sk.dreamcatcher-第106部分

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　　　　Henry　gave　Owen　Underhill　a　frightened　look。　They　were　approaching　Kennebunkport　now；　no　more　than　twenty　miles　from　the　New　Hampshire　border；　a　hundred　and　ten　from　the　Quabbin　Reservoir。　Jonesy　had　a　picture　of　the　Quabbin　on　the　wall　of　his　office；　Henry　had　seen　it。　And　a　cottage　nearby；　in　Ware。
　　　　Duddits　cried　out：　a　single　word　repeated　three　times　between　bursts　of　coughing。　The　sprays　of　blood　weren't　heavy；　not　yet；　the　stuff　was　ing　from　his　mouth　and　throat；　but　if　his　lungs　began　to　rupture…
　　　　'Wake　him　up！　He　says　he's　aching！　Can't　you　hear　him…'
　　　　'He's　not　saying　aykin。'
　　　　'What；　then？　What？'
　　　　'He's　saying　bacon。'


17

The　entity　which　now　thought　of　itself　as　Mr　Gray　…　who　thought　of　himself　as　Mr　Gray　…　had　a　serious　problem；　but　at　least　it　（he）　knew　it。
　　　　Forewarned　is　forearmed　was　how　Jonesy　put　it。　There　were　hundreds　of　such　sayings　in　Jonesy's　storage　cartons；　perhaps　thousands。　Some　of　them　Mr　Gray　found　utterly　inprehensible　…　A　nod's　as　good　as　a　wink　to　a　blind　horse　was　one　such；　What　goes　around　es　around　was　another　…　but　forewarned　is　forearmed　was　a　good　one。
　　　　His　problem　could　be　best　summed　up　with　how　he　felt　about　Jonesy　。　。　。　and　of　course　that　he　felt　at　all　was　bad　enough。　He　could　think　Now　Jonesy　is　cut　off　and　I　have　solved　my　problem；　I　have　quarantined　him　just　as　their　military　tried　to　quarantine　us。　I　am　being　followed　…　chased；　intact　…　but　barring　engine　trouble　or　a　flat　tire；　neither　group　of　followers　has　much　chance　of　catching　me。　I　have　too　great　a　lead。
　　　　These　things　were　facts　…　truth　…　but　they　had　no　savor。　What　had　savor　was　the　idea　of　going　to　the　door　behind　which　his　reluctant　host　was　imprisoned　and　yelling：　'I　fixed　you；　didn't　I？　I　fixed　your　little　red　wagon；　didn't　I？'　What　a　wagon；　red　or　otherwise；　had　to　do　with　any　of　this　Mr　Gray　didn't　know；　but　it　was　an　emotional　bullet　of　fairly　high　caliber　from　Jonesy's　armory　…　it　had　a　deep　and　satisfying　childhood　resonance。　And　then　he　would　stick　Jonesy's　tongue　（my　tongue　now；　Mr　Gray　thought　with　undeniable　satisfaction）　between　Jonesy's　lips　and　'give　him　the　old　raspberry'。
　　　　As　for　the　followers；　he　wanted　to　drop　Jonesy's　pants　and　show　them　Jonesy's　buttocks。　This　was　as　senseless　as　What　goes　around　es　around；　as　senseless　as　little　red　wagon；　but　he　wanted　to　do　it。　It　was　called　'mooning　the　assholes'　and　he　wanted　to　do　it。
　　　　He　was；　Mr　Gray　realized；　infected　with　this　world's　byrus。　It　began　with　emotion；　progressed　to　sensory　awareness　（the　taste　of　food；　the　undeniable　savage　pleasure　of　making　the　State　Trooper　beat　his　head　in　against　the　tiled　bathroom　wall　…　the　hollow　thud…thud　of　it）；　and　then　progressed　to　what　Jonesy　called　higher　thinking。　This　was　a　joke；　in　Mr　Gray's　view；　not　much　different　from　calling　shit　reprocessed　food　or　genocide　ethnic　cleansing。　And　yet　thinking　had　its　attractions　for　a　being　which　had　always　existed　as　part　of　a　vegetative　mind；　a　sort　of　highly　intelligent　not…consciousness。
　　　　Before　Mr　Gray　had　shut　him　up；　Jonesy　had　suggested　that　he　give　over　his　mission　and　simply　enjoy　being　human。　Now　he　discovered　that　desire　in　himself　as　his　previously　harmonious　mind；　his　not…conscious　mind；　began　to　fragment；　to　turn　into　a　crowd　of　opposing　voices；　some　wanting　A；　some　wanting　B；　some　wanting　Q　squared　and　divided　by　Z。　He　would　have　thought　such　babble　would　be　horrible；　the　stuff　of　madness。　Instead　he　found　himself　enjoying　the　wrangle。
　　　　There　was　bacon。　There　was　'sex　with　Carla'；　which　Jonesy's　mind　identified　as　a　superlatively　enjoyable　act；　involving　both　sensory　and　emotional　input。　There　was　fast　driving　and　bumper　pool　in　O'Leary's　Bar　near　Fenway　Park　and　beer　and　live　bands　that　played　loud　and　Patty　Loveless　singing　'Blame　it　on　your　lyin　cheatin　cold　deadbeatin　two…timin　double…dealin　mean　mistreatin　lovin　heart'　（whatever　that　meant）。　There　was　the　look　of　the　land　rising　from　the　fog　on　a　summer　morning。　And　murder；　of　course。　There　was　that。
　　　　His　problem　was　that　if　he　didn't　finish　this　business　quickly；　he　might　never　finish　it　at　all。　He　was　no　longer　byrum　but　Mr　Gray。　How　long　before　he　left　Mr　Gray　behind　and　became　Jonesy？
　　　　It's　not　going　to　happen；　he　thought。　He　pressed　the　accelerator　down；　and　although　it　didn't　have　much；　the　Subaru　gave　him　a　little　more。　In　the　back　seat　the　dog　yipped　。　。　。　then　howled　in　pain。　Mr　Gray　sent　out　his　mind　and　touched　the　byrum　growing　inside　the　dog。　It　was　growing　fast。　Almost　too　fast。　And　here　was　something　else　…　there　was　no　pleasure　in　meeting　its　mind；　none　of　the　warmth　that　es　when　like　encounters　like。　The　mind　of　the　byrum　felt　cold　。　。　。　rancid　。　。　。
　　　　'Alien；'　he　muttered。
　　　　Nevertheless；　he　quieted　it。　When　the　dog　went　into　the　water　supply；　the　byrum　should　still　be　inside。　It　would　need　time　to　adapt。　The　dog　would　drown；　but　the　byrum　would　live　yet　awhile；　feeding　on　the　dog's　dead　body；　until　it　was　time。　But　first　he　had　to　get　there。
　　　　It　wouldn't　be　long　now。
　　　　As　he　drove　west　on　I…90；　past　little　towns　（shitsplats；　Jonesy　thought　them；　but　not　without　affection）　like　Westborough；　Grafton；　and　Dorothy　Pond　（getting　closer　now；　maybe　forty　miles　to　go）；　he　looked　for　a　place　to　put　his　new　and　uneasy　consciousness　where　it　wouldn't　get　him　in　trouble。　He　tried　Jonesy's　kids；　then　backed　away　…　far　too　emotional。　Tried　Duddits　again；　but　that　was　still　a　blank；　Jonesy　had　stolen　the　memories。　Finally　he　settled　on　Jonesy's　work；　which　was　teaching　history；　and　his　specialty；　which　was　gruesomely　fascinating。　Between　1860　and　1865；　it　seemed　America　had　split　in　two；　as　byrus　colonies　did　near　the　end　of　each　growth　cycle。　There　had　been　all　sorts　of　causes；　the　chief　of　which　had　to　do　with　'slavery'；　but　again；　this　was　like　calling　shit　or　vomit　reprocessed　food。　'Slavery'　meant　nothing。　'Right　of　secession'　meant　nothing。　'Preserving　the　Union'　meant　nothing。　Basically；　they　had　just　done　what　these　creatures　did　best：　they　'got　mad；'　which　was　really　the　same　thing　as　'going　mad'　but　more　socially　acceptable。　Oh；　but　on　such　a　scale！
　　　　Mr　Gray　was　investigating　boxes　and　boxes　of　fascinating　weaponry　…　grapeshot；　chainshot；　minié　balls；　cannonballs；　bayonets；　landmines　…　when　a　voice　intruded。
　　　　
　　　　bacon
　　　　
　　　　He　pushed　the　thought　aside；　although　Jonesy's　stomach　gurgled。　He'd　like　some　bacon；　yes；　bacon　was　fleshy　and　greasy　and　slippery　and　satisfying　in　a　primitive；　physical　way；　but　this　was　not　the　time。　Perhaps　after　he'd　gotten　rid　of　the　dog。　Then；　if　he　had　time　before　the　others　caught　up；　he　could　eat　himself　to　death　if　he　so　chose。　But　this　was　not　the　time。　As　he　passed　Exit　10　…　only　two　to　go；　now　…　he　turned　his　mind　back　to　the　Civil　War；　to　blue　men　and　gray　men　running　through　the　smoke；　screaming　and　stabbing　each　other　in　the　guts；　fixing　little　red　wagons　without　number；　pounding　the　stocks　of　their　rifles　into　the　skulls　of　their　enemies；　producing　those　intoxicating　thud…thud　sounds；　and…
　　　　
　　　　bacon
　　　　
　　　　His　stomach　gurgled　again。　Saliva　squirted　into　Jonesy's　mouth　and　he　remembered　Dysart's；　the　brown　and　crispy　strips　on　the　blue　plate；　you　picked　it　up　with　your　fingers；　the　texture　was　hard；　the　texture　of　dead　and　tasty　flesh…
　　　　Can't　think　of　this。
　　　　A　horn　honked　irritably；　making　Mr　Gray　jump；　making　Lad　whine。　He　had　wandered　into　the　wrong　lane；　what　Jonesy's　mind　identified　as　'the　passing　lane'；　and　he　pulled　over　to　let　one　of　the　big　trucks；　going　faster　than　the　Subaru　could　go；　sweep　by。　It　splashed　the　small　car's　windshield　with　muddy　water；　momentarily　blinding　him；　and　Mr　Gray　thought　Catch　you　kill　you　beat　the　brains　out　of　your　head　you　unsafe　johnny　reb　of　a　driver　you；　thud…thud；　fix　your　wagon　your　little　red
　　　　
　　　　bacon　sandwich
　　　　
　　　　That　one　was　like　a　gunshot　in　his　head。　He　fought　it　but　the　strength　of　it　was　something　entirely　new。　Could　that　be　Jonesy？　Surely　not；　Jonesy　wasn't　that　strong。　But　suddenly　he　seemed　an　stomach；　and　the　stomach　was　hollow；　hurting；　craving。　Surely　he　could　stop　long　enough　to　assuage　it。　If　he　didn't　he　was　apt　to　drive　right　off　the
　　　　
　　　　bacon　sandwich！
　　with　mayo！
　　　　
　　　　Mr　Gray　let　out　an　inarticulate　cry；　unaware　that　he'd　begun　to　drool　helplessly。


18

'I　hear　him；'　Henry　said　suddenly。　He　put　his　fists　to　his　temples；　as　if　to　contain　a　headache。　'Christ；　it　hurts。　He's　so　hungry。'
　　　　'Who？'　Owen　asked。　They　had　just　crossed　the　state　line　into　Massachusetts。　In　front　of　the　car；　the　rain　fell　in　silver；　wind…slanted　lines。　'The　dog？　Jonesy？　Who？'
　　　　'Him；'　Henry　said。　'Mr　Gray。'　He　looked　at　Owen；　a　sudden　wild　hope　in　his　eye。　'I　think　he's　pulling　over。　I　think　he's　stopping。'


19

'Boss。'
　　　　Kurtz　was　on　the　verge　of　dozing　again　when　Perlmutter　turned　…　not　without　effort　…　and　spoke　to　him。　They　had　just　gone　through　the　New　Hampshire　tolls；　Freddy　Johnson　being　careful　to　use　the　automated　exact…change　lane　（he　was　afraid　a　human　toll…taker　might　notice　the　stench　in　the　Humvee's　cabin；　the　broken　window　in　back；　the　weaponry　。　。　。　or　all　three）。
　　　　Kurtz　looked　into　Archie　Perlmutter's　sweat…streaked；　haggard　face　with　interest。　With　fascination；　even。　The　colorless　bean…counting　bureaucrat；　he　of　the　briefcase　on　station　and　clipboard　in　the　field；　hair　always　neatly　bed　and　parted　ruler…straight　on　the　left？　The　man　who　could　not　for　the　life　of　him　train　himself　out　of　using　the　word　sir？　That　man　was　gone。　Thin　though　it　was；　he　thought　Pearly's　countenance　had　somehow　richened。　He's　turning　into　Ma　Joad；　Kurtz　thought；　and　almost　giggled。
　　　　'Boss；　I'm　still　thirsty。'　Pearly　cast　longing　eyes　on　Kurtz's　Pepsi；　then　blew　out　another　hideous　fart。　Ma　Joad　on　trumpet　in　hell　Kurtz　thought　and　this　time　he　did　giggle。　Freddy　cursed；　but　not　with　his　former　shocked　disgust；　now　he　sounded　resigned；　almost　bored。
　　　　'I'm　afraid　this　is　mine；　buck；'　Kurtz。　'And　I'm　a　wee　parched　myself。'
　　　　Perlmutter　began　to　speak；　then　winced　as　a　fresh　pain　struck　him。　He　fatted　again；　the　sound　thinner　this　time；　not　a　trumpet　but　an　untalented　child　blowing　over　a　piccolo。　His　eyes　narrowed；　became　crafty。　'Give　me　a　drink　and　I'll　tell　you