pzb.drawingblood-第63节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


s　an　equation　written　in　the　algebra　of　need。
　　Trevor　had　never　been　any　good　at　math。　But　he　did　know　that　there　were　two　sides　to　every　equation。　If　the　inhabitants　of　this　universe　or　dimension　or　ic　or　whatever　the　hell　it　was　could　get　high　on　his　bodily　fluids；　maybe　he　could　extract　something　from　them；　too。
　　He　put　his　hand　over　Sammy's；　forced　the　diamond　back　into　Sammy's　palm。
　　〃What　if　I　give　you　some？〃　he　asked。　〃Do　you　know　where　Bobby　McGee　is？〃
　　Again　that　slow　nod。
　　〃Will　you　take　me　there？〃
　　〃　'Course　I　will；〃　Sammy　said。　〃He's　been　expecting　you。〃
　　The　junkie　tried　to　smile。　It　was　a　ghastly　sight。
　　〃Okay；　then。〃
　　Sammy　led　him　into　one　of　the　dark　bars。　The　interior　was　both　garish　and　squalid；　with　walls　of　filthy　purple　velvet　and　a　floor　unwashed　for　so　long　that　Trevor　felt　the　soles　of　his　shoes　peeling　softly　away　from　it　as　he　walked。　A　sign　advertising　a　brand　of　beer　he'd　never　heard　of　flickered　green　and　gold　above　the　bar。　Reflected　in　a　dirty　mirror　on　the　opposite　wall；　it　made　a　dizzy　tunnel　of　light　spiraling　away　into　infinity。　There　was　no　bartender；　no　customers。　The　place　was　silent。
　　They　sat　at　one　of　the　rickety　little　tables。　Trevor　took　off　his　pinstriped　jacket；　rolled　up　the　left　sleeve　of　his　silk　shirt。　He　saw　that　his　scars　were　still　open；　oozing　slow　tears　of　blood。　The　stains　didn't　show　on　the　black　cloth；　though　the　sleeve　was　wet　with　it。　Sammy's　eyes　honed　in　on　the　blood。　He　looked　as　if　he　would　like　to　lap　it　right　off　Trevor's　arm。
　　Instead　he　reached　into　his　voluminous　overcoat；　pulled　out　a　length　of　rubber　tubing；　and　tied　it　around　his　own　arm　inches　above　the　elbow。　〃If　I　tie　off　ahead　of　time；〃　he　explained；　〃I　can　shoot　it　while　it's　still　good　an'　hot。〃　He　reached　over　and　stroked　Trevor's　hand。　His　touch　was　ambiguous；　not　quite　sexual。　〃You　ready？〃
　　〃Clean　your　needle　first。　You're　not　sticking　that　dirty　thing　in　my　arm。〃
　　〃No；　that　ain't　where　you　like　to　stick　dirty　things；　is　it？〃
　　Before　Trevor　could　fully　process　this　remark；　Sammy　got　up　from　the　table；　slipped　behind　the　bar；　and　came　back　with　a　glass　full　of　neat　whiskey。　He　took　out　his　syringe；　immersed　the　needle　in　the　amber　liquor　and　swished　it　around　several　times。　Then　he　pulled　out　a　cheap　cigarette　lighter；　ran　its　flame　along　the　needle　and　let　it　linger　on　the　tip。　The　alcohol　flared　up　clear　blue；　burned　off　fast。　Sammy　glanced　at　Trevor。　〃Satisfied？〃
　　Trevor　had　no　idea　if　this　procedure　really　sterilized　the　needle；　but　at　least　the　scummy…looking　crust　of　dried　blood　was　gone。　He　nodded；　feeling　as　if　somewhere　during　this　transaction　he　had　lost　the　upper　hand。
　　Sammy　bent　over　Trevor's　arm　and　slid　the　needle　into　the　open　scar　closest　to　the　elbow。　For　a　moment　he　probed；　and　a　scintilla　of　pain　shot　through　the　soft　meat。　Then　the　needle　found　a　vein　and　sank　in　deep。　Sammy　pulled　the　plunger　slowly　back。　A　dark　flower　of　blood　welled　into　the　syringe。　Trevor　felt　the　needle　shivering　with　each　beat　of　his　heart。
　　Sammy　kept　hold　of　his　hand；　idly　stroking　his　wrist　and　playing　with　his　fingers。　But　as　soon　as　he　had　a　full　hypo；　Sammy　yanked　the　needle　out　of　the　wound。　With　absolutely　no　wasted　motion　he　pulled　up　his　own　sleeve；　stuck　the　needle　deep　into　the　flesh　of　his　inner　elbow；　and　pushed　the　plunger。　Trevor's　blood　seemed　to　rush　into　his　vein　as　if　his　own　blood　were　sucking　hungrily　at　it。　Trevor　saw　Sammy's　eyelids　fluttering；　the　pinkish　rag　of　his　tongue　glistening　in　his　mouth。　〃Ohhh　。　。　。　thaasss　the　sweeeeet　red　。　。　。〃
　　Then　Sammy's　hands　spasmed　and　his　eyes　rolled　back　in　his　head　and　he　collapsed　face　first　on　the　table。　The　hypo　fell　out　of　his　arm　and　rolled　off　the　edge　of　the　table；　the　inside　of　the　barrel　still　coated　with　a　thin　film　of　blood。　Sammy's　right　hand　hit　the　glass　of　whiskey　and　sent　it　spinning　to　the　floor。　Its　harsh　reek　filled　the　bar。
　　Trevor　grabbed　a　handful　of　Sammy's　hair　and　lifted　his　head　off　the　table。　It　felt　as　light　as　a　hollow　gourd。　The　junkie's　face　had　gone　a　sick　blue　beneath　the　already…gray　cast　of　his　skin。　His　eyes　were　closed；　his　chin　slicked　with　spit。
　　Then　the　handful　of　hair　separated　from　Sammy's　scalp　like　dead　grass　ripping　out　of　dry　dirt；　and　Sammy's　head　smacked　against　the　tabletop　and　split　open　as　easily　as　an　overripe　melon。
　　Shards　of　his　fragile　skull　went　skittering　away。　Much　of　it　simply　sifted　to　dust。　His　brain　looked　like　burnt　hamburger　meat；　desiccated　and　crumbling。　Trevor　saw　a　thing　like　a　cloudy　marble　trailing　a　length　of　red　string　roll　to　the　edge　of　the　table。　One　of　Sammy's　eyeballs。　It　teetered　for　a　long　moment；　then　plopped　moistly　to　the　floor。　There　was　very　little　blood。　The　tabletop　quickly　became　littered　with　teeth　the　color　of　old　ivory；　drifts　of　hair　gone　ashen　gray；　dust　that　smelled　like　a　freshly　opened　mummy　case：　faintly　spicy；　faintly　rotten。
　　Trevor　stared　dumbly　at　the　wreckage　he　had　made　of　his　father's　cartoon　character。　The　running　joke　about　Skeletal　Sammy　had　been　that　he　could　shoot　anything。　Morphine；　Dilaudid；　straight　H；　you　name　it。　Junk　peddlers　had　tried　to　poison　him　with　battery　acid　and　strychnine　when　he　got　too　deep　into　them　for　credit；　but　Sammy　just　pumped　these　noxious　substances　into　the　old　vein　and　came　back　for　more。
　　It　had　taken　the　son　of　his　creator…his　brother；　in　a　way　…　to　give　Sammy　the　kick　he　couldn't　get　twice。　And　if　Sammy　had　ever　known　where　to　find　Bobby；　he　wasn't　telling　now。
　　Trevor　squeezed　Sammy's　thin　wrist。　The　skin　flaked　away　beneath　his　fingers　until　he　found　himself　clutching　little　more　than　bone。　Once　more　he　was　alone　in　this　place　that　felt　as　empty　as　a　junkie's　promise。　Trevor　rolled　down　his　sleeve；　put　his　jacket　back　on；　and　walked　out　of　the　bar。
　　The　street　was　still　deserted。　He　chose　a　side　street　that　ran　alongside　the　factories　but　didn't　seem　to　lead　directly　into　them。　He　had　no　tears　left　for　Sammy。　He　kept　walking。
　　
　　Zach　managed　to　drop　the　empty　coffee　mug　and　curl　up　next　to　Trevor　before　the　pain　slammed　into　his　chest。　For　several　seconds　it　rendered　him　quite　unable　to　breathe；　and　he　thought　that　was　it：　he'd　killed　himself　quick　and　neat　with　a　single　dose　of　a　socially　acceptable　drug　used　by　billions　of　people　without　a　second　thought　every　day　of　their　lives。
　　Then　his　lungs　hitched　and　he　was　able　to　suck　in　a　shallow；　agonizing　little　breath；　then　another。　His　heart　was　beating　so　hard　it　made　his　limbs　tremble　and　his　vision　throb。　He　rolled　closer　to　Trevor；　hooked　an　arm　across　Trevor's　chest；　made　sure　their　heads　were　close　together　on　the　pillow。
　　Every　muscle　in　Zach's　body　felt　pulled　in　too　many　directions；　stretched　too　thin。　He　imagined　the　fibers　pinging　and　snapping　one　by　one。　The　pain　was　exquisite；　electric。　It　burned　and　jittered　and　screamed。　The　mushrooms　in　his　system　only　upped　the　ante。
　　A　red　curtain　began　to　draw　across　his　vision。　Zach　let　his　eyes　unfocus；　felt　himself　slipping。　It　occurred　to　him　that　if　he　blacked　out　and　had　frightening　dreams；　the　stress　on　his　heart　might　kill　him　before　he　could　wake　up。　/　don't　care；　he　thought。　If　I　can't　find　Trevor；　I　don't　have　a　hell　of　a　lot　of　reason　to　e　back。
　　The　pain　lessened；　then　disappeared。　He　felt　as　if　his　weak　flesh　and　his　confining　brain　were　dissolving；　releasing　him。　All　at　once　Zach　found　himself　hovering　somewhere　near　the　center　of　the　room；　staring　down　at　the　two　bodies　on　the　bed。　Their　limbs　were　intertwined；　anchoring　each　other。　They　looked　defenseless；　as　fragile　as　the　cast…off　husks　of　locusts　that　would　shatter　at　a　touch。
　　This　is　real！　thought　Zach。　I'm　having　an　actual　out…of…body　experience！　He　tried　to　quash　the　thought；　afraid　it　might　jolt　him　back　into　his　flesh。　Instead　he　suddenly　felt　himself　skimming　along　the　ceiling；　on　the　verge　of　being　pulled　through　the　wall。　Zach　dug　in　his　psychic　nails　and　fought　to　stay　in　the　bedroom。　He　was　afraid　to　lose　sight　of　their　bodies。　And　on　the　other　side　of　that　wall　was　the　bathroom。
　　But　he　was　already　through；　circling　madly　near　the　ceiling；　so　close　he　could　count　the　cracks　in　the　yellowed　paint　and　the　cobwebs　that　clogged　the　light　fixture。　The　room　whirled　faster；　faster。　Now　there　was　no　ceiling；　no　floor；　nothing　but　a　nauseating　blur　of　toilet　and　tub　and　sink　that　looked　stained　again　with　rotten　blood；　though　it　might　have　been　the　shadows。　Zach　felt　dizzy　with　centrifugal　force　and　terror。
　　He　was　in　a　vortex；　being　sucked　toward　the　tub。　For　a　moment　he　thought　he　would　go　spinning　straight　down　the　black　orifice　of　the　drain。　But　then　he　saw　the　glittering　shards　of　mirror　and　felt　himself　swirling　into　them；　fragmenting。　It　was　like　being　forced　through　a　screen；　like　falling　into　a　kaleidoscope　edged　with　razor　blades。
　　Zach　recognized　the　next　place　he　saw。　It　was　a　place　he　knew　well。　It　was　his　cradle；　his　home；　his　most　addictive　drugIt　was　cyberspace。
　　The　writer　Bruce　Sterling　defined　cyberspace　as　the　place　where　a　telephone　conversation　seems　to　occur。　This　could　be　extrapolated　to　include　the　place　where　puter　data　was　stored；　and　the　place　a　hacker　had　to　travel　th