sk.dreamcatcher-第115部分

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a　dream；　maybe　not　meaning　to　but　doing　it　just　the　same。
　　　　He　has　bee　a　child　again；　a　kid　of　fourteen；　and　there　is　no　pain。　Why　would　there　be？　His　hip　will　not　be　broken　for　another　twenty…three　years。　And　then　it　all　es　together　with　a　crash　in　his　mind：　there　was　never　any　Mr　Gray；　not　really；　Mr　Gray　lives　in　the　dreamcatcher　and　nowhere　else。　He　is　no　more　real　than　the　pain　in　his　hip。　I　was　immune；　he　thinks；　getting　up。　I　never　got　so　much　as　a　speck　of　the　byrus。　What's　in　my　head　isn't　quite　a　memory；　not　that；　but　a　true　ghost　in　the　machine。　He's　me。　Dear　God；　Mr　Gray　is　me。
　　　　Jonesy　scrambles　to　his　feet　and　begins　to　run；　almost　losing　his　feet　as　he　swerves　around　a　corner。　He　stays　up；　though；　he　is　agile　and　quick　as　only　a　fourteen…year…old　can　be；　and　there　is　no　pain；　no　pain。
　　　　The　next　corridor　is　one　he　knows。　There　is　a　parked　gurney　with　a　bedpan　on　it。　Walking　past　it；　moving　delicately　on　tiny　feet；　is　the　deer　he　saw　that　day　in　Cambridge　just　before　he　was　struck。　There　is　a　collar　around　its　velvety　neck　and　swinging　from　it　like　an　oversized　amulet　is　his　Magic　8…Ball。　Jonesy　sprints　past　the　deer；　which　looks　at　him　with　mild；　surprised　eyes。
　　　　Jonesy！
　　　　Close　now。　Very　close。
　　　　Jonesy；　hurry！
　　　　Jonesy　redoubles　his　speed；　feet　flying；　young　lungs　breathing　easily；　there　is　no　byrus　because　he　is　immune；　there　is　no　Mr　Gray；　not　in　him；　at　least；　Mr　Gray　is　in　the　hospital　and　always　was；　Mr　Gray　is　the　phantom　limb　you　still　feel；　the　one　you　could　swear　is　still　there；　Mr　Gray　is　the　ghost　in　the　machine；　the　ghost　on　life　support；　and　the　life　support　is　him。
　　　　He　turns　another　er。　Here　are　three　doors　which　are　standing　open。　Beyond　them；　by　the　fourth　door；　the　only　one　that　is　closed；　Henry　is　standing。　Henry　is　fourteen；　as　Jonesy　is；　Henry　is　wearing　an　orange　coat；　as　Jonesy　is。　His　glasses　have　slid　down　on　his　nose　just　as　they　always　did；　and　he　is　beckoning　urgently。
　　　　Hurry　up！　Hurry　up；　Jonesy！　Duddits　can't　hold　on　much　longer！　If　he　dies　before　we　kill　Mr　Gray…
　　　　Jonesy　joins　Henry　at　the　door。　He　wants　to　throw　his　arms　around　him；　embrace　him；　but　there's　no　time。
　　　This　is　all　my　fault；　he　tells　Henry；　and　his　voice　is　higher　in　pitch　than　it　has　been　in　years。
　　　　Not　true；　Henry　says。　He's　looking　at　Jonesy　with　the　old　impatience　that　awed　Jonesy　and　Pete　and　Beaver　as　children　Henry　always　seemed　farther　ahead；　always　on　the　verge　of　sprinting　into　the　future　and　leaving　the　rest　of　them　behind。　They　always　seemed　to　be　holding　him　back。
　　　　But…
　　　　You　might　as　well　say　that　Duddits　murdered　Richie　Grenadeau　and　that　we　were　his　acplices。　He　was　what　he　was；　Jonesy；　and　he　made　us　what　we　are　。　。　。　but　not　on　purpose。　It　was　all　he　could　do　to　tie　his　shoes　on　purpose；　don't　you　know　that？
　　　　And　Jonesy　thinks：　Fit　wha？　Fit　neek？
　　　　Henry　。　。　。　is　Duddits…
　　　　He's　holding　on　for　us；　Jonesy；　I　told　you。　Holding　us　together。
　　　　In　the　dreamcatcher。
　　　　That's　tight。　So　are　we　going　to　stand　out　here　arguing　in　the　hall　while　the　world　goes　down　the　chute；　or　are　we　going　to…
　　　　We're　going　to　kill　the　son　of　a　bitch；　Jonesy　says；　and　reaches　for　the　doorknob。　Above　it　is　a　sign　reading　THERE　IS　NO　INFECTION　HERE；　IL　N'Y　A　PAS　D'INFECTION　ICI；　and　suddenly　he　sees　both　of　that　sign's　bitter　edges。　It's　like　one　of　those　Escher　optical　illusions。　Look　at　it　from　one　angle　and　it's　true。　Look　at　it　from　another　and　it's　the　most　monstrous　lie　in　the　universe。　　　　　
　　　　Dreamcatcher；　Jonesy　thinks；　and　turns　the　knob。
　　　　The　room　beyond　the　door　is　a　byrus　madhouse；　a　nightmare　jungle　overgrown　with　creepers　and　vines　and　lianas　twisted　together　in　blood…colored　plaits。　The　air　reeks　of　sulfur　and　chilly　ethyl　alcohol；　the　smell　of　starter　fluid　sprayed　into　a　balky　carb　on　a　subzero　January　morning。　At　least　they　don't　have　the　shit…weasel　to　worry　about；　not　in　here；　that's　on　another　strand　of　the　dreamcatcher；　in　another　place　and　time。　The　byrum　is　Lad's　problem　now；　he's　a　border　collie　with　a　very　dim　future。
　　　　The　television　is　on；　and　although　the　screen　is　overgrown　with　byrus；　a　ghostly　black…and…white　image　es　straining　through。　A　man　is　dragging　the　corpse　of　a　dog　across　a　concrete　floor。　Dusty　and　strewn　with　dead　autumn　leaves；　it's　like　a　tomb　in　one　of　the　fifties　horror　flicks　Jonesy　still　likes　to　watch　on　his　VCR。　But　this　isn't　a　tomb；　it　is　filled　with　the　hollow　sound　of　rushing　water。
　　　　In　the　center　of　the　floor　there　is　a　rusty　circular　cover　with　MWRA　stamped　on　it：　Massachusetts　Water　Resources　Authority。　Even　through　the　reddish　serum　on　the　TV　screen；　these　letters　stand　out。　Of　course　they　do。　To　Mr　Gray　…　who　died　as　a　physical　being　all　the　way　back　at　Hole　in　the　Wall　…　they　mean　everything。
　　　　They　mean；　quite　literally；　the　world。
　　　　The　shaft…lid　has　been　partly　pushed　aside；　revealing　a　crescent　shape　of　absolute　darkness。　The　man　dragging　the　dog　is　himself；　Jonesy　realizes；　and　the　dog　isn't　quite　dead。　It　is　leaving　a　trail　of　frothy　pink　blood　behind　on　the　concrete；　and　its　back　legs　are　twitching。　Almost　paddling。
　　　　Never　mind　the　movie；　Henry　almost　snarls；　and　Jonesy　turns　his　attention　to　the　figure　in　the　bed；　the　gray　thing　with　the　byrus…speckled　sheet　pulled　up　to　its　chest；　which　is　a　plain　gray　expanse　of　poreless；　hairless；　nippleless　flesh。　Although　he　can't　see　now　because　of　the　sheet；　Jonesy　knows　there　is　no　navel；　either；　because　this　thing　was　never　born。　It　is　a　child's　rendering　of　an　alien；　trolled　directly　from　the　subconscious　minds　of　those　who　first　came　in　contact　with　the　byrum。　They　never　existed　as　actual　creatures；　aliens；　ETs。　The　grays　as　physical　beings　were　always　created　out　of　the　human　imagination；　out　of　the　dreamcatcher；　and　knowing　this　affords　Jonesy　a　measure　of　relief。　He　wasn't　the　only　one　who　got　fooled。　At　least　there　is　that。　　　
　　　　Something　else　pleases　him：　the　look　in　those　horrid　black　eyes。
　　　　It's　fear。


16

'I'm　locked　and　loaded；'　Freddy　said　quietly；　drawing　to　a　stop　behind　the　Humvee　they　had　chased　all　these　miles。
　　　　'Outstanding；'　Kurtz　said。　'Recon　that　HMW。　I'll　cover　you。'　'Right。'　Freddy　looked　at　Perlmutter；　whose　belly　was　swelling　again；　then　at　Owen's　Hummer。　The　reason　for　the　rifle…fire　they'd　heard　earlier　was　clear　now：　the　Hummer　had　been　shot　up　pretty　good。　The　only　question　left　to　be　answered　was　who　had　been　on　the　giving　end　and　who　on　the　receiving。　Tracks　led　away　from　the　Hummer；　growing　indistinct　under　the　rapid　snowfall；　but　for　now　clear　enough　to　read。　A　single　set。　Boots。　Probably　Owen。
　　　　'Go　on　now；　Freddy！'
　　　　Freddy　got　out　into　the　snow。　Kurtz　slid　out　behind　him　and　Freddy　heard　him　rack　the　slide　of　his　personal。　Depending　on　the　nine…millimeter。　Well；　maybe　that　was　all　right；　he　was　good　with　it；　no　question　of　that。
　　　　Freddy　felt　a　momentary　coldness　down　his　spine；　as　if　Kurtz　had　the　nine　leveled　there。　Right　there。　But　that　was　ridiculous；　wasn't　it？　Owen；　yes；　but　Owen　was　different。　Owen　had　crossed　the　line。
　　　　Freddy　hurried　to　the　Hummer；　bent　low；　carbine　held　at　chest　level。　He　didn't　like　having　Kurtz　behind　him；　that　was　undeniable。　No；　he　didn't　like　that　at　all。


17

As　the　two　boys　advance　on　the　overgrown　bed；　Mr　Gray　begins　to　push　the　CALL　button　repeatedly；　but　nothing　happens。　I　think　the　works　must　be　choked　with　byrus；　Jonesy　thinks。　Too　bad；　Mr　Gray　…　too　bad　for　you。　He　glances　up　at　the　TV　and　sees　that　his　film　self　has　gotten　the　dog　to　the　edge　of　the　shaft。　Maybe　they're　too　late　after　all；　maybe　not。　There's　no　way　to　tell。　The　wheel　is　still　spinning。
　　　　Hello；　Mr　Gray；　I've　so　much　wanted　to　meet　you；　Henry　says。　As　he　speaks；　he　removes　the　byrus…splotched　pillow　from　beneath　Mr　Gray's　narrow；　earless　head。　Mr　Gray　tries　to　wriggle　toward　the　other　side　of　the　bed；　but　Jonesy　holds　him　in　place；　grasping　the　alien's　child…thin　arms。　The　skin　in　his　hands　is　neither　hot　nor　cold。　It　doesn't　feel　like　skin　at　all；　not　really。　It　feels　like…
　　　　Like　nothing；　he　thinks。　Like　a　dream。
　　　　Mr　Gray？　Henry　asks。　7his　is　how　we　say　wele　to　Planet　Earth。　And　he　puts　the　pillow　over　Mr　Gray's　face。
　　　　Beneath　Jonesy's　hands；　Mr　Gray　be　ins　to　struggle　and　thrash。　　　　
　　　　Somewhere　a　monitor　begins　to　beep　frantically；　as　if　this　creature　actually　has　a　heart；　and　that　it　has　now　stopped　beating。
　　　　Jonesy　looks　down　at　the　dying　monster　and　wishes　only　for　this　to　be　over。


18

Mr　Gray　got　the　dog　to　the　side　of　the　shaft　he　had　partially　uncovered。　ing　up　through　the　narrow　black　semicircle　was　the　steady　hollow　rush　of　running　water　and　a　waft　of　dank；　cold　air。
　　　　If　it　were　done　when　'tis　done；　then　'twere　well　it　were　done　quickly　…　that　from　a　box　marked　SHAKESPEARE。　The　dog's　rear　legs　were　bicycling　rapidly；　and　Mr　Gray　could　hear　the　wet　sound　of　tearing　flesh　as　the　byrum　thrust　with　one　end　and　chewed　with　the　other；　forcing　itself　out。　Beneath　the　dog's　tail；　the　chattering　had　started；　a　sound　like　an　angry　monkey。　He　had　to　get　it　into　the　shaft　before　it　could　emerge；　it　did　not　absolutely　have　to　be　born　the　water；　but　its　odds　of　survival　would　be　much　higher　if　it　was。
　　　　Mr　Gray　tried　to　shove　the　dog's　head　into　the　gap　between　the　cover　and　the　concrete　and　couldn't　get　it　through。　The　neck　bent　and　the　dog's　senselessly　grinning　snout　twisted　upward。　Although　still　sleeping　（or　perhaps　it　was　now　unconscious）　it　began　to　utter　a　series　of　low；　choked　barks。
　　　　And　it　wouldn't　go　through　the　gap。
　　　　'Fuck　me　Freddy！'　Mr　Gray　screamed。　He　was　barely　aware　of　the　snarling　ache　in　Jonesy's　hip　now；　certainly　not　aware　that　Jonesy's　face　was　strained　and　pale；　the　hazel　eyes　wet　with　tears　of　effort　and　frustration。　He　was　aware　…　terribly　aware　…　that　something　was　going　on。　Going　on　behind　my　back；　Jonesy　would　have　said。　And　who　else　could　it　be？　Who　else　but　Jonesy；　his　reluctant　host？　　　　
　　　　'Fuck　YOU！'　he　screamed　at　the　damned；　hateful；　stubborn；　just…a…little…too…big　dog。　'You're　going　down；　do　you　hear　me？　DO　YOU…'
　　　　The　words　stopped　in　his　throat。　All　at　once　he　couldn't　yell　anymore；　although　he　dearly　wanted　to；　how　he　loved　to　yell；　and　pound　his　fists　on　things　（even　a　dying　preg