js&cs.thebridge-第36章

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　　〃GOD　DAMN　IT！〃
　　Now　they　were　stomping　around　up　there；　and　he　could　definitely　hear　laughter；　high…pitched　and　giddy。　Who　the　hell　were　these　kids？　They　sure　weren't　friends　of　Billy's；　so　far　as　he　knew；　Billy　didn't　have　any　friends。　It　just　didn't　make　any　sense　。。。
　　Then　Millie　screamed。
　　And　Billy　screamed。
　　And　Bernard　S。　Kleigel；　the　Conscience　of　a　Nation；　just　sat　there：　paralyzed；　sweating；　with　a　hammer　for　a　heart。
　　〃No；〃　he　whimpered；　as　the　footsteps　thundered　down　the　hallway：　Millie's　in　the　lead；　two　other　sets　in　hot　pursuit。　Billy's　persistent　screams　moved　with　her。　Bernie　could　picture　his　son　in　her　arms　as　she　ran；　crying　out　as　well。
　　Crying　out　for　him　。。。
　　But　there　was　nothing　he　could　do。　She　had　to　understand　that。　She　had　to　understand　that　he　was　helpless；　that　he　had　no　choice；　that　he　absolutely　could　not　move；　he　had　spent　his　whole　life　imagining　the　worst　and　now　that　it　was　here；　he　was　pletely　unprepared　for　it。
　　〃Please；〃　he　whined；　as　if　it　would　help。　As　if　he　were　tapped　into　some　cosmic　911　line；　relaying　his　message　directly　to　God　for　immediate　customer　satisfaction。　As　if　he　could　wish　his　cares　away。
　　As　if　God　were　actually　taking　his　calls　。。。
　　And　he　didn't　want　to　picture　it；　to　envision　in　his　mind　the　apocalyptic　WHOOMP　that　shook　the　house　to　its　foundation；　construct　a　visual　of　his　wife　as　she　hit　the　floorboards　above　his　head；　match　her　scream　with　the　face　he　knew　she　must　be　making。　He　didn't　want　to　see　the　sources　of　that　terrible　laughter；　was　unable　to　conjure　up　images　adequate　for　describing　the　sounds　being　torn　from　his　son。
　　But　when　the　meat　like　gravy　oozed　down　through　the　cracks；　he　no　longer　had　to　use　his　imagination。　It　spattered　the　floor　in　a　rich　red　rain；　drove　him　screaming　from　his　chair　and　his　sanity。　He　was　halfway　to　the　stairs　before　he　knew　he　was　moving；　halfway　up　the　stairs　before　he　saw　his　salvation。
　　It　was　his　old　pal；　Officer　Hal　Thoman。
　　911　had　e　through；　after　all。
　　〃NO！〃　Bernie　screamed　as　the　dead　cop　descended。　〃NO！〃　as　the　shadows　pulled　back　to　reveal　Hal's　full　green　open…skulled　glory。　One　last　full…throated　〃NOOOOOOH！〃　as　he　slipped　in　the　widening　pool　of　thickly　coagulant　family…style　sauce。
　　And　then　no　mean　old　kids　could　ever　bother　poor　old　Bernie　again。
　　
　　
　　　Thirty…Five
　　　
　　Bill　Teague　had　to　admit：　he　liked　being　his　own　boss。
　　He　lit　a　smoke　and　reflected　on　that　fact　as　they　rolled　down　the　twisty　roads；　en　route　to　number　two。　Bill　and　Ted　loved　their　job。　Not　the　killing；　especially；　although　Bill　would　confess　a　craftsman's　appreciation　of　a　job　well　executed；　pardon　the　pun。　They　just　liked　the　hours；　the　freedom；　the　excellent　adventures。
　　What　they　hated　were　the　boonies。
　　Travel　was　a　given；　which　meant　a　lot　of　runs　down　a　lot　of　secondary　highways　and　back　roads；　where　brain…dead　rubes　bred　like　rabbits　and　lived　in　nasty　little　cracker…boxes　with　concrete　jockeys　by　the　driveways　or　little　propeller…ducks　whizzing　on　their　squalid　little　lawns。　Give　Bill　and　Ted　a　city　any　day：　New　York；　Pittsburgh；　Philly。　Even　Baltimore；　if　it　came　down　to　it。　Anywhere　but　here。
　　Oh；　well。　Bill　sucked　smoke　and　fiddled　with　the　radio。　Came　with　the　territory。　〃Fuckin'　radio　wasteland；〃　he　muttered　to　Ted；　who　manned　the　wheel。
　　〃Fuckin'　worthless　radio；〃　Ted　addended；　and　Bill　agreed。　The　Impala's　radio　sucked。　At　the　moment；　the　only　tune　ing　through　on　the　dial　was　the　loathsome　Terry　Jacks；　crooning　〃Seasons　in　the　Sun。〃　Then　even　that　was　lost；　overwhelmed　in　a　loud　wash　of　static。
　　And　that　was　when　they　heard　it。　From　below；　around　the　bend　and　unseen；　rose　a　crazed　industrial　clamor。　Clanging；　smashing。
　　Roaring　to　life。
　　〃What　the　fuck　is　that？〃　he　asked。　They'd　been　apprised　that　Pusser　ran　a　scrap　and　salvage　yard；　but　this　sounded　more　like　a　demolition　derby；　minus　the　roar　of　the　crowds。
　　Ted　Ames　and　Bill　Teague　were　a　team。　They'd　been　in　the　business　for　eleven　years；　which　was　a　remarkably　long　lifespan　for　their　line　of　work。　They'd　seen　some　pretty　strange　shit　in　their　day：　lots　of　death　and　brutality；　too　many　dark　pockets　of　the　soul　to　fill；　and　muchisimo　weirdness　of　every　stripe。　That　came　with　the　territory；　too。
　　But　he　had　to　admit　that；　in　all　his　travels；　they'd　never　seen　anything　so　flat…out　deranged　as　what　lay　down　the　Dark　Hollow　Road。
　　They　rounded　the　bend　and　Ted　slammed　on　the　brakes。　The　Impala　swerved　and　jackknifed　nose…down　off　the　shoulder　and　half　into　a　ditch。　〃Fuck　me；〃　Ted　gasped；　incredulous。
　　〃Jesus；〃　Bill　croaked。　They　couldn't　believe　what　they　were　seeing；　accept　the　evidence　of　their　eyes。　Bill　could　only　shake　his　head；　seeing　his　own　worst　nightmare　breeding　before　him。
　　There　were　easily　a　hundred　of　them；　skittering　little　forms　in　concrete　and　plaster　and　wood；　a　frenzied　fantasyland　of　warped　animate　copulating　kitsch。　It　was　a　lawn　ornament　orgy　by　Bosch；　leprechauns　in　motion；　mounting　fleeced；　bleating　plywood　lambs。　Jockeys　sploshing　through　the　mud；　riding　pink　flamingos　from　behind。　Little　Dutch　girls　with　their　butts　in　the　air；　humping　the　heads　of　their　little　Dutch　boys。
　　And　at　the　center　of　it　all　was　the　fountain：　pumping　up　black　rank　jetties　of　noxious　antilife…giving　sludge　that　slicked　and　sluiced　and　enveloped　the　yard　。。。
　　〃Look　at　the　house；〃　Ted　said；　his　voice　high　and　thin　as　a　razor。
　　Bill　craned；　searchlighting　his　gaze。　〃Omigod　。。。　〃
　　It　was　a　regular　rural　tract　house；　like　a　large　brick　trailer。　Every　single　window　was　broken；　a　dozen　black　holes　like　wounds　in　the　walls。　Cement　squirrels　scurried　up　one　wall　and　down　another；　burrowed　furiously　into　the　asphalt…shingled　roof。　A　hundred　lawn　ornaments　surrounded　the　house；　pounding　on　the　walls；　the　doors。　The　air　filled　with　the　clicking　and　snapping　of　brittle　little　limbs。
　　Then；　from　beneath；　came　a　roiling　rumbling　sound。
　　〃Jesus！〃　Bill　hissed。　The　earth　around　the　house　was　turning　lividly　liquid；　sucking　the　structure　down　greedily；　swallowing　it。　The　house　creaked　and　crumbled　as　beams　gave　way　and　walls　buckled；　something　inside　crackled　and　sparked　into　flame。
　　From　inside；　Bill　could　hear　screaming。
　　〃GET　THE　FUCK　OUT　OF　HERE！〃　he　yelled。　〃NOW！〃
　　Ted　ratcheted　the　shifter　into　reverse　and　hit　the　gas。　The　rear　tires　spun　wildly；　sinking　into　the　mushy　shoulder。　Mud　and　gravel　sprayed　every　which　way；　spattering　the　windows。
　　〃GO！　GO！　GO！　GO！〃　Bill　chanted；　pounding　the　dash。　The　tires　caught　on　something　solid；　squealed　and　yanked　the　Impala　out　of　its　rut；　tires　smoking　onto　the　road。
　　And　at　that　moment；　something　heavy　thudded　onto　the　hood　of　the　car。　A　neon…green　lantern　ignited；　klieg…light　bright；　less　than　a　foot　from　his　eyes。　He　blinked　back　the　glare；　instantly　blinded；　tried　to　see　through　the　pain　and　the　puke…green　floating　dots。
　　The　light　swung　away；　and　Bill　stared　into　the　black…faced　rictus　of　the　little　concrete　jockey　with　the　lantern。
　　It　showed　him　its　teeth。
　　〃YAHH！！〃　Bill　screamed　as　the　jockey　rode　the　hood　like　a　miniature　concrete　Terminator；　smashing　through　the　window　with　one　lantern…fisted　blow；　spraying　the　interior　of　the　car　with　glass　and　liquid　fire。　A　dollop　of　molten　incandescence　spattered　against　his　face。　He　screamed　again。　His　right　eye　blew　apart　and　ignited。　In　the　hollow　of　his　skull；　Bill's　brain　began　to　sizzle　like　fatty　bacon　slabs。
　　Ted　floored　it。　The　g…force　flung　Bill　back　in　his　seat；　howling　as　he　ground　his　palm　into　his　socket；　trying　to　put　out　his　face。
　　He　was　blind　as　the　car　screeched　and　gunned　away　from　the　suburban　inferno；　blind　as　it　sawed　into　a　hairpin　turn；　flinging　the　jockey　off　the　hood　and　into　the　woods；　blind　to　the　cause　of　the　screee　and　the　spin　as　the　brakes　locked　up　seconds　later　and　hurtled　him　forward。　His　forehead　slammed　into　the　already　shattered　windshield　and　it　gave　way　entirely；　showering　them　with　glass。
　　Bill　blacked　out。　The　harsh　industrial　din　roared　before　them。
　　And　it　was　Ted's　turn　to　scream　。。。
　　
　　The　road　to　Pusser's　was　pletely　blockaded　by　the　procession　that　clattered　and　spilled　from　its　gate。
　　They　were　not　machines　in　any　readily　prehensible　sense。　No　fuel　source。　No　logically　moving　parts。　Where　they　had　wheels　or　rims；　they　used　them。　Where　they　did　not；　they　simply　threw　themselves　forward　in　utter　defiance　of　natural　law：　scuttling　crablike　on　bent　metal　legs；　spinning　on　drums；　shambling　stiltlike　or　dragging　loose　cable　behind　like　tails；　like　useless　vestigial　limbs。
　　Still…twitching　bits　of　dog　and　rabbit　and　junkyard　rat　crowned　them　like　riders　on　a　Rose　Bowl　float；　impaled　in　places　of　honor　on　the　gigantic　amalgamations　of　sentient　scrap　and　salvage。　Thousands　more　swarmed　lemminglike　beneath　them；　red　eyes　gleaming　with　the　wisdom　of　the　hive。
　　They　were　impossible　juggernauts　of　destruction；　spitting　out　shrapnel　and　flame；　throwing　stray　parts　like　seeds。
　　And　they　were　heading　for　town。
　　
　　As　the　first　great　jet　of　projectile　fire　blistered　the　hood；　Ted　slammed　the　car　into　reverse；　the　speedometer　needling　up　and　up　as　they　careened　back　the　way　they'd　e。　Ted　was　a　professional　driver；　he　was　prepared　to　run　ass…backwards　and　full…throttle　out　of　this　hellhole　and　all　the　way　back　to　Philly；　if　need　be。　He　could　handle　that。
　　But　he　wasn't　prepared　for　what　was　behind　them。
　　The　lawn　ornaments　had　swarmed　into　the　road；　blocking　it　pletely。
　　〃Sonofabitch！〃　Ted　barked　a　hard　burst　of　laughter；　neck　craned　back　as　he　drove。　Nothing　else　in　this　world　made　a　bit　of　sense；　but　he　knew　a　squeeze　play　when　he　saw　one。　Ahead；　the　juggernauts　chugged　forward；　chewing　up　the　road。
　　Ted　laughed　madly。　There　was　nothing　else　to　do。
　　He　punched　it。
　　The　Impala　reached　eighty　in　the　space　it　took　to　close　the　distance。　When　it　rammed　the　front　line；　it　was　like　hitting　a　concrete　abutment。　The　Impala　went　airborne；　ass…end　in　the　breeze；　rear　wheels　angrily　raking　at　nothing。　It　came　down　hard。　The　gas　tank　ruptured　and　spewed　its　contents　onto　the　animated　rubble　beneath。
　　Ted　blacked　out；　came　to　quickly；　found　himself　pinned　beneath　the　shattered　steering　column：　his　right　femur　crushed；　his　big　body　still　strapped　into　place。　He　looked　over　to　Bill　Teague。　Judging　from　the　position　of　his　neck；　the　partnership　was　officially　over。
　　Ted　sniffed　the　air。　Gas。　Shit。　He　wrestled　desperately　with　his　seat　belt。　It　only　took　seconds。
　　Unfortunately；　they　were　the　last　ones　he　had。
　　The　first　blind　leviathan　rolled　over　the　hood；　thrusting　a　lance　through　the　windshield　that　skewered　his　septum；　sawed　down　through　his　heart。　His　mouth　jetted　blood　and　bellyflesh。
　　There　came　a　pause　in　the　din；　a　fleeting　moment　of　silence；　as　the　Impala　crunched　and　buckled　like　a　tin　can　in　a　trash　masher。　The　last　thing　Ted　heard　was　the　muted　whump　of　flame　kissing　fuel。
　　When　the　gas　tank　blew；　their　identities　vanished　in　fiery　fleshmetal　merger。　Then　the　leviathans　bowled　them　over　entirely；　grinding　both　car　and　cargo　into　sizzling　gristle。
　　The　pieces　that　stuck　got　to　join　the　parade。