sk.dreamcatcher-第60部分

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To　which　the　other　replies；　You　think　so？　And　Jonesy　realizes　the　docs　are　Henry　and　Pete。
　　　　He　turns　toward　them；　and　it　seems　he's　not　disembodied　after　all；　because　he　catches　a　ghost　of　his　reflection　in　the　window　looking　into　the　operating　room。　He　is　not　Jonesy　anymore。　Not　human　anymore。　His　skin　is　gray　and　his　eyes　are　black　bulbs　staring　out　of　his　noseless　face。　He　has　bee　one　of　them；　one　of　the…
　　　　One　of　the　grayboys；　he　thinks。　That's　what　they　call　us；　the　grayboys。　Some　of　them　call　us　the　space…niggers。
　　　　He　opens　his　mouth　to　say　some　of　this；　or　perhaps　to　ask　his　old　friends　to　help　him　…　they　have　always　helped　each　other；　if　they　could　…　but　then　the　film　jumps　again　（goddam　that　editor；　drinking　on　the　job）　and　he's　in　bed；　a　hospital　bed　in　a　hospital　room；　and　someone　is　calling　Where's　Jonesy；　I　want　Jonesy。
　　　　There；　he　thinks　with　wretched　satisfaction；　I　always　knew　it　was　Jonesy；　not　Marcy。　That's　death　calling；　or　maybe　Death；　and　I　must　be　very　quiet　if　I'm　to　avoid　him；　he　missed　me　in　the　crowd；　made　a　grab　for　me　in　the　ambulance　and　missed　again；　and　now　here　he　is　in　the　hospital；　masquerading　as　a　patient。
　　　　Please　stop；　crafty　old　Mr　Death　groans　in　that　hideous　coaxing　monotone；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Jonesy；　I　want　Jonesy。
　　　　I'Il　just　lie　here　until　he　stops；　Jonesy　thinks；　I　can't　get　up　anyway；　just　had　two　pounds　of　metal　put　in　my　hip　and　it'll　be　days　until　I'm　able　to　get　up；　maybe　a　week。
　　　　But　to　his　horror　he　realizes　he　is　getting　up；　throwing　the　covers　aside　and　getting　out　of　bed；　and　although　he　can　feel　the　sutures　in　his　hip　and　across　his　belly　straining　and　breaking　open；　spilling　what　is　undoubtedly　donated　blood　down　his　leg　and　into　his　pubic　hair；　soaking　it；　he　walks　across　the　room　without　a　limp；　through　a　patch　of　sunlight　that　casts　a　brief　but　very　human　shadow　on　the　floor　（not　a　grayboy　now；　there　is　that　to　be　grateful　for；　at　least；　because　the　grayboys　are　toast）；　and　to　the　door。　He　strolls　unseen　down　a　corridor；　past　a　parked　gumey　with　a　bedpan　on　it；　past　a　pair　of　laughing；　talking　nurses　who　are　looking　at　photographs；　passing　them　from　hand　to　hand；　and　toward　that　droning　voice。　He　is　helpless　to　；top　and　understands　that　he　is　in　the　cloud。　Not　a　redblack　cloud；　as　both　Pete　and　Henry　sensed　it；　however；　the　cloud　is　gray　and　he　floats　within　it；　a　unique　particle　that　is　not　changed　by　the　cloud；　and　Jonesy　thinks：　I'm　what　they　were　looking　for；　I　don't　know　how　it　can　be；　but　I　am　just　what　they　were　looking　for。　Because　。　。　。　the　cloud　doesn't　change　me？
　　　　Yes；　sort　of
　　　　He　passes　three　open　doors。　The　fourth　is　closed。　On　it　is　a　sign　which　reads　E　IN；　THERE　IS　NO　INFECTION　HERE；　IL　N'Y　A　PAS　D'INFECTION　ICI。
　　　　You　lie；　Jonesy　thinks。　Cruise　or　Curtis　or　whatever　his　name　is　may　be　a　madman；　but　he's　right　about　one　thing：　there　is　infection。
　　　　Blood　is　pouring　down　his　legs；　the　bottom　half　of　his　johnny　is　now　a　bright　scarlet　（the　claret　has　really　begun　to　flow；　the　old　boxing　announcers　used　to　say）；　but　he　feels　no　pain。　Nor　does　he　fear　infection。　He　is　unique　and　the　cloud　can　only　carry　him；　not　change　him。　He　opens　the　door　and　goes　inside。


4

Is　he　surprised　to　see　the　gray　man　with　the　big　black　eyes　lying　in　the　hospital　bed？　Not　even　a　little　bit。　When　Jonesy　turned　and　discovered　this　guy　standing　behind　him　back　at　Hole　in　the　Wall；　the　sucker's　head　exploded。　That　was；　all　things　considered；　one　hell　of　an　Excedrin　headache。　It　would　put　anyone　in　the　hospital。　The　guy's　head　looks　okay　now；　though；　modem　medicine　is　wonderful。
　　　　The　room　is　crepitant　with　fungus；　florid　with　red…gold　growth。　It's　growing　on　the　floor；　the　windowsill；　the　slats　of　the　venetian　blinds；　it　has　bleared　its　way　across　the　surface　of　the　overhead　light　fixture　and　the　glucose　bottle　（Jonesy　assumes　it's　glucose）　on　the　stand　by　the　bed；　little　reddish…gold　beards　dangle　from　the　bathroom　doorknob　and　the　crank　at　the　foot　of　the　bed。
　　　　As　Jonesy　approaches　the　gray　thing　with　the　sheet　pulled　up　to　its　narrow　hairless　chest；　he　sees　there　is　a　single　get…well　card　on　the　bedtable。　FEEL　BETTER　SOON！　is　printed　above　a　cartoon　picture　of　a　sad…looking　turtle　with　a　Band…Aid　on　its　shell。　And　below　the　picture：　FROM　STEVEN　SPIELBERG　AND　ALL　YOUR　PALS　IN　HOLLYWOOD。
　　　　This　is　a　dream；　full　of　a　dream's　tropes　and　in…jokes；　Jonesy　thinks；　but　he　knows　better。　His　mind　is　mixing　things；　pureeing　them；　making　them　easier　to　swallow；　and　that　is　the　way　of　dreams；　past；　present；　and　future　have　all　been　stirred　together；　which　is　also　like　dreams；　but　he　knows　that　he'd　be　wrong　to　dismiss　this　as　nothing　but　a　fractured　fairy…tale　from　his　subconscious。　At　least　some　of　it　is　happening。
　　　　The　bulbous　black　eyes　are　watching　him。　And　now　the　sheet　stirs　and　humps　up　beside　the　thing　in　the　bed。　What　emerges　from　beneath　it　is　the　reddish　weasel…thing　that　got　the　Beav。　It　is　staring　at　him　with　those　same　glassy　black　eyes　as　it　propels　itself　with　its　tail　up　the　pillow；　where　it　curls　itself　next　to　that　narrow　gray　head。　It　was　no　wonder　McCarthy　felt　a　little　indisposed；　Jonesy　thinks。
　　　　Blood　continues　to　pour　down　Jonesy's　legs；　sticky　as　honey　and　hot　as　fever。　It　patters　on　to　the　floor　and　you'd　think　it　would　soon　be　sprouting　its　own　colony　of　that　reddish　mold　or　fungus　or　whatever　it　is；　a　regular　jungle　of　it；　but　Jonesy　knows　better。　He　is　unique。　The　cloud　can　carry　him；　but　it　cannot　change　him。
　　　　No　bounce　no　play；　he　thinks；　and　then；　immediately：　Shhh；　shhh；　keep　that　to　yourself
　　　　The　gray　creature　raises　its　hand　in　a　kind　of　weary　greeting。　On　it　are　three　long　fingers　ending　in　rosy…pink　nails。　Thick　yellow　pus　is　oozing　from　beneath　them。　More　of　this　stuff　gleams　loosely　in　the　folds　of　the　guy's　skin；　and　from　the　ers　of　his　…　its？　…　eyes。
　　　　You're　right；　you　do　need　a　shot；　Jonesy　says。　Maybe　a　little　Drano　or　Lysol；　something　like　that。　Put　you　out　of　your　mi…
　　　　A　terrible　thought　occurs　to　him　then；　for　a　moment　it's　so　strong　he　is　unable　to　resist　the　force　moving　him　toward　the　bed。　Then　his　feet　begin　to　move　again；　leaving　big　red　tracks　behind　him。
　　　　You're　not　going　to　drink　my　blood；　are　you？　Like　a　vampire？
　　　　The　thing　in　the　bed　smiles　without　smiling。　We　are；　so　far　as　can　express　it　in　your　terms；　vegetarians。
　　　　Yeah；　but　what　about　Bowser　there？　Jonesy　points　to　the　legless　weasel；　and　it　bares　a　mouthful　of　needle　teeth　in　a　grotesque　grin。　Is　Bowser　a　vegetarian？
　　　　You　know　he's　not；　the　gray　thing　says；　its　slit　of　a　mouth　not　moving　…　this　guy　is　one　hell　of　a　ventriloquist；　you　had　to　give　him　that；　they'd　love　him　in　the　Catskills。　But　you　know　you　have　nothing　to　fear　from　him。
　　　　Why？　How　am　I　different？
　　　　The　dying　gray　thing　（of　course　it's　dying；　its　body　is　breaking　down；　decaying　from　the　inside　out）　doesn't　reply；　and　Jonesy　once　again　thinks　No　bounce；　no　play。　He　has　an　idea　this　is　one　thought　the　gray　fellow　would　dearly　love　to　read；　but　no　chance　of　that；　the　ability　to　shield　his　thoughts　is　another　part　of　what　makes　him　different；　unique；　and　vive　la　difference　is　all　Jonesy　can　say　（not　that　he　does　say　it）。
　　　　How　am　I　different？
　　　　Who　is　Duddits？　the　gray　thing　asks；　and　when　Jonesy　doesn't　answer；　the　thing　once　more　smiles　without　moving　its　mouth。　There；　the　gray　thing　says。　We　both　have　questions　the　other　will　not　answer。　Let's　put　them　aside；　shall　we？　Facedown。　They　are　。　。　。　what　do　you　call　it？　What　do　you　call　it　in　the　game？
　　　　The　crib；　Jonesy　says。　Now　he　can　smell　the　thing's　decay。　It's　the　smell　McCarthy　brought　into　camp　with　him；　the　smell　of　ether…spray。　He　thinks　again　that　he　should　have　shot　the　oh…gosh　oh…dear　son　of　a　bitch；　shot　him　before　he　could　get　in　where　it　was　warm。　Left　the　colony　inside　him　to　die　beneath　the　deer…stand　in　the　old　maple　as　the　body　grew　cold。
　　　　The　crib；　yes；　the　gray　thing　says。　The　dreamcatcher　is　now　in　here；　suspended　from　the　ceiling　and　spinning　slowly　above　the　gray　thing's　head。　These　things　we　each　don't　want　the　other　to　know；　we'll　set　them　aside　to　count　later。　We'll　put　them　in　the　crib。
　　　　What　do　you　want　from　me？
　　　　The　gray　creature　gazes　at　Jonesy　unblinkingly。　So　far　as　Jonesy　can　tell；　it　can't　blink；　it　has　neither　lids　nor　lashes。
　　　　Nyther　lids　nor　lashes；　it　says；　only　it's　Pete's　voice　Jonesy　hears。　Always　nyther；　never　neether。　who's　Duddits？
　　　　And　Jonesy　is　so　surprised　to　hear　Pete's　voice　that　he　almost　by…God　tells　him　。　。　。　which；　of　course；　was　the　intention：　to　surprise　it　out　of　him。　This　thing　is　crafty；　dying　or　not。　He　would　do　well　to　be　on　his　guard。　He　sends　the　gray　fellow　a　picture　of　a　big　brown　cow　with　a　sign　around　its　neck。　The　sign　reads　DUDDITS　THE　COW。
　　　　Again　the　gray　fellow　smiles　without　smiling；　smiles　inside　Jonesy's　head。　Duddits　the　cow；　it　says。　I　think　not
　　　　Where　are　you　from？　Jonesy　asks。
　　　　Planet　X。　We　e　from　a　dying　planet　to　eat　Domino's　Pizza；　buy　on　easy　credit　terms；　and　learn　Italian　the　easy　Berlitz　way。　Henry's　voice　this　time。　Then　Mr　ET…Phone…Home　reverts　to　its　own　voice　。　。　。　except；　Jonesy　realizes　with　a　weary　lack　of　surprise；　its　voice　is　hi