cb.damnationgame-第74章
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tious of them were scaling the pastel walls； gluing the slivers of their bodies to the wallpaper with seeped fluids； edging up like caterpillars； a peristalsis moving through their length。 Their direction was arbitrary； some； to judge by their trails； were circling on themselves。
In the dim light of the corridor his worst suspicions merely simmered； but they began to boil when he edged past Whitehead's sprawled body and stepped into the slaughterhouse room； where the light from the highway made a sodium day。 Here the creatures were in yet greater abundance。 The whole room swarmed with them； from flea…sized fragments to slabs the size of a man's heart； throwing out tattered filaments like tentacles to haul themselves about。 Worms； fleas； maggots…a whole new entymology congregated at the place of execution。
Except that these weren't insects； or the larvae of insects： he could see that plainly now。 They were pieces of the European's flesh。 He was still alive。 In pieces； in a thousand senseless pieces； but alive。
Breer had been unrelentingly thorough in his destruction； eradicating the European as best his machete and failing hands would allow。 But it had not been enough。 There was too much stolen life buzzing in Mamoulian's cells； it roared on； in contravention of any sane law； unquenchable。
For all his vehemence the Razor…Eater had not finished the European's life； merely subdivided it； leaving it to describe these futile circles。 And somewhere in this lunatic's menagerie was a beast with a will； a fragment that still possessed sufficient sense to think itself…albeit stutteringly…into Carys〃 mind。 Perhaps not one piece； perhaps many…a sum of these wandering parts。 Marty wasn't interested in its biology。 How this obscenity survived was a matter for a madhouse debating society。
He backed out of the room and stood； shivering in the hall。 Wind gusted against the window； the glass plained。 He listened to the gusts while he worked out what to do next。 Down the corridor a piece of filth fell from the wall。 He watched it struggle to turn itself over； and then begin the slow ascent again。 Just beyond the spot where it labored lay Whitehead。 Marty went back to the body。
Charmaine's killers had enjoyed themselves mightily before they left： Whitehead's trousers and underwear had been pulled down； and his groin scrawled on with a knife。 His eyes were open； his false teeth had been removed。 He stared at Marty； jaw sagging like a delinquent child。 Flies crawled on him； there were patches of decay on his face。 But he was dead： which in this world was something。 The boys had； as a final insult； defecated on his chest。 Flies gathered there too。
In his time Marty had hated this man； loved him too； if only for a day； called him Papa； called him bastard； made love to his daughter and thought himself King of Creation。 He'd seen the man in power： a lord。 Seen him afraid too： scrabbling for escape like a rat in a fire。 He'd seen the old man's odd species of integrity in practice； and found it workable。 As fruitful； perhaps； as the affections of more loving men。
He reached across to seal off the stare； but in their zeal the evangelists had cut off Whitehead's lids； and Marty's fingers instead touched the slick of his eyeball。 Not tears that wetted it； but rot。 He grimaced； withdrew his hand； sickened。
Just to shut off the look on Papa's face he thrust his fingers under the corpse to heave it onto its belly。 The body fluids had settled； and his underside was damp and sticky。 Gritting his teeth he rolled the man's bulk onto its side； and let gravity pull it over。 Now at least the old man didn't have to watch what followed。
Marty stood up。 His hands stank。 He baptized them liberally with the rest of the Scotch； to cancel the smell。 The libation served another purpose： it removed the temptation of the drink。 It would be too easy to bee muzzy and lose focus on the problem。 The enemy was here。 It had to be dealt with； put away forever。
He began where he was； in the hall； digging his heels into the pieces of flesh that crawled around Whitehead's body； squashing their stolen life out as best he could。 They made no sound； of course； which made the task simpler。 They were just worms； he told himself； dumb slivers of mindless life。 And it became yet easier as he went up and down the corridor grinding the meat into smears of yellow fat and brown muscle。 The beasts succumbed without argument。 He began to sweat； working out his revulsion on this human refuse； eyes darting everywhere to make sure he caught each wretched scrap。 He felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth…now a low laugh； quite without humor； escaped。 It was an easy decimation。 He was a boy again； killing ants with his thumbs。 One！ Two！ Three！ Only these things were slower than the most laden ant； and he could stamp them down at a leisurely pace。 All the power and wisdom of the European had e to this muck； and he…Marty Strauss…had been elected to play the God…game； and wipe it away。 He had gained； at the last； a terrible authority。
Nothing is essential。 The words he'd heard…and spoken…in Caliban Street at last made absolute sense。 Here was the European； proving the bitter syllogism with his own flesh and bone。
When he'd finished his work in the hallway he returned to the main room and began his labors there； his initial revulsion at touching the flesh dwindling； until with time he was snatching pieces from their perches on the wall and flinging them down to be ground out。 When he'd done in the gaming room he went to scour the landing and stairs。 Finally； when all was still； he returned to the suite and made a bonfire of the curtains from the dressing room； fueled by the table the old man had played cards on； and tindered by the cards themselves； and then went around the room kicking the larger pieces of flesh into the fire； where they spat and curled and were presently consumed。 The smaller pieces he scraped up； the laugh still ing intermittently as he flung little rains of meat into the middle of the conflagration。 The room rapidly filled with smoke and heat； neither having any escape route。 His heart began to pound loudly in his ears； his arms shone with sweat。 It was a long job； and he had to be meticulous； didn't he？ He mustn't leave a living speck； not a fragment； for fear it live on； bee mythical…grow perhaps…and find him。
When the fire died down he fed it the pillows； the records and the paperback books until there was nothing left to burn but himself。 There were moments； as he gazed entranced into the flames； that the thought of stepping into the fire was not unattractive。 But he resisted。 It was only exhaustion tempting him。 Instead he crouched in a corner； watching the play of flame…light on the wall。 The patterns made him cry； or at least something did。
When； some time before dawn； Carys came up the stairs to claim him from his reverie； he neither heard nor saw her。 The fire had long since died down。 Only the bones； shattered by Breer's dismembering； and blackened and cracked in the fire； were still recognizable。 Shards of thighbone； of vertebrae； the saucer of the European's skull。
She crept in as if fearful of waking a sleeping child。 Maybe he had been sleeping。 There were feathery images in his head that could only have been dreams： life was not that terrible。
〃I woke；〃 she said。 〃I knew you'd be here。〃 He could barely see her through the grimy air； she was a chalk drawing on black paper： so vulnerable to smudging。 The tears came again when he thought of that。
〃We must go；〃 she said； not wishing to press him for explanations。 Perhaps she would ask him in time； when the plaintive look had left his eyes； perhaps she would never ask。 After several minutes of her coaxing him and pressing close to him； he slid up from his knee…hugging meditation and conceded to her care。
When they stepped out of the hotel the wind buffeted them； as antagonistic as ever。 Marty looked up to see if the gusts had blown the stars off course； but they were steadfast。 Everything was in its place； despite the insanity that had mauled their lives of late； and though she hurried him on； he dawdled； his head back； squinting at the stars。 There were no revelations to be had there。 Just pinpricks of light in a plain heaven。 But he saw for the first time how fine that was。 That in a world too full of loss and rage they be remote： the minimum of glory。 As she led him across the lightless ground； time and again he could not prevent his gaze from straying skyward。
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