pzb.lostsouls-第31部分

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　you　really　are。〃
　　Ghost's　wide　blue　eyes　met　Steve's；　forgiving　but　unrelenting。　Ghost　would　not　soothe　Steve　this　time；　would　not　capitulate。　What　the　fuck　did　Ghost　know？　Ghost　hadn't　gone　through　Ann's　mind…games；　hadn't　been　betrayed　by　her。　But　here　he　stood；　oh　so　self…righteous。　It　would　be　easy　enough　to　slap　that　obstinate　look　off　Ghost's　face；　shake　the　visions　out　of　that　thin　body　。　。　。
　　What　was　he　thinking？　Hit　Ghost　？　What　the　hell　was　he　turning　into？　　〃Jesus；〃　he　whispered。　〃Jesus　Christ。〃
　　〃He's　not　here；〃　said　Ghost　sullenly。　〃You　gonna　put　me　down？〃
　　〃Shit；　no；〃　said　Steve。　He　pulled　Ghost　down　on　the　couch　with　him；　hugged　him　tight。　〃I'm　sorry。　I'm　so　sorry。　Don't　hate　me。〃
　　Ghost　didn't　say　anything；　but　his　hands　found　Steve's　face；　touched　Steve's　aching　temples　and　smoothed　back　his　messy　dark　hair。　Steve　let　his　head　droop　onto　Ghost's　shoulder。　Holding　any　other　guy　this　way　would　have　made　him　feel　like　a　fag；　with　Ghost　it　wasn't　an　issue；　it　never　seemed　to　matter。
　　After　a　few　minutes　he　tried　to　speak。　The　words　came　like　slow　drops　of　blood　from　a　ragged　wound。　〃I　。　。　。　I　tried　to　call　her　a　couple　of　times。　Hung　up　when　she　answered；　real　cool。　Then　I　got　Simon；　and　he　wouldn't　let　me　talk　to　her。　She　asked　him　to　screen　her　calls；　I　guess。　I　guess　I　fucked　up　pretty　good。〃
　　〃I　know；〃　said　Ghost。　〃I　know　how　things　were。〃
　　And　you　probably　do；　too；　Steve　thought。　You　probably　know　everything　that　ever　happened　to　us；　the　hot　nights　and　the　sodden…silk　texture　inside　her；　the　weeks　when　things　were　starting　to　go　bad；　the　ether　of　betrayal；　the　look　on　her　face；　and　the　moment　of　absolute　shock；　like　falling　into　deep　icy　water；　when　I　realized　I　had　really　for　chrissake　raped　her。
　　He　pulled　away　from　Ghost。　He　felt　his　face　contorting；　but　he　would　not　cry；　he　would　not　cry。
　　For　a　long　time　they　sat　in　panionable　silence。　Steve　felt　his　drunkenness　receding　to　a　fortable　buzz；　and　Ghost　opened　his　bottle　of　scuppernong　wine　to　catch　up。　They　were　booked　at　the　Sacred　Yew　the　following　night；　so　Steve　dragged　out　his　guitar　and　they　ran　haphazardly　through　their　set；　knowing　it　didn't　matter。　They　had　played　the　Yew　hundreds　of　times。　They　might　play　there　a　hundred　times　more；　and　their　little　group　of　fans　would　e　to　drink　and　dance；　and　nothing　would　matter　except　the　exuberance　of　playing。
　　〃Let's　listen　to　the　tape；〃　Steve　suggested。　He　thought　he　ought　to　remind　himself　what　the　songs　really　sounded　like。　Ghost　stumbled　to　the　stereo；　and　soon　Lost　Souls？　filled　the　little　house；　the　guitar　hard…edged　and　gloriously　mad；　Ghost's　words　bittersweet；　with　a　visionary　longing。　〃We　need　the　roots　but　you　can't　dig　up　the　tree　。　。　。〃　Ghost　sang　along　with　his　own　golden…gravel　voice。　〃So　walk　the　mountain　roads　with　me　and　drink　some　clear　water　。　。　。〃
　　Steve　sang　along　too；　strumming　the　guitar。　Those　were　the　words　of　a　visionary；　weren't　they？　Those　were　the　words　of　somebody　who　remembered　what　magic　was。　There　was　magic　left　in　the　world；　there　had　to　be。　Steve　banged　at　the　strings。　Beneath　the　noise　he　heard　a　fiery；　chiming　melody。
　　Ghost　lifted　his　head　and　sang　louder。　His　voice　soared　high　and　found　its　way　through　cracks　in　the　windows　and　walls；　out　into　the　sparkling　night；　down　to　the　road　that　led　past　the　house。
　　At　the　sound　of　that　voice；　an　old　passing　drifter　looked　up　and　remembered　a　train　track　he　had　hiked　along　down　to　Georgia　some　thirty　years　ago。　A　train　track　flanked　with　rioting　kudzu　and　towering　pines　and　the　bewitching　scent　of　honeysuckle；　a　train　track　that　made　a　two…bit　bottle　of　wine　taste　of　nectar　and　cool　shade。　The　drifter；　whose　name　was　Rudy；　lifted　his　face　to　the　chill　cloudy　sky。　A　mile　down　the　road　he　would　find　himself　in　the　arms　of　Christian；　whose　hunger　by　now　overshadowed　his　taste　for　thin　children　in　black。　But　the　last　few　minutes　of　Rudy's　life　were　spent　in　sweet　memory。
　　Back　in　the　house；　Steve　stopped　playing　and　smacked　his　forehead。　〃I　forgot。　Some　mail　came　for　you。　Our　first　fan　letter；　I　guess。〃　Steve　dug　through　the　clutter　on　the　floor　and　found　a　postcard；　creased　and　dog…eared；　its　colors　muted　with　the　grime　of　small…town　post　offices。
　　Ghost　read　it：　〃'You　don't　know　me；　but　Dylan　Thomas　drank　eighteen　straight　whiskeys　on　November　ninth；　1953；　and　I　am　drinking　one　for　you。〃　He　looked　up　at　Steve。　〃It's　signed　'Nothing。'〃
　　〃What's　it　about？〃
　　〃Who　knows？〃
　　〃Why　don't　you　hold　it　to　your　forehead　and　find　out？　Go　on；　tell　me　to　fuck　myself。〃
　　〃Suck　my　aura；〃　said　Ghost；　and　swigged　the　last　sweet　drops　of　his　wine。
　　
　　　Chapter　19
　　
　　〃WAKE　UP！〃　said　a　loud　voice　that　seemed　to　reverberate　from　the　center　of　Nothing's　brain。　〃WE'RE　HERE！〃
　　Nothing　opened　and　shut　his　eyes　several　times。　〃I　wasn't　asleep；〃　he　said。　〃How　could　I　sleep？〃
　　Zillah　had　placed　another　hit　of　Crucifix　on　his　tongue　sometime　between　midnight　and　dawn；　and　since　then　Nothing　had　not　known　where　he　was；　or　who　he　was　with；　or　why　he　had　ever　bothered　to　wonder。　He　roamed　the　corridors　of　his　mind；　hopelessly　lost；　unable　to　find　his　way　back　to　the　familiar　voices　he　could　hear　faintly；　faintly…arguing　and　laughing　outside　his　skull；　and　his　body　jittered　like　a　skeleton　on　a　string。
　　Yet　maybe　he　had　slept；　for　he　thought　he　had　dreamed　strange　dreams。　Dreamed　of　sucking　at　a　hot　torn　pulse；　splashing　in　blood　that　still　pumped　in　weak　spurts　from　the　vein　with　each　beat　of　the　dying　heart。　Dreamed　of　rubbing　his　gory　hands　over　Zillah's　face；　licking　blood　off　Zillah's　eyelashes；　drinking　it　from　Zillah's　lips　where　it　tasted　sweeter　yet。　He　had　dreamed　of　Molochai　and　Twig　wallowing　in　blood；　sudsing　it　into　each　other's　hair；　rolling　in　it　half…naked；　their　pallid　skin　streaked　sticky　red。　Why　was　there　so　much　blood？
　　Because　your　teeth　weren't　sharp　enough；　a　voice　in　his　mind　answered。　There　was　nothing　neat　about　it。　Don't　you　remember　how　you　had　to　tear　chunks　of　his　throat　away　before　you　could　lap　up　that　sweet　blood？　Don't　you　remember　Zillah's　face　buried　in　the　ruin　of　his　crotch　like　a　sadistic　lover？
　　Nothing　shied　away　from　that　voice。　But　he　could　not　forget　the　music　of　screams　that　died　away　to　a　tired　confused　whimper　of　pain；　then　to　silence。　He　had　dreamed　of　standing　in　front　of　a　culvert　somewhere；　a　dank　concrete　pipe　choked　with　weeds；　kudzu；　highway　trash。　It　was　dark；　souldark　in　this　hour　long　past　midnight　and　far　from　dawn；　but　Nothing　could　see。　He　could　see　clearly　in　the　dark：　the　acid；　or　some　new　vision　refining　itself？　Slung　over　his　shoulder　he　held　a　limp　little　bundle；　a　bundle　of　stained　rags　and　skin　gone　paler　than　before。
　　〃Put　it　in　there；〃　Zillah　had　said；　and　Nothing　stuffed　the　bundle　deep　into　the　culvert。　Looking　back；　he　caught　a　last　glimpse　of　feathery　white…blond　hair　straggling　from　a　blue　bandanna。　Wet　threads　of　scarlet　ran　through　that　hair　。　。　。　and　for　a　moment　Nothing　stopped；　struck　by　the　enormity　of　what　had　happened。　Of　what　you　did；　his　mind　amended。　The　blood　would　never　get　washed　out　of　that　hair；　except　by　rainwater　and　runoff　from　the　highway。　No　one　was　going　to　shampoo　that　hair　or　give　it　a　fresh　blond　dye　job　ever　again。　Perhaps　for　a　while　it　would　keep　growing；　dark　roots　pushing　slowly　up　through　the　cold　waxy　scalp。　Then　it　would　loosen　and　separate　and　scatter；　washed　away　strand　by　strand；　stolen　even　as　Laine's　bones　would　soon　be。
　　But　he　had　dreamed；　surely　he　had　dreamed。　He　must　have　dreamed。　〃Oh　God；〃　he　said；　and　shuddered。
　　〃Who？〃　Molochai；　hovering　over　him；　looked　honestly　puzzled：　Do　you　remember　how　we　slaughtered　your　friend　and　half…tore　him　apart；　or　are　you　just　hung　over？　Molochai's　eyes　glittered　through　enormous　smudges　of　black　eyeliner。　Nothing　smelled　something　sweet　on　Molochai's　breath；　some　buried　childhood　odor。　Twinkies。
　　〃What's　wrong；　kiddo？〃　Twig　asked　from　the　front　seat。　
　　Nothing　didn't　answer。　Instead　he　sat　up；　put　his　arms　around　Molochai's　neck；　and　buried　his　face　in　the　dirty　black　cloth　of　Molochai's　jacket；　cloth　that　smelled　of　sweat　and　sweets；　of　sex　and　。　。　。　blood。　Laine's　blood。　Nothing　knew　it　was　probably　on　his　own　clothes　too；　on　his　skin　and　greased　into　his　hair。　Because　he　had　not　dreamed。　Last　night　had　really　happened。　He　had　killed　Laine；　killed　him　with　bare　teeth　and　hands　and　only　a　little　help　from　his　friends。
　　They　really　are　vampires；　he　thought。　You　be　consigned　yourself　to　a　life　of　blood　and　murder；　you　can　never　rejoin　the　daytime　world。　And　he　answered　himself：　Fine。　As　long　as　I　don't　have　to　be　alone　again。
　　〃We're　here；〃　Molochai　said；　dropping　Nothing　back　onto　the　mattress。　〃This　is　it；　right；　Twig？〃
　　〃Yup；〃　said　Twig。　〃Fourteen　Burnt　Church　Road；　Missing　Mile；　Enn　Cee。　Curb　service；　kiddo。〃
　　The　roof　of　the　van　billowed　and　rippled。　With　an　effort；　Nothing　focused　his　eyes。　The　streaky　faces　of　Molochai　and　Twig　hung　over　him；　haggard　and　grinning；　waiting　to　see　what　he　would　do。
　　Where　was　Zillah？　Asleep　on　the　mattress　nearby；　his　warmth　close　enough　to　touch；　his　head　pillowed　on　a　fold　of　Nothing's　raincoat。　Wisps　of　his　dry　Mardi　Gras　hair　trailed　away　over　the　black　silk。
　　〃We　could　e　with　you；〃　Molochai　offered　generously。　〃We　like　musicians。〃
　　〃We　like　you；〃　Twig　said；　the　sharp　tip　of　his　tongue　flickering　over　his　lips。　〃It's　not　often　we　meet　a　drinking　man　such　as　yourself。〃
　　Nothing　struggled　to　his　knees；　cupped　his　hands　to　the　window。　He　saw　a　small　wooden　house　nestled　among　trees　far　off　at　the　end　of　a　gravel　driveway。　Was　Ghost　in　that　house　right　now；　awake　or　dreaming？　His　vision　seemed　to　shift　again；　and　he　realized　that　even　the　watery　light　of　the　early　afternoon　hurt　his　eyes。　His　pupils　felt　distended。
　　Molochai　turned　on　the　tape　player。　As　Bauhaus　began　blasting　a　live　cut　of　〃Stigmata　Martyr；〃　Zillah　came　slowly　and　luxuriously　awake。　He　opened　first　one　brilliant　eye；　then　the　other；　ran　his　hands　through　his　silky　hair；　yawned　and　stretched　his　catlike　body。　When　his　eyes　lit　upon　Nothing's；　he　sat　up　and　took　Nothing　into　his　arms　and　kissed　him。
　　Zillah's　mouth　was　as　sour　and　sweet　as　wine；　and　his