sk.petsematary-第79部分

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　　He　began　to　feel　around　for　the　pick　and　shovel　again；　and　laid　his　hands　on　them　at　last。　For　a　moment　he　surveyed　his　surroundings；　visible　by　starlight。　Nearby　was　the　grave　of　SMUCKY。　He　was　obediant；　Louis　thought　wearily。　And　TRIXIE；　KILT　ON　THE　HIGHWAY。　The　wind　still　blew　strongly；　and　he　could　hear　the　faint　ting…ting…ting　of　a　piece　of　metal…perhaps　it　had　once　been　a　Del　Monte　can；　cut　laboriously　by　a　grieving　pet　owner　with　his　father's　tinsnips　and　then　flattened　out　with　a　hammer　and　nailed　to　a　stick…and　that　brought　the　fear　back　again。　He　was　too　tired　now　to　feel　it　as　more　than　a　somehow　sickening　pulsebeat。　He　had　done　it。　That　steady　ting…ting…ting　sound　ing　out　of　the　darkness　brought　it　home　to　him　more　than　anything　else。
　　He　walked　through　the　Pet　Sematary；　past　the　grave　of　MARTA　OUR　PET　RABIT　who　had　DYED　MARCH　1　1965；　and　near　the　barrow　of　GEN。　PATTON；　he　stepped　over　the　ragged　chunk　of　board　that　marked　the　final　resting　place　of　POLYNESIA。　The　tick　of　metal　was　louder　now；　and　he　paused；　looking　down。　Here　atop　a　slightly　leaning　board　that　had　been　driven　into　the　ground；　was　a　tin　rectangle；　and　by　starlight　Louis　read；　RINGO　OUR　HAMSTER；　1964…1965。　It　was　this　piece　of　tin　that　was　ticking　repeatedly　off　the　boards　of　the　Pet　Sematary's　entry　arch。　Louis　reached　down　to　bend　the　piece　of　tin　back　。　。　。　and　then　froze；　scalp　crawling。
　　Something　was　moving　back　there。　Something　was　moving　on　the　other　side　of　the　deadfall。
　　What　he　heard　was　a　stealthy　kind　of　sound…the　furtive　crackle　of　pine　needles；　the　dry　pop　of　a　twig；　the　rattle　of　underbrush。　They　were　almost　lost　under　the　sough　of　the　wind　through　the　pines。
　　〃Gage？〃　Louis　called　hoarsely。
　　The　very　realization　of　what　he　was　doing…standing　here　in　the　dark　and　calling　his　dead　son…pulled　his　scalp　stiff　and　brought　his　hair　up　on　end。　He　began　to　shudder　helplessly　and　steadily；　as　if　with　a　sick　and　killing　fever。
　　〃Gage？〃
　　The　sounds　had　died　away。
　　Not　yet；　it's　too　early。　Don't　ask　me　how　I　know；　but　I　do。　That　isn't　Gage　over　there。　That's。　。　。　something　else。
　　He　suddenly　thought　of　Ellie　telling　him；　He　called　〃Lazarus；　e　forth〃　。　。　。　because　if　He　hadn't　called　for　Lazarus　by　name；　everyone　in　that　graveyard　would　have　risen。
　　On　the　other　side　of　the　deadfall；　those　sounds　had　begun　again。　On　the　other　side　of　the　barrier。　Almost…but　not　quite…　hidden　under　the　wind。　As　if　something　blind　were　stalking　him　with　ancient　instincts。　His　dreadfully　overstimulated　brain　conjured　horrible；　sickening　pictures：　a　giant　mole；　a　great　bat　that　flopped　through　the　underbrush　rather　than　flying。
　　Louis　backed　out　of　the　Pet　Sematary；　not　turning　his　back　to　the　deadfall…that　ghostlike　glimmer；　a　livid　scar　on　the　dark…until　he　was　well　down　the　path。　Then　he　began　to　hurry；　and　perhaps　a　quarter　of　a　mile　before　the　path　ran　out　of　the　woods　and　into　the　field　behind　his　house；　he　found　enough　left　inside　him　to　run。
　　Louis　slung　the　pick　and　shovel　indifferently　inside　the　garage　and　stood　for　a　moment　at　the　head　of　his　driveway；　looking　first　back　the　way　he　had　e　and　then　up　at　the　sky。　It　was　quarter　past　four　in　the　morning；　and　he　supposed　dawn　could　not　be　so　far　away。　Light　would　already　be　three　quarters　of　the　way　across　the　Atlantic；　but　for　now；　here　in　Ludlow；　the　night　held　hard。　The　wind　blew　steadily。
　　He　went　into　the　house；　feeling　his　way　along　the　side　of　the　garage　and　unlocking　the　back　door。　He　went　through　the　kitchen　without　turning　on　a　light　and　stepped　into　the　small　bathroom　between　the　kitchen　and　the　dining　room。　Here　he　did　snap　on　a　light；　and　the　first　thing　he　saw　was　Church；　curled　up　on　top　of　the　toilet　tank；　staring　at　him　with　those　muddy　yellow…green　eyes。
　　〃Church；〃　he　said。　〃I　thought　someone　put　you　out。〃
　　Church　only　looked　at　him　from　atop　the　toilet　tank。　Yes；　someone　had　put　Church　out；　he　had　done　it　himself。　He　remembered　that　very　clearly。　Just　as　he　remembered　replacing　the　window　pane　down…cellar　that　time　and　then　telling　himself　that　that　had　taken　care　of　the　problem。　But　exactly　whom　had　he　been　kidding？　When　Church　wanted　to　get　in；　church　got　in。　Because　Church　was　different　now。
　　It　didn't　matter。　In　this　dull；　exhausted　aftermath；　nothing　seemed　to　matter。　He　felt　like　something　less　than　human　now；　one　of　George　Romero's　stupid；　lurching　movie…zombies；　or　maybe　someone　who　had　escaped　from　T。　S。　Eliot's　poem　about　the　hollow　men。　I　should　have　been　a　pair　of　ragged　claws；　scuttling　through　Little　God　Swamp　and　up　to　the　Micmac　burying　ground；　he　thought　and　uttered　a　dry　chuckle。
　　〃Headpiece　full　of　straw；　Church；〃　he　said　in　his　croaking　voice。　He　was　unbuttoning　his　shirt　now。　〃That's　me。　You　better　believe　it。〃
　　There　was　a　nice　bruise　ing　on　his　left　side；　about　halfway　up　his　ribcage；　and　when　he　shucked　his　pants　he　saw　that　the　knee　he　had　banged　on　the　gravestone　was　swelling　up　like　a　balloon。　It　had　already　turned　a　rotten　purple…black；　and　he　supposed　that　as　soon　as　he　stopped　flexing　it；　the　joint　would　bee　stiff　and　painfully　obdurate…as　if　it　had　been　dipped　in　cement。　It　looked　like　one　of　those　injuries　that　might　want　to　converse　with　him　on　rainy　days　for　the　rest　of　his　life。
　　He　reached　out　a　hand　to　stroke　Church；　wanting　some　sort　of　fort；　but　the　cat　leaped　down　from　the　toilet　tank；　staggering　in　that　drunken　and　weirdly　unfeline　way；　and　left　for　some　other　place。　It　spared　Louis　one　flat；　yellow　glance　as　it　went。
　　There　was　Ben…Gay　in　the　medicine　cabinet。　Louis　lowered　the　toilet　seat；　sat　down；　and　smeared　a　gob　on　his　bad　knee。　Then　he　rubbed　some　more　on　the　small　of　his　back…a　clumsy　operation。
　　He　left　the　toilet　and　walked　into　the　living　room。　He　turned　on　the　hall　light　and　stood　there　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs　for　a　moment；　looking　stupidly　around。　How　strange　it　all　seemed！　Here　was　where　he　had　stood　on　Christmas　Eve　when　he　had　given　Rachel　the　sapphire。　It　had　been　in　the　pocket　of　his　robe。　There　was　his　chair；　where　he　had　done　his　best　to　explain　the　facts　of　death　to　Ellie　after　Norma　Crandall's　fatal　heart　attack…facts　he　had　found　ultimately　unacceptable　to　himself。　The　Christmas　tree　had　stood　in　that　corner；　Ellie's　construction…paper　turkey…　the　one　that　had　reminded　Louis　of　some　sort　of　futuristic　crow…　had　been　Scotch…taped　in　that　window；　and　much　earlier　the　entire　room　had　been　empty　except　for　the　United　Van　Lines　boxes；　filled　with　their　family　possessions　and　trucked　across　half　the　country　from　the　Midwest。　He　remembered　thinking　that　their　things　looked　very　insignificant；　boxed　up　like　that…a　small　enough　bulwark　between　his　family　and　the　coldness　of　all　the　outer　world　where　their　names　and　their　family　customs　were　not　known。
　　How　strange　it　all　seemed　。　。　。　and　how　he　wished　they　had　never　heard　of　the　University　of　Maine；　or　Ludlow；　or　Jud　and　Norma　Crandall；　or　any　of　it。
　　He　went　upstairs　in　his　skivvies；　and　in　the　bathroom　at　the　top　he　got　the　stool；　stood　on　it；　and　took　down　the　small　black　bag　from　on　top　of　the　medicine　cabinet。　He　took　this　into　the　master　bedroom；　sat　down；　and　began　to　rummage　through　it。　Yes；　there　were　syringes　in　case　he　needed　one；　and　amid　the　rolls　of　surgical　tape　and　surgical　scissors　and　neatly　wrapped　papers　of　surgical　gut　were　several　ampules　of　very　deadly　stuff。
　　If　needed。
　　Louis　snapped　the　bag　shut　and　put　it　by　the　bed。　He　turned　off　the　overhead　light；　then　lay　down；　hands　behind　his　head。　To　lie　here　on　his　back；　at　rest；　was　exquisite。　His　thoughts　turned　to　Disney　World　again。　He　saw　himself　in　a　plain　white　uniform；　driving　a　white　van　with　the　mouse…ears　logo　on　itnothing　to　indicate　it　was　a　rescue　unit　on　the　outside；　of　course；　nothing　to　scare　the　paying　customers。
　　Gage　was　sitting　beside　him；　his　skin　deeply　tanned；　the　whites　of　his　eyes　bluish　with　health。　Here；　just　to　the　left；　was　Goofy；　shaking　hands　with　a　little　boy；　the　kid　was　in　a　trance　of　wonder。　Here　was　Winnie　the　Pooh　posing　with　two　laughing　grandmas　in　pants　suits　so　a　third　laughing　grandma　could　snap　their　pictures；　here　was　a　little　girl　in　her　best　dress　crying；　〃I　love　you；　Tigger！　I　love　you；　Tigger！〃
　　He　and　his　son　were　on　patrol。　He　and　his　son　were　the　sentries　in　this　magic　land；　and　they　cruised　endlessly　in　their　white　van　with　the　red　dashboard　flasher　neatly　and　sensibly　covered。　They　were　not　looking　for　trouble；　not　they；　but　they　were　ready　for　it　should　it　show　its　face。　That　it　was　lurking　even　here；　in　a　place　dedicated　to　such　innocent　pleasures；　could　not　be　denied；　some　grinning　man　buying　film　along　Main　Street　could　clutch　his　chest　as　the　heart　attack　struck；　a　pregnant　woman　might　suddenly　feel　the　labor　pains　start　as　she　walked　down　the　steps　from　the　Sky　Chariot；　a　teenage　girl　as　pretty　as　a　Norman　Rockwell　cover　might　suddenly　collapse　in　a　flopping　epileptic　fit；　loafers　rattling　out　a　jagged　backbeat　on　the　cement　as　the　signals　in　her　brain　suddenly　jammed　up。　There　were　sunstroke　and　heatstroke　and　brainstroke；　and　perhaps　at　the　end　of　some　sultry　Orlando　summer　afternoon　there　might　even　be　a　stroke　of　light…fling；　there　was；　even；　Oz　the　Gweat