　at　him；　airborne；　arms　flailing　like　some　ungainly　prehistoric　bird　attempting　to　take　flight；　spouting　warm；　thick　blood。
　　
　　Mark　Sabat　felt　the　rush　of　air；　covered　his　head　with　his　arms　and　braced　himself。　A　sickening　impact；　smothered　by　the　still　kicking　body　of　his　brother；　feeling　and　tasting　warm　blood　on　his　face。
　　
　　And　the　younger　Sabat　was　fighting　for　his　life　again。　Somehow　he　managed　to　push　the　other　off　him；　struggled　up　so　that　they　were　wedged　side…by…side　in　the　deep；　narrow　grave。　Only　then　did　he　open　his　eyes；　and　even　the　darkness　failed　to　hide　the　awfulness　of　it　all。　Quentin's　face　was　only　inches　from　his　own；　a　grotesque　countenance　that　showered　him　with　bloodied　curses；　feeble　fingers　clutching　at　him；　broken　filthy　nails　scraping　his　flesh。　Mark　heard　the　words　clearly　although　it　must　have　been　impossible　for　the　other　to　speak。　'　You　fool！　Idle　and　yet　I　shall　live　again。　It　is　you　who　will　moulder　in　this　grave；　Mark！'
　　
　　Somehow　Mark　Sabat　managed　to　extricate　himself　from　those　death　clutches；　vomiting　as　he　did　so　and　trying　not　to　breathe　in　the　foul　stench　of　putrefaction　and　death。　Dimly　he　was　aware　that　he　still　held　the　revolver　and　this　time　there　was　a　deliberation　in　the　way　he　brought　the　barrel　to　bear　on　his　brother's　forehead；　almost　a　regret　in　the　way　he　applied　pressure　to　the　hair　trigger　like　a　grieving　jockey　about　to　despatch　his　favourite　but　wounded　mount。　The　report　was　deafening　in　the　confined　space；　the　stab　of　flame　lighting　up　the　scene　vividly　and　implanting　it　indelibly　on　Sabat's　brain。
　　
　　In　that　terrible　lingering　second　he　saw　the　other　man's　skull　split　like　a　cracked　egg；　grey　yolk　showering　up　the　earthy　walls　and　stringing　back　in　tentacles　which　adhered　to　his　clothing。　One　last　curse　from　that　cavity　of　a　mouth　before　it　was　swamped　by　a　tidal　wave　of　crimson　fluid。
　　
　　Sabat　pulled　the　trigger　again　but　the　hammer　fell　on　an　empty　shell。　He　scrambled　up；　felt　his　feet　squelching　on　the　soft　body　beneath　him；　somehow　secured　a　grip　on　the　top　of　the　grave　and　pulled　himself　up　amid　an　avalanche　of　soil　and　stones。　Then　he　lay　there　on　the　ground；　gulping　in　great　lungfuls　of　freezing　air　and　trying　not　to　look　at　the　three　puppet…like　corpses　who　sat　closely　by　as　though　watching　him；　their　expressions　seeming　to　have　changed　to　one　of　pleading；　a　mute　request　to　be　returned　to　their　graves。
　　
　　And　Sabat　knew　that　he　would　have　to　re…bury　them。
　　
　　Dawn　was　turning　the　eastern　sky　a　pale　grey　by　the　time　he　had　finished。　Every　muscle　and　nerve　in　his　lean　body　raged　its　protest　as　he　finally　flung　down　the　broken　spade　which　he　had　found　behind　the　hut　and　stared　at　the　three　fresh　mounds　of　earth。　The　man　and　woman　now　occupied　a　single　grave；　the　child　a　smaller　one；　and　in　the　deep　one　lay　Quentin。　Six　feet　of　earth　and　rock　covered　the　most　evil　man　the　world　had　ever　known。　Yet　Sabat　was　uneasy；　now　glancing　about　him。　It　seemed　colder　than　ever　in　spite　of　his　exertions。　Almost　as　though　night　was　ing　back　to　cast　its　mantle　over　this　bloodied　clearing　and　hide　the　shame　of　a　once　noble　family。
　　
　　He　turned　away；　tried　to　hurry；　then　pulled　up；　cringing；　not　daring　to　look　back。　A　voice；　a　whisper　on　the　early　morning　breeze；　yet　so　familiar。
　　
　　'Idle　and　ye