gns.snakes-第4部分

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nock　it　off　in　a　second；　they　were　buffeting　it；　bouncing　back　off；　swiping　it　again　with　mechanical　determination。
　　
　　Then　Ken　Wilson's　van　ploughed　into　the　wreckage　of　the　Clubman　and　the　Transit；　and　seconds　later　came　a　shuddering　jolt　as　he　was　hit　from　behind。　He　screamed　aloud；　gave　up　trying　to　do　anything　positive。　The　windscreen　shattered　and　that　bloody　mulch　disintegrated；　some　of　it　splattering　the　interior　of　the　cab。
　　
　　And　in　that　same　second　his　own　van　appeared　to　concertina；　the　rear　of　the　vehicle　crushing　and　ing　forward；　his　seat　and　harness　ripped　from　their　moorings。　He　was　catapulted；　blinding　pain　as　the　steering　column　shattered　his　chest；　threw　him　back　and　then　bounced　him　down　on　to　the　floor　of　the　cab。
　　
　　Dazed；　screaming；　tasting　his　own　blood；　he　lay　there　in　the　semi…darkness。　He　heard　the　squeal　of　tortured　rubber；　smelled　its　acrid　stench；　the　screech　of　tearing　metal；　cries　of　anguish。　Vehicles　were　still　running　into　one　another；　he　felt　the　van　move　again；　pushed　forward　another　few　yards。　Shouting；　screams　of　pain　and　terror。
　　
　　Then　silence；　plete　and　utter　for　a　few　seconds。　He　did　not　try　to　move；　just　lay　there　in　the　bloody　half…darkness　trying　to　figure　out　exactly　what　had　happened。　A　multi　pile…up；　they　made　the　television　news　every　so　often　but　everybody　forgot　and　they　happened　again。　Vehicles　travelling　too　close　together　in　adverse　weather　conditions；　people　never　learned；　including　himself。　It　can't　happen　to　me；　it's　those　other　silly　buggers。　And　suddenly　he　was　one　of　those　silly　buggers。
　　
　　Don't　move；　just　lie　still　and　somebody　will　e　to　help　soon。　I'm　scared　to　hell　to　look　out　there；　I'm　not　badly　hurt　really；　just　cut　and　bruised。　His　senses　swam；　came　back　again。　He　fought　down　his　rising　panic。
　　
　　It　might　have　been　seconds　or　hours　later…he　had　lost　all　concept　of　time…when　he　sensed　rather　than　heard　a　movement　in　the　cab。　A　flicker　of　hope；　raising　his　head　up　a　few　inches　off　the　ground。　His　eyes　hurt；　as　if　somebody　was　pushing　a　sharp　instrument　into　them；　he　gasped；　coughed；　tasted　blood。　I'm　here；　you　bloody　fool。　Help　me。　He　tried　to　call　out　but　the　words　would　not　e；　were　strangulated　into　a　low　moan。
　　
　　Something　moved。　His　vision　blurred；　cleared；　but　only　partially。　An　arm　was　reaching　in　through　the　smashed　cab　window；　feeling　inside。　Jesus；　don't　tell　me　you　can't　see　me！　Ken　tried　to　shout；　mustered　his　vocal　cords　for　one　supreme　effort　and　managed　a　wheezing　gurgle；　experienced　a　sensation　as　if　he　were　drowning　and　tasted　blood　again。
　　
　　A　fist；　clenched。　Erect。　Some　guy's　got　one　helluva　long　arm；　he　thought。　If　they　can't　get　to　me　why　the　fuck　don't　they　start　cutting　into　the　cab？
　　
　　That　fist　was　starting　to　open　out。　The　driver　stared；　forced　his　agonised　eyes　to　work　with　sheer　willpower。　It　did　not　look　right；　the　arm　was　elongated　like　one　of　those　cartoons　they　fed　the　kids　every　afternoon　on　TV；　no　fingers；　either　a　malformed　hand　or　else　the　berk　was　wearing　mittens。　Bloody　crazy；　I'll　go　mad　in　a　second。
　　
　　And　then　everything　turned　crazy。　That　hand；　if　it　was　a　hand；　had　two　tiny　eyes；　orbs　that　glinted　and　flickered；　came　forward　in　a　sinister　supple　movement；　a　kind　of　mottled　greenish…grey。　A　mouth；　opening；　and　in　those　eyes　Ken　Wilson　read　hate　and　malevolence。　And　death。
　　
　　The　worst　moment　was　when　realisation　dawned；　the　jig…saw　pieces　slotted　together　through　a　haze　of　pain　and　fear；　formed　a　picture　which　left　no　doubt　in　his　terror…crazed　mind。
　　
　　Jesus　God　Almighty；　no！　A　cobra；　the　most　fearsome　and　deadly　of　all　snakes。
　　
　　Its　face　was　only　a　foot　away　from　his　own。　He　tried　to　press　himself　back　against　the　crumpled　wreckage　of　the　cab　but　there　was　nowhere　to　go。　The　creature　was　gloating；　prolonging　the　fatal　strike；　savouring　the　mental　anguish　of　Man；　its　captor　for　so　long　and　now　at　its　mercy。
　　
　　No；　please；　I　don't　want　to　hurt　you。　I'm　only　the　driver。
　　
　　A　trick　of　the　half…light；　or　did　it　smile；　an　evil　elongation　of　that　awful　mouth；　another　movement　of　the　hooded　head。　He　wanted　to　close　his　eyes　and　shut　it　out　but　his　lids　appeared　to　have　stuck。　Forced　to　look　into　those　flashing　pinpoints；　reading　death　there　and　praying　that　it　would　be　quick。　I'm　dying　anyhow；　you　don't　have　to　bother　to　kill　me。　Just　leave　me　alone　and　I'll　be　dead　before　long。
　　
　　Background　noises；　engines　running；　people　screaming　for　help　outside　in　the　Stygian　blackness。　A　stench　that　was　overpowering；　the　smell　of　burning　rubber　and　heated　metal；　the　smell　of　death。
　　
　　Wilson's　mind　had　gone　numb；　an　instinctive　anaesthetic　that　spared　him　pain　at　the　very　last；　transcending　the　limits　of　human　endurance。　He　saw　the　cobra；　knew　that　it　was　going　to　kill　him　but　suddenly　it　did　not　seem　so　terrible　after　all。　He　would　have　died　anyway；　maybe　lingered　for　days；　perhaps　ended　up　on　a　life…support　machine；　clinically　dead　but　the　vital　organs　kept　alive。　A　pointless　exercise　demonstrating　Man's　cruelty　to　Man；　the　law　forbidding　euthanasia。　They　wouldn't　let　a　wounded　animal　suffer；　they'd　put　it　down；　yet　it　was　all　right　for　a　fellow…human　to　undergo　indescribable　agonies。　A　twisted　philosophy。　He　wanted　to　laugh　because　he　had　beaten　the　System；　cheated　them。
　　
　　The　reptile　struck；　a　sharp　pain　somewhere　in　the　region　of　his　neck；　like　the　prick　of　an　injection；　he　couldn't　make　up　his　mind　whether　it　had　bitten　him　or　spat　venom　because　the　head　was　several　inches　away　from　his　face。　Possibly　a　movement　too　quick　for　the　eye　to　follow。　It　didn't　matter　because　it　was　all　over　now。
　　
　　He　felt　the　movement　of　its　body　as　it　crawled　across　him　like　a　thick　rough　hosepipe　being　dragged　over　him；　and　then　he　wondered　where　it　had　gone　because　he　could　neither　see　it　nor　hear　it　any　longer。　Probably　out　of　the　opposite　window。
　　
　　A　sensation　as　if　he　were　burning　up；　as　if　somebody　had　injected　him　with　acid　and　his　veins　were　corroding　away；　and　then　the　numbness　took　over　again　and　cut　out　the　pain；　left　him　with　a　light…headedness　as　though　he　were　floating　weightlessly　through　the　atmosphere。　Euphoric　because　it　was　all　over　and　it　didn't　hurt。
　　
　　Outside　the　van　the　cobra　dropped　silently　on　to　the　wet　tarmac　and　slithered　away　beneath　the　crumpled　wreckage；　its　victim　forgotten。　The　killing　was　over　and　now　its　instincts　turned　to　survival　in　an　alien　world　of　hard　man…made　surfaces　where　the　air　was　filled　with　pungent　smoke　and　noises　beyond　its　primitive　prehension。
　　
　　It　made　it　to　the　hard　shoulder；　found　the　long　grass　of　the　adjacent　embankment　and　began　the　ascent；　a　powerful　wary　creature　that　underwent　a　new　experience　after　a　lifetime　of　boredom　in　captivity。
　　
　　It　tasted　fear　for　the　first　time；　fear　that　merged　into　anger　and　gave　it　the　killing　urge　again。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　3
　　
　　THE　YOUNG　police　constable　in　the　motorway　patrol　car　felt　his　stomach　churn　as　the　message　came　over　the　radio。　A　weakness　engulfed　his　limbs　and　he　remembered　how　he　used　to　be　carsick　as　a　child　every　time　his　parents　took　him　out　in　the　dark　blue　Maxi　which　they　kept　polished　in　the　garage　in　readiness　for　a　Sunday　afternoon　spin；　an　urge　to　open　the　door；　lean　out；　leave　a　trail　of　vomit　in　their　wake。　He　wanted　to　be　back　at　HQ；　a　desk　job；　checking　traffic　reports；　anywhere　except　out　here。
　　
　　He　did　not　speak；　turned　his　head　to　one　side　in　case　Sergeant　Bufton　saw　how　white　he'd　gone。　The　sergeant　had　a　reputation　as　a　right　bastard；　both　in　the　station　and　out　on　the　cars。　Just　plain　nasty　and　sarcastic；　he　didn't　know　any　other　way；　and　a　young　PC　was　fair　game。
　　
　　'Ever　seen　a　dead　body；　constable？　I　don't　mean　a　stiff　all　neatly　laid　out　in　a　mortuary；　I　mean　one　in　a　dozen　different　pieces　that　you've　got　to　retrieve　from　the　highway；　gather　'em　up　in　a　sack　and　try　and　find　out　what　fits　where？　Like　a　kind　of　jig…saw　puzzle　and　some　of　them　can　be　real　teasers；　but　when　you've　been　to　a　dozen　or　so　such　accidents　you　instinctively　know　what　fits　where。　You'll　find　out　before　long。'
　　
　　That　was　how　Bufton　had　briefed　young　Mark　Bazeley　on　the　first　morning　he　reported　for　motorway　patrol　duty。　A　week　last　Monday。　Things　had　been　quiet；　just　two　or　three　smashes；　one　death　but　the　victim　had　died　in　hospital　three　days　later　from　internal　injuries。　Now　the　horror　was　about　to　start。　The　real　horror。
　　
　　'Sounds　like　a　bad　'un；　Sarge；'　Bazeley　tried　to　keep　his　voice　even；　attempted　to　sound　almost　casual。　Better　get　in　first　before　the　bastard　gives　me　a　run…down　of　what　to　expect。
　　
　　'You　heard　what　the　radio　said；'　Bufton　shouted　to　make　himself　heard　above　the　whine　of　the　siren。　'A　multiple　pile…up。　That　could　mean　a　dozen　vehicles。　Or　fifty。　We　won't　know　until　we　get　there　and　as　it's　only　at　junction　twenty…two　we'll　be　first　on　the　scene。　Another　minute　and　a　half　by　my　reckoning。　I'll　count　the　vehicles；　you　count　the　corpses。'　A　laugh　that　was　devoid　of　humour；
　　
　　Bazeley　wished　there　was　somewhere　he　could　vomit　in　private；　just　a　quick　throw…up　to　clear　his　guts　and　then　he'd　face　it。　His　panion　wasn't　just　being　sadistic　for　the　sake　of　it；　it　was　a　kind　of　mental　barrier；　a　shield　he　was　throwing　up　to　protect　the　two　of　them。　Don't　think　of　them　as　people；　think　of　them　as　units；　units　of　work；　and　when　the　job's　done　you　can　put　it　all　out　of　your　mind。　If　you　don't；　you'll　end　up　in　the　head　farm。　But　Bufton　wouldn't　put　it　into　words；　you　had　to　read　him　like　a　plicated　book　to　see　what　he　was　driving　at。　Just　don't　let　him　see　you're　scared。
　　
　　'Here　we　are。'　The　sergeant　eased　his　foot　off　the　throttle；　the　speedo　needle　dropping　from　80　to　70。　To　60。　Braking。
　　
　　It　was　difficult　to　discern　details　through　the　deluge；　the　wet　road　reflecting　the　deep　red　of　rear　lights　interspersed　with　the　flashing　blue　from　the　police　car。　A　tail…back　of　traffic；　people　out　of　their　vehicles　and　walking　down　the　lanes　oblivious　of　the　thunderstorm　or…slowing　cars　and　lorries。
　　
　　'Idiots！'　Bufton　slowed；　eased　off　the　motorway　and　on　to　the　hard　shoulder；