cb.booksofblood2-第29部分

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　of　the　sand；　as　though　an　order　had　passed　through　it；　subtle　but　all…pervasive。
　Eugene　could　only　gape　as　Aaron's　transformation　continued；　his　entire　body　now　overtaken　by　the　tremors　of　change。　His　belly　had　bee　distended　and　a　harvest　of　cones　budded　from　it；　which　even　now　flowered　into　dozens　of　coiled　legs；　the　change　was　marvellous　in　its　plexity；　as　out　of　the　cradle　of　the　boy's　substance　came　new　glories。
　Without　warning　Eugene　raised　his　rifle　and　fired　at　his　son。
　The　bullet　struck　the　boy…demon　in　the　middle　of　his　face。　Aaron　fell　back；　his　transformation　still　taking　its　course　even　as　his　blood；　a　stream　part　scarlet；　part　silver；　ran　from　his　wound　into　the　liquefying　earth。
　The　geometries　in　the　darkness　moved　out　of　hiding　to　help　the　child。　The　intricacy　of　their　forms　was　simplified　in　the　glare　of　the　headlamps　but　they　seemed；　even　as　they　appeared；　to　be　changing　again：　bodies　being　thin　in　their　grief；　a　whine　of　mourning　like　a　solid　wall　of　sound　from　their　hearts。
　Eugene　raised　his　rifle　a　second　time；　whooping　at　his　victory。　He　had　them。　。　。　My　God；　he　had　them。　Dirty；　stinking；　faceless　flickers。
　But　the　mud　beneath　his　feet　was　like　warm　treacle　as　it　rose　around　his　shins；　and　when　he　fired　he　lost　balance。　He　yelled　for　assistance；　but　Davidson　was　already　staggering　back　up　the　slope　out　of　the　gully　fighting　a　losing　battle　against　the　rising　mire。　The　rest　of　the　army　were　similarly　trapped；　as　the　desert　liquefied　beneath　them；　and　glutinous　mud　began　to　creep　up　the　slope。
　The　demons　had　gone：　retreated　into　the　dark；　their　lament　sunk　away。
　Eugene；　flat　on　his　back　in　the　sinking　sand；　fired　off　two　useless；　vehement　shots　into　the　darkness　beyond　Aaron's　corpse。　He　was　kicking　like　a　hog　with　its　throat　cut；　and　with　every　kick　his　body　sunk　deeper。　As　his　face　disappeared　beneath　the　mud；　he　just　glimpsed　Lucy；　standing　at　the　edge　of　the　slope；　staring　down　towards　Aaron's　body。　Then　the　mire　covered　his　face；　and　blotted　him　out。
　The　desert　was　upon　them　with　lightning　speed。
　One　or　two　of　the　cars　were　already　entirely　submerged；　and　the　tide　of　sand　climbing　the　slope　was　relentlessly　catching　up　with　the　escapees。　Feeble　cries　for　assistance　ended　with　choking　silences　as　mouths　were　filled　with　desert；　somebody　was　shooting　at　the　ground　in　an　hysterical　attempt　to　dam　the　flow；　but　it　reached　up　swiftly　to　snatch　every　last　one　of　them。　Even　Eleanor　Kooker　wasn't　to　be　let　free：　she　struggled；　cursing　and　pressing　the　thrashing　body　of　a　cop　deeper　into　the　sand　in　her　frantic　attempts　to　step　out　of　the　gully。
　There　were　universal　howls　now；　as　panicking　men　groped　and　grasped　at　each　other　for　support；　desperately　trying　to　keep　their　heads　afloat　in　the　sea　of　sand。
　Davidson　was　buried　up　to　his　waist。　The　ground　that　eddied　about　his　lower　half　was　hot　and　curiously　inviting。　The　intimacy　of　its　pressure　had　given　him　an　erection。　A　few　yards　behind　him　a　cop　was　screaming　blue　murder　as　the　desert　ate　him　up。　Further　still　from　him　he　could　see　a　face　peering　out　from　the　seething　ground　like　a　living　mask　thrown　on　the　earth。　There　was　an　arm　close　by；　still　waving；　as　it　sank；　a　pair　of　fat　buttocks　was　poking　up　from　the　silt　sea　like　two　watermelons；　a　policeman's　farewell。
　Lucy　took　one　step　backwards　as　the　mud　slightly　overran　the　lip　of　the　gully；　but　it　didn't　reach　her　feet。　Nor；　curiously；　did　it　dissipate　itself；　as　a　water…wave　might　have　done。
　Like　concrete；　it　hardened；　fixing　its　living　trophies　like　flies　in　amber。　From　the　lips　of　every　face　that　still　took　air　came　a　fresh　cry　of　terror；　as　they　felt　the　desert　floor　stiffen　around　their　struggling　limbs。
　Davidson　saw　Eleanor　Kooker；　buried　to　breast…level。　Tears　were　pouring　down　her　cheeks；　she　was　sobbing　like　a　little　girl。　He　scarcely　thought　of　himself。　Of　the　East；　of　Barbara；　of　the　children；　he　thought　not　at　all。
　The　men　whose　faces　were　buried　but　whose　limbs；　or　parts　of　bodies；　still　broke　surface；　were　dead　of　asphyxiation　by　now。　Only　Eleanor　Kooker；　Davidson　and　two　other　men　survived。　One　was　locked　in　the　earth　up　to　his　chin；　Eleanor　was　buried　so　that　her　breasts　sat　on　the　ground；　her　arms　were　free　to　beat　uselessly　at　the　ground　that　held　her　fast。　Davidson　himself　was　held　from　his　hips　down。　And　most　horribly；　one　pathetic　victim　was　seen　only　by　his　nose　and　mouth。　His　head　was　tipped　back　into　the　ground；　blinded　by　rock。　Still　he　breathed；　still　he　screamed。
　Eleanor　Kooker　was　scrabbling　at　the　ground　with　torn　nails；　but　this　was　not　loose　sand。　It　was　immovable。
　'Get　help；'　she　demanded　of　Lucy；　hands　bleeding。
　The　two　women　stared　at　each　other。
　'Jesus　God！'　screamed　the　Mouth。
　The　Head　was　silent：　by　his　glazed　look　it　was　apparent　that　he'd　lost　his　mind。
　'Please　help　us　。　。　。'　pleaded　Davidson's　Torso。　'Fetch　help。'
　Lucy　nodded。
　'Go！'　demanded　Eleanor　Kooker。　'Go！'
　Numbly；　Lucy　obeyed。　Already　there　was　a　glimmer　of　dawn　in　the　east。　The　air　would　soon　be　blistering。　In　Wele；　three　hours　walk　away；　she　would　find　only　old　men；　hysterical　women　and　children。　She　would　have　to　summon　help　from　perhaps　fifty　miles　distance。　Even　assuming　she　found　her　way　back。　Even　assuming　she　didn't　collapse　exhausted　to　the　sand　and　die。
　It　would　be　noon　before　she　could　fetch　help　to　the　woman；　to　the　Torso；　to　the　Head；　to　the　Mouth。　By　that　time　the　wilderness　would　have　had　the　best　of　them。　The　sun　would　have　boiled　their　brain…pans　dry；　snakes　would　have　nested　in　their　hair；　the　buzzards　would　have　hooked　out　their　helpless　eyes。
　She　glanced　round　once　more　at　their　trivial　forms；　dwarfed　by　the　bloody　sweep　of　the　dawn　sky。　Little　dots　and　mas　of　human　pain　on　a　blank　sheet　of　sand；　she　didn't　care　to　think　of　the　pen　that　wrote　them　there。　That　was　for　tomorrow。
　After　a　while；　she　began　to　run。
　
　NEW　MURDER　IN　THE　RUE　MORGUE
　
　WINTER；　LEWIS　DECIDED；　was　no　season　for　old　men。　The　snow　that　lay　five　inches　thick　on　the　streets　of　Paris　froze　him　to　the　marrow。　What　had　been　a　joy　to　him　as　a　child　was　now　a　curse。　He　hated　it　with　all　his　heart；　hated　the　snowballing　children　（squeals；　howls；　tears）；　hated；　too；　the　young　lovers；　eager　to　be　caught　in　a　flurry　together　（squeals；　kisses；　tears）。　It　was　unfortable　and　tiresome；　and　he　wished　he　was　in　Fort　Lauderdale；　where　the　sun　would　be　shining。
　But　Catherine's　telegram；　though　not　explicit；　had　been　urgent；　and　the　ties　of　friendship　between　them　had　been　unbroken　for　the　best　part　of　fifty　years。　He　was　here　for　her；　and　for　her　brother　Phillipe。　However　thin　his　blood　felt　in　this　ice　land；　it　was　foolish　to　plain。　He'd　e　at　a　summons　from　the　past；　and　he　would　have　e　as　swiftly；　and　as　willingly；　if　Paris　had　been　burning。
　
　Besides；　it　was　his　mother's　city。　She'd　been　born　on　the　Boulevard　Diderot；　back　in　a　time　when　the　city　was　untrammelled　by　free…thinking　architects　and　social　engineers。　Now　every　time　Lewis　returned　to　Paris　he　steeled　himself　for　another　desecration。　It　was　happening　less　of　late；　he'd　noticed。　The　recession　in　Europe　made　governments　less　eager　with　their　bulldozers。　But　still；　year　after　year；　more　fine　houses　found　themselves　rubble。　Whole　streets　sometimes；　gone　to　ground。
　Even　the　Rue　Morgue。
　There　was；　of　course；　some　doubt　as　to　whether　that　infamous　street　had　ever　existed　in　the　first　place；　but　as　his　years　advanced　Lewis　had　seen　less　and　less　purpose　in　distinguishing　between　fact　and　fiction。　That　great　divide　was　for　young　men；　who　still　had　to　deal　with　life。　For　the　old　（Lewis　was　73）；　the　distinction　was　academic。　What　did　it　matter　what　was　true　and　what　was　false；　what　real　and　what　invented？　In　his　head　all　of　it；　the　half…lies　and　the　truths；　were　one　continuum　of　personal　history。
　Maybe　the　Rue　Morgue　had　existed；　as　it　had　been　described　in　Edgar　Allan　Poe's　immortal　story；　maybe　it　was　pure　invention。　Whichever；　the　notorious　street　was　no　longer　to　be　found　on　a　map　of　Paris。
　Perhaps　Lewis　was　a　little　disappointed　not　to　have　found　the　Rue　Morgue。　After　all；　it　was　part　of　his　heritage。　If　the　stories　he　had　been　told　as　a　young　boy　were　correct；　the　events　described　in　the　Murders　in　the　Rue　Morgue　had　been　narrated　to　Poe　by　Lewis's　grandfather。　It　was　his　mother's　pride　that　her　father　had　met　Poe；　while　traveling　in　America。　Apparently　his　grandfather　had　been　a　globe…trotter；　unhappy　unless　he　visited　a　new　town　every　week。　And　in　the　winter　of　1835　he　had　been　in　Richmond；　Virginia。　It　was　a　bitter　winter；　perhaps　not　unlike　the　one　Lewis　was　presently　suffering；　and　one　night　the　grandfather　had　taken　refuge　in　a　bar　in　Richmond。　There；　with　a　blizzard　raging　outside；　he　had　met　a　small；　dark；　melancholy　young　man　called　Eddie。　He　was　something　of　a　local　celebrity　apparently；　having　written　a　tale　that　had　won　a　petition　in　the　Baltimore　Saturday　Visitor。　The　tale　was　MS　found　in　a　bottle　and　the　haunted　young　man　was　Edgar　Allan　Poe。
　The　two　had　spent　the　evening　together；　drinking；　and　（this　is　how　the　story　went；　anyway）　Poe　had　gently　pumped　Lewis's　grandfather　for　stories　of　the　bizarre；　of　the　occult　and　of　the　morbid。　The　worldly…wise　traveler　was　glad