sk.dreamcatcher-第53部分

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　　　　Behind　it；　pulsing　on　the　blood…soaked　sheet；　were　a　hundred　or　more　orange…and…brown　eggs。　They　were　the　size　of　large　marbles　and　coated　with　a　murky；　snotlike　slime。　Within　each　Henry　could　see　a　moving；　hairlike　shadow。
　　　　The　weasel…thing　rose　up　like　a　snake　emerging　from　a　snake…charmer's　basket　and　chittered　at　him。　It　lurched　on　the　bed　Jonesy's　bed　…　but　seemed　unable　to　move　much。　Its　glossy　black　eyes　glared。　Its　tail　（except　Henry　thought　it　might　actually　be　some　sort　of　gripping　tentacle）　lashed　back　and　forth；　then　laid　itself　over　as　many　of　the　eggs　as　it　could　reach；　as　if　protecting　them。
　　　　Henry　realized　he　was　saying　the　same　word；　no；　over　and　over　in　a　monotonous　drone；　like　a　helpless　neurotic　who　has　been　loaded　up　on　Thorazine。　He　shouldered　the　rifle；　aimed；　and　tracked　the　thing's　repulsive　wedge　of　a　head　as　it　twitched　and　dodged。　It　knows　what　this　is；　it　knows　at　least　that　much；　Henry　thought　coldly；　and　then　he　squeezed　the　trigger。
　　　　It　was　close　range　and　the　creature　wasn't　up　to　much　in　the　way　of　evasion；　either　laying　its　eggs　had　exhausted　it　or　it　wasn't　doing　well　in　the　cold　…　with　the　main　door　open；　Hole　in　the　Wan　had　gotten　quite　cold　indeed。　The　report　was　very　loud　in　the　closed　room；　and　the　thing's　upraised　head　disintegrated　in　a　liquid　splatter　that　blew　back　against　the　wall　in　strings　and　clots。　Its　blood　was　the　same　red…gold　as　the　fungus。　The　decapitated　body　tumbled　off　the　bed　and　onto　a　litter　of　clothes　Henry　didn't　recognize：　a　brown　coat；　an　orange　flagman's　vest；　a　pair　of　jeans　with　cuffs　（none　of　them　had　ever　worn　cuffed　jeans；　in　junior　high　school；　those　who　did　had　been　branded　shitkickers）。　Several　of　the　eggs　tumbled　off　with　the　body。　Most　landed　on　either　the　clothes　or　the　litter　of　Jonesy's　books　and　remained　whole；　but　a　couple　hit　the　floor　and　broke　open。　Cloudy　stuff　like　spoiled　eggwhite　oozed　out；　about　a　tablespoonful　from　each　egg。　Within　it　were　those　hairs；　writhing　and　twisting　and　seeming　to　glare　at　Henry　with　black　eyes　the　size　of　pinheads。　Looking　at　them　made　him　feel　like　screaming。
　　　　He　turned　and　walked　jerkily　out　of　the　room　on　legs　with　no　more　feeling　in　them　than　the　legs　of　a　table。　He　felt　like　a　puppet　being　manipulated　by　someone　who　means　well　but　has　just　begun　to　learn　his　craft。　He　had　no　real　idea　where　he　was　going　until　he　reached　the　kitchen　and　bent　over　the　cabinet　under　the　sink。
　　　　'I　am　the　eggman；　I　am　the　eggman；　I　am　the　walrus！　Goo…goo…joob！'
　　　　He　didn't　sing　this　but　declaimed　it　in　a　loud；　hortatory　voice　he　hadn't　realized　was　in　his　repertoire。　It　was　the　voice　of　a　ham　actor　from　the　nineteenth　century。　That　idea　called　up　an　image　God　knew　why　…　of　Edwin　Booth　dressed　as　d'Artagnan；　plumed　hat　and　all；　quoting　from　the　lyrics　of　John　Lennon；　and　Henry　uttered　two　loud　laugh…syllables　…　Ha！　Ha！
　　　　I'm　going　insane；　he　thought　。　。　。　but　it　was　okay。　Better　d'Artagnan　reciting　'I　Am　the　Walrus'　than　the　image　of　that　thing's　blood　splattering　onto　the　wall；　or　the　mold…covered　Doc　Marten　sticking　out　of　the　bathtub；　or；　worst　of　all；　those　eggs　splitting　open　and　releasing　a　load　of　twitching　hairs　with　eyes。　All　those　eyes　looking　at　him。
　　　　He　moved　aside　the　dish　detergent　and　the　floor…bucket；　and　there　it　was；　the　yellow　can　of　Sparx　barbecue　lighter　fluid。　The　inept　puppeteer　who　had　taken　him　over　advanced　Henry's　arm　in　a　series　of　jerks；　then　clamped　his　right　hand　on　the　Sparx　can。　He　carried　it　back　across　the　living　room；　pausing　long　enough　to　take　the　box　of　wooden　matches　from　the　mantel。
　　　　'I　am　he　and　you　are　me　and　we　are　all　together！'　he　declaimed；　and　stepped　briskly　back　into　Jonesy's　bedroom　before　the　terrified　person　inside　his　head　could　seize　the　controls；　turn　him；　and　make　him　run　away。　That　person　wanted　to　make　him　run　until　he　fell　down　unconscious。　Or　dead。
　　　　The　eggs　on　the　bed　were　also　splitting　open。　Two　dozen　or　more　of　those　hairs　were　crawling　around　on　the　blood…soaked　sheet　or　squirming　on　Jonesy's　pillow。　One　raised　its　nub　of　a　head　and　chittered　at　Henry；　a　sound　almost　too　thin　and　high…pitched　to　be　heard。
　　　　Still　not　allowing　himself　any　pause；　if　he　paused　he　would　never　get　started　again　（in　any　direction　save　doorward；　that　was）；　Henry　took　two　steps　to　the　foot　of　the　bed。　One　of　the　hairs　came　sliding　across　the　floor　toward　him；　propelling　itself　with　its　tail　like　a　spermatozoon　under　a　microscope。
　　　　Henry　stepped　on　it；　thumbing　the　red　plastic　cap　off　the　spout　of　the　can　as　he　did。　He　aimed　the　spout　at　the　bed　and　squeezed；　flicking　his　wrist　back　and　forth；　making　sure　he　got　plenty　on　the　floor　as　well。　When　the　lighter　fluid　hit　the　hairlike　things；　they　made　high；　mewling　cries　like　kittens　which　had　just　been　born。
　　　　'Eggman　。　。　。　eggman　。　。　。　walrus！'
　　　　He　stepped　on　another　of　the　hairs　and　saw　that　a　third　was　clinging　to　the　leg　of　his　jeans；　holding　on　with　its　wisp　of　a　tail　and　trying　to　bite　through　the　cloth　with　its　still　soft　teeth。
　　　　'Eggman；'　Henry　muttered；　and　scraped　it　off　with　the　side　of　his　other　boot。　When　it　tried　to　squirm　away　he　stepped　on　it。　He　was　suddenly　aware　that　he　was　drenched　with　sweat；　sopping　from　head　to　toe；　if　he　went　out　into　the　cold　like　this　（and　he　would　have　to；　he　couldn't　stay　here）；　he'd　probably　catch　his　death。
　　　　'Can't　stay　here；　can't　take　no　rest！'　Henry　cried　in　his　new　hortatory　voice。
　　　　He　opened　the　matchbox；　but　his　hands　were　shaking　so　badly　he　spilled　half　of　them　on　the　floor。　More　of　the　threadlike　worms　were　crawling　toward　him。　They　might　not　know　much；　but　they　knew　he　was　the　enemy；　all　right；　they　knew　that。
　　　　Henry　got　hold　of　a　match；　held　it　up；　put　his　thumb　against　the　tip。　A　trick　Pete　had　taught　him　in　the　way　back　when。　It　was　your　friends　who　always　taught　you　the　finer　things；　wasn't　it？　Like　how　to　give　your　old　pal　Beaver　a　Viking　funeral　and　get　n'd　of　these　noisome　little　snakelets　at　the　same　time。
　　　　'Eggman！'
　　　　He　scratched　the　tip　of　the　match　and　it　popped　fire。　The　smell　of　the　burning　sulfur　was　like　the　smell　that　had　greeted　him　when　he　stepped　into　the　cabin；　like　the　smell　of　the　burly　woman's　farts。
　　　　'Walrus！'
　　　　He　flung　the　match　at　the　foot　of　the　bed；　where　there　was　a　crumpled　duvet　now　soaked　with　lighter　fluid。　For　a　moment　the　flame　guttered　down　blue　around　the　little　stick；　and　Henry　thought　it　would　go　out。　Then　there　was　a　soft　flump　sound；　and　the　duvet　grew　a　modest　crown　of　yellow　flames。
　　　　'Goo…goo…joob！'
　　　　The　flames　crawled　up　the　sheet；　turning　the　blood　soaked　into　it　black。　It　reached　the　mass　of　jelly…coated　eggs；　tasted　them；　and　found　them　good。　There　was　a　series　of　thick　popping　sounds　as　the　eggs　began　to　burst。　More　of　those　mewling　cries　as　the　worms　burned。　Sizzling　noises　as　fluid　ran　out　of　the　burst　eggs。
　　　　Henry　backed　out　of　the　room；　squirting　lighter　fluid　as　he　went。　He　got　halfway　across　the　Navajo　rug　before　the　can　ran　empty。　He　tossed　it　aside；　scratched　another　match；　and　tossed　it。　This　time　the　flump！　was　immediate；　and　the　flames　sprang　up　orange。　The　heat　baked　against　his　sweat…shiny　face；　and　he　felt　a　sudden　urge　…　it　was　both　strong　and　joyful　…　to　cast　the　painters'　masks　aside　and　simply　stride　into　the　fire。　Hello　heat；　hello　summer；　hello　darkness；　my　old　friend。
　　　　What　stopped　him　was　as　simple　as　it　was　powerful。　If　he　pulled　the　pin　now；　he　would　have　suffered　the　unpleasant　awakening　of　all　his　quiescent　emotions　to　no　purpose。　He　would　never　be　clear　on　the　details　of　what　had　happened　here；　but　he　might　get　at　least　some　answers　from　whoever　was　flying　the　helicopters　and　shooting　the　animals。　If　they　didn't　just　shoot　him；　too；　that　was。
　　　　At　the　door；　Henry　was　struck　by　a　memory　so　clear　that　his　heart　cried　out　inside　him：　Beaver　kneeling　in　front　of　Duddits；　who　is　trying　to　put　on　his　sneaker　backwards。　Let　me　fix　that；　man；　Beaver　says；　and　Duddits；　looking　at　him　with　a　wide…eyed　perplexity　that　you　could　only　love；　replies。　Fit　neek？
　　　　Henry　was　crying　again。　'So　long；　Beav；'　he　said。　'Love　you；　man　…　and　that's　straight　from　the　heart。'
　　　　Then　he　stepped　out　into　the　cold。


6

He　walked　to　the　far　end　of　Hole　in　the　Wall；　where　the　woodpile　was。　Beside　it　was　another　tarp；　this　one　ancient；　black　fading　to　gray。　It　was　frost…frozen　to　the　ground；　and　Henry　had　to　yank　hard　with　both　hands　in　order　to　pull　it　free。　Under　it　was　a　tangle　of　snowshoes；　skates；　and　skis。　There　was　an　antediluvian　ice…auger；　as　well。
　　　　As　he　looked　at　this　unprepossessing　pile　of　long…dormant　winter　gear；　Henry　suddenly　realized　how　tired　he　was　。　。　。　except　tired　was　really　too　mild　a　word。　He　had　just　e　ten　miles　on　foot；　much　of　it　at　a　fast　trot。　He　had　also　been　in　a　car　accident　and　discovered　the　body　of　a　childhood　friend。　He　believed　both　his　other　two　childhood　friends　were　likewise　lost　to　him。
　　　　If　I　hadn't　been　suicidal　to　begin　with；　I'd　be　stark…raving　crazy　by　now；　he　thought；　and　then　laughed。　It　felt　good　to　laugh；　but　it　didn't　make　him　feel　any　less　tired。　Still；　he　had　to　get　out　of　here。　Had　to　find　someone　in　authority　and　tell　them　what　had　happened。　They　might　already　know　…　based　on　the