JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 408 из 422A triangle of holes, two on top and one underneath, holes like whispering eyes,
like blast-holes—That’s right, David said. That’s right, Johnny. To blast Talc right into you, the way it blasted itself into Cary Ripton, the only way it has to get out of the hole it’s in down there, the hole that’s too small for anything but this stuff this jizz, two for your nose and one for your mouth.
The brownish-black muck twisted toward him, both horrible and enticing, holes that were mouths, mouths that were eyes. Eyes that whispered. Promised. He realized he had an erection. Not exactly a great time for one, but when had that ever stopped him.
Now… sucking… he could feel them sucking the air out of his mouth… his t—oat…
He snapped his mouth shut and yanked the motorcycle helmet down over his head. He was just in time. A moment later the brownish ribbons encountered the plexi face-shield and spread over it with an unpleasant wet smooching sound. For a moment he could see spreading suckers like kissing lips, and then they were gone, lost in filthy smears of brown particulate matter.
Johnny reached out, seized the brown stuff floating before him, and twisted it in opposite directions, as if he were wringing out a facecloth. There was a needling sen-sation in his palms and fingers, and the flesh went numb but the brown stuff tore away, some of it drawing back toward the mi, some dripping to the chamber’s floor.
He reached the edge of the hole, standing between a heap of feathers that had been a buzzard and a coyote lying dead on its side. He looked down, reaching up to touch the hanging bags of ANFO as he did, caressing them with tingling, half-numb hands.
Do you know how to set this shit off without dyno or blasting caps. Steve had asked. You do, don’t you. Or you think you do.
“I hope I do,” Johnny said. His voice was flat and strange inside the helmet. “I hope I-”
“THEN COME ON!” a mad voice cried out from below him. Johnny recoiled in terror and surprise. It was the voice of the cop. Of Collie Entragian. “COME ON! TAK AH SM! PIRIN MOH! COME ON, YOU ROTTEN COCKSUCKER! LET’s SEE HOW BRAVE YOU ARE! TAK!”
He tried to take a step backward, maybe think this over, but tendrils of muck curled around his ankles like hands and jerked his feet out from under him. He went into the well in a graceless feet-first dive, hammering the back of his head against the edge as he fell. If not for the helmet, his skull would likely have been crushed in. He curled the bags of ANFO protectively against his chest, making breasts of them.
Then the pain came, first biting, then searing, then seeming to eat him alive.
like blast-holes—That’s right, David said. That’s right, Johnny. To blast Talc right into you, the way it blasted itself into Cary Ripton, the only way it has to get out of the hole it’s in down there, the hole that’s too small for anything but this stuff this jizz, two for your nose and one for your mouth.
The brownish-black muck twisted toward him, both horrible and enticing, holes that were mouths, mouths that were eyes. Eyes that whispered. Promised. He realized he had an erection. Not exactly a great time for one, but when had that ever stopped him.
Now… sucking… he could feel them sucking the air out of his mouth… his t—oat…
He snapped his mouth shut and yanked the motorcycle helmet down over his head. He was just in time. A moment later the brownish ribbons encountered the plexi face-shield and spread over it with an unpleasant wet smooching sound. For a moment he could see spreading suckers like kissing lips, and then they were gone, lost in filthy smears of brown particulate matter.
Johnny reached out, seized the brown stuff floating before him, and twisted it in opposite directions, as if he were wringing out a facecloth. There was a needling sen-sation in his palms and fingers, and the flesh went numb but the brown stuff tore away, some of it drawing back toward the mi, some dripping to the chamber’s floor.
He reached the edge of the hole, standing between a heap of feathers that had been a buzzard and a coyote lying dead on its side. He looked down, reaching up to touch the hanging bags of ANFO as he did, caressing them with tingling, half-numb hands.
Do you know how to set this shit off without dyno or blasting caps. Steve had asked. You do, don’t you. Or you think you do.
“I hope I do,” Johnny said. His voice was flat and strange inside the helmet. “I hope I-”
“THEN COME ON!” a mad voice cried out from below him. Johnny recoiled in terror and surprise. It was the voice of the cop. Of Collie Entragian. “COME ON! TAK AH SM! PIRIN MOH! COME ON, YOU ROTTEN COCKSUCKER! LET’s SEE HOW BRAVE YOU ARE! TAK!”
He tried to take a step backward, maybe think this over, but tendrils of muck curled around his ankles like hands and jerked his feet out from under him. He went into the well in a graceless feet-first dive, hammering the back of his head against the edge as he fell. If not for the helmet, his skull would likely have been crushed in. He curled the bags of ANFO protectively against his chest, making breasts of them.
Then the pain came, first biting, then searing, then seeming to eat him alive.