dk.coldfire-第7部分

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ack　of　the　motor　home。　It　wasn't　the　biggest　bike　made；　but　it　was　powerful…and　not　something　a　pair　of　retirees　typically　tooled　around　on。　
　In　spite　of　the　cycle；　nothing　about　the　Road　king　was　suspicious。　
　In　its　wake　Jim　Ironheart　was　overe　by　a　sense　of　evil　so　strong　there　might　as　well　have　been　a　black　tide　washing　over　him　with　all　the　power　of　the　sea　behind　it。　He　gagged　as　if　he　could　smell　the　corruption　of　them　to　whom　the　motor　home　belonged。　
　At　first　he　hesitated；　afraid　that　any　action　he　took　might　jeopardize　woman　and　child　who　were　evidently　being　held　captive。　But　the　worse　thing　he　could　do　was　delay。　The　longer　the　mother　and　daughter　were　in　the　hands　of　the　people　in　the　Road　king；　the　less　chance　they　had　of　ing　out　of　it　alive。　
　He　swung　into　the　passing　lane。　He　intended　to　get　a　couple　of　miles　ahead　of　them　and　block　the　road　with　his　car。　
　In　the　Road　king's　rearview　mirror；　the　driver　must　have　seen　Jim　stop　at　the　station　wagon　and　get　out　to　inspect　it。　Now　he　let　the　Camaro　pull　almost　even　before　swinging　the　motor　home　sharply　left；　bashing　it　against　the　side　of　the　car。　
　Metal　shrieked　against　metal；　and　the　car　shuddered。　
　The　steering　wheel　spun　in　Jim's　hands。　He　fought　for　control　and　kept　The　Road　king　pulled　away；　then　swerved　back　and　bashed　him　again；　？　driving　him　off　the　blacktop　and　onto　the　unpaved　shoulder。　
　For　a　few　hundred　yards　they　rattled　forward　at　high　speed　in　those　positions：　the　Road　king　in　the　wrong　lane；　risking　a　head…on　collision　with　any　oning　traffic　that　might　be　masked　by　the　curtains　of　heat　and　sun　glare；　the　Camaro　casting　up　huge　clouds　of　dust　behind　it；　speeding　precariously　along　the　brink　of　the　two…foot　drop…off　that　separated　the　raised　roadbed　from　the　desert　floor　beyond。　
　Even　a　light　touch　of　the　brakes　might　pull　the　car　a　few　inches　to　the　left；　causing　it　to　drop　and　roll。　He　only　dared　to　ease　up　on　the　accelerator　and　let　his　speed　fall　gradually。　
　The　driver　of　the　Road　king　reacted；　reducing　his　speed；　too；　hanging　at　Jim's　side。　Then　the　motor　home　moved　inexorably　to　the　left；　inch　by　inch；　edging　relentlessly　onto　the　dirt　shoulder。　
　Being　much　the　smaller　and　less　powerful　of　the　two　vehicles；　the　Camaro　could　not　resist　the　pressure。　It　was　pushed　leftward　in　spite　of　Jim's　efforts　to　hold　it　steady。　The　front　tire　found　the　brink　first；　and　that　corner　of　the　car　dropped。　He　hit　the　brakes；　it　didn't　matter　any　more。　
　Even　as　he　jammed　his　foot　down　on　the　pedal；　the　rear　wheel　followed　the　front　end　into　empty　space。　The　Camaro　tipped　and　rolled　to　the　left。　
　Using　a　safety　harness　was　a　habit　with　him；　so　he　was　thrown　sideways　and　forward；　and　his　sunglasses　flew　off；　but　he　didn't　crack　his　face　against　the　window　post　or　shatter　his　breastbone　against　the　steering　wheel。　Webs　of　cracks；　like　the　work　of　a　spider　on　Benzedrine；　spread　across　the　windshield。　He　squeezed　his　eyes　shut；　and　gummy　bits　of　tempered　glass　imploded　over　him。　The　car　rolled　again；　then　started　to　roll　a　third　time　but　only　made　it　halfway；　ing　to　rest　on　its　roof　Hanging　upside　down　in　the　harness；　he　was　unhurt　but　badly　shaken。　
　He　choked　on　the　clouds　of　white　dust　that　poured　in　through　the　shattered　windshield。　
　They'll　be　ing　for　me　He　fumbled　frantically　for　the　harness　release；　found　it；　and　dropped　the　last　few　inches　onto　the　ceiling　of　the　overturned　car。　He　was　curled　on　top　of　the　shotgun。　He　had　been　damn　lucky　the　weapon　hadn't　discharged　as　it　slammed　around　inside　the　tumbling　Camaro。　
　ing　for　me　Disoriented；　he　needed　a　moment　to　find　the　door　handle；　which　was　over　his　head。　He　reached　up；　released　it。　At　first　the　door　would　not　open　Then　it　swung　outward　with　a　metallic　popping　and　squeaking。　
　He　crawled　off　the　ceiling；　out　onto　the　floor　of　the　desert；　feeling　as　though　he　had　bee　trapped　in　a　surreal　Daliesque　world　of　weird　perspective　He　reached　back　in　for　the　shotgun。　
　Though　the　ash…fine　dust　was　beginning　to　settle；　he　was　still　coughing　it　out　of　his　lungs。　Clenching　his　teeth；　he　tried　to　swallow　each　cough。　he　needed　to　be　quiet　if　he　were　to　survive。　
　Neither　as　quick　nor　as　inconspicuous　as　the　small　desert　lizards　the　scooted　across　his　path；　Jim　stayed　low　and　dashed　to　a　nearby　arroyo　When　he　arrived　at　the　edge　of　that　natural　drainage　channel；　he　discovered　it　was　only　about　four　feet　deep。　He　slid　over　the　lip；　and　his　feet　made　a　soft　slapping　sound　as　they　hit　the　hard…packed　bottom。　
　Crouching　in　that　shallow　declivity；　he　raised　his　head　slowly　to　grow　level　and　looked　across　the　desert　floor　toward　the　overturned　Camaro　around　which　the　haze　of　alkaline　dust　had　not　yet　entirely　dissipated。　
　the　highway；　the　Road　king　finished　reversing　along　the　pavement　and　halted　parallel　to　the　wrecked　car。　
　The　door　opened；　and　a　man　climbed　out。　Another　man；　having　exited　from　the　far　side；　hurried　around　the　front　of　the　motor　home　to　join　his　panion。　Neither　of　them　was　the　kindly…retiree…on…a…budget　that　a　might　have　imagined　behind　the　wheel　of　that　aging　caravan。　They　appeared　to　be　in　their　early　thirties　and　as　hard　as　heat…tempered　dense　rock。　One　of　them　wore　his　dark　hair　pulled　back　and　knotted　into　redoubled　ponytail…the　passe　style　that　kids　now　called　a　〃dork　knob〃　The　other　had　short　spiky　hair　on　top；　but　his　head　was　shaved　on　the　sides…as　if　he　thought　he　was　in　one　of　those　old　Mad　Max　movies。　they　wore　sleeveless　T…shirts；　jeans；　and　cowboy　boots；　and　both　carried　hand　guns。　They　headed　cautiously　toward　the　Camaro；　splitting　up　to　approach　it　from　opposite　ends。　
　Jim　drew　down　below　the　top　of　the　arroyo；　turned　right…which　was　approximately　west…and　rushed　in　a　crouch　along　the　shallow　channel　He　glanced　back　to　see　if　he　was　leaving　a　trail；　but　the　silt；　baked　under　months　of　fierce　sun　since　the　last　rain；　did　not　take　footprints。　
　After　about　fifty　feet；　the　arroyo　abruptly　angled　to　the　south；　left。　
　Sixty　feet　thereafter　it　disappeared　into　a　culvert　that　led　under　the　highway。　
　Hope　swept　through　him　but　did　not　still　the　tremors　of　fear　that　had　shaken　him　continuously　since　he　had　found　the　dying　man　in　the　station　wagon。　He　felt　as　if　he　was　going　to　puke。　But　he　had　not　eaten　breakfast　and　had　nothing　to　toss　up。　No　matter　what　the　nutritionists　said；　sometimes　it　paid　to　skip　a　meal。　
　Full　of　deep　shade；　the　concrete　culvert　was　paratively　cool。　
　He　was　tempted　to　stop　and　hide　there…and　hope　they　would　give　up；　go　away。　
　He　couldn't　do　that；　of　course。　He　wasn't　a　coward。　But　even　if　his　conscience　had　allowed　him　to　buy　into　a　little　cowardice　this　time；　the　mysterious　force　driving　him　would　not　permit　him　to　cut　and　run。　To　some　extent；　he　was　a　marionette　on　strings　invisible；　at　the　mercy　of　a　puppeteer　unseen；　in　a　puppet…theater　play　with　a　plot　he　could　not　understand　and　a　theme　that　eluded　him。　
　A　few　tumbleweed　had　found　their　way　into　the　culvert；　and　their　brittle　spines　raked　him　as　he　shoved　through　the　barrier　they　had　formed。　He　came　out　on　the　other　side　of　the　highway；　into　another　arm　of　the　arroyo；　and　scrambled　up　the　wall　of　that　parched　channel。　
　Lying　belly…first　on　the　desert　floor；　he　slithered　to　the　edge　of　the　elevated　roadbed　and　eased　up　to　look　across　the　pavement；　east　toward　the　motor　home。　Beyond　the　Road　king；　he　could　see　the　Camaro　like　a　dead　roach　on　its　back。　The　two　men　were　standing　near　it；　together　now。　
　Evidently；　they　had　just　checked　the　car　and　knew　he　was　not　in　it。　
　They　were　talking　animatedly；　but　they　were　too　far　away　for　Jim　to　hear　what　they　were　saying。　A　couple　of　words　carried　to　him；　but　they　were　faded　by　distance　and　distorted　by　the　furnace…dry　air。　
　Sweat　kept　trickling　into　his　eyes；　blurring　his　vision。　He　blotted　his　face　with　his　sleeve　and　squinted　at　the　men　again。　
　They　were　moving　slowly　away　from　the　Camaro　now；　deeper　into　the　desert。　One　of　them　was　wary；　swiveling　his　head　from　side　to　side；　and　the　other　studied　the　ground　as　they　moved；　no　doubt　searching　for　signs　of　Jim's　passage。　Just　his　luck；　one　of　them　would　turn　out　to　have　been　raised　by　Indian　scouts；　and　they'd　be　all　over　him　faster　than　an　iguana　on　a　sand　beetle。　
　From　the　west　came　the　sound　of　an　engine；　low　at　first　but　growing　rapidly　louder　even　as　Jim　turned　his　head　to　look　in　that　direction。　
　Out　of　a　waterfall　mirage　came　a　Peterbilt。　From　Jim's　low　vantage　point；　the　truck　looked　so　huge　that　it　didn't　even　seem　like　a　truck　but　like　some　futuristic　war　machine　that　had　traveled　backward　in　time　from　the　twenty…second　century。　
　The　driver　of　the　Peterbilt　would　see　the　overturned　Camaro。　In　the　traditional　Samaritan　spirit　that　most　truckers　showed　on　the　road；　he　would　stop　to　offer　assistance。　His　arrival　would　rattle　the　two　killers；　and　while　they　were　distracted；　Jim　would　get　the　drop　on　them。　
　He　had　it　all　figured　out…except　it　didn't　work　that　way。　The　Peterbilt　didn't　slow　as　it　approached；　and　Jim　realized　he　was　going　to　have　to　flag　it　down。　But　before　he　could　even　rise　up；　the　big　truck　swept　past　with　n　dragon　roar　and　a　blast　of　hot　wind；　breaking　the　speed　limit　by　a　Guinness　margin；　as　if　it　were　a　judgment　wagon　driven　by　a　demon　and　loaded　with　souls　that　the　devil　wanted　in　hell　right　now　Jim　fought　the　urge　to　leap　up　and　yell　after　it：　Where's　your　tradition　Samaritan　spirit；　you　shithead？　Silence　returned　to　the　hot　day。　
　On　the　far　side　of　the　road；　the　two　killers　looked　after　the　Peterbilt　for　moment；　then　continued　their　search　for　Jim。　
　Furious　and　scared；　he　eased　back　from　the　shoulder　of　the　highway；　flattened　out　again；　and　belly…crawled　eastward　toward　the　motor　home；　dragging　the　shotgun　with　him。　The　elevated　roadbed　was　between　him　and　them；　they　could　not　possibly　see　him；　yet　he　more　than　half　expected　them　to　sprint　across　the　blacktop　and　pump　half　a　dozen　rounds　into　him　When　he　dared　look　up　again；　he　was　directly　opposite　the　parked　Road　king；　which　blocked　the　two　men　from　his　view。　If　he　couldn't　see　them；　they　couldn't　see　him。　He　scrambled　to　his　feet　and　crossed　the　pavement　to　the　passenger　side　of　the　motor　home。　
　The　door　on　that　flank　was　a　third　of　the　way　from　the