cb.booksofblood-第6部分

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　　Maybe　he　even　heard　the　scuffle　as　Mahogany　subdued　the　youth　with　the　spaced…out　stare。　But　the　sound　was　too　distant　and　the　promise　of　sleep　was　too　tempting。　He　drowsed　on。
　　For　some　reason　his　dreams　were　of　his　mother's　kitchen。　She　was　chopping　turnips　and　smiling　sweetly　as　she　chopped。　He　was　only　small　in　his　dream　and　was　looking　up　at　her　radiant　face　while　she　worked。　Chop。　Chop。　Chop。
　　His　eyes　jerked　open。　His　mother　vanished。　The　car　was　empty　and　the　youth　was　gone。
　　How　long　had　he　been　dozing？　He　hadn't　remembered　the　train　stopping　at　West　4th　Street。　He　got　up；　his　head　full　of　slumber；　and　almost　fell　over　as　the　train　rocked　violently。　It　seemed　to　have　gathered　quite　a　substantial　head　of　speed。　Maybe　the　driver　was　keen　to　be　home；　wrapped　up　in　bed　with　his　wife。　They　were　going　at　a　fair　lick；　in　fact　it　was　bloody　terrifying。
　　There　was　a　blind　drawn　down　over　the　window　between　the　cars　which　hadn't　been　down　before　as　he　remembered。　A　little　concern　crept　into　Kaufman's　sober　head。　Suppose　he'd　been　sleeping　a　long　while；　and　the　guard　had　overlooked　him　in　the　car。　Perhaps　they'd　passed　Far　Rockaway　and　the　train　was　now　speeding　on　its　way　to　wherever　they　took　the　trains　for　the　night。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said　aloud。
　　Should　he　go　forward　and　ask　the　driver？　It　was　such　a　bloody　idiot　question　to　ask：　where　am　I？　At　this　time　of　night　was　he　likely　to　get　more　than　a　stream　of　abuse　by　way　of　reply？
　　Then　the　train　began　to　slow。
　　A　station。　Yes；　a　station。　The　train　emerged　from　the　tunnel　and　into　the　dirty　light　of　the　station　at　West　4th　Street。　He'd　missed　no　stops。。。　So　where　had　the　boy　gone？
　　He'd　either　ignored　the　warning　on　the　car　wall　forbidding　transfer　between　the　cars　while　in　transit；　or　else　he'd　gone　into　the　driver's　cabin　up　front。　Probably　between　the　driver's　legs　even　now；　Kaufman　thought；　his　lip　curling。　It　wasn't　unheard　of。　This　was　the　Palace　of　Delights；　after　all；　and　everyone　had　their　right　to　a　little　love　in　the　dark。
　　Kaufman　shrugged　to　himself。　What　did　he　care　where　the　boy　had　gone？
　　The　doors　closed。　Nobody　had　boarded　the　train。　It　shunted　off　from　the　station；　the　lights　flickering　as　it　used　a　surge　of　power　to　pick　up　some　speed　again。
　　Kaufman　felt　the　desire　for　sleep　e　over　him　afresh；　but　the　sudden　fear　of　being　lost　had　pumped　adrenalin　into　his　system；　and　his　limbs　were　tingling　with　nervous　energy。
　　His　senses　were　sharpened　too。
　　Even　over　the　clatter　and　the　rumble　of　the　wheels　on　the　tracks；　he　heard　the　sound　of　tearing　cloth　ing　from　the　next　car。　Was　someone　tearing　their　shirt　off？
　　He　stood　up；　grasping　one　of　the　straps　for　balance。
　　The　window　between　the　cars　was　pletely　curtained　off；　but　he　stared　at　it；　frowning；　as　though　he　might　suddenly　discover　X…ray　vision。　The　car　rocked　and　rolled。　It　was　really　travelling　again。
　　Another　ripping　sound。
　　Was　it　rape？
　　With　no　more　than　a　mild　voyeuristic　urge　he　moved　down　the　see…sawing　car　towards　the　intersecting　door；　hoping　there　might　be　a　chink　in　the　curtain。　His　eyes　were　still　fixed　on　the　window；　and　he　failed　to　notice　the　splatters　of　blood　he　was　treading　in。　Until…　…his　heel　slipped。　He　looked　down。　His　stomach　almost　saw　the　blood　before　his　brain　and　the　ham　on　whole…wheat　was　half…way　up　his　gullet　catching　in　the　back　of　his　throat。　Blood。　He　took　several　large　gulps　of　stale　air　and　looked　away…back　at　the　window。
　　His　head　was　saying：　blood。　Nothing　would　make　the　word　go　away。
　　There　was　no　more　than　a　yard　or　two　between　him　and　the　door　now。　He　had　to　look。　There　was　blood　on　his　shoe；　and　a　thin　trail　to　the　next　car；　but　he　still　had　to　look。
　　He　had　to。
　　He　took　two　more　steps　to　the　door　and　scanned　the　curtain　looking　for　a　flaw　in　the　blind：　a　pulled　thread　in　the　weave　would　be　sufficient。　There　was　a　tiny　hole。　He　glued　his　eye　to　it。
　　His　mind　refused　to　accept　what　his　eyes　were　seeing　beyond　the　door。　It　rejected　the　spectacle　as　preposterous；　as　a　dreamed　sight。　His　reason　said　it　couldn't　be　real；　but　his　flesh　knew　it　was。　His　body　became　rigid　with　terror。　His　eyes；　unblinking；　could　not　close　off　the　appalling　scene　through　the　curtain。　He　stayed　at　the　door　while　the　train　rattled　on；　while　his　blood　drained　from　his　extremities；　and　his　brain　reeled　from　lack　of　oxygen。　Bright　spots　of　light　flashed　in　front　of　his　vision；　blotting　out　the　atrocity。
　　Then　he　fainted。
　　
　　He　was　unconscious　when　the　train　reached　Jay　Street。　He　was　deaf　to　the　driver's　announcement　that　all　travellers　beyond　that　station　would　have　to　change　trains。　Had　he　heard　this　he　would　have　questioned　the　sense　of　it。　No　trains　disgorged　all　their　passengers　at　Jay　Street；　the　line　ran　to　Mott　Avenue；　via　the　Aqueduct　Race　Track；　past　JFK　Airport。　He　would　have　asked　what　kind　of　train　this　could　be。　Except　that　he　already　knew。　The　truth　was　hanging　in　the　next　car。　It　was　smiling　contentedly　to　itself　from　behind　a　bloody　chain…mail　apron。
　　This　was　the　Midnight　Meat　Train。
　　There's　no　accounting　for　time　in　a　dead　faint。　It　could　have　been　seconds　or　hours　that　passed　before　Kaufman's　eyes　flickered　open　again；　and　his　mind　focussed　on　his　new…found　situation。
　　He　lay　under　one　of　the　seats　now；　sprawled　along　the　vibrating　wall　of　the　car；　hidden　from　view。　Fate　was　with　him　so　far　he　thought：　somehow　the　rocking　of　the　car　must　have　jockeyed　his　unconscious　body　out　of　sight。
　　He　thought　of　the　horror　in　Car　Two；　and　swallowed　back　vomit。　He　was　alone。　Wherever　the　guard　was　（murdered　perhaps）；　there　was　no　way　he　could　call　for　help。　And　the　driver？　Was　he　dead　at　his　controls？　Was　the　train　even　now　hurtling　through　an　unknown　tunnel；　a　tunnel　without　a　single　station　to　identify　it；　towards　its　destruction？
　　And　if　there　was　no　crash　to　be　killed　in；　there　was　always　the　Butcher；　still　hacking　away　a　door's　thickness　from　where　Kaufman　lay。
　　Whichever　way　he　turned；　the　name　on　the　door　was　Death。
　　The　noise　was　deafening；　especially　lying　on　the　floor。　Kaufman's　teeth　were　shaking　in　their　sockets　and　his　face　felt　numb　with　the　vibration；　even　his　skull　was　aching。
　　Gradually　he　felt　strength　seeping　back　into　his　exhausted　limbs。　He　cautiously　stretched　his　fingers　and　clenched　his　fists；　to　set　the　blood　flowing　there　again。
　　And　as　the　feeling　returned；　so　did　the　nausea。　He　kept　seeing　the　grisly　brutality　of　the　next　car。　He'd　seen　photographs　of　murder　victims　before；　of　course；　but　these　were　no　mon　murders。　He　was　in　the　same　train　as　the　Subway　Butcher；　the　monster　who　strung　his　victims　up　by　the　feet　from　the　straps；　hairless　and　naked。
　　How　long　would　it　be　before　the　killer　stepped　through　that　door　and　claimed　him？　He　was　sure　that　if　the　slaughterer　didn't　finish　him；　expectation　would。
　　He　heard　movement　beyond　the　door。
　　Instinct　took　over。　Kaufman　thrust　himself　further　under　the　seat　and　tucked　himself　up　into　a　tiny　ball；　with　his　sick…white　face　to　the　wall。　Then　he　covered　his　head　with　his　hands　and　closed　his　eyes　as　tightly　as　any　child　in　terror　of　the　Bogeyman。
　　The　door　was　slid　open。　Click。　Whoosh。　A　rush　of　air　up　from　the　rails。　It　smelt　stranger　than　any　Kaufman　had　smelt　before：　and　colder。　This　was　somehow　primal　air　in　his　nostrils；　hostile　and　unfathomable　air。　It　made　him　shudder。
　　The　door　closed。　Click。
　　The　Butcher　was　close；　Kaufman　knew　it。　He　could　be　standing　no　more　than　a　matter　of　inches　from　where　he　lay。
　　Was　he　even　now　looking　down　at　Kaufman's　back？　Even　now　bending；　knife　in　hand；　to　scoop　Kaufman　out　of　his　hiding　place；　like　a　snail　hooked　from　its　shell？
　　Nothing　happened。　He　felt　no　breath　on　his　neck。　His　spine　was　not　slit　open。
　　There　was　simply　a　clatter　of　feet　close　to　Kaufman's　head；　then　that　same　sound　receding。
　　Kaufman's　breath；　held　in　his　lungs　〃til　they　hurt；　was　expelled　in　a　rasp　between　his　teeth。
　　Mahogany　was　almost　disappointed　that　the　sleeping　man　had　alighted　at　West　4th　Street。　He　was　hoping　for　one　more　job　to　do　that　night；　to　keep　him　occupied　while　they　descended。　But　no：　the　man　had　gone。　The　potential　victim　hadn't　looked　that　healthy　anyway；　he　thought　to　himself；　he　was　an　anaemic　Jewish　accountant　probably。　The　meat　wouldn't　have　been　of　any　quality。　Mahogany　walked　the　length　of　the　car　to　the　driver's　cabin。　He'd　spend　the　rest　of　the　journey　there。
　　My　Christ；　thought　Kaufman；　he's　going　to　kill　the　driver。
　　He　heard　the　cabin　door　open。　Then　the　voice　of　the　Butcher：　low　and　hoarse。
　　〃Hi。〃
　　〃Hi。〃　They　knew　each　other。
　　〃All　done？〃
　　〃All　done。〃　Kaufman　was　shocked　by　the　banality　of　the　exchange。　All　done？　What　did　that　mean：　all　done？
　　He　missed　the　next　few　words　as　the　train　hit　a　particularly　noisy　section　of　track。
　　Kaufman　could　resist　looking　no　longer。　Warily　he　uncurled　himself　and　glanced　over　his　shoulder　down　the　length　of　the　car。　All　he　could　see　was　the　Butcher's　legs；　and　the　bottom　of　the　open　cabin　door。　Damn。　He　wanted　to　see　the　monster's　face　again。
　　There　was　laughter　now。
　　Kaufman　calculated　the　risks　of　his　situation：　the　mathematics　of　panic。　If　he　remained　where　he　was；　sooner　or　later　the　Butcher　would　glance　down　at　him；　and　he'd　be　mincemeat。　On　the　other　hand；　if　he　were　to　move　from　his　hiding　place　he　would　risk　being　seen　and　pursued。　Which　was　worse：　stasis；　and　meeting　his　death　trapped　in　a　hole；　or　making　a　break　for　it　and　confronting　his　Maker　in　the　middle　of　the　car？
　　Kaufman　surprised　himself　with　his　mettle：　he'd　move。
　　Infinitesimally　slowly　he　crawled　out　from　under　the　seat；　watching　the　Butcher's　back　every　minute　as　he　did　so。　Once　out；　he　began　to　crawl　towards　the　door。　Each　step　he　took　was　a　torment；　but　the　Butcher　seemed　far　too　engrossed　in　his　conversation　to　turn　round。
　　Kaufman　had　reached　the　door。　He　began　to　stand　up；　trying　all　the　while　to　prepare　himself　for　the　sight　he　would　meet　in　Car　Two。　The　handle　was　grasped；　and　he　slid　the　door　open。
　　The　noise　of　the　rails　increased；　and　a　wave　of　dank　air；　stinking　of　nothing　on　earth；　came　up　at　him。　Surely　the　Butcher　must　hear；　or　smell？