cb.damnationgame-第98章

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　　Chad　applauded；　cigar　in　mouth。　In　the　corner　where　he'd　collapsed　Tom　had　stopped　whimpering　and　was　also　watching　the　mutilation。　One　man　fighting　for　his　life；　the　other　for　his　death。　Hallelujah！　Saints　and　sinners　all　together。
　　Mamoulian　flung　the　fistful　of　muck　away。　Despite　his　formidable　injury；　the　Razor…Eater　was　still　standing。
　　〃Must　I　tear　you　apart？〃　Mamoulian　said。　Even　as　he　spoke；　something　scrabbled　inside　him。　Was　the　girl　still　fighting　her　confinement？
　　〃Who's　there？〃　he　asked　softly。
　　
　　Carys　answered。　Not　to　Mamoulian；　but　to　Marty。　Here；　she　said。　He　heard　her。　No；　not　heard：　felt。　She　summoned　him；　and　he　followed。
　　The　itch　in　Marty　was　in　seventh　heaven。　Too　late　to　help　her；　it　said：　too　late　for　anything　now。
　　But　she　was　close　by；　he　knew　it；　her　presence　choking　back　his　panic。　I'm　with　you；　she　said。　Two　of　us　now。
　　The　itch　was　unimpressed。　It　smirked　at　the　thought　of　escape。　You're　sealed　up　forever；　it　said；　better　concede　it。　If　she　can't　get　out；　why　should　you　be　able　to？
　　Two；　Carys　said。　Two　of　us　now。　For　the　frailest　of　moments　he　caught　the　intention　in　her　words。　They　were　together；　and　together　they　were　more　than　a　sum　of　their　parts。　He　thought　of　their　locking　anatomies…the　physical　act　that　was　metaphor　for　this　other　unity。　He'd　never　understood　until　now。　His　mind　jubilated。　She　was　with　him：　he　with　her。　They　were　one　indivisible　thought；　imagining　each　other。
　　Go！
　　And　Hell　divided；　it　had　no　choice。　The　province　fragmented　as　they　delivered　themselves　out　of　the　European's　grasp。　They　experienced　a　few　exquisite　moments　as　one　mind；　and　then　gravity…or　whatever　law　pertained　in　this　state…demanded　its　lot。　Division　came…a　rude　expulsion　from　this　momentary　Eden…and　they　were　plumeting　now　toward　their　own　bodies；　the　conjunction　over。
　　Mamoulian　felt　their　escape　as　a　wounding　more　traumatic　than　any　Breer　had　so　far　delivered。　He　put　his　finger　up　to　his　mouth；　a　look　of　pitiful　loss　on　his　face。　Tears　came　freely；　diluting　the　blood　on　his　face。　Breer　seemed　to　sense　a　cue　in　this：　his　moment　had　e。　An　image　had　spontaneously　appeared　in　his　liquefying　brain…like　one　of　the　grainy　photographs　in　his　book　of　atrocities…except　that　this　image　moved。　Snow　fell；　the　flames　of　a　brazier　danced。
　　The　machete　in　his　hand　felt　heavier　by　the　second：　more　like　a　sword。　He　raised　it；　its　shadow　fell　across　the　European's　face。
　　Mamoulian　looked　at　Breer's　ruined　features　and　recognized　them；　saw　how　it　had　all　e　to　this　moment。　Bowed　under　a　weight　of　years；　he　fell　to　his　knees。
　　As　he　was　doing　so；　Carys　opened　her　eyes。　There　had　been　a　vile；　grinding　return；　more　terrible　for　Marty　than　for　herself；　who　was　used　to　the　sensation。　But　it　was　never　entirely　pleasant　to　feel　muscle　and　fat　congeal　around　the　spirit。
　　Marty's　eyes　had　opened　too；　and　he　was　looking　down　at　the　body　he　occupied。　It　was　heavy；　and　stale。　So　much　of　it…the　layers　of　skin；　the　hair；　the　nails…was　dead　matter。　Its　very　substance　revolted　him。　Being　in　this　state　was　a　parody　of　the　freedom　he'd　just　tasted。　He　started　up　from　his　slumped　position　with　a　small　cry　of　disgust；　as　if　he'd　woken　to　find　his　body　crawling　with　insects。
　　He　looked　across　to　Carys　for　reassurance；　but　her　attention　had　been　claimed　by　a　sight　concealed　from　Marty　by　the　partially　closed　door。
　　She　was　watching　a　spectacle　she　knew　from　somewhere。　But　the　point　of　view　was　different；　and　it　took　awhile　for　her　to　place　the　scene：　the　man　on　his　knees；　his　neck　exposed；　his　arms　spread　a　little　from　his　body；　fingers　splayed　in　the　universal　gesture　of　submission；　the　executioner；　face〃　blurred；　raising　the　blade　to　decapitate　his　willing　victim；　somebody　laughing　somewhere　nearby。
　　The　last　time　she'd　seen　this　tableau　she'd　been　behind　Mamoulian's　eyes；　a　soldier　in　a　snow…spattered　yard；　awaiting　the　blow　that　would　cancel　his　young　life。　A　blow　that　had　never　e；　or　rather　had　been　deferred　until　now。　Had　the　executioner　waited　so　long；　living　in　one　body　only　to　discard　it　for　another；　trailing　Mamoulian　through　decade　upon　decade　until　at　last　fate　assembled　the　pieces　of　a　reunion？　Or　was　this　all　the　European's　doing？　Had　his　will　summoned　Breer　to　finish　a　story　accidentally　interrupted　generations　before？
　　She　would　never　know。　The　act；　begun　a　second　time；　was　not　to　be　postponed　again。　The　weapon　sliced　down；　almost　dividing　head　from　neck　in　one　blow。　A　few　tenacious　sinews　kept　it　rocking…nose　to　chest…from　the　trunk　for　two　succeeding　blows　before　it　departed；　rolling　down　between　the　European's　legs　and　ing　to　rest　at　Tom's　feet。　The　boy　kicked　it　away。
　　Mamoulian　had　made　no　sound；　but　now；　headless；　his　torso　gave　vent：　Noise　came　from　the　wound　with　the　blood；　plaints　sounded；　it　seemed；　from　every　pore。　And　with　the　sound　came　smoky　ghosts　of　unmade　pictures；　rising　from　him　like　steam。　Bitter　things　appeared　and　fled；　dreams；　perhaps；　or　fragments　of　the　past。　It　was　all　one　now。　Always　had　been；　in　fact。　He　had　e　from　rumor；　he　the　legendary；　he　the　unfixable；　he　whose　very　name　was　a　lie。　Could　it　matter　if　now　his　biography；　fleeing　into　nothingness；　was　taken　as　fiction？
　　Breer；　unassuaged；　began　to　berate　the　open　wound　of　the　corpse's　neck　with　the　machete；　slicing　first　down　then　sideways　in　an　effort　to　cleave　the　enemy　into　smaller　and　yet　smaller　pieces。　An　arm　was　summarily　lopped　off；　he　picked　it　up　to　sever　hand　from　wrist；　forearm　from　upper　arm。　In　moments　the　room；　which　had　been　almost　serene　as　the　execution　took　place；　became　an　abattoir。
　　Marty　stumbled　to　the　door　in　time　to　see　Breer　strike　off　Mamoulian's　other　arm。
　　〃Look　at　him　go！〃　said　the　American　boy；　toasting　the　bloodbath　with　Whitehead's　vodka。
　　Marty　watched　the　carnage；　unblenched。　It　was　all　over。　The　European　was　a　dead　man。　His　head　lay　on　its　side　under　the　window；　it　looked　small；　vestigial。
　　Carys；　flattened　against　the　wall　beside　the　door；　caught　Marty's　hand。　〃Papa？〃　she　said。　〃What　about　Papa。〃　As　she　spoke　Mamoulian's　corpse　pitched　forward　from　its　kneeling　position。　The　ghosts　and　the　din　it　had　spilled　had　stopped。　Now　there　was　only　dark　blood　splashing　from　it。　Breer　bent　to　further　butchery；　opening　the　abdomen　with　two　slashes。　Urine　fountained　from　the　punctured　bladder。
　　Carys；　revolted　by　the　attacks；　slipped　out　of　the　room。　Marty　lingered　a　while　longer。　The　last　sight　he　caught　as　he　followed　Carys　was　the　Razor…Eater　picking　up　the　head　by　the　hair；　like　some　exotic　fruit；　and　delivering　a　lateral　cut　to　it。
　　In　the　hallway　Carys　was　crouching　at　her　father's　side；　Marty　joined　her。　She　stroked　the　old　man's　cheek。　〃Papa？〃　she　said。　He　wasn't　dead；　but　neither　was　he　truly　alive。　There　was　a　flicker　in　his　pulse；　no　more。　His　eyes　were　closed。
　　〃No　use　。　。　。〃　Marty　said　as　she　shook　the　old　man's　shoulder；　〃he's　as　good　as　gone。〃　In　the　gaming　room　Chad；　had　begun　to　shriek　with　laughter。　Apparently　the　slaughterhouse　scenes　were　reaching　new　heights　of　absurdist　brio。
　　〃I　don't　want　to　be　here　when　he　gets　bored；〃　Marty　said。　Carys　made　no　move。　〃There's　nothing　we　can　do　for　the　old　man；〃　he　said。
　　She　looked　at　him；　bewildered　by　the　dilemma。
　　〃He's　gone；　Carys。　And　we　should　go　too。〃　A　silence　had　started　in　the　abattoir。　It　was　worse；　in　its　way；　than　the　laughter；　or　the　sound　of　Breer's　labors。
　　〃We　can't　wait　around；〃　Marty　said。　He　roughly　pulled　Carys　to　her　feet　and　propelled　her　toward　the　front　door　of　the　penthouse。　She　made　only　faint　objection。
　　As　they　slipped　away　downstairs；　somewhere　up　above　them　the　blond　American　began　to　applaud　again。
　　
　　72
　　The　dead　man　worked　at　his　work　for　a　good　time。　Long　after　the　domestic　traffic　on　the　highway　had　dwindled　to　a　trickle；　leaving　only　the　long…distance　freight　drivers　to　roar　their　way　north。　Breer　heard　none　of　it。　His　ears　had　long　since　given　out；　and　his　eyesight；　once　so　sharp；　could　barely　make　sense　of　the　carnage　that　now　lay　on　every　side　of　him。　But　when　his　sight　failed　pletely；　he　still　had　the　rudiments　of　touch。　This　he　used　to　finish　his　mission；　dividing　and　subdividing　the　f