sk.dreamcatcher-第47部分

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lse。　It　had　contained　photographs；　one　of　them　a　gruesome　medical　exarniner's　shot　he　had　never　quite　forgotten。　It　showed　a　murder　victim　dumped　in　the　woods；　the　nude　body　discovered　after　approximately　four　days。　There　had　been　toadstools　growing　from　the　nape　of　the　neck；　the　creases　at　the　backs　of　the　knees；　and　from　the　cleft　of　the　buttocks。
　　　　Four　days；　all　right。　But　this　place　had　been　clean　this　morning；　only　。　。　。
　　　　Henry　glanced　at　his　watch　and　saw　that　it　had　stopped　at　twenty　till　twelve。　It　was　now　Eastern　Standard　No　Time　At　All。
　　　　He　turned　and　peeked　behind　the　door；　suddenly　convinced　that　something　was　lurking　there。
　　　　Nah。　Nothing　but　Jonesy's　Garand；　leaning　against　the　wall。
　　　　Henry　started　to　turn　away；　then　turned　back　again。　The　Garand　looked　clear　of　the　goo；　and　Henry　picked　it　up。　Loaded；　safety　on；　one　in　the　chamber。　Good。　Henry　slung　it　over　his　shoulder　and　turned　back　toward　the　unpleasant　red　Jump　growing　outside　the　bathroom　door。　The　smell　of　ether；　mingled　with　something　sulfurous　and　even　more　unpleasant；　was　strong　in　here。　He　walked　slowly　across　the　room　toward　the　bathroom；　forcing　himself　forward　a　step　at　a　time；　afraid　（and　increasingly　certain）　that　the　red　hump　with　the　leglike　extrusions　was　all　that　remained　of　his　friend　Beaver。　In　a　moment　he　would　see　the　straggly　remains　of　the　Beav's　long　black　hair　or　his　Doc　Martens；　which　Beaver　called　his　'lesbian　solidarity　statement'。　The　Beav　had　gotten　the　idea　that　Doc　Martens　were　a　secret　sign　by　which　lesbians　recognized　each　other；　and　no　one　could　talk　him　out　of　this。　He　was　likewise　convinced　that　people　named　Rothschild　and　Goldfarb　ran　the　world；　possibly　from　a　bedrock…deep　bunker　in　Colorado。　Beaver；　whose　preferred　expression　of　surprise　was　fuck　me　Freddy。
　　　　But　there　was　absolutely　no　way　of　telling　if　the　lump　in　the　doorway　had　once　been　the　Beav；　or　indeed　if　it　had　once　been　anyone　at　all。　There　was　only　that　suggestive　shape。　Something　glinted　in　the　spongy　mass　of　growth　and　Henry　leaned　a　little　closer；　wondering　even　as　he　did　it　if　microscopic　bits　of　the　fungus　were　already　growing　on　the　wet；　unprotected　surfaces　of　his　eyes。　The　thing　he　spotted　turned　out　to　be　the　bathroom　doorknob。　Off　to　one　side；　sporting　its　own　fuzz　of　growth；　was　a　roll　of　friction　tape。　He　remembered　the　mess　scattered　across　the　surface　of　the　worktable　out　back；　the　yanked…open　drawers。　Had　this　been　what　Jonesy　had　been　out　there　looking　for？　A　goddam　roll　of　tape？　Something　in　his　head　…　maybe　the　click；　maybe　not　…　said　it　was。　But　why？　In　God's　name；　why？
　　　　In　the　last　five　months　or　so；　as　the　suicidal　thoughts　came　more　frequently　and　visited　for　longer　and　longer　periods　of　time；　chatting　in　their　pidgin　language；　Henry's　curiosity　had　pretty　much　deserted　him。　Now　it　was　raging；　as　if　it　had　awakened　hungry。　He　had　nothing　to　feed　it。　Had　Jonesy　wanted　to　tape　the　door　shut？　Yeah？　Against　what？　Surely　he　and　the　Beav　must　have　known　it　wouldn't　work　against　the　fungus；　which　would　just　send　its　fingers　creeping　under　the　door。
　　　　Henry　looked　into　the　bathroom　and　made　a　low　grunting　sound。　Whatever　obscene　craziness　had　gone　on；　it　had　started　and　ended　in　there　…　he　had　no　doubt　of　it。　The　room　was　a　red　cave；　the　blue　tiles　almost　pletely　hidden　under　drifts　of　the　stuff。　It　had　grown　up　the　base　of　the　sink　and　the　toilet；　as　well。　The　seat's　lid　was　back　against　the　tank；　and　although　he　couldn't　be　positive　…　there　was　too　much　overgrowth　to　be　positive　…　he　thought　that　the　ring　itself　had　been　broken　inward。　The　shower　curtain　was　now　a　solid　red…gold　instead　of　filmy　blue；　most　of　it　had　been　tom　off　the　rings　（which　had　grown　their　own　vegetable　beards）　and　lay　in　the　tub。
　　　　Jutting　from　the　edge　of　the　tub；　also　overgrown　with　fungus；　was　a　boot…clad　foot。　The　boot　was　a　Doc　Marten；　Henry　was　sure　of　it。　He　had　found　Beaver　after　all；　it　seemed。　Memories　of　the　day　they　had　rescued　Duddits　suddenly　filled　him；　so　bright　and　clear　it　might　have　been　yesterday。　Beaver　wearing　his　goofy　old　leather　jacket；　Beaver　taking　Duddits's　lunchbox　and　saying　You　like　this　show？　But　they　never　change　their　clothes！　And　then　saying…
　　　　'Fuck　me　Freddy；'　Henry　told　the　overgrown　cabin。　'That's　what　he　said；　what　he　always　said。'　Tears　running　from　his　eyes　and　down　his　cheeks。　If　it　was　just　wetness　the　fungus　wanted　and　judging　by　the　jungle　growing　out　of　the　toilet…bowl；　it　liked　wetness　just　fine　…　it　could　land　on　him　and　have　a　feast。
　　　　Henry　didn't　much　care。　He　had　Jonesy's　rifle。　The　fungus　could　start　on　him；　but　he　could　make　sure　that　he　was　long　gone　before　it　ever　got　to　the　dessert　course。　If　it　came　to　that。
　　　　It　probably　would。


5

He　was　sure　he'd　seen　a　few　rug…remnants　heaped　up　in　one　er　of　the　shed。　Henry　debated　going　out　and　getting　them。　He　could　lay　them　down　on　the　bathroom　floor；　walk　over　them；　and　get　a　better　look　into　the　tub。　But　to　what　purpose？　He　knew　that　was　Beaver；　and　he　had　no　real　desire　to　see　his　old　friend；　author　of　such　witticisms　as　Kiss　my　bender；　being　overgrown　by　red　fungus　as　the　pallid　corpse　in　that　long…ago　medical　offprint　had　been　growing　its　own　colony　of　toadstools。　If　it　might　have　answered　some　of　his　questions　about　what　had　happened；　yes；　perhaps。　But　Henry　didn't　think　that　likely。
　　　　Mostly　what　he　wanted　was　to　get　out　of　here。　The　fungus　was　creepy；　but　there　was　something　else。　An　even　creepier　sensation　that　he　was　not　alone。
　　　　Henry　backed　away　from　the　bathroom　door。　There　was　a　paperback　on　the　dining　table；　a　pattern　of　dancing　devils　with　pitchforks　on　its　cover。　One　of　Jonesy's；　no　doubt；　already　growing　its　own　little　colony　of　crud。
　　　　He　became　aware　of　a　whickering　noise　from　the　west；　one　that　quickly　rose　to　a　thunder。　Helicopters；　and　not　just　one；　this　time。　A　lot。　Big　ones。　They　sounded　as　if　they　were　ing　in　at　rooftop　level；　and　Henry　ducked　without　even　being　aware　of　it。　Images　from　a　dozen　Vietnam　War　movies　filled　his　head　and　he　was　momentarily　sure　that　they　would　open　up　with　their　machine…guns；　spraying　the　house。　Or　maybe　they'd　hose　it　down　with　napalm。
　　　　They　passed　over　without　doing　either；　but　came　close　enough　to　rattle　the　cups　and　dishes　on　the　kitchen　shelves。　Henry　straightened　up　as　the　thunder　began　to　fade；　being　first　a　chatter　and　then　a　harmless　drone。　Perhaps　they　had　gone　off　to　join　the　animal　slaughter　at　the　east　end　of　Jefferson　Tract。　Let　them。　He　was　going　to　get　the　fuck　out　of　here　and…
　　　　And　what？　Exactly　what？
　　　　While　he　was　thinking　this　question　over；　there　was　a　sound　from　one　of　the　two　downstairs　bedrooms。　A　rustling　sound。　This　was　followed　by　a　moment　of　silence；　just　long　enough　for　Henry　to　decide　it　was　his　imagination　pulling　a　little　more　overtime。　Then　there　came　a　series　of　low　clicks　and　chitters；　almost　the　sound　of　a　mechanical　toy　…　a　tin　monkey　or　parrot；　maybe　…　on　the　verge　of　running　down。　Gooseflesh　broke　out　all　over　Henry's　body。　The　spit　dried　up　in　his　mouth。　The　hairs　on　the　back　of　his　neck　began　to　straighten　in　bunches。
　　　　Get　out　of　here；　run！
　　　　Before　he　could　listen　to　that　voice　and　let　it　get　a　hold　on　him；　he　crossed　to　the　bedroom　door　in　big　steps；　unshouldering　the　Garand　as　he　went。　The　adrenaline　dumped　into　his　blood；　and　the　world　stood　forth　brightly。　Selective　perception；　that　unacknowledged　gift　to　the　safe　and　cozy；　fell　away　and　he　saw　every　detail：　the　trail　of　blood　which　ran　from　bedroom　to　bathroom；　a　discarded　slipper；　that　weird　red　mold　growing　on　the　wall　in　the　shape　of　a　handprint。　Then　he　went　through　the　door。
　　　　It　was　on　the　bed；　whatever　it　was；　to　Henry　it　looked　like　a　weasel　or　a　woodchuck　with　its　legs　amputated　and　a　long；　bloody　tail　strung　out　behind　it　like　an　afterbirth。　Only　no　animal　he'd　ever　seen　…　with　the　possible　exception　of　the　moray　eel　at　the　Boston　Seaquarium　…　had　such　disproportionately　large　black　eyes。　And　another　similarity：　when　it　yawned　open　the　rudimentary　line　that　was　its　mouth；　it　revealed　a　nest　of　shocking　fangs；　as　long　and　thin　as　hatpins。
　　　　Behind　it；　pulsing　on　the　blood…soaked　sheet；　were　a　hundred　or　more　orange…and…brown　eggs。　They　were　the　size　of　large　marbles　and　coated　with　a　murky；　snotlike　slime。　Within　each　Henry　could　see　a　moving；　hairlike　shadow。
　　　　The　weasel…thing　rose　up　like　a　snake　emerging　from　a　snake…charmer's　basket　and　chittered　at　him。　It　lurched　on　the　bed　Jonesy's　bed　…　but　seemed　unable　to　move　much。　Its　glossy　black　eyes　glared。　Its　tail　（except　Henry　thought　it　might　actually　be　some　sort　of　gripping　tentacle）　lashed　back　and　forth；　then　laid　itself　over　as　many　of　the　eggs　as　it　could　reach；　as　if　protecting　them。
　　　　Henry　realized　he　was　saying　the　same　word；　no；　over　and　over　in　a　monotonous　drone；　like　a　helpless　neurotic　who　has　been　loaded　up　on　Thorazine。　He　shouldered　the　rifle；　aimed；　and　tracked　the　thing's　repulsive　wedge　of　a　head　as　it　twitched　and　dodged。　It　knows　what　this　is；　it　knows　at　least　that　much；　Henry　thought　coldly；　and　then　he　squeezed　the　trigger。
　　　　It　was　close　range　and　the　creature　wasn't　up　to　much　in　the　way　of　evasion；　either　laying　its　eggs　had　exhausted　it　or　it　wasn't　doing　well　in　the　cold　…　with　the　main　door　open；　Hole　in　the　Wan　had　gotten　quite　cold　indeed。　The　report　was　very　loud　in　the　closed　room；　and　the　thing's　upraised　head　disintegrated　in　a　liquid　splatter　that　blew　back　against　the　wall　in　strings　and　clots。　Its　blood　was　the　same　red…gold　as　the　fungus。　The　decapitated　body　tumbled　off　the　bed　and　onto　a　litter　of　clothes　Henry　didn't　recognize：　a　brown　coat；　an　orange　flagman's　vest；　a　pair　of　jeans　with　cuffs　（none　of　them　had　ever　worn　cuffed　jeans；　in　junior　high　school；　those　who　did　had　been　branded　shitkickers）。　Several　of　the　eggs　tumbled　off　with　the　body。　Most　landed　on　either　the　clothes　or　the　litter　of　Jonesy's　books　and　remained　whole；　but　a　couple　hit　the　floor　and　broke　open。　Cloudy　stuff　like　spoiled　eggwhite　oozed　out；　about　a　tablespoonful　from　each　egg。　Within　it　were　those　hairs；　writhing　and　twisting　and　seeming　to　glare　at　Henry　with　black　eyes　the　size　of　pinheads。　Looking　at　them　made　him　feel　like　screaming。
　　　　He　turned　and　walked　je