cb.booksofblood-第7部分

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　　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？　Surely　he　must　turn…But　no。　Kaufman　skinned　his　way　through　the　slit　he　had　opened　and　so　through　into　the　bloody　chamber　beyond。
　　Relief　made　him　careless。　He　failed　to　latch　the　door　properly　behind　him　and　it　began　to　slide　open　with　the　buffeting　of　the　train。
　　Mahogany　put　his　head　out　of　the　cabin　and　stared　down　the　car　towards　the　door。
　　〃What　the　fuck's　that？〃　said　the　driver。
　　〃Didn't　close　the　door　properly。　That's　all。〃　Kaufman　heard　the　Butcher　walking　towards　the　door。　He　crouched；　a　ball　of　consternation；　against　the　intersecting　wall；　suddenly　aware　of　how　full　his　bowels　were。　The　door　was　pulled　closed　from　the　other　side；　and　the　footsteps　receded　again。
　　Safe；　for　another　breath　at　least。
　　Kaufman　opened　his　eyes；　steeling　himself　for　the　slaughter…pen　in　front　of　him。
　　There　was　no　avoiding　it。
　　It　filled　every　one　of　his　senses：　the　smell　of　opened　entrails；　the　sight　of　the　bodies；　the　feel　of　fluid　on　the　floor　under　his　fingers；　the　sound　of　the　straps　creaking　beneath　the　weight　of　the　corpses；　even　the　air；　tasting　salty　with　blood。　He　was　with　death　absolutely　in　that　cubby…hole；　hurtling　through　the　dark。
　　But　there　was　no　nausea　now。　There　was　no　feeling　left　but　a　casual　revulsion。　He　even　found　himself　peering　at　the　bodies　with　some　curiosity。
　　The　carcass　closest　to　him　was　the　remains　of　the　pimply　youth　he'd　seen　in　Car　One。　The　body　hung　upside…down；　swinging　back　and　forth　to　the　rhythm　of　the　train；　in　unison　with　its　three　fellows；　an　obscene　dance　macabre。
　　Its　arms　dangled　loosely　from　the　shoulder　joints；　into　which　gashes　an　inch　or　two　deep　had　been　made；　so　the　bodies　would　hang　more　neatly。
　　Every　part　of　the　dead　kid's　anatomy　was　swaying　hypnotically。　The　tongue；　hanging　from　the　open　mouth。　The　head；　lolling　on　its　slit　neck。　Even　the　youth's　penis　flapped　from　side　to　side　on　his　plucked　groin。　The　head　wound　and　the　open　jugular　still　pulsed　blood　into　a　black　bucket。　There　was　an　elegance　about　the　whole　sight：　the　sign　of　a　job　well…done。
　　Beyond　that　body　were　the　strung…up　corpses　of　two　young　white　women　and　a　darker　skinned　male。　Kaufman　turned　his　head　on　one　side　to　look　at　their　faces。　They　were　quite　blank。　One　of　the　girls　was　a　beauty。　He　decided　the　male　had　been　Puerto　Rican。　All　were　shorn　of　their　head　and　body　hair。　In　fact　the　air　was　still　pungent　with　the　smell　of　the　shearing。　Kaufman　slid　up　the　wall　out　of　the　crouching　position；　and　as　he　did　so　one　of　the　women's　bodies　turned　around；　presenting　a　dorsal　view。
　　He　was　not　prepared　for　this　last　horror。
　　The　meat　of　her　back　had　been　entirely　cleft　open　from　neck　to　buttock　and　the　muscle　had　been　peeled　back　to　expose　the　glistening　vertebrae。　It　was　the　final　triumph　of　the　Butcher's　craft。　Here　they　hung；　these　shaved；　bled；　slit　slabs　of　humanity；　opened　up　like　fish；　and　ripe　for　devouring。
　　Kaufman　almost　smiled　at　the　perfection　of　its　horror。　He　felt　an　offer　of　insanity　tickling　the　base　of　his　skull；　tempting　him　into　oblivion；　promising　a　blank　indifference　to　the　world。
　　He　began　to　shake；　uncontrollably。　He　felt　his　vocal　cords　trying　to　form　a　scream。　It　was　intolerable：　and　yet　to　scream　was　to　bee　in　a　short　while　like　the　creatures　in　front　of　him。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said；　more　loudly　than　he'd　intended；　then　pushing　himself　off　from　the　wall　he　began　to　walk　down　the　car　between　the　swaying　corpses；　observing　the　neat　piles　of　clothes　and　belongings　that　sat　on　the　seats　beside　their　owners。　Under　his　feet　the　floor　was　sticky　with　drying　bile。　Even　with　his　eyes　closed　to　cracks　he　could　see　the　blood　in　the　buckets　too　clearly：　it　was　thick　and　heady；　flecks　of　grit　turning　in　it。
　　He　was　past　the　youth　now　and　he　could　see　the　door　into　Car　Three　ahead。　All　he　had　to　do　was　run　this　gauntlet　of　atrocities。　He　urged　himself　on；　trying　to　ignore　the　horrors；　and　concentrate　on　the　door　that　would　lead　him　back　into　sanity。
　　He　was　past　the　first　woman。　A　few　more　yards；　he　said　to　himself；　ten　steps　at　most；　less　if　he　walked　with　confidence。
　　Then　the　lights　went　out。
　　〃Jesus　Christ；〃　he　said。
　　The　train　lurched；　and　Kaufman　lost　his　balance。
　　In　the　utter　blackness　he　reached　out　for　support　and　his　flailing　arms　enpassed　the　body　beside　him。　Before　he　could　prevent　himself　he　felt　his　hands　sinking　into　the　lukewarm　flesh；　and　his　fingers　grasping　the　open　edge　of　muscle　on　the　dead　woman's　back；　his　fingertips　touching　the　bone　of　her　spine。　His　cheek　was　laid　against　the　bald　flesh　of　the　thigh。
　　He　screamed；　and　even　as　he　screamed；　the　lights　flickered　back　on。
　　And　as　they　flickered　back　on；　and　his　scream　died；　he　heard　the　noise　of　the　Butcher's　feet　approaching　down　the　length　of　Car　One　towards　the　intervening　door。
　　He　let　go　of　the　body　he　was　embracing。　His　face　was　smeared　with　blood　from　her　leg。　He　could　feel　it　on　his　cheek；　like　war　paint。
　　The　scream　had　cleared　Kaufman's　head　and　he　suddenly　felt　released　into　a　kind　of　strength。　There　would　be　no　pursuit　down　the　train；　he　knew　that：　there　would　be　no　cowardice；　not　now。　This　was　going　to　be　a　primitive　confrontation；　two　human　beings；　face　to　face。　And　there　would　be　no　trick…none…that　he　couldn't　contemplate　using　to　bring　his　enemy　down。　This　was　a　matter　of　survival；　pure　and　simple。
　　The　door…handle　rattled。
　　Kaufman　looked　around　for　a　weapon；　his　eye　steady　and　calculating。　His　gaze　fell　on　the　pile　of　clothes　beside　the　Puerto　Rican's　body。　There　was　a　knife　there；　lying　amongst　the　rhinestone　rings　and　the　imitation　gold　chains。　A　long…bladed；　immaculately　clean　weapon；　probably　the　man's　pride　and　joy。　Reaching　past　the　well…muscled　body；　Kaufman　plucked　the　knife　from　the　heap。　It　felt　good　in　his　hand；　in　fact　it　felt　positively　thrilling。
　　The　door　was　opening；　and　the　face　of　the　slaughterer　came　into　view。
　　Kaufman　looked　down　the　abattoir　at　Mahogany。　He　was　not　terribly　fearsome；　just　another　balding；　overweight　man　of　fifty。　His　face　was　heavy　and　his　eyes　deep…set。　His　mouth　was　rather　small　and　delicately　lipped。　In　fact　he　had　a　woman's　mouth。
　　Mahogany　could　not　understand　where　this　intruder　had　appeared　from；　but　he　was　aware　that　it　was　another　oversight；　another　sign　of　increasing　inpetence。　He　must　dispatch　this　ragged　creature　immediately。　After　all　they　could　not　be　more　than　a　mile　or　two　from　the　end　of　the　line。　He　must　cut　the　little　man　down　and　have　him　hanging　up　by　his　heels　before　they　reached　their　destination。
　　He　moved　into　Car　Two。
　　〃You　were　asleep；〃　he　said；　recognizing　Kaufman。　〃I　saw　you。
　　Kaufman　said　nothing。
　　〃You　should　have　left　the　train。　What　were　you　trying　to　do？　Hide　from　me？〃　Kaufman　still　kept　his　silence。
　　Mahogany　grasped　the　hand　of　the　cleaver　hanging　from　his　well…used　leather　belt。　It　was　dirty　with　blood；　as　was　his　chain…mail　apron；　his　hammer　and　his　saw。
　　〃As　it　is；〃　he　said；　〃I'll　have　to　do　away　with　you。〃　Kaufman　raised　the　knife。　It　looked　a　little　small　beside　the　Butcher's　paraphernalia。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said。
　　Mahogany　grinned　at　the　little　man's　pretensions　to　defence。
　　〃You　shouldn't　have　seen　this：　it's　not　for　the　likes　of　you；〃　he　said；　taking　another　step　towards　Kaufman。　〃It's　secret。〃　Oh；　so　he's　the　divinely…inspired　type　is　he？　thought　Kaufman。　That　explains　something。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said　again。
　　The　Butcher　frowned。　He　didn't　like　the　little　man's　indifference　to　his　work；　to　his　reputation。
　　〃We　all　have　to　die　some　time；〃　he　said。　〃You　should　be　well　pleased：　you're　not　going　to　be　burnt　up　like　most　of　them：　I　can　use　you。　To　feed　the　fathers。〃　Kaufman's　only　response　was　a　grin。　He　was　past　being　terrorized　by　this　gross；　shambling　hulk。
　　The　Butcher　unhooked　the　cleaver　from　his　belt　and　brandished　it。
　　〃A　dirty　little　Jew　like　you；〃　he　said；　〃should　be　thankful　to　be　useful　at　all：　meat's　the　best　you　can　aspire　to。〃　Without　warning；　the　Butcher　swung。　The　cleaver　divided　the　air　at　some　speed；　but　Kaufman　stepped　back。　The　cleaver　sliced　his　coat…arm　and　buried　itself　in　the　Puerto　Rican's　shank。　The　impact　half…severed　the　leg　and　the　weight　of　the　body　opened　the　gash　even　further。　The　exposed　meat　of　the　thigh　was　like　prime　steak；　succulent　and　appetizing。
　　The　Butcher　started　to　drag　the　cleaver　out　of　the　wound；　and　in　that　moment　Kaufman　sprang。　The　knife　sped　towards　Mahogany's　eye；　but　an　error　of　judgement　buried　it　instead　in　his　neck。　It　transfixed　the　column　and　appeared　in　a　little　gout　of　gore　on　the　other　side。　Straight　through。　In　one　stroke。　Straight　through。
　　Mahogany　felt　the　blade　in　his　neck　as　a　choking　sensation；　almost　as　though　he　had　caught　a　chicken　bone　in　his　throat。　He　made　a　ridiculous；　half…hearted　coughing　sound。　Blood　issued　from　his　lips；　painting　them；　like　lipstick　on　his　woman's　mouth。　The　cleaver　clattered　to　the　floor。
　　Kaufman　pulled　out　the　knife。　The　two　wounds　spouted　little　arcs　of　blood。
　　Mahogany　collapsed　to　his　knees；　staring　at　the　knife　that　had　killed　him。　The　little　man　was　watching　him　quite　passively。　He　was　saying　something；　but　Mahogany's　ears　were　deaf　to　the　remarks；　as　though　he　was　under　water。
　　Mahogany　suddenly　went　blind。　He　knew　with　a　nostalgia　for　his　senses　that　he　would　not　see　or　hear　again。　This　was　death：　it　was　on　him　for　certain。
　　His　hands　still　felt　the　weave　of　his　trousers；　however；　and　the　hot　splashes　on　his　skin。　His　life　seemed　to　totter　on　its　tiptoes　while　his　fingers　grasped　at　one　last　sense。
　　Then　his　body　collapsed；　and　his　hands；　and　his　life；　and　his　sacred　duty　folded　up　under　a　weight　of　grey　flesh。
　　The　Butcher　was　dead。
　　Kaufman　dragged　gulps　of　stale　air　into　his　lungs　and　grabbed　one　of　the　straps　to　steady　his　reeling　body。　Tears　blotted　out　the　shambles　he　stood　in。　A　time　passed：　he　didn't　know　how　long；　he　was　lost　in　a　dream　of　victory。
　　Then　the　train　began　to　slow。　He　felt　and　heard　the　brakes　being　applied。　The　hanging　bodies　lurched　forward　as　the　careering　train　slowe