sk.cujo-第23部分

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　in　to　the　Greyhound　station　in　Portland。　That　gives　me　the　rest　of　the　morning　and　half　the　afternoon　to　catch　up　whatever　I　have　to　catch　up。'
'You　takin　the　car　or　the　truck？'
'Car。'
Gary's　eyes　went　soft　and　dreamy　in　the　dark。　'Booze；。　baseball；　and　broads；'　he　said。　He　sat　up　straighter。　'I　don't　give　a　shit　if　I　do。'
'You　want　to　go？'
'Ayuh。'
Joe　let　out　a　little　whoop　and　they　both　got　laughing。　Neither　noticed　that　Cujo's　head　had　e　off　his　paws　at　the　sound　and　that　he　was　growling　very　softly。
Monday　morning　dawned　in　shades　of　pearl　and　dark　gray；　the　fog　was　so　thick　that　Brett　Camber　couldn't　see　the　oak　in　the　side　yard　from　his　window；　and　that　oak　wasn't　but　thirty　yards　away。
The　house　still　slept　around　him；　but　there　was　no　more　sleep　left　in　him。　He　was　going　on　a　trip；　and　every　part　of　his　being　vibrated　with　the　news。　just　he　and　his　mother。　It　would　be　a　good　trip；　he　felt　that；　and　deep　down　inside；　beyond　any　conscious　thought；　he　was　glad　his　father　wasn't　ing。　He　would　be　free　to　be　himself；　he　would　not　have　to　try　to　live　up　to　some　mysterious　ideal　of　masculinity　that　he　knew　his　father　had　achieved　but　which　he　himself　couldn't　yet　even　begin　to　prehend。　He　felt　good　…　incredibly　good　and　incredibly　alive。　He　felt　sorry　for　anyone　in　the　world　who　was　not　going　on　a　trip　this　fine；　foggy　morning；　which　would　be　another　scorcher　as　soon　as　the　fog　burned　off　。　He　planned　to　sit　in　a　window　seat　of　the　bus　and　watch　every　mile　of　the　journey　from　the　Greyhound　terminal　on　Spring　Street　all　the　way　to　Stratford。　It　had　been　a　long　time　before　he　had　been　able　to　get　to　sleep　last　night　and　here　it　was；　not　yet　five　o'clock　but　if　he　stayed　in　bed　any　longer；　he　would　explode；　or　something。
Moving　as　quietly　as　he　could；　he　put　on　jeans　and　his　Castle　Rock　Cougars　T…shirt；　a　pair　of　white　athletic　socks；　and　his　Keds。　He　went　downstairs　and　fixed　himself　a　bowl　of　Cocoa　Bears。　He　tried　to　eat　quietly　but　was　sure　that　the　crunch　of　the　cereal　that　he　heard　in　his　head　must　be　audible　all　over　the　house。　Upstairs　he　heard　his　dad　grunt　and　rum　over　in　the　double　bed　he　and　his　mom　shared。　The　springs　rasped。　Brett's　jaws　froze。　After　a　moment's　debate　he　took　his　second　bowl　of　Cocoa　Bears　out　on　the　back　porch；　being　careful　not　to　let　the　screen　door　slam。
The　summer　smells　of　everything　were　greatly　clarified　in　the　heavy　fog；　and　the　air　was　already　warm。　In　the　east；　just　above　the　faint　fuzz　that　marked　a　belt　of　pines　at　the　end　of　the　east　pasture；　he　could　see　the　sun。　It　was　as　small　and　silver…bright　as　the　full　moon　when　it　has　risen　well　up　in　the　sky。　Even　now　the　humidity　was　a　dense　thing；　heavy　and　quiet。　The　fog　would　be　gone　by　eight　or　nine；　but　the　humidity　would　remain。
But　for　now　what　Brett　saw　was　a　white；　secret　world；　and　he　was　filled　with　the　secret　joys　of　it：　the　husky　smell　of　hay　that　would　he　ready　for　its　first　cutting　in　a　week；　of　manure；　of　his　mother's　roses。　He　could　even　faintly　make　out　the　aroma　of　Gary　Pervier's　triumphant　honeysuckle　which　was　slowly　burying　the　fence　which　marked　the　edge　of　his　property　…burying　it　in　a　drift　of　cloying；　grasping　vines。
He　put　his　cereal　bowl　aside　and　walked　toward　where　he　knew　the　barn　to　be。　Halfway　across　the　dooryard　he　looked　over　his　shoulder　and　saw　that　the　house　had　receded　to　nothing　but　a　misty　outline。　A　few　steps　farther　and　it　was　swallowed。　He　was　alone　in　the　white　with　only　the　tiny　silver　sun　looking　down　on　him。　He　could　smell　dust；　damp；　honeysuckle；　roses。
And　then　the　growling　began。
His　heart　leaped　into　his　throat　and　he　fell　back　a　step；　all　his　muscles　tensing　into　bundles　of　wire。　His　first　panicky　thought；　like　a　child　who　has　suddenly　tumbled　into　a　fairy　tale；　was　wolf；　and　he　looked　around　wildly。　There　was　nothing　to　see　but　white。
Cujo　came　out　of　the　fog。
Brett　began　to　make　a　whining　noise　in　his　throat。　The　dog　he　had　grown　up　with；　the　dog　who　had　pulled　a　yelling；　gleeful　five…year…old　Brett　patiently　around　and　around　the　dooryard　on　his　Flexible　Flyer；　budded　into　a　harness　Joe　had　made　in　the　shop；　the　dog　who　had　been　waiting　calmly　by　the　mailbox　every　afternoon　during　school　for　the　bus；　e　shine　or　shower　。。。　that　dog　bore　only　the　slightest　resemblance　to　the　muddy；　matted　apparition　slowly　materializing　from　the　morning　mist。　The　Saint　Bernard's　big；　sad　eyes　were　now　reddish　and　stupid　and　lowering：　more　pig's　eyes　than　dog's　eyes。　His　coat　was　plated　with　brownish…green…mud；　as　if　he　had　been　rolling　around　in　the　boggy　place　at　the　bottom　of　the　meadow。　His　muzzle　was　wrinkled　back　in　a　terrible　mock　grin　that　froze　Brett　with　horror。　Brett　felt　his　heart　slugging　away　m　his　throat。
Thick　white　foam　dripped　slowly　from　between　Cujo's　teeth。
'Cujo？'　Brett　whispered。　'Cuje？'
Cujo　looked　at　THE　Boy；　not　recognizing　him　any　more；　not　his　looks；　not　the　shadings　of　his　clothes　（he　could　not　precisely　see　colors；　at　least　as　human　beings　understand　them）；　not　his　scent。　What　he　saw　was　a　monster　on　two　legs。　Cujo　was　sick；　and　all　things　appeared　monstrous　to　him　now。　His　head　clanged　dully　with　murder。　He　wanted　to　bite　and　rip　and　tear。　Part　of　him　saw　a　cloudy　image　of　him　springing　at　THE　Boy；　bringing　him　down；　parting　flesh　with　bone；　drinking　blood　as　it　still　pulsed；　driven　by　a　dying　heart。
Then　the　monstrous　figure　spoke；　and　Cujo　recognized　the　voice。　It　was　THE　BOY；　THE　BOY；　and　THE　BOY　had　never　done　him　any　harm。　Once　he　had　loved　THE　Boy　and　would　have　died　for　him；　had　that　been　called　for。　There　was　enough　of　that　feeling　left　to　hold　the　image　of　murder　at　bay　until　it　grew　as　murky　as　the　fog　around　them。　It　broke　up　and　rejoined　the　buzzing；　clamorous　river　of　his　sickness。
'Cujo？　What's　wrong；　boy？'
The　last　of　the　dog　that　had　been　before　the　bat　scratched　its　nose　turned　away；　and　the　sick　and　dangerous　dog；　subverted　for　the　last　time；　was　forced　to　turn　with　it。　Cujo　stumbled　away　and　moved　deeper　into　the　fog。　Foam　splattered　from　his　muzzle　onto　the　dirt。　He　broke　into　a　lumbering　run；　hoping　to　outrun　the　sickness；　but　it　ran　with　him；　buzzing　and　yammering；　making　him　ache　with　hatred　and　murder。　He　began　to　roll　over　and　over　in　the　high　timothy　grass；　snapping　at　it；　his　eyes　rolling。
The　world　was　a　crazy　sea　of　smells。　He　would　track　each　to　its　source　and　dismember　it。
Cujo　began　to　growl　again。　He　found　his　feet。　He　slipped　deeper　into　the　fog　that　was　even　now　beginning　to　thin；　a　big　dog　who　weighed　just　under　two　hundred　pounds。
Brett　stood　in　the　dooryard　for　more　than　fifteen　minutes　after　Cujo　had　melted　back　into　the　fog；　not　knowing　what　to　do。　Cujo　had　been　sick。　He　might　have　eaten　a　poison　bait　or　something。　Brett　knew　about　rabies；　and　if　he　had　ever　seen　a　woodchuck　or　a　fox　or　a　porcupine　exhibiting　the　same　symptons。　he　would　have　guessed　rabies。　But　it　never　crossed　his　mind　that　his　dog　could　have　that　awful　disease　of　the　brain　and　the　nervous　system。　A　poison　bait；　that　seemed　the　most　likely。
He　should　tell　his　father。　His　father　could　call　the　vet。　Or　maybe　Dad　could　do　something　himself；　like　that　time　two　years　ago；　when　he　had　pulled　the　porcupine　needles　out　of　Cujo's　muzzle　with　his　pliers；　working　each　quill　first　up；　then　down；　then　out；　being　careful　not　to　break　them　off　because　they　would　fester　in　there。　Yes；　he　would　have　to　tell　Dad。　Dad　would　do　something；　like　that　time　Cuje　got　into　it　with　Mr。　Porky　Pine。
But　what　about　the　trip？
He　didn't　need　to　be　told　that　his　mother　had　won　them　the　trip　through　some　desperate　stratagem；　or　luck；　or　a　bination　of　the　two。　Like　most　children；　he　could　sense　the　vibrations　between　his　parents；　and　he　knew　the　way　the　emotional　currents　ran　from　one　day　to　the　next　the　way　a　veteran　guide　knows　the　twists　and　turns　of　an　upcountry　river。　It　had　been　a　near　thing；　and　even　though　his　dad　had　agreed；　Brett　sensed　that　this　agreement　had　been　grudging　and　unpleasant。　The　trip　was　not　on　for　sure　until　he　had　dropped　them　off　and　driven　away。　If　he　told　Dad　Cujo　was　sick；　might　he　not　seize　on　that　as　an　excuse　to　keep　them　home？
He　stood　motionless　in　the　dooryard。　He　was；　for　the　first　time　in　his　life；　in　a　total　mental　and　emotional　quandary。　After　a　little　while　he　began　to　hunt　for　Cujo　behind　the　barn。　He　called　him　in　a　low　voice。　His　parents　were　still　sleeping；　and　he　knew　how　sound　carried　in　the　morning　fog。　He　didn't　find　Cujo　anywhere　。。。　which　was　just　as　well　for　him。
The　alarm　burred　Vic　awake　at　quarter　to　five。　He　got　up；　shut　it　off；　and　blundered　down　to　the　bathroom；　mentally　cursing　Roger　Breakstone；　who　could　never　get　to　the　Portland　jetport　twenty　minutes　before　check…in　like　any　normal　air　traveler。　Not　Roger。　Roger　was　a　contingency　man。　There　might　always　be　a　flat　tire　or　a　roadblock　or　a　wash　out　or　an　earthquake。　Aliens　from　outer　space　might　decide　to　touch　down　on　runway　22。
He　showered；　shaved；　gobbled　vitamins；　and　went　back　to　the　bedroom　to　dress。　The　big　double　bed　was　empty　and　he　sighed　a　little。　The　weekend　he　and　Donna　had　just　passed　hadn't　been　very　pleasant　。。。　in　fact；　he　could　honestly　say　he　never　wanted　to　go　through　such　a　weekend　again　in　his　life。　They　had　kept　their　normal；　pleasant　faces　on　…for　Tad