cb.damnationgame-第78部分

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　　〃Yes？〃　the　blond　boy　replied。　He　was　still　leaning　on　the　wall　beside　the　door；　posed　there　like　an　indolent　hero；　he　had　found　Whitehead's　cache　of　cigars；　pocketing　several　and　lighting　one。　He　blew　a　cloud　of　dusty　blue　smoke；　and　watched　the　gladiators　through　a　blur　of　drink。　〃What　do　you　want？〃　〃Find　the　pilgrim's　gun。〃　〃Why？〃　〃For　our　visitor。〃　〃Kill　him　yourself；〃　Chad　replied　nonchalantly；　〃you　can　do　it。〃　Mamoulian's　mind　revolted　at　the　thought　of　laying　his　flesh　on　such　decay；　better　a　bullet。　At　close　range　it　would　lay　the　Razor…Eater　to　waste。　Without　a　head　even　the　dead　couldn't　walk。
　　〃Fetch　the　gun！〃　he　demanded。
　　〃No；〃　Chad　replied。　The　Reverend　had　said　plain　speaking　was　best。
　　〃This　is　no　time　for　games；〃　Mamoulian　said；　taking　his　attention　off　Breer　for　a　moment　to　glance　across　at　Chad。　It　was　an　error。　The　dead　man　swung　the　machete　again；　and　this　time　the　blow　found　Mamoulian's　shoulder；　lodging　in　the　muscle　close　to　his　neck。　The　European　made　no　sound　but　a　grunt　as　the　blow　fell；　and　a　second　as　Breer　pulled　the　blade　out　of　its　niche。
　　〃Stop；〃　he　told　his　assailant。
　　Breer　shook　his　head。　This　was　what　he　had　e　for；　wasn't　it？　This　was　the　prelude　to　an　act　he'd　waited　so　long　to　perform。
　　Mamoulian　put　his　hand　up　to　the　wound　at　his　shoulder。　Bullets　he　could　take　and　survive；　but　a　more　traumatic　attack；　one　that　promised　the　integrity　of　his　flesh…that　was　dangerous。　He　had　to　finish　Breer　off；　and　if　the　Saint　wouldn't　fetch　the　gun　then　he'd　have　to　kill　the　Razor…Eater　with　his　bare　hands。
　　Breer　seemed　to　sense　his　intention。　〃You　can't　hurt　me；〃　he　tried　to　say；　the　words　ing　out　in　a　jumble。　〃I'm　dead。〃　Mamoulian　shook　his　head。　〃Limb　from　limb；〃　he　murmured。　〃If　I　must。　Limb　from　limb。〃　Chad　grinned；　hearing　the　European's　promise。　Sweet　Jesus；　he　thought；　this　was　the　way　the　world　would　end。　A　warren　of　rooms；　cars　on　the　freeway　winding　their　last　way　home；　the　dead　and　almost　dead　exchanging　blows　by　candlelight。　The　Reverend　had　been　wrong。　The　Deluge　wasn't　a　wave；　was　it？　It　was　blind　men　with　axes；　it　was　the　great　on　their　knees　begging　not　to　die　at　the　hands　of　idiots；　it　was　the　itch　of　the　irrational　grown　to　an　epidemic。　He　watched；　and　thought　of　how　he　would　describe　this　scene　to　the　Reverend；　and　for　the　first　time　in　his　nineteen　years　his　pretty　head　felt　a　spasm　of　pure　joy。
　　
　　Marty　hadn't　realized　how　pleasurable　the　experience　of　travel　had　been　a　passenger　of　pure　thought…until　he　plunged　into　Mamoulian's　body。　He　felt　like　a　skinned　man　immersed　in　boiling　oil。　He　thrashed；　his　essence　screeching　for　an　end　to　this　Hell　of　another　man's　physicality。　But　Carys　was　here。　He　had　to　keep　that　thought　uppermost；　a　touchstone。
　　In　this　maelstrom　his　feelings　for　her　had　the　purity　of　mathematics。　Its　equations…plex；　but　elegant　in　their　proofs…offered　a　nicety　that　was　like　truth。　He　had　to　hold　on　to　this　recognition。　If　he　once　relinquished　it　he　was　lost。
　　Though　without　senses；　he　felt　this　new　state　struggling　to　impinge　a　vision　of　itself　upon　him。　At　the　corners　of　his　blind　eyes　lights　flared　perspective　opened　up　and　closed　again　in　an　instant…suns　threatened　to　ignite　overhead　and　were　snuffed　out　before　they　could　shed　warmth　or　illumination。　Some　irritation　possessed　him：　an　itch　of　lunacy。　Scratch　me；　it　said；　and　you　needn't　sweat　anymore。　He　countered　the　seduction　with　thoughts　of　Carys。
　　Gone；　the　itch　said；　deeper　than　you'd　dare　to　go。　So　much　deeper。
　　What　it　claimed　was　perhaps　true。　He'd　swallowed　her　whole；　taken　her　down　to　wherever　he　kept　his　favorite　things。　To　the　place　where　the　zero　he'd　tampered　with　at　Caliban　Street　was　sourced。　Face…to…face　with　such　a　vacuum　he　would　shrivel：　there　would　be　no　reprieve　this　time。　Such　a　place；　the　itch　salad；　such　a　terrible　place。　You　want　to　see？
　　No。
　　e　on；　look！　Look　and　tremble！　Look　and　cease！　You　wanted　to　know　what　he　was；　well　you're　about　to　get　a　worm's…eye　view。
　　I'm　not　listening；　Marty　thought。　He　pressed　on；　and　though…like　Caliban　Street…there　was　no　up　or　down；　no　forward　or　back　in　this　place；　he　had　a　sense　of　descent。。　Was　it　just　the　metaphors　he　carried　with　him；　that　he　pictured　Hell　as　a　pit？　Or　was　he　crawling　through　the　European's　innards　to　the　bowel　where　Carys　was　hidden？
　　Of　course　you'll　never　get　out；　the　itch　said　with　a　smile。　Not　once　you　get　down　there。　There's　no　way　back。　He'll　never　shit　you　out。　You'll　stay　locked　up　in　there；　once　and　for　all。
　　Carys　got　out；　he　reasoned。
　　She　was　in　his　head；　the　itch　reminded　him。　She　was　flipping　through　his　library。　You're　buried　in　the　dung…heap；　and　deep；　oh；　yes；　my　man；　so　deep。
　　No！
　　For　certain。
　　No！
　　
　　Mamoulian　shook　his　head。　It　was　full　of　strange　aches；　voices　too。　Or　was　that　just　the　past　chattering　to　him？　Yes；　the　past。　It　had　buzzed　and　gossiped　in　his　ear　more　loudly　in　these　recent　weeks　than　ever　in　the　preceding　decades。　Whenever　his　mind　had　idled；　the　gravity　of　history　had　claimed　it；　and　he　had　been　back　in　the　monastery　yard　with　the　snow　falling　and　the　drummer…boy　at　his　right…hand　side　quaking；　and　the　parasites　leaving　the　bodies　as　they　cooled。　Two　hundred　years　of　life　had　sprung　from　that　conspiracy　of　moments。　Had　the　shot　that　killed　the　executioner　been　delayed　by　mere　seconds　the　sword　would　have　fallen；　his　head　would　have　rolled；　and　the　centuries　he'd　lived　would　not　have　contained　him；　nor　he　they。
　　And　why　did　this　cycle　of　thoughts　return　now；　as　he　looked　at　Anthony　across　the　room？　They　were　a　thousand　miles　and　seventeen　decades　from　that　event。　I'm　not　in　danger；　he　chided　himself；　so　why　quake？　Breer　was　teetering　on　the　edge　of　total　collapse；　dispatching　him　was　a　simple；　if　distasteful；　task。
　　He　moved　suddenly；　his　good　hand　snatching　at　Breer's　throat　before　the　other　had　a　chance　to　retaliate。　The　European's　slender　fingers　dug　through　the　mush　and　closed　around　Breer's　esophagus。　Then　he　pulled；　hard。　A　goodly　portion　of　Breer's　neck　came　away　in　a　splutter　of　grease　and　fluids。　There　was　a　sound　like　escaping　steam。
　　Chad　applauded；　cigar　in　mouth。　In　the　corner　where　he'd　collapsed　Tom　had　stopped　whimpering　and　was　also　watching　the　mutilation。　One　man　fighting　for　his　life；　the　other　for　his　death。　Hallelujah！　Saints　and　sinners　all　together。
　　Mamoulian　flung　the　fistful　of　muck　away。　Despite　his　formidable　injury；　the　Razor…Eater　was　still　standing。
　　〃Must　I　tear　you　apart？〃　Mamoulian　said。　Even　as　he　spoke；　something　scrabbled　inside　him。　Was　the　girl　still　fighting　her　confinement？
　　〃Who's　there？〃　he　asked　softly。
　　
　　Carys　answered。　Not　to　Mamoulian；　but　to　Marty。　Here；　she　said。　He　heard　her。　No；　not　heard：　felt。　She　summoned　him；　and　he　followed。
　　The　itch　in　Marty　was　in　seventh　heaven。　Too　late　to　help　her；　it　said：　too　late　for　anything　now。
　　But　she　was　close　by；　he　knew　it；　her　presence　choking　back　his　panic。　I'm　with　you；　she　said。　Two　of　us　now。
　　The　itch　was　unimpressed。　It　smirked　at　the　thought　of　escape。　You're　sealed　up　forever；　it　said；　better　concede　it。　If　she　can't　get　out；　why　should　you　be　able　to？
　　Two；　Carys　said。　Two　of　us　now。　For　the　frailest　of　moments　he　caught　the　intention　in　her　words。　They　were　together；　and　together　they　were　more　than　a　sum　of　their　parts。　He　thought　of　their　locking　anatomies…the　physical　act　that　was　metaphor　for　this　other　unity。　He'd　never　understood　until　now。　His　mind　jubilated。　She　was　with　him：　he　with　her。　They　were　one　indivisible　thought；　imagining　each　other。
　　Go！
　　And　Hell　divided；　it　had　no　choice。　The　province　fragmented　as　they　delivered　themselves　out　of　the　European's　grasp。　They　experienced　a　few　exquisite　moments　as　one　mind；　and　then　gravity…or　whatever　law　pertained　in　this　state…demanded　its　lot。　Division　came…a　rude　expulsion　from　this　momentary　Eden…and　they　were　plumeting　now　toward　their　own　bodies；　the　conjunction　over。
　　Mamoulian　felt　their　escape　as　a　wounding　more　traumatic　than　any　Breer　had　so　far　delivered。　He　put　his　finger　up　to　his　mouth；　a　look　of　pitiful　loss　on　his　face。　Tears　came　freely；　diluting　the　blood　on　his　face。　Breer　seemed　to　sense　a　cue　in　this：　his　moment　had　e。　An　image　had　spontaneously　appeared　in　his　liquefying　brain…like　one　of　the　grainy　photographs　in　his　book　of　atrocities…except　that　this　image　moved。　Snow　fell；　the　flames　of　a　brazier　danced。
　　The　machete　in　his　hand　felt　heavier　by　the　second：　more　like　a　sword。　He　raised　it；　its　shadow　fell　across　the　European's　face。
　　Mamoulian　looked　at　Breer's　ruined　features　and　recognized　them；　saw　how　it　had　all　e　to　this　moment。　Bowed　under　a　weight　of　years；　he　fell　to　his　knees。
　　As　he　was　doing　so；　Carys　opened　her　eyes。　There　had　been　a　vile；　grinding　return；　more　terrible　for　Marty　than　for　herself；　who　was　used　to　the　sensation。　But　it　was　never　entirely　pleasant　to　feel　muscle　and　fat　congeal　around　the　spirit。
　　Marty's　eyes　had　opened　too；　and　he　was　looking　down　at　the　body　he　occupied。　It　was　heavy；　and　stale。　So　much　of　it…the　layers　of　skin；　the　hair；　the　nails…was　dead　matter。　Its　very　substance　revolted　him。　Being　in　this　state　was　a　parody　of　the　freedom　he'd　just　tasted。　He　started　up　from　his　slumped　position　with　a　small　cry　of　disgust；　as　if　he'd　woken　to　find　his　body　crawling　with　insects。
　　He　looked　across　to　Carys　for　reassurance；　but　her　attention　had　been　claimed　by　a　sight　concealed　from　Marty　by　the　partially　closed　door。
　　She　was　watching　a　spectacle　she　knew　from　somewhere。　But　the　point　of　view　was　different；　and　it　took　awhile　for　her　to　place　the　scene：　the　man　on　his　knees；　his　neck　exposed；　his　arms　spread　a　little　from　his　body；　fingers　splayed　in　the　universal　gesture　of　submission；　the　executioner；　face〃　blurred；　raising　the　blade　to　decapitate　his　willing　victim；　somebody　laughing　somewhere　nearby。
　　The　last　time　she'd　seen　this　tableau　she'd　been　behind　Mamoulian's　eyes；　a　soldier　in　a　snow…spattered　yard；　awaiting　the　blow　that　would　cancel　his　young　life。　A　blow　that　had　never　e；　or　rather　had　been　deferred　until　now。　Had　the　executioner　waited　so　long；　living　in　one　body　only　to　discard　it　fo