sk.runningman-第14部分

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ropping　into　place；　he　gave　one　last　fierce　tug。
　　The　cover　dropped　into　place　with　a　clang；　bending　both　wrists　back　cruelly。　Richards　let　his　knees　relax；　and　he　slid　downward　like　a　boy　shooting　the　chutes。　The　pipe　was　coated　with　slime；　and　he　slid　effortlessly　about　twelve　feet　to　where　the　pipe　elbow　bent　into　a　straight　line。　His　feet　struck　smartly；　and　he　stood　there　like　a　drunk　leaning　against　a　lamppost。
　　But　he　couldn't　get　into　the　horizontal　pipe。　The　elbow　bend　was　too　sharp。
　　The　taste　of　the　claustrophobia　became　huge；　gagging。　Trapped；　his　mind　babbled。　Trapped　in　here；　trapped；　trapped…
　　A　steel　scream　rose　in　his　throat　and　he　choked　it　down。
　　Calm　down。　Sure；　it's　very　hackneyed；　very　trite；　but　we　must　be　very　calm　down　here。　Very　calm。　Because　we　are　at　the　bottom　of　this　pipe　and　we　can't　get　up　and　we　can't　get　down　and　if　the　fucking　oil　tank　goes　boom；　we　are　going　to　be　fricasseed　very　neatly　and…
　　Slowly　he　began　to　wriggle　around　until　his　chest　was　against　the　pipe　instead　of　his　back。　The　slime　coating　acted　as　a　lubricant；　helping　his　movement。　It　was　very　bright　in　the　pipe　now；　and　getting　warmer。　The　vented　cover　threw　prison…bar　shadows　on　his　struggling　face。
　　Once　leaning　against　his　chest　and　belly　and　groin；　with　his　knees　bending　the　right　way；　he　could　slip　down　further；　letting　his　calves　and　feet　slide　into　the　horizontal　pipe　until　he　was　in　the　praying　position。　Still　no　good。　His　buttocks　were　pushing　against　the　solid　ceramic　facing　above　the　entrance　to　the　horizontal　pipe。
　　Faintly；　it　seemed　that　he　could　hear　shouted　mands　above　the　heavy　crackle　of　the　fire；　but　it　might　have　been　his　imagination；　which　was　now　strained　and　fevered　beyond　the　point　of　trust。
　　He　began　to　flex　the　muscles　of　his　thighs　and　calves　in　a　tiring　seesaw　rhythm；　and　little　by　little　his　knees　began　to　slide　out　from　under　him。　He　worked　his　hands　up　over　his　head　again　to　give　himself　more　room；　and　now　his　face　lay　solidly　against　the　slime　of　the　pipe。　He　was　very　close　to　fitting　now。　He　swayed　his　back　as　much　as　he　could　and　began　to　push　with　his　arms　and　head；　the　only　things　left　in　any　position　to　give　him　leverage。
　　When　he　had　begun　to　think　there　was　not　enough　room；　that　he　was　going　to　simply　hang　here；　unable　to　move　either　way；　his　hips　and　buttocks　suddenly　popped　through　the　horizontal　pipe's　opening　like　a　champagne　cork　from　a　tight　bottleneck。　The　small　of　his　back　scraped　excruciatingly　as　his　knees　slid　out　from　under　him；　and　his　shirt　tucked　up　to　his　shoulder…blades。　Then　he　was　in　the　horizontal　pipe…except　for　his　head　and　arms；　which　were　bent　back　at　a　joint…twisting　angle。　He　wriggled　the　rest　of　the　way　in　and　then　paused　there；　panting；　his　face　streaked　with　slime　and　rat　droppings；　the　skin　of　his　lower　back　abraded　and　oozing　blood。
　　This　pipe　was　narrower　still；　his　shoulders　scraped　lightly　on　both　sides　each　time　his　chest　rose　in　respiration。
　　Thank　God　I'm　underfed。
　　Panting；　he　began　to　back　into　the　unknown　darkness　of　the　pipe。
　　
　　Minus　068　and　COUNTING
　　He　made　slow；　molelike　progress　for　about　fifty　yards　through　the　horizontal　pipe；　backing　up　blindly。　Then　the　oil　tank　in　the　Y's　basement　suddenly　blew　with　a　roar　that　set　up　enough　sympathetic　vibrations　in　the　pipes　to　nearly　rupture　his　eardrums。　There　was　a　yellow…white　flash；　as　if　a　pile　of　phosphorus　had　ignited。　It　faded　to　a　rosy；　shifting　glow。　A　few　moments　later　a　blast　of　thermal　air　struck　him　in　the　face；　making　him　grin　painfully。
　　The　tape　camera　in　his　jacket　pocket　swung　and　bounced　as　he　tried　to　back　up　faster。　The　pipe　was　picking　up　heat　from　the　fierce　explosion　and　fire　that　was　raging　somewhere　above　him；　the　way　the　handle　of　a　skillet　picks　up　heat　from　a　gas…ring。　Richards　had　no　urge　to　be　baked　down　here　like　a　potato　in　a　Dutch　oven。
　　Sweat　rolled　down　his　face；　mixing　with　the　black　streaks　of　ordure　already　there；　making　him　look；　in　the　waxing　and　waning　glow　of　the　reflected　fire；　like　an　Indian　painted　for　war。　The　sides　of　the　pipe　were　hot　to　the　touch　now。
　　Lobsterlike；　Richards　humped　backwards　on　his　knees　and　forearms；　his　buttocks　rising　to　smack　the　top　of　the　pipe　at　every　movement。　His　breath　came　in　sharp；　doglike　gasps。　The　air　was　hot；　full　of　the　slick　taste　of　oil；　unfortable　to　breathe。　A　headache　surfaced　within　his　skull　and　began　to　push　daggers　into　the　backs　of　his　eyes。
　　I'm　going　to　fry　in　here。　I'm　going　to　fry。
　　Then　his　feet　were　suddenly　dangling　in　the　air。　Richards　tried　to　peer　through　his　legs　and　see　what　was　there；　but　it　was　too　dark　behind　and　his　eyes　were　too　dazzled　by　the　light　in　front。　He　would　have　to　take　his　chance。　He　backed　up　until　his　knees　were　on　the　edge　of　the　pipe's　ending；　and　then　slid　them　cautiously　over。
　　His　shoes　were　suddenly　in　water；　cold　and　shocking　after　the　heat　of　the　pipe。
　　The　new　pipe　ran　at　right　angles　to　the　one　Richards　had　just　e　through；　and　it　was　much　larger…big　enough　to　stand　in　bent　over。　The　thick；　slowly　moving　water　came　up　over　his　ankles。　He　paused　for　just　a　moment　to　stare　back　into　the　tiny　pipe　with　its　soft　circle　of　reflected　fireglow。　The　fact　that　he　could　see　any　glow　at　all　from　this　distance　meant　that　it　must　have　been　a　very　big　bang　indeed。
　　Richards　reluctantly　forced　himself　to　know　it　would　be　their　job　to　assume　him　alive　rather　than　dead　in　the　inferno　of　the　YMCA　basement；　but　perhaps　they　would　not　discover　the　way　he　had　taken　until　the　fire　was　under　control。　That　seemed　a　safe　assumption。　But　it　had　seemed　safe　to　assume　that　they　could　not　trace　him　to　Boston；　too。
　　Maybe　they　didn't。　After　all；　what　did　you　really　see？
　　No。　It　had　been　them。　He　knew　it。　The　Hunters。　They　had　even　carried　the　odor　of　evil。　It　had　wafted　up　to　his　fifth　floor　room　on　invisible　psychic　thermals。
　　A　rat　dog…paddled　past　him；　pausing　to　look　up　briefly　with　glittering　eyes。
　　Richards　splashed　clumsily　off　after　it；　in　the　direction　the　water　was　flowing。
　　
　　Minus　067　and　COUNTING
　　Richards　stood　by　the　ladder；　looking　up；　dumbfounded　by　the　light。　No　regular　traffic；　which　was　something；　but　light…
　　The　light　was　surprising　because　it　had　seemed　that　he　had　been　walking　in　the　sewers　for　hours　piled　upon　hours。　In　the　darkness；　with　no　visual　input　and　no　sound　but　the　gurgle　of　water；　the　occasional　soft　splash　of　a　rat；　and　the　ghostly　thumpings　in　other　pipes　（what　happens　if　someone　flushes　a　john　over　my　head；　Richards　wondered　morbidly）；　his　time　sense　had　been　utterly　destroyed。
　　Now；　looking　up　at　the　manhole　cover　some　fifteen　feet　above　him；　he　saw　that　the　light　had　not　yet　faded　out　of　the　day。　There　were　several　circular　breather　holes　in　the　cover；　and　pencil…sized　rays　of　light　pressed　coins　of　sun　on　his　chest　and　shoulders。
　　No　air…cars　had　passed　over　the　cover　since　he　had　gotten　here；　only　an　occasional　heavy　ground…vehicle　and　a　fleet　of　Honda…cycles。　It　made　him　suspect　that；　more　by　good　luck　and　the　law　of　averages　than　by　inner　sense　of　direction；　he　had　managed　to　find　his　way　to　the　core　of　the　city…to　his　own　people。
　　Still；　he　didn't　dare　go　up　until　dark。　To　pass　the　time；　he　took　out　the　tape　camera；　popped　in　a　clip；　and　began　recording　his　chest。　He　knew　the　tapes　were　〃fastlight；〃　able　to　take　advantage　of　the　least　available　light；　and　he　did　not　want　to　give　away　too　much　of　his　surroundings。　He　did　no　talking　or　capering　this　time。　He　was　too　tired。
　　When　the　tape　was　done；　he　put　it　with　the　other　exposed　clip。　He　wished　he　could　rid　himself　of　the　nagging　suspicion…almost　a　certainty…that　the　tapes　were　pinpointing　him。　There　had　to　be　a　way　to　beat　that。　Had　to。
　　He　sat　down　stolidly　on　the　third　rung　of　the　ladder　to　wait　for　dark。　He　had　been　running　for　nearly　thirty　hours。
　　
　　Minus　066　and　COUNTING
　　The　boy；　seven　years　old；　black；　smoking　a　cigarette；　leaned　closer　to　the　mouth　of　the　alley；　watching　the　street。
　　There　had　been　a　sudden；　slight　movement　in　the　street　where　there　had　been　none　before。　Shadows　moved；　rested；　moved　again。　The　manhole　cover　was　rising。　It　paused　and　something…eyes？…glimmered。　The　cover　suddenly　slid　aside　with　a　clang。
　　Someone　（or　something；　the　boy　thought　with　a　trace　of　fear）　was　moving　out　there。　Maybe　the　devil　was　ing　out　of　hell　to　get　Cassie；　he　thought。　Ma　said　Cassie　was　going　to　heaven　to　be　with　Dicky　and　the　other　angels。　The　boy　thought　that　was　bullshit。　Everybody　went　to　hell　when　they　died；　and　the　devil　jabbed　them　in　the　ass　with　a　pitchfork。　He　had　seen　a　picture　of　the　devil　in　the　books　Bradley　had　snuck　out　of　the　Boston　Public　Library。　Heaven　was　for　Push　freaks。　The　devil　was　the　Man。
　　It　could　be　the　devil；　he　thought　as　Richards　suddenly　boosted　himself　out　of　the　manhole　and　leaned　for　a　second　on　the　seamed　and　split　cement　to　get　his　breath　back。　No　tail　and　no　horns；　not　red　like　in　that　book；　but　the　mother　looked　crazy　and　mean　enough。
　　Now　he　was　pushing　the　cover　back；　and　now…
　　…now　holy　Jesus　he　was　running　toward　the　alley。
　　The　boy　grunted；　tried　to　run；　and　fell　over　his　own　feet。
　　He　was　trying　to　get　up；　scrambling　and　dropping　things；　and　the　devil　suddenly　grabbed　him。
　　〃Doan　stick　me　wif　it！〃　He　screamed　in　a　throat…closed　whisper。　〃Doan　stick　me　wif　no　fork；　you　sumbitch…〃
　　〃Shhh！　Shut　up！　Shut　up！〃　The　devil　shook　him；　making　his　teeth　rattle　like　marbles　in　his　head；　and　the　boy　shut　up。　The　devil　peered　around　in　an　ecstacy　of　apprehension。　The　expression　on　his　face　was　almost　farcical　in　its　extreme　fear。　The　boy　was　reminded　of　the　ical　fellows　on　that　game　show　Swim　the　Crocodiles。　He　would　have　laughed　if　he　hadn't　been　so　frightened　himself。
　　〃You　ain't　the　devil；〃　the　boy　said。
　　〃You'll　think　I　am　if　you　yell。〃
　　〃I　ain't　gonna；〃　the　boy　said　contemptuously。　〃What　you　think；　I　wanna　get　my　balls　cut　oft？　Jesus；　I　ain't　even　big　enough　to　e　yet。〃
　　〃You　know　a　quiet　place　we　can　go？〃
　　〃Doan　kill　me；　man。　I　ain't　got　nothin。〃　The　boy's　eyes；　white　in　the　darkness；　rolled　up　at　him。
　　〃I'm　not　going　to　kill　you。〃
　　Holding　his　hand；　the　boy　led　R