JК
Cycle of the Werewolf :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 32 из 35”
“Marty, there could be a hundred reasons for th-”
“No. There's only one. He's the werewolf, he's the Beast, it's him, and he's waiting for the full moon. As the Reverend Lowe, he can't do anything. But as the werewolf, he can do plenty. He can shut me up.”
And Marty spoke with such chilling simplicity that Al was almost convinced. “So what do you want from me?” Al asked.
Marty told him. He wanted two silver bullets, and a gun to shoot them with, and he wanted Uncle Al to come over on New Year's Eve, the night of the full moon.
“I'll do no such thing,” Uncle Al said. “Marty, you're a good kid, but you're going loopy. I think you've come down with a good case of Wheelchair Fever. If you think it over, you'll know it.”
“Maybe,” Marty said. “But think how you'll feel if you get a call on New Year's Day saying I'm dead in my bed, chewed to pieces? Do you want that on your conscience, Uncle Al?”
Al started to speak, then closed his mouth with a snap. He turned into a driveway, hearing the Mercedes' front wheels crunch in the new snow. He reversed and started back. He fought in Viet Nam and won a couple of medals there; he had successfully avoided lengthy entanglements with several lusty young ladies; and now he felt caught and trapped by his ten-year-old nephew. His crippled ten-year-old nephew. Of course he didn't want such a thing on his conscience-not even the possibility of such a thing. And Marty knew it. As Marty knew that if Uncle Al thought there was even one chance in a thousand that he might be right
Four days later, on December 10th, Uncle Al called. “Great news!” Marty announced to his family, wheeling his chair back into the family room. “Uncle Al's coming over for New Year's Eve!
“He certainly is not,” his mother says in her coldest, brusquest tone.
Marty was not daunted. “Gee, sorry—I already invited him,” he said. “He said he'd bring party-powder for the fireplace.”
His mother had spent the rest of the day glaring at Marty every time she looked in his direction or he in hers… but she didn't call her brother back and tell him to stay away, and that was the most important thing.
At supper that night Katie whispered hissingly in his ear: “You always get what you want! Just because you're a cripple!”
Grinning, Marty whispered back: “I love you too, sis.”
“You little booger!”
She flounced away.
And here it is, New Year's Eve. Marty's mother was sure Al wouldn't show up as the storm intensified, the wind howling and moaning and driving snow before it.
“Marty, there could be a hundred reasons for th-”
“No. There's only one. He's the werewolf, he's the Beast, it's him, and he's waiting for the full moon. As the Reverend Lowe, he can't do anything. But as the werewolf, he can do plenty. He can shut me up.”
And Marty spoke with such chilling simplicity that Al was almost convinced. “So what do you want from me?” Al asked.
Marty told him. He wanted two silver bullets, and a gun to shoot them with, and he wanted Uncle Al to come over on New Year's Eve, the night of the full moon.
“I'll do no such thing,” Uncle Al said. “Marty, you're a good kid, but you're going loopy. I think you've come down with a good case of Wheelchair Fever. If you think it over, you'll know it.”
“Maybe,” Marty said. “But think how you'll feel if you get a call on New Year's Day saying I'm dead in my bed, chewed to pieces? Do you want that on your conscience, Uncle Al?”
Al started to speak, then closed his mouth with a snap. He turned into a driveway, hearing the Mercedes' front wheels crunch in the new snow. He reversed and started back. He fought in Viet Nam and won a couple of medals there; he had successfully avoided lengthy entanglements with several lusty young ladies; and now he felt caught and trapped by his ten-year-old nephew. His crippled ten-year-old nephew. Of course he didn't want such a thing on his conscience-not even the possibility of such a thing. And Marty knew it. As Marty knew that if Uncle Al thought there was even one chance in a thousand that he might be right
Four days later, on December 10th, Uncle Al called. “Great news!” Marty announced to his family, wheeling his chair back into the family room. “Uncle Al's coming over for New Year's Eve!
“He certainly is not,” his mother says in her coldest, brusquest tone.
Marty was not daunted. “Gee, sorry—I already invited him,” he said. “He said he'd bring party-powder for the fireplace.”
His mother had spent the rest of the day glaring at Marty every time she looked in his direction or he in hers… but she didn't call her brother back and tell him to stay away, and that was the most important thing.
At supper that night Katie whispered hissingly in his ear: “You always get what you want! Just because you're a cripple!”
Grinning, Marty whispered back: “I love you too, sis.”
“You little booger!”
She flounced away.
And here it is, New Year's Eve. Marty's mother was sure Al wouldn't show up as the storm intensified, the wind howling and moaning and driving snow before it.