sk.everythingseventual-第3节

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hese　are　all　people　who　have　worked　and　are　still　working　to　keep　the　short　story　from　being　a　lost　art。　So　am　I。　And；　by　what　you　buy　（and　thus　choose　to　subsidize）　and　by　what　you　read；　so　are　you。　You　most　of　all；　Constant　Reader。　Always　you。
　　
　　Stephen　King
　　Bangor；　Maine
　　December　11；　2001
　　
　　
　　
　　　
　　　AUTOPSY　ROOM　FOUR
　　
　　
　　It's　so　dark　that　for　a　while…just　how　long　I　don't　know…I　think　I'm　still　unconscious。　Then；　slowly；　it　es　to　me　that　unconscious　people　don't　have　a　sensation　of　movement　through　the　dark；　acpanied　by　a　faint；　rhythmic　sound　that　can　only　be　a　squeaky　wheel。　And　I　can　feel　contact；　from　the　top　of　my　head　to　the　balls　of　my　heels。　I　can　smell　something　that　might　be　rubber　or　vinyl。　This　is　not　unconsciousness；　and　there　is　something　too　。　。　。　too　what？　Too　rational　about　these　sensations　for　it　to　be　a　dream。
　　Then　what　is　it？
　　Who　am　I？
　　And　what's　happening　to　me？
　　The　squeaky　wheel　quits　its　stupid　rhythm　and　I　stop　moving。　There　is　a　crackle　around　me　from　the　rubber…smelling　stuff。
　　A　voice：　'Which　one　did　they　say？'
　　A　pause。
　　Second　voice：　'Four；　I　think。　Yeah；　four。'
　　We　start　to　move　again；　but　more　slowly。　I　can　hear　the　faint　scuff　of　feet　now；　probably　in　soft…soled　shoes；　maybe　sneakers。　The　owners　of　the　voices　are　the　owners　of　the　shoes。　They　stop　me　again。　There's　a　thump　followed　by　a　faint　whoosh。　It　is；　I　think；　the　sound　of　a　door　with　a　pneumatic　hinge　being　opened。
　　What's　going　on　here？　I　yell；　but　the　yell　is　only　in　my　head。　My　lips　don't　move。　I　can　feel　them…and　my　tongue；　lying　on　the　floor　of　my　mouth　like　a　stunned　mole…but　I　can't　move　them。
　　The　thing　I'm　on　starts　rolling　again。　A　moving　bed？　Yes。　A　gurney；　in　other　words。　I've　had　some　experience　with　them；　a　long　time　ago；　in　Lyndon　Johnson's　shitty　little　Asian　adventure。　It　es　to　me　that　I'm　in　a　hospital；　that　something　bad　has　happened　to　me；　something　like　the　explosion　that　almost　neutered　me　twenty…three　years　ago；　and　that　I'm　going　to　be　operated　on。　There　are　a　lot　of　answers　in　that　idea；　sensible　ones；　for　the　most　part；　but　I　don't　hurt　anywhere。　Except　for　the　minor　matter　of　being　scared　out　of　my　wits；　I　feel　fine。　And　if　these　are　orderlies　wheeling　me　into　an　operating　room；　why　can't　I　see？　Why　can't　I　talk？
　　A　third　voice：　'Over　here；　boys。'
　　My　rolling　bed　is　pushed　in　a　new　direction；　and　the　question　drumming　in　my　head　is　What　kind　of　a　mess　have　I　gotten　myself　into？
　　Doesn't　that　depend　on　who　you　are？　I　ask　myself；　but　that's　one　thing；　at　least；　I　find　I　do　know。　I'm　Howard　Cottrell。　I'm　a　stock　broker　known　to　some　of　my　colleagues　as　Howard　the　Conqueror。
　　Second　voice　（from　just　above　my　head）：　'You're　looking　very　pretty　today；　doc。'
　　Fourth　voice　（female；　and　cool）：　'It's　always　nice　to　be　validated　by　you；　Rusty。　Could　you　hurry　up　a　little？　The　babysitter　expects　me　back　by　seven。　She's　mitted　to　dinner　with　her　parents。'
　　Back　by　seven；　back　by　seven。　It's　still　the　afternoon；　maybe；　or　early　evening；　but　black　in　here；　black　as　your　hat；　black　as　a　woodchucks　asshole；　black　as　midnight　in　Persia；　and　what's　going　on？　Where　have　I　been？　What　have　I　been　doing？　Why　haven't　I　been　manning　the　phones？
　　Because　it's　Saturday；　a　voice　from　far　down　murmurs。　You　were　。　。　。　were　。　。　。
　　A　sound：　WHOCK！　A　sound　I　love。　A　sound　I　more　or　less　live　for。　The　sound　of　。　。　。　what？　The　head　of　a　golf　club；　of　course。　Hitting　a　ball　off　the　tee。　I　stand；　watching　it　fly　off　into　the　blue　。　。　。
　　I'm　grabbed；　shoulders　and　calves；　and　lifted。　It　startles　me　terribly；　and　I　try　to　scream。　No　sound　es　out　。　。　。　or　perhaps　one　does；　a　tiny　squeak；　much　tinier　than　the　one　produced　by　the　wheel　below　me。　Probably　not　even　that。　Probably　it's　just　my　imagination。
　　I'm　swung　through　the　air　in　an　envelope　of　blackness…Hey；　don't　drop　me；　I've　got　a　bad　back！　I　try　to　say；　and　again　there's　no　movement　of　the　lips　or　teeth；　my　tongue　goes　on　lying　on　the　floor　of　my　mouth；　the　mole　maybe　not　just　stunned　but　dead；　and　now　I　have　a　terrible　thought；　one　that　spikes　fright　a　degree　closer　to　panic：　What　if　they　put　me　down　the　wrong　way　and　my　tongue　slides　backward　and　blocks　my　windpipe？　I　won't　be　able　to　breathe！　That's　what　people　mean　when　they　say　someone　'swallowed　his　tongue'；　isn't　it？
　　Second　voice　（Rusty）：　'You'll　like　this　one；　doc；　he　looks　like　Michael　Bolton。'
　　Female　doc：　'Who's　that？'
　　Third　voice…sounds　like　a　young　man；　not　much　more　than　a　teenager：　'He's　this　white　lounge…singer　who　wants　to　be　black。　I　don't　think　this　is　him。'
　　There's　laughter　at　that；　the　female　voice　joining　in　（a　little　doubtfully）；　and　as　I　am　set　down　on　what　feels　like　a　padded　table；　Rusty　starts　some　new　crack…he's　got　a　whole　standup　routine；　it　seems。　I　lose　this　bit　of　hilarity　in　a　burst　of　sudden　horror。　I　won't　be　able　to　breathe　if　my　tongue　blocks　my　windpipe；　that's　the　thought　that　has　just　gone　through　my　mind；　but　what　if　I'm　not　breathing　now？
　　What　if　I'm　dead？　What　if　this　is　what　death　is　like？
　　It　fits。　It　fits　everything　with　a　horrid　prophylactic　snugness。　The　dark。　The　rubbery　smell。　Nowadays　I　am　Howard　the　Conqueror；　stock　broker　extraordinaire；　terror　of　Derry　Municipal　Country　Club；　frequent　habitué　of　what　is　known　at　golf　courses　all　over　the　world　as　the　Nineteenth　Hole；　but　in　'71　I　was　part　of　a　medical　assistance　team　in　the　Mekong　Delta；　a　scared　kid　who　sometimes　woke　up　wet…eyed　from　dreams　of　the　family　dog；　and　all　at　once　I　know　this　feel；　this　smell。
　　Dear　God；　I'm　in　a　body　bag。
　　First　voice：　'Want　to　sign　this；　doc？　Remember　to　bear　down　hard…it's　three　copies。'
　　Sound　of　a　pen；　scraping　away　on　paper。　I　imagine　the　owner　of　the　first　voice　holding　out　a　clipboard　to　the　woman　doctor。
　　Oh　dear　Jesus　let　me　not　be　dead！　I　try　to　scream；　and　nothing　es　out。
　　I'm　breathing；　though　。　。　。　aren't　I？　I　mean；　I　can't　feel　myself　doing　it；　but　my　lungs　seem　okay；　they're　not　throbbing　or　yelling　for　air　the　way　they　do　when　you've　swum　too　far　underwater；　so　I　must　be　okay；　right？
　　Except　if　you're　dead；　the　deep　voice　murmurs；　they　wouldn't　be　crying　out　for　air；　would　they？　No…because　dead　lungs　don't　need　to　breathe。　Dead　lungs　can　just　kind　of。　。　。　take　it　easy。
　　Rusty：　'What　are　you　doing　next　Saturday　night；　doc？'
　　But　if　I'm　dead；　how　can　I　feel？　How　can　I　smell　the　bag　I'm　in？　How　can　I　hear　these　voices；　the　doc　now　saying　that　next　Saturday　night　she's　going　to　be　shampooing　her　dog；　which　is　named　Rusty；　what　a　coincidence；　and　all　of　them　laughing？　If　I'm　dead；　why　aren't　I　either　gone　or　in　the　white　light　they're　always　talking　about　on　Oprah？
　　There's　a　harsh　ripping　sound　and　all　at　once　I　am　in　white　light；　it　is　blinding；　like　the　sun　breaking　through　a　scrim　of　clouds　on　a　winter　day。　I　try　to　squint　my　eyes　shut　against　it；　but　nothing　happens。　My　eyelids　are　like　blinds　on　broken　rollers。
　　A　face　bends　over　me；　blocking　off　part　of　the　glare；　which　es　not　from　some　dazzling　astral　plane　but　from　a　bank　of　overhead　fluorescents。　The　face　belongs　to　a　young；　conventionally　handsome　man　of　about　twenty…five；　he　looks　like　one　of　those　beach　beefcakes　on　Baywatch　or　Melrose　Place。　Marginally　smarter；　though。　He's　got　a　lot　of　black　hair　under　a　carelessly　worn　surgical　greens　cap。　He's　wearing　the　tunic；　too。　His　eyes　are　cobalt　blue；　the　sort　of　eyes　girls　reputedly　die　for。　There　are　dusty　arcs　of　freckles　high　up　on　his　cheekbones。
　　'Hey；　gosh；'　he　says。　It's　the　third　voice。　'This　guy　does　look　like　Michael　Bolton！　A　little　long　in　the　old　tootharoo；　maybe　。　。　。　'　He　leans　closer。　One　of　the　flat　tie…ribbons　at　the　neck　of　his　green　tunic　tickles　against　my　forehead。　'　。　。　。　But　yeah。　I　see　it。　Hey；　Michael；　sing　something。'
　　Help　me！　is　what　I'm　trying　to　sing；　but　I　can　only　look　up　into　his　dark　blue　eyes　with　my　frozen　dead　man's　stare；　I　can　only　wonder　if　I　am　a　dead　man；　if　this　is　how　it　happens；　if　this　is　what　everyone　goes　through　after　the　pump　quits。　If　I'm　still　alive；　how　e　he　hasn't　seen　my　pupils　contract　when　the　light　hit　them？　But　I　know　the　answer　to　that　。　。　。　or　I　think　I　do。　They　didn't　contract。　That's　why　the　glare　from　the　fluorescents　is　so　painful。
　　The　tie；　tickling　across　my　forehead　like　a　feather。
　　Help　me！　I　scream　up　at　the　Baywatch　beefcake；　who　is　probably　an　intern　or　maybe　just　a　med　school　brat。　Help　me；　please！
　　My　lips　don't　even　quiver。
　　The　face　moves　back；　the　tie　stops　tickling；　and　all　that　white　light　streams　through　my　helpless…to…look…away　eyes　and　into　my　brain。　It's　a　hellish　feeling；　a　kind　of　rape。　I'll　go　blind　if　I　have　to　stare　into　it　for　long；　I　think；　and　blindness　will　be　a　relief。
　　WHOCK！　The　sound　of　the　driver　hitting　the　ball；　but　a　little　flat　this　time；　and　the　feeling　in　the　hands　is　bad。　The　ball's　up　。　。　。　but　veering　。　。　。　veering　off　。　。　。　veering　toward　。　。　。
　　Shit。
　　I'm　in　the　rough。
　　Now　another　face　bends　into　my　field　of　vision。　A　white　tunic　instead　of　a　green　one　below　it；　a　great　untidy　mop　of　orange　hair　above　it。　Distress…sale　IQ　is　my　first　impression。　It　can　onl