cb.damnationgame-第86部分

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ors　in　the　gaming　room。　It　was　dark　out　here；　the　light　in　the　gaming　room；　that　livid　candlelight；　was　all　but　sealed　off　by　the　partially　closed　door。
　　Marty　knelt　at　Whitehead's　side。　The　old　man　took　hold　of　his　shirt。
　　〃You've　got　to　fetch　her；〃　he　said；　the　voice　almost　faded。　His　eyes　bulged；　there　was　blood　in　his　beard；　and　more　ing　with　each　word；　but　his　hold　was　strong。　〃Fetch　her；　Marty；〃　he　hissed。
　　〃What　are　you　talking　about？〃　〃He　has　her；〃　Whitehead　said。　〃In　him。　Fetch　her；　for　Christ's　sake；　or　she'll　be　there　forever；　like　the　others。〃　His　eyes　flicked　in　the　direction　of　the　landing；　remembering　the　scourge　of　Muranowski　Square。　Was　she　there　already？　A　prisoner　under　the　tree；　with　Vasiliev's　eager　hands　on　her？　The　old　man's　lips　began　to　tremble。　〃Can't　。　。　。　let　him　have　her；　boy；〃　he　said。　〃You　hear　me。　Won't　let　him　have　her。〃　Marty　had　difficulty　sewing　the　sense　of　this　together。　Was　Whitehead　suggesting　that　he　should　find　his　way　into　Mamoulian　and　retrieve　Carys？　It　wasn't　possible。
　　〃I　can't；〃　he　said。
　　The　old　man　registered　disgust；　and　let　go　of　Marty　as　though　he'd　discovered　he　had　hold　of　excrement。　Painfully；　he　turned　his　head　away。
　　Marty　looked　toward　the　gaming　room。　Through　the　gap　in　the　door　he　could　see　Mamoulian　moving　toward　the　unmistakable　figure　of　the　Razor…Eater。　There　was　frailty　on　the　European's　face。　Marty　studied　it　for　a　moment；　and　then　looked　down　at　the　European's　feet。　Carys　lay　there；　her　face　startled　by　cessation；　her　skin　bright。　He　could　do　nothing；　why　didn't　Papa　leave　him　be　to　run　away　into　the　night　and　heal　his　bruises？　He　could　do　nothing。
　　And　if　he　ran；　if　he　found　a　place　to　hide；　to　heal；　would　he　ever　wash　away　the　smell　of　his　cowardice？　Would　this　moment…the　roads　dividing；　and　dividing　again…not　be　burned　into　his　dreams　forever？　He　looked　back　at　Papa。　But　for　the　feeble　movement　of　his　lips　he　could　have　already　been　dead。　〃Fetch　her；〃　he　was　still　saying；　a　catechism　to　be　repeated　until　his　breath　failed。　〃Fetch　her。　Fetch　her。〃　Marty　had　asked　something　similar　of　Carys…to　go　into　the　lunatic's　lair　and　e　back　with　a　story　to　tell。　How　could　he　now　not　return　the　favor？　Fetch　her。　Fetch　her。　Papa's　words　were　fading　with　every　beat　of　his　failing　heart。　Maybe　she　was　retrievable；　Marty　thought；　somewhere　in　the　flux　of　Mamoulian's　body。　And　if　not；　if　not；　would　it　be　so　hard　to　die　trying　to　fetch　her；　and　have　an　end　to　roads　dividing；　and　choices　turning　to　ash？
　　But　how？　He　tried　to　recall　how　she'd　done　it；　but　the　procedures　were　too　elaborate…the　washing；　the　silence…and　surely　he　had　scant　opportunity　to　make　his　voyage　before　circumstances　changed。　His　only　source　of　hope　lay　in　the　fact　of　his　bloody　shirt…the　way　he'd　felt；　on　his　way　here；　that　Carys　had　snapped　some　barrier　in　his　head；　and　that　the　damage；　once　done；　was　permanent。　Perhaps　his　mind　could　go　to　her　through　the　wound　she'd　opened；　tracing　her　scent　as　relentlessly　as　she'd　pursued　his。
　　He　closed　his　eyes；　shutting　off　the　hallway　and　Whitehead　and　the　body　lying　at　the　European's　feet。　Sight　was　a　trap；　she'd　said　that　once。　Effort　too。　He　must　let　go。　Let　instinct　and　imagination　take　him　where　sense　and　intellect　could　not。
　　He　conjured　her；　effortlessly；　putting　the　bleak　fact　of　her　corpse　out　of　his　head　and　evoking　instead　her　living　smile。　In　his　mind　he　spoke　her　name　and　she　came　to　him　in　a　dozen　moments：　laughing；　naked；　puzzled；　contrite。　But　he　let　the　particulars　go；　leaving　only　her　essential　presence　in　his　aching　head。
　　He　was　dreaming　her。　The　wound　was　open；　and　it　pained　him　to　touch　it　again。　Blood　was　running　into　his　open　mouth；　but　the　sensation　was　a　distant　phenomenon。　It　had　little　to　do　with　his　present　condition；　which　was　increasingly　dislocated。　He　felt　as　though　he　was　slipping　his　body　off。　It　was　redundant：　waste　matter。　The　ease　of　the　procedure　astonished　him；　his　only　anxiety　vas　that　he'd　bee　too　eager；　he　had　to　control　his　exhilaration　for　fear　he　throw　caution　to　the　wind　and　be　discovered。
　　He　could　see　nothing；　hear　nothing。　The　state　he　moved　in…did　he　even　move？…was　not　susceptible　to　the　senses。　Now；　though　he　had　no　proof　of　the　perception；　he　was　sure　he　was　abstracted　from　his　body。　It　was　behind；　below　him：　an　untenanted　shell。　Ahead　of　him；　Carys。　He　would　dream　his　way　to　her。
　　And　then；　just　as　he　had　thought　he　could　take　pleasure　in　this　extraordinary　journey。　Hell　opened　in　front　of　himMamoulian；　too　intent　on　the　Razor…Eater；　felt　nothing　as　Marty　breached　him。　Breer　made　a　half…run　forward；　lifting　the　machete　and　aiming　a　blow　at　the　European。　He　sidestepped　to　avoid　it　with　perfect　economy　but　Breer　pivoted　around　for　a　second　strike　with　startling　speed；　and　this　time；　more　by　chance　than　direction；　the　machete　glanced　down　Mamoulian's　arm；　slicing　into　the　cloth　of　his　dark　gray　suit。
　　〃Chad；〃　the　European　said；　not　taking　his　eyes　off　Breer。
　　〃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？