cb.booksofblood-第7部分

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t。　His　reason　said　it　couldn't　be　real；　but　his　flesh　knew　it　was。　His　body　became　rigid　with　terror。　His　eyes；　unblinking；　could　not　close　off　the　appalling　scene　through　the　curtain。　He　stayed　at　the　door　while　the　train　rattled　on；　while　his　blood　drained　from　his　extremities；　and　his　brain　reeled　from　lack　of　oxygen。　Bright　spots　of　light　flashed　in　front　of　his　vision；　blotting　out　the　atrocity。
　　Then　he　fainted。
　　
　　He　was　unconscious　when　the　train　reached　Jay　Street。　He　was　deaf　to　the　driver's　announcement　that　all　travellers　beyond　that　station　would　have　to　change　trains。　Had　he　heard　this　he　would　have　questioned　the　sense　of　it。　No　trains　disgorged　all　their　passengers　at　Jay　Street；　the　line　ran　to　Mott　Avenue；　via　the　Aqueduct　Race　Track；　past　JFK　Airport。　He　would　have　asked　what　kind　of　train　this　could　be。　Except　that　he　already　knew。　The　truth　was　hanging　in　the　next　car。　It　was　smiling　contentedly　to　itself　from　behind　a　bloody　chain…mail　apron。
　　This　was　the　Midnight　Meat　Train。
　　There's　no　accounting　for　time　in　a　dead　faint。　It　could　have　been　seconds　or　hours　that　passed　before　Kaufman's　eyes　flickered　open　again；　and　his　mind　focussed　on　his　new…found　situation。
　　He　lay　under　one　of　the　seats　now；　sprawled　along　the　vibrating　wall　of　the　car；　hidden　from　view。　Fate　was　with　him　so　far　he　thought：　somehow　the　rocking　of　the　car　must　have　jockeyed　his　unconscious　body　out　of　sight。
　　He　thought　of　the　horror　in　Car　Two；　and　swallowed　back　vomit。　He　was　alone。　Wherever　the　guard　was　（murdered　perhaps）；　there　was　no　way　he　could　call　for　help。　And　the　driver？　Was　he　dead　at　his　controls？　Was　the　train　even　now　hurtling　through　an　unknown　tunnel；　a　tunnel　without　a　single　station　to　identify　it；　towards　its　destruction？
　　And　if　there　was　no　crash　to　be　killed　in；　there　was　always　the　Butcher；　still　hacking　away　a　door's　thickness　from　where　Kaufman　lay。
　　Whichever　way　he　turned；　the　name　on　the　door　was　Death。
　　The　noise　was　deafening；　especially　lying　on　the　floor。　Kaufman's　teeth　were　shaking　in　their　sockets　and　his　face　felt　numb　with　the　vibration；　even　his　skull　was　aching。
　　Gradually　he　felt　strength　seeping　back　into　his　exhausted　limbs。　He　cautiously　stretched　his　fingers　and　clenched　his　fists；　to　set　the　blood　flowing　there　again。
　　And　as　the　feeling　returned；　so　did　the　nausea。　He　kept　seeing　the　grisly　brutality　of　the　next　car。　He'd　seen　photographs　of　murder　victims　before；　of　course；　but　these　were　no　mon　murders。　He　was　in　the　same　train　as　the　Subway　Butcher；　the　monster　who　strung　his　victims　up　by　the　feet　from　the　straps；　hairless　and　naked。
　　How　long　would　it　be　before　the　killer　stepped　through　that　door　and　claimed　him？　He　was　sure　that　if　the　slaughterer　didn't　finish　him；　expectation　would。
　　He　heard　movement　beyond　the　door。
　　Instinct　took　over。　Kaufman　thrust　himself　further　under　the　seat　and　tucked　himself　up　into　a　tiny　ball；　with　his　sick…white　face　to　the　wall。　Then　he　covered　his　head　with　his　hands　and　closed　his　eyes　as　tightly　as　any　child　in　terror　of　the　Bogeyman。
　　The　door　was　slid　open。　Click。　Whoosh。　A　rush　of　air　up　from　the　rails。　It　smelt　stranger　than　any　Kaufman　had　smelt　before：　and　colder。　This　was　somehow　primal　air　in　his　nostrils；　hostile　and　unfathomable　air。　It　made　him　shudder。
　　The　door　closed。　Click。
　　The　Butcher　was　close；　Kaufman　knew　it。　He　could　be　standing　no　more　than　a　matter　of　inches　from　where　he　lay。
　　Was　he　even　now　looking　down　at　Kaufman's　back？　Even　now　bending；　knife　in　hand；　to　scoop　Kaufman　out　of　his　hiding　place；　like　a　snail　hooked　from　its　shell？
　　Nothing　happened。　He　felt　no　breath　on　his　neck。　His　spine　was　not　slit　open。
　　There　was　simply　a　clatter　of　feet　close　to　Kaufman's　head；　then　that　same　sound　receding。
　　Kaufman's　breath；　held　in　his　lungs　〃til　they　hurt；　was　expelled　in　a　rasp　between　his　teeth。
　　Mahogany　was　almost　disappointed　that　the　sleeping　man　had　alighted　at　West　4th　Street。　He　was　hoping　for　one　more　job　to　do　that　night；　to　keep　him　occupied　while　they　descended。　But　no：　the　man　had　gone。　The　potential　victim　hadn't　looked　that　healthy　anyway；　he　thought　to　himself；　he　was　an　anaemic　Jewish　accountant　probably。　The　meat　wouldn't　have　been　of　any　quality。　Mahogany　walked　the　length　of　the　car　to　the　driver's　cabin。　He'd　spend　the　rest　of　the　journey　there。
　　My　Christ；　thought　Kaufman；　he's　going　to　kill　the　driver。
　　He　heard　the　cabin　door　open。　Then　the　voice　of　the　Butcher：　low　and　hoarse。
　　〃Hi。〃
　　〃Hi。〃　They　knew　each　other。
　　〃All　done？〃
　　〃All　done。〃　Kaufman　was　shocked　by　the　banality　of　the　exchange。　All　done？　What　did　that　mean：　all　done？
　　He　missed　the　next　few　words　as　the　train　hit　a　particularly　noisy　section　of　track。
　　Kaufman　could　resist　looking　no　longer。　Warily　he　uncurled　himself　and　glanced　over　his　shoulder　down　the　length　of　the　car。　All　he　could　see　was　the　Butcher's　legs；　and　the　bottom　of　the　open　cabin　door。　Damn。　He　wanted　to　see　the　monster's　face　again。
　　There　was　laughter　now。
　　Kaufman　calculated　the　risks　of　his　situation：　the　mathematics　of　panic。　If　he　remained　where　he　was；　sooner　or　later　the　Butcher　would　glance　down　at　him；　and　he'd　be　mincemeat。　On　the　other　hand；　if　he　were　to　move　from　his　hiding　place　he　would　risk　being　seen　and　pursued。　Which　was　worse：　stasis；　and　meeting　his　death　trapped　in　a　hole；　or　making　a　break　for　it　and　confronting　his　Maker　in　the　middle　of　the　car？
　　Kaufman　surprised　himself　with　his　mettle：　he'd　move。
　　Infinitesimally　slowly　he　crawled　out　from　under　the　seat；　watching　the　Butcher's　back　every　minute　as　he　did　so。　Once　out；　he　began　to　crawl　towards　the　door。　Each　step　he　took　was　a　torment；　but　the　Butcher　seemed　far　too　engrossed　in　his　conversation　to　turn　round。
　　Kaufman　had　reached　the　door。　He　began　to　stand　up；　trying　all　the　while　to　prepare　himself　for　the　sight　he　would　meet　in　Car　Two。　The　handle　was　grasped；　and　he　slid　the　door　open。
　　The　noise　of　the　rails　increased；　and　a　wave　of　dank　air；　stinking　of　nothing　on　earth；　came　up　at　him。　Surely　the　Butcher　must　hear；　or　smell？　Surely　he　must　turn…But　no。　Kaufman　skinned　his　way　through　the　slit　he　had　opened　and　so　through　into　the　bloody　chamber　beyond。
　　Relief　made　him　careless。　He　failed　to　latch　the　door　properly　behind　him　and　it　began　to　slide　open　with　the　buffeting　of　the　train。
　　Mahogany　put　his　head　out　of　the　cabin　and　stared　down　the　car　towards　the　door。
　　〃What　the　fuck's　that？〃　said　the　driver。
　　〃Didn't　close　the　door　properly。　That's　all。〃　Kaufman　heard　the　Butcher　walking　towards　the　door。　He　crouched；　a　ball　of　consternation；　against　the　intersecting　wall；　suddenly　aware　of　how　full　his　bowels　were。　The　door　was　pulled　closed　from　the　other　side；　and　the　footsteps　receded　again。
　　Safe；　for　another　breath　at　least。
　　Kaufman　opened　his　eyes；　steeling　himself　for　the　slaughter…pen　in　front　of　him。
　　There　was　no　avoiding　it。
　　It　filled　every　one　of　his　senses：　the　smell　of　opened　entrails；　the　sight　of　the　bodies；　the　feel　of　fluid　on　the　floor　under　his　fingers；　the　sound　of　the　straps　creaking　beneath　the　weight　of　the　corpses；　even　the　air；　tasting　salty　with　blood。　He　was　with　death　absolutely　in　that　cubby…hole；　hurtling　through　the　dark。
　　But　there　was　no　nausea　now。　There　was　no　feeling　left　but　a　casual　revulsion。　He　even　found　himself　peering　at　the　bodies　with　some　curiosity。
　　The　carcass　closest　to　him　was　the　remains　of　the　pimply　youth　he'd　seen　in　Car　One。　The　body　hung　upside…down；　swinging　back　and　forth　to　the　rhythm　of　the　train；　in　unison　with　its　three　fellows；　an　obscene　dance　macabre。
　　Its　arms　dangled　loosely　from　the　shoulder　joints；　into　which　gashes　an　inch　or　two　deep　had　been　made；　so　the　bodies　would　hang　more　neatly。
　　Every　part　of　the　dead　kid's　anatomy　was　swaying　hypnotically。　The　tongue；　hanging　from　the　open　mouth。　The　head；　lolling　on　its　slit　neck。　Even　the　youth's　penis　flapped　from　side　to　side　on　his　plucked　groin。　The　head　wound　and　the　open　jugular　still　pulsed　blood　into　a　black　bucket。　There　was　an　elegance　about　the　whole　sight：　the　sign　of　a　job　well…done。
　　Beyond　that　body　were　the　strung…up　corpses　of　two　young　white　women　and　a　darker　skinned　male。　Kaufman　turned　his　head　on　one　side　to　look　at　their　faces。　They　were　quite　blank。　One　of　the　girls　was　a　beauty。　He　decided　the　male　had　been　Puerto　Rican。　All　were　shorn　of　their　head　and　body　hair。　In　fact　the　air　was　still　pungent　with　the　smell　of　the　shearing。　Kaufman　slid　up　the　wall　out　of　the　crouching　position；　and　as　he　did　so　one　of　the　women's　bodies　turned　around；　presenting　a　dorsal　view。
　　He　was　not　prepared　for　this　last　horror。
　　The　meat　of　her　back　had　been　entirely　cleft　open　from　neck　to　buttock　and　the　muscle　had　been　peeled　back　to　expose　the　glistening　vertebrae。　It　was　the　final　triumph　of　the　Butcher's　craft。　Here　they　hung；　these　shaved；　bled；　slit　slabs　of　humanity；　opened　up　like　fish；　and　ripe　for　devouring。
　　Kaufman　almost　smiled　at　the　perfection　of　its　horror。　He　felt　an　offer　of　insanity　tickling　the　base　of　his　skull；　tempting　him　into　oblivion；