sk.theshining-第66部分

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　　（A　fire　。　。　。　eighty　thousand　dollars。）　They　would　have　time　to　get　out。　Even　if　they　were　sleeping；　they　would　have　time　to　get　out。　He　believed　that。　And　he　didn't　think　the　hedges　or　anything　else　would　try　to　hold　them　back　if　the　Overlook　was　going　up　in　flames。
　　（Flames。）　The　needle　inside　the　greasy；　almost　opaque　dial　bad　danced　up　to　two　hundred　and　fifteen　pounds　per　square　inch。
　　Another　memory　occurred　to　him；　a　childhood　memory。　There　had　been　a　wasps'　nest　in　the　lower　branches　of　their　apple　tree　behind　the　house。　One　of　his　older　brothers…he　couldn't　remember　which　one　now…had　been　stung　while　swinging　in　the　old　tire　Daddy　had　hung　from　one　of　the　tree's　lower　branches。
　　It　had　been　late　summer；　when　wasps　tend　to　be　at　their　ugliest。
　　Their　father；　just　home　from　work；　dressed　in　his　whites；　the　smell　of　beer　hanging　around　his　face　in　a　fine　mist；　had　gathered　all　three　boys；　Brett；　Mike；　and　little　Jacky；　and　told　them　he　was　going　to　get　rid　of　the　wasps。
　　〃Now　watch；〃　he　had　said；　smiling　and　staggering　a　little　（he　hadn't　been　using　the　cane　then；　the　collision　with　the　milk　truck　was　years　in　the　future）。
　　〃Maybe　you'll　learn　something。　My　father　showed　me　this。〃　He　had　raked　a　big　pile　of　rain…dampened　leaves　under　the　branch　where　the　wasps'　nest　rested；　a　deadlier　fruit　than　the　shrunken　but　tasty　apples　their　tree　usually　produced　in　late　September；　which　was　then　still　half　a　month　away。
　　He　lit　the　leaves。　The　day　was　clear　and　windless。　The　leaves　smoldered　but　didn't　really　burn；　and　they　made　a　smell…a　fragrancethat　had　echoed　back　to　him　each　fall　when　men　in　Saturday　pants　and　light　Windbreakers　raked　leaves　together　and　burned　them。　A　sweet　smell　with　a　bitter　undertone；　rich　and　evocative。　The　smoldering　leaves　produced　great　rafts　of　smoke　that　drifted　up　to　obscure　the　nest。
　　Their　father　had　let　the　leaves　smolder　all　that　afternoon；　drinking　beer　on　the　porch　and　dropping　the　empty　Black　Label　cans　into　his　wife's　plastic　floorbucket　while　his　two　older　sons　flanked　him　and　little　Jacky　sat　on　the　steps　at　his　feet；　playing　with　his　Bolo　Bouncer　and　singing　monotonously　over　and　over：　〃Your　cheating　heart　。　。　。　will　make　you　weep　。　。　。　your　cheating　heart　。　。　。　is　gonna　tell　on　you。〃　At　quarter　of　six；　just　before　supper；　Daddy　had　gone　out　to　the　apple　tree　with　his　sons　grouped　carefully　behind　him。　In　one　hand　he　had　a　garden　hoe。　He　knocked　the　leaves　apart；　leaving　little　clots　spread　around　to　smolder　and　die。
　　Then　he　reached　the　hoe　handle　up；　weaving　and　blinking；　and　after　two　or　three　tries　he　knocked　the　nest　to　the　ground。
　　The　boys　fled　for　the　safety　of　the　porch；　but　Daddy　only　stood　over　the　nest；　swaying　and　blinking　down　at　it。　Jacky　crept　back　to　see。　A　few　wasps　were　crawling　sluggishly　over　the　paper　terrain　of　their　property；　but　they　were　not　trying　to　fly。　From　the　inside　of　the　nest；　the　black　and　alien　place；　came　a　never…to…be…forgotten　sound：　a　low；　somnolent　buzz；　like　the　sound　of　high…　tension　wires。
　　〃Why　don't　they　try　to　sting　you；　Daddy？〃　he　had　asked。
　　〃The　smoke　makes　em　drunk；　Jacky。　Go　get　my　gascan。〃　He　ran　to　fetch　it。　Daddy　doused　the　nest　with　amber　gasoline。
　　〃Now　step　away；　Jacky；　unless　you　want　to　lose　your　eyebrows。〃　He　had　stepped　away。　From　somewhere　in　the　voluminous　folds　of　his　white　overblouse；　Daddy　had　produced　a　wooden　kitchen　match。　He　lit　it　with　his　thumbnail　and　flung　it　onto　the　nest。　There　had　been　a　white…orange　explosion；　almost　soundless　in　its　ferocity。　Daddy　had　stepped　away；　cackling　wildly。　The　wasps'　nest　had　gone　up　in　no　time。
　　〃Fire；〃　Daddy　had　said；　turning　to　Jacky　with　a　smile。　〃Fire　will　kill　anything。〃　After　supper　the　boys　had　e　out　in　the　day's　waning　light　to　stand　solemnly　around　the　charred　and　blackened　nest。　From　the　hot　interior　had　e　the　sound　of　wasp　bodies　popping　like　corn。
　　The　pressure　gauge　stood　at　two…twenty。　A　low　iron　wailing　sound　was　building　up　in　the　guts　of　the　thing。　Jets　of　steam　stood　out　erect　in　a　hundred　places　like　porcupine　quills。
　　（Fire　will　kill　anything。）　Jack　suddenly　started。　He　had　been　dozing　off　。　。　。　and　he　had　almost　dozed　himself　right　into　kingdom　cone。　What　in　God's　name　had　he　been　thinking　of？
　　Protecting　the　hotel　was　his　job。　He　was　the　caretaker。
　　A　sweat　of　terror　sprang　to　his　hands　so　quickly　that　at　first　he　missed　his　grip　on　the　large　valve。　Then　he　curled　his　fingers　around　its　spokes。　He　whirled　it　one　turn；　two；　three。　There　was　a　giant　hiss　of　steam；　dragon's　breath。　A　warm　tropical　mist　rose　from　beneath　the　boiler　and　veiled　him。　For　a　moment　he　could　no　longer　see　the　dial　but　thought　he　must　have　waited　too　long；　the　groaning；　clanking　sound　inside　the　boiler　increased；　followed　by　a　series　of　heavy　rattling　sounds　and　the　wrenching　screech　of　metal。
　　When　some　of　the　steam　blew　away　he　saw　that　the　pressure　gauge　had　dropped　back　to　two　hundred　and　was　still　sinking。　The　jets　of　steam　escaping　around　the　soldered　patches　began　to　lose　their　force。　The　wrenching；　grinding　sounds　began　to　diminish。
　　One…ninety。　。　。　one…eighty　。　。　。　one　seventy…five　。　。　。
　　（He　was　going　downhill；　going　ninety　miles　an　hour；　when　the　whistle　broke　into　a　scream…）　But　he　didn't　think　it　would　blow　now。　The　press　was　down　to　one…sixty。
　　（…they　found　him　in　the　wreck　with　his　hand　on　the　throttle；　he　was　scalded　to　death　by　the　steam。）　He　stepped　away　from　the　boiler；　breathing　hard；　trembling。　He　looked　at　his　hands　and　saw　that　blisters　were　already　rising　on　his　palms。　Hell　with　the　blisters；　he　thought；　and　laughed　shakily。　He　had　almost　died　with　his　hand　on　the　throttle；　like　Casey　the　engineer　in　〃The　Wreck　of　the　Old　97。〃　Worse　still；　he　would　have　killed　the　Overlook。　The　final　crashing　failure。　He　had　failed　as　a　teacher；　a　writer；　a　husband；　and　a　father。　He　had　even　failed　as　a　drunk。　But　you　couldn't　do　much　better　in　the　old　failure　category　than　to　blow　up　the　building　you　were　supposed　to　be　taking　care　of。　And　this　was　no　ordinary　building。
　　By　no　means。
　　Christ；　but　he　needed　a　drink。
　　The　press　had　dropped　down　to　eighty　psi。　Cautiously；　wincing　a　little　at　the　pain　in　his　hands；　he　closed　the　dump　valve　again。　But　from　now　on　the　boiler　would　have　to　be　watched　more　closely　than　ever。　It　might　have　been　seriously　weakened。　He　wouldn't　trust　it　at　more　than　one　hundred　psi　for　the　rest　of　the　winter。　And　if　they　were　a　little　chilly；　they　would　just　have　to　grin　and　bear　it。
　　He　had　broken　two　of　the　blisters。　His　hands　throbbed　like　rotten　teeth。
　　A　drink。　A　drink　would　fix　him　up；　and　there　wasn't　a　thing　in　the　goddamn　house　besides　cooking　sherry。　At　this　point　a　drink　would　be　medicinal。　That　was　just　it；　by　God。　An　anesthetic。　He　had　done　his　duty　and　now　he　could　use　a　little　anesthetic…something　stronger　than　Excedrin。　But　there　was　nothing。
　　He　remembered　bottles　glittering　in　the　shadows。
　　He　had　saved　the　hotel。　The　hotel　would　want　to　reward　him。　He　felt　sure　of　it。　He　took　his　handkerchief　out　of　his　back　pocket　and　went　to　the　stairs。　He　rubbed　at　his　mouth。　Just　a　little　drink。　Just　one。　To　ease　the　pain。
　　He　had　served　the　Overlook；　and　now　the　Overlook　would　serve　him。　He　was　sure　of　it。　His　feet　on　the　stair　risers　were　quick　and　eager；　the　hurrying　steps　of　a　man　who　has　e　home　from　a　long　and　bitter　war。　It　was　5：20　A。M。；　MST。
　　　
　　　》
　　DAYLIGHT
　　
　　Danny　awoke　with　a　muffled　gasp　from　a　terrible　dream。　There　had　been　an　explosion。　A　fire。　The　Overlook　was　burning　up。　He　and　his　mommy　were　watching　it　from　the　front　lawn。
　　Mommy　had　said：　〃Look；　Danny；　look　at　the　hedges。〃　He　looked　at　them　and　they　were　all　dead。　Their　leaves　had　turned　a　suffocant　brown。　The　tightly　packed　branches　showed　through　like　the　skeletons　of　half…　dismembered　corpses。　And　then　his　daddy　had　burst　out　of　the　Overlooks　big　double　doors；　and　he　was　burning　like　a　torch。　His　clothes　were　in　flames；　his　skin　had　acquired　a　dark　and　sinister　tan　that　was　growing　darker　by　the　moment；　his　hair　was　a　burning　bush。
　　That　was　when　he　woke　up；　his　throat　tight　with　fear；　his　hands　clutching　at　the　sheet　and　blankets。　Had　he　screamed？　He　looked　over　at　his　mother。　Wendy　lay　on　her　side；　the　blankets　up　to　her　chin；　a　sheaf　of　straw…colored　hair　lying　against　her　cheek。　She　looked　like　a　child　herself。　No；　he　hadn't　screamed。
　　Lying　in　bed；　looking　upward；　the　nightmare　began　to　drain　away。　He　had　a　curious　feeling　that　some　great　tragedy　（fire？　explosion？）　had　been　averted　by　inches。　He　let　his　mind　drift　out；　searching　for　his　daddy；　and　found　him　standing　somewhere　below。　In　the　lobby。　Danny　pushed　a　little　harder；　trying　to　get　inside　his　father。　It　was　not　good。　Because　Daddy　was　thinking　about　the　Bad　Thing。　He　was　thinking　how　（good　just　one　or　two　would　be　i　don't　care　sun's　over　the　yardarm　somewhere　in　the　world　remember　how　we　used　to　say　that　al？　gin　and　tonic　bourbon　with　just　a　dash　of　bitters　scotch　and　soda　rum　and　coke　tweedledum　and　tweedledee　a　drink　for　me　and　a　drink　for　thee　the　martians　have　landed　somewhere　in　the　world　princeton　or　houston　or　stokely　on　carmichael　some　fucking　place　after　all　tis　the　season　and　none　of　us　are）　（GET　OUT　OF　HIS　MIND；　YOU　LITTLE　SHIT！）　He　recoiled　in　terror　from　that　mental　voice；　his　eyes　widening；　his　hands　tightening　into　claws　on　the　counterpane。　It　hadn't　been　the　voice　of　his　father　but　a　clever　mimic。　A　voice　he　knew。　Hoarse；　brutal；　yet　underpointed　with　a　vacuous　sort　of　humor。
　　Was　it　so　near；　then？
　　He　threw　the　covers　back　and　swung　his　feet　out　onto　the　floor。　He　kicked　his　slippers　out　from　under　the　bed　and　put　them　on。　He　went　to　the　door　and　pulled　it　open　and　hurried　up　to　the　main　corridor；　his　slippered　feet　whispering　on　the　nap　of　the　carpet　runner。　He　turned　the　corner。
　　There　was　a　man　on　all　fours　halfway　down　the　corridor；　between　him　and　the　stairs。
　　Danny　froze。
　　The　man　looked　up　at　him。　His　eyes　were　tiny　and　red。　He　was　dressed　in　some　sort　of　silvery；　spangled　costume。　A　dog　costume；　Danny　realized。　Protruding　from　the　rump　of　this　strange　creation　was　a　long　and　floppy　tail　with　a　puff　on　the　end。　A　zipper　ran　up　the　b