sk.dreamcatcher-第57部分

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n　a　glimmer　of　light　left　in　the　day　now；　but　enough　to　see　that　the　track　…　what　was　left　of　it　…　veered　abruptly　to　the　right　and　went　into　the　woods。
　　　　Into　the　fucking　woods。　Why　had　Jonesy　（and　Pete；　if　Pete　was　with　him）　gone　into　the　woods？　What　sense　did　that　make　when　the　Deep　Cut　ran　straight　and　clear；　a　white　lane　between　the　darkening　trees？
　　　　'Deep　Cut　goes　northwest；'　he　said；　standing　there　with　his　skis　toeing　in　toward　each　other　and　the　loosely　wrapped　package　of　hot　dogs　poking　out　of　his　coat　pocket。　'The　road　to　Gosselin's　…　the　blacktop　…　can't　be　more　than　three　miles　from　here。　Jonesy　knows　that。　Pete　knows　that。　Still　。　。　。　snowmobile　goes　。　。　。'　He　held　up　his　arms　like　the　hands　of　a　clock；　estimating。　'Snowmobile　goes　almost　dead　north。　Why？'
　　　　Maybe　he　knew。　The　sky　was　brighter　in　the　direction　of　Gosselin's；　as　if　banks　of　lights　had　been　set　up　there。　He　could　hear　the　chatter　of　helicopters；　waxing　and　waning　but　always　tending　in　that　same　direction。　As　he　drew　closer；　he　expected　to　hear　other　heavy　machinery　as　well：　supply　vehicles；　maybe　generators。　To　the　east　there　was　still　the　isolated　crackle　of　gunfire；　but　the　big　action　was　clearly　in　the　direction　he　was　going。
　　　　'They've　set　up　a　base　camp　at　Gosselin's；'　Henry　said。　'And　Jonesy　didn't　want　any　part　of　it。'
　　　　That　felt　like　a　bingo　to　Henry。　Only　。　。　。　there　was　no　more　Jonesy；　was　there？　just　the　redblack　cloud。
　　　　'Not　true；'　he　said。　'Jonesy's　still　there。　Jonesy's　in　the　hospital　with　Mr　Gray。　That's　what　the　cloud　is　…　Mr　Gray。'　And　then；　apropos　of　nothing　（at　least　that　he　could　tell）：　'Fit　wha？　Fit　neek？'　Henry　looked　up　into　the　sifting　snow　（it　was　much　less　urgent　than　the　earlier　snowfall；　at　least　so　far；　but　it　was　starting　to　accumulate）　as　if　he　believed　there　was　a　God　above　it　somewhere；　studying　him　with　all　the　genuine　if　detached　interest　of　a　scientist　looking　at　a　wriggling　paramecium。　'What　the　fuck　am　I　talking　about？　Any　idea？'
　　　　No　answer；　but　an　odd　memory　came；　He；　Pete；　Beaver；　and　Jonesy's　wife　had　kept　a　secret　among　them　last　March。　Carla　had　felt　Jonesy　could　do　without　knowing　that　his　heart　had　stopped　twice；　once　just　after　the　EMTs　put　him　in　the　back　of　their　ambulance；　and　again　shortly　after　he　had　arrived　at　Mass　General。　Jonesy　knew　he'd　e　close　to　stepping　out；　but　not　（at　least　as　far　as　Henry　knew）　just　how　close。　And　lf　Jonesy　had　had　any　Kübler…Ross　step…into…the…light　experiences；　he　had　either　kept　them　to　himself　or　forgotten　thanks　to　repeated　doses　of　anesthetic　and　lots　of　pain…killers。
　　　　A　roar　built　out　of　the　south　with　terrifying　speed　and　Henry　ducked；　putting　his　hands　to　his　ears　as　what　sounded　like　a　full　squadron　of　'et　fighters　passed　in　the　clouds　overhead。　He　saw　nothing；　but　when　the　roar　of　the　'ets　faded　as　fast　as　it　had　e；　he　straightened　with　his　heart　beating　hard　and　fast。　Yow！　Christ！　It　occurred　to　him　that　this　was　what　the　airbases　surrounding　Iraq　must　have　sounded　like　during　the　days　leading　up　to　Operation　Desert　Storm。
　　　　That　big　boom。　Did　it　mean　the　United　States　of　America　had　just　gone　to　war　against　beings　from　another　world？　Was　he　now　living　in　an　H。G。　Wells　novel？　Henry　felt　a　hard；　squeezing　flutter　under　his　breastbone。　If　so；　this　enemy　might　have　more　than　a　few　hundred　rusty　Soviet　Scuds　to　throw　back　at　Uncle　Sammy。
　　　　Let　it　go。　You　can't　do　anything　about　any　of　that。　What's　next　for　you；　that's　the　question。　What's　next　for　you？
　　　　The　rave　of　the　jets　had　already　faded　to　a　mutter。　He　guessed　that　they　would　be　back；　though。　Maybe　with　friends。
　　　　'Two　paths　diverged　in　a　snowy　wood；　is　that　how　it　goes？　Something　like　that；　anyway。'
　　　　But　following　the　snowmobile's　track　any　farther　was　really　not　an　option。　He'd　lose　it　in　the　dark　half　an　hour　from　now；　and　this　new　snowfall　would　wipe　it　out　in　any　case。　He　would　end　up　wandering　and　lost　。　。　。　as　Jonesy　very　likely　was　now。
　　　　Sighing；　Henry　turned　away　from　the　snowmobile　track　and　continued　along　the　road。


13

By　the　time　he　neared　the　place　where　the　Deep　Cut　joined　up　with　the　two…lane　blacktop　known　as　the　Swanny　Pond　Road；　Henry　was　almost　too　tired　to　stand；　let　alone　ski。　The　muscles　in　his　thighs　felt　like　old　wet　teabags。　Not　even　the　lights　on　the　northwestern　horizon；　now　much　brighter；　or　the　sound　of　the　motors　and　helicopters　could　offer　him　much　fort。　Ahead　of　him　was　a　final　long；　steep　hill。　On　the　other　side；　Deep　Cut　ended　and　Swanny　Pond　began。　There　he　might　actually　encounter　traffic；　especially　if　there　were　troops　being　moved　in。
　　　　'e　on；'　he　said。　'e　on；　e　on；　e　on。'　Yet　he　stood　where　he　was　awhile　longer。　He　didn't　want　to　go　over　that　hill。　'Better　Underhill　than　overhill；'　he　said。　That　seemed　to　mean　something　but　it　was　probably　just　another　idiotic　non　sequitur。　Besides；　there　was　nowhere　else　to　go。
　　　　He　bent；　scooped　up　more　snow　…　in　the　dark　the　double　handful　looked　like　a　small　pillowcase。　He　nibbled　some；　not　because　he　wanted　it　but　because　he　really　didn't　want　to　start　moving　again。　The　lights　ing　from　Gosselin's　were　more　understandable　than　the　lights　he　and　Pete　had　seen　playing　in　the　sky　（They're　back！　Becky　had　screamed；　like　the　little　girl　sitting　in　front　of　the　TV　in　that　old　Steven　Spielberg　movie）；　but　Henry　liked　them　even　less；　somehow。　All　those　motors　and　generators　sounded　somehow　。　。　。　hungry。
　　　　'That's　right；　rabbit；'　he　said。　And　then；　because　there　really　were　no　other　options；　he　started　up　the　last　hill　between　him　and　a　real　road。


14

He　paused　at　the　top；　gasping　for　breath　and　bent　over　his　skipoles。　The　wind　was　stronger　up　here；　and　it　seemed　to　go　right　through　his　clothing。　His　left　leg　throbbed　where　it　had　been　gored　by　the　turnsignal　stalk；　and　he　wondered　again　if　he　was　incubating　a　little　red…gold　colony　under　the　makeshift　bandage。　Too　dark　to　see；　and　when　the　only　possible　good　news　would　be　no　news；　maybe　that　was　just　as　well。
　　　　'Time　slowed；　reality　bent；　on　and　on　the　eggman　went。'　No　yuks　left　in　that　one；　so　he　started　down　the　hill　toward　the　T…junction　where　the　Deep　Cut　Road　ended。
　　　　This　side　of　the　hill　was　steeper　and　soon　he　was　skiing　rather　than　walking。　He　picked　up　speed；　not　knowing　if　what　he　felt　was　terror；　exhilaration；　or　some　unhealthy　mix　of　the　two。　Certainly　he　was　going　too　fast　for　the　visibility；　which　was　almost　nil；　and　his　abilities；　which　were　as　rusty　as　the　clamps　holding　the　skis　to　his　boots。　The　trees　blurred　past　on　either　side；　and　it　suddenly　occurred　to　him　that　all　his　problems　might　be　solved　at　a　stroke。　Not　the　Hemingway　Solution　after　all。　Call　this　way　out　the　Bono　Solution。
　　　　His　hat　blew　off　his　head。　He　reached　for　it　automatically；　one　of　his　poles　flailing　out　ahead　of　him；　half…seen　in　the　dark；　and　all　at　once　his　balance　was　gone。　He　was　going　to　take　a　tumble。　And　maybe　that　was　good；　as　long　as　he　didn't　break　his　goddam　leg。　Falling　would　stop　him；　at　least。　He　would　just　pick　himself　up；　and…
　　　　Lights　blazed　out；　big　truck…mounted　spotlights；　and　before　his　vision　disappeared　into　dazzle；　Henry　glimpsed　what　might　have　been　a　flatbed　pulp…truck　pulled　across　the　end　of　the　Deep　Cut　Road。　The　lights　were　undoubtedly　motion…sensitive；　and　there　was　a　line　of　men　standing　in　front　of　them；
　　　　'HALT！'　a　terrifying；　amplified　voice　manded。　It　could　have　been　the　voice　of　God。　'HALT　OR　WE'LL　FIRE！'
　　　　Henry　went　down　hard　and　awkwardly。　His　skis　shot　off　his　feet。　One　ankle　bent　painfully　enough　to　make　him　cry　out。　He　lost　one　skipole；　the　other　snapped　off　halfway　up　its　shaft。　The　wind　was　knocked　out　of　him　in　a　large；　frosty　whoop　of　breath。
　　　　He　slid；　snowplowing　with　his　wide…open　crotch；　then　came　to　rest；　bent　limbs　forming　a　shape　something　like　a　swastika。
　　　　His　vision　began　to　e　back；　and　he　heard　feet　crunching　in　the　snow。　He　flailed　and　managed　to　sit　up；　not　able　to　tell　if　anything　was　broken　or　not。
　　　　Six　men　were　standing　about　ten　feet　down　the　hill　from　him；　their　shadows　impossibly　long　and　crisp　on　the　diamond…dusted　new　snow。　They　were　all　wearing　parkas。　They　all　had　clear　plastic　masks　over　their　mouths　and　noses　…　these　looked　more　efficient　than　the　painters'　masks　Henry　had　found　in　the　snowmobile　shed；　but　Henry　had　an　idea　that　the　basic　purpose　was　the　same。
　　　　The　men　also　had　automatic　weapons；　all　of　them　pointed　at　him。　It　now　seemed　rather　lucky　to　Henry　that　he　had　left　Jonesy's　Garand　and　his　own　Winchester　back　at　the　Scout。　If　he'd　had　a　gun；　he　might　have　a　dozen　or　more　holes　in　him　by　now。
　　　　'I　don't　think　I've　got　it；'　he　croaked。　'Whatever　it　is　you're　worried　about；　I　don't　think…'
　　　　'ON　YOUR；　FEET！'　God's　voice　again。　Corning　from　the　truck。　The　men　standing　in　front　of　him　blocked　out　at　least　some　of　the　glare　and　Henry　could　see　more　men　at　the　foot　of　the　hill　where　the　roads　met。　All　of　them　had　weapons；　too；　except　for　the　one　holding　the　bullhorn。
　　　　'I　don't　know　if　I　can　g…'
　　　　'ON　YOUR　FEET　NOW！'　God　manded；　and　one　of　the　men　in　front　of　him　made　an　expressive　little　erking　motion　with　the　barrel　of　his　gun。
　　　　Henry　got　shakily　to　his　feet。　His　legs　were　trembling　and　the　ankle　he'd　bent　was　ou