sk.cujo-第26部分

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ed　that　someday　his　piss　would　bee　so　rancid　with　booze　that　it　would　blight　the　honeysuckle。　That　day　hadn't　e　yet。
'Arrrouggh；　my　head！'　he　screamed；　holding　it　with　his　free　hand　as　he　watered　the　honeysuckle　which　had　buried　his　fence。　His　eyes　were　threaded　with　bright　snaps　of　scarlet。　His　heart　clattered　and　roared　like　an　old　water　pump　that　was　drawing　more　air　than　water　just　lately。　A　terrible　stomach　cramp　seized　him　as　he　finished　voiding　himself　…they　had　been　getting　more　mon　lately　…　and　as　he　doubled　up　a　large　and　foul…smelling　flatulence　purred　out　from　between　his　skinny　shanks。
He　turned　to　go　back　in。　and　that　was　when　he　heard　the　growling　begin。　It　was　a　low；　powerful　sound　ing　from　just　beyond　the　point　where　his　overgrown　side　yard　merged　with　the　hayfield　beyond　it。
He　turned　toward　the　sound　quickly；　his　headache　forgotten；　the　clatter　and　roar　of　his　heart　forgotten；　the　cramp　forgotten。　It　had　been　a　long　time　since　he'd　had　a　flashback　to　his　war　in　France；　but　he　had　one　now；　Suddenly　his　mind　was　screaming；　Germans！　Germans！　Squad　down！
But　it　wasn't　the　Germans。　When　the　grass　parted　it　was　Cujo　who　appeared。
'Hey；　boy；　what　are　you　growling　f　…'Gary　said；　and　then　faltered。
It　had　been　twenty　years　since　he　had　wen　a　rabid　dog；　but　you　didn't　forget　the　look。　He　had　been　in　an　Amoco　station　east　of　Machias；　headed　back　from　a　camping　trip　down　Eastport　way。　He　had　been　driving　the　old　Indian　motorcycle　he'd　had　for　a　while　in　the　mid…fifties。　A　panting；　slat…sided　yellow　dog　had　drifted　by　outside　that　Amoco　station　like　a　ghost。　Its　sides　had　been　moving　in　and　out　in　rapid；　shallow　springs　of　respiration。　Foam　was　dripping　from　its　mouth　in　a　steady　watery　stream。　It's　eyes　were　rolling　wildly。　Its　hindquarters　were　caked　with　shit。　It　had　been　reeling　rather　than　walking；　as　if　some　unkind　soul　had　opened　its　jaws　an　hour　before　and　filled　it　full　of　cheap　whiskey。
'Hot　damn；　there　he　is；'　the　pump　jockey　said。　He　had　dropped　the　adjustable　wrench　he　was　holding　and　had　rushed　into　the　cluttered；　dingy　little　office　which　adjoined　the　station's　garage　bay。　He　had　e　out　with　a　。30…30　clutched　in　his　greasy；　big…knuckled　hands。　He　went　out　onto　the　tarmac；　dropped　to　one　knee；　and　started　shooting。　His　first　shot　had　been　low；　shearing　away　one　of　the　dog's　back　legs　in　a　cloud　of　blood。　That　yellow　dog　never　even　moved；　Gary　remembered　as　he　stared　at　Cujo　now。　Just　looked　around　blankly　as　if　he　didn't　have　the　slightest　idea　what　was　happening　to　it。　The　pump　jockey's　second　try　had　cut　the　dog　almost　in　half。　Guts　hit　the　station's　one　pump　in　a　black　and　red　splash。　A　moment　later　three　more　guys　had　pulled　in；　three　of　Washington　County's　finest　crammed　shoulder　to　shoulder　in　the　cab　of　a　1940　Dodge　pickup。　They　were　all　armed。　＇bey　piled　out　and　pumped　another　eight　or　nine　rounds　into　the　dead　dog。　An　hour　after　that；　as　the　pump　jockey　was　finishing　tip　putting　a　new　headlamp　on　the　front　of　Gary's　Indian　cyclic；　the　County　Dog　Officer　arrived　in　a　Studebaker　with　no　door　on　the　passenger　side。　She　donned　long　rubber　gloves　and　cut　off　what　was　left　of　the　yellow　dog's　head　to　send　to　State　Health　and　Welfare。
Cujo　looked　a　hell　of　a　lot　spryer　than　that　long…ago　yellow　dog；　but　the　other　symptoms　were　exactly　the　same。　Not　too　far　gone；　he　thought。　More　dangerous。　Holy　Jesus；　got　to　get　my　gun　
He　started　to　back　away。　'Hi；　Cujo　。。。　nice　dog；　nice　boy；　nice　doggy　…'　Cujo　stood　at　the　edge　of　the　lawn。　his　great　head　lowered；　his　eyes　reddish　and　filmy；　growling。
'Nice　boy　…'
To　Cujo；　the　words　ing　from　THE　MAN　meant　nothing。　They　were　meaningless　…sounds；　like　the　wind。　What　mattered　was　the　smell　ing　from　THE　MAN。　It　was　hot；　rank；　and　pungent。　It　was　the　smell　of　fear；　and　was　maddening　and　unbearable。　He　suddenly　understood　THE　MAN　had　made　him　sick。　He　lunged　forward；　the　growl　in　his　chest　mounting　into　a　heavy　roar　of　rage。
Gary　saw　the　dog　ing　for　him。　He　turned　and　ran。　One　bite；　one　scratch　could　mean　death。　He　ran　for　the　porch　and　the　safety　of　the　house　beyond　the　porch。　But　there　had　been　too　many　drinks；　too　many　long　winter　days　by　the　stove；　and　too　many　long　summer　nights　in　the　lawn　chair。　He　could　hear　Cujo　closing　in　behind　him；　and　then　there　was　the　terrible　split　second　when　he　could　hear　nothing　and　understood　that　Cujo　had　leaped。
As　he　reached　the　first　splintery　step　of　his　porch；　two　hundred　pounds　of　Saint　Bernard　hit　him　like　a　lootive；　knocking　him　flat　and　driving　the　wind　from　him。　The　dog　went　for　the　back　of　his　neck。　Gary　tried　to　scramble　up。　The　dog　was　over　him；　the　thick　fur　of　its　underbelly　nearly　suffocating　him；　and　it　knocked　him　back　down　easily。　Gary　screamed。
Cujo　bit　him　high　on　the　shoulder；　his　powerful　jaws　dosing　and　crunching　through　the　bare　skin；　pulling　tendons　like　wires。　He　continued　to　growl。　Blood　flew。　Gary　felt　it　running　warmly　down　his　skinny　upper　arm。　He　turned　over　and　battered　at　the　dog　with　his　fists。　It　gave　back　a　little　and　Gary　was　able　to　scramble　up　three　more　steps　on　his　feet　and　hands。　Then　Cujo　came　again。
Gary　kicked　at　the　dog。　Cujo　feinted　the　other　way　and　then　came　boring　in；　snapping　and　growling。　Foam　flew　from　his　jaws；　and　Gary　could　smell　his　breath。　It　smelled　rotten　…　rank　and　yellow。　Gary　balled　his　right　fist　and　swung　in　a　roundhouse；　connecting　with　the　bony　shelf　of　Cujo's　lower　jaw。　It　was　mostly　luck。　The　jolt　of　the　impact　ran　all　the　way　up　to　his　shoulder；　which　was　on　fire　from　the　deep　bite。
Cujo　backed　off　again。
Gary　looked　at　the　dog；　his　thin；　hairless　chest　moving　rapidly　up　and　down。　His　face　was　ashy　gray。　The　laceration　on　his　shoulder　welled　blood　that　splattered　on　the　peeling　porch　steps。　'e　for　me；　you　sonofawhore；'　he　said。　'e　on；　e　on；　I　don't　give　a　shit。'　He　screamed；　'You　hear　me！　I　don't　give　a　shit！'
But　Cujo　backed　off　another　pace。
The　words　still　had　no　meaning；　but　the　smell　of　fear　had　left　THE　MAN。　Cujo　was　no　longer　sure　if　he　wanted　to　attack　or　not。　He　hurt；　he　hurt　so　miserably；　and　the　world　was　a　crazyquilt　of　sense　and　impression。
Gary　got　shakily　to　his　feet。　He　backed　up　the　last　two　steps　of　the　porch。　He　backed　across　the　porch's　width　and　felt　behind　him　for　the　handle　of　the　screen　door。　His　shoulder　felt　as　if　raw　gasoline　had　been　poured　under　the　skin。　His　mind　raved　at　him；　Rabies！　I　got　the　rabies！
Never　mind。　One　thing　at　a　time。　His　shotgun　was　in　the　hall　closet。　Thank　Christ　Charity　and　Brett　Camber　were　gone　from　up　on　the　hill。　That　was　God's　mercy　at　work。
He　found　the　screen　door's　handle　and　pulled　the　door　open。　He　kept　his　eyes　locked　on　Cujo's　until　he　had　backed　in　and　pulled　the　screen　door　shut　behind　him。　Then　a　great　relief　swept　through　him。　His　legs　went　rubbery。　For　a　moment　the　world　swam　away；　and　he　pulled　himself　back　by　sticking　his　tongue　out　and　biting　down　on　it。　This　was　no　time　to　swoon　like　a　girl。　He　could　do　that　after　the　dog　was　dead；　if　he　wanted。　Christ；　but　it　had　been　close　out　there；　he　had　thought　he　was　going　to　punch　out　for　sure。
He　turned　and　headed　down　the　darkened　hallway　to　the　Closet；　and　that　was　when　Cujo　smashed　through　the　lower　half　of　the　screen　door；　muzzle　wrinkled　back　from　his　teeth　in　a　kind　of　sneer；　a　dry　volley　of　barking　sounds　ing　from　his　chest。
Gary　screamed　again　and　whirled　just　in　time　to　catch　Cujo　in　both　arms　as　the　dog　leaped　again；　driving　him　back　down　the　hall；　bouncing　from　side　to　side　and　trying　to　keep　his　feet。　For　a　moment　they　almost　seemed　to　waltz。　Then　Gary；　who　was　fifty　pounds　lighter；　went　down。　He　was　dimly　aware　of　Cujo's　muzzle　burrowing　in　under　his　chin；　was　dimly　aware　that　Cujo's　nose　was　almost　sickeningly　hot　and　dry。　He　tried　getting　his　hands　up　and　was　thinking　that　he　would　have　to　go　for　Cujo's　eyes　with　his　thumbs　when　Cujo　seized　his　throat　and　tore　it　open。　Gary　screamed　and　the　dog　savaged　him　again。　Gary　felt　warm　blood　sheet　across　his　face　and　thought；　Dear　God；　that's　mine！　His　hands　beat　weakly　and　ineffectually　at　Cujo's　upper　body；　doing　no　damage。　At　last　they　fell　away。
Faintly；　sick　and　cloying；　he　smelled　honeysuckle。
'What　do　you　see　out　there？'
Brett　turned　a　little　toward　the　sound　of　his　mothers　voice。　Not　all　the　way　…　he　did　not　want　to　lose　sight　of　the　steadily　unrolling　view　even　for　a　little　while。　The　bus　had　been　on　the　road　for　almost　an　hour。　They　had　crossed　the
Million　Dollar　Bridge　into　South　Portland　（Brett　had　stared　with　fascinated；　wondering　eyes　at　the　two　scum…caked；　rustbucket　freighters　in　the　harbor）；　joined　the　Turnpike　going　south；　and　were　now　approaching　the　New　Hampshire　border。
Everything；'　Brett　said。　'What　do　you　see；　Mom？'
'She　thought。　Your　reflection　in　the　glass　…　very　faint。　That's　what　I　see。
Instead　she　answered；　'Why；　the　world；　I　guess。　I　see　the　world　unrolling　in　front　of　us。'
'Mom？　I　wish　we　could　ride　all　the　way　to　California　on　this　bus。　See　everything　there　is　in　the　geography　books　at　school。'
She　laughed　and　ruffled　his　hair。　'You'd　get　damn　tired　of　scenery；　Brett。'
'No。　No；　I　wouldn't。'
And　he　probably　wouldn't；　she　thought。　Suddenly　she　felt　both　sad　and　old。　When　she　had　called　Holly　Saturday　morning　to　ask　her　if　they　could　e；　Holly　had　be