Читать книгу Cabal - Clive Barker, Clive Barker - Страница 11

The sound of an animal woke him, its growls finding their way into floating dreams and calling him down to earth. He opened his eyes, and sat up. He couldn’t see the dog, but he heard it still. Was it behind him?; the proximity of the tombs threw echoes back and forth. Very slowly, he turned to look over his shoulder. The darkness was deep, but did not quite conceal a large beast, its species impossible to read. There was no misinterpreting the threat from its throat however. It didn’t like his scrutiny, to judge by the tenor of its growls.

‘Hey, boy …’ he said softly, ‘it’s OK.’

Ligaments creaking, he started to stand up, knowing that if he stayed on the ground the animal had easy access to his throat. His limbs had stiffened lying on the cold ground; he moved like a geriatric. Perhaps it was this that kept the animal from attacking, for it simply watched him, the crescents of the whites of its eyes – the only detail he could make out – widening as its gaze followed him into a standing position. Once on his feet he turned to face the creature, which began to move towards him. There was something in its advance that made him think it was wounded. He could hear it dragging one of its limbs behind it; its head low, its stride ragged.

He had words of comfort on his lips when an arm hooked about his neck, taking breath and words away.

‘Move and I gut you.’

With the threat a second arm slid around his body, the fingers digging into his belly with such force he had no doubt the man would make the threat good with his bare hand.

Boone took a shallow breath. Even that minor motion brought a tightening of the death grip at neck and abdomen. He felt blood run down his belly and into his jeans.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ the voice demanded.

He was a bad liar; the truth was safer.

‘My name’s Boone. I came here … I came to find Midian.’

Did the hold on his belly relax a little when he named his purpose?

‘Why?’ a second voice now demanded. It took Boone no more than a heart beat to realize that the voice had come from the shadows ahead of him, where the wounded beast stood. Indeed from the beast.

‘My friend asked you a question,’ said the voice at his ear. ‘Answer him.’

Boone, disoriented by the attack, fixed his gaze again on whatever occupied the shadows and found himself doubting his eyes. The head of his questioner was not solid; it seemed almost to be inhaling its redundant features, their substance darkening and flowing through socket and nostrils and mouth back into itself.

All thought of his jeopardy disappeared; what seized him now was elation. Narcisse had not lied. Here was the transforming truth of that.

‘I came to be amongst you –’ he said, answering the miracle’s question. ‘I came because I belong here.’

A question emerged from the soft laughter behind him.

‘What does he look like, Peloquin?’

The thing had drunk its beast-face down. There were human features beneath, set on a body more reptile than mammal. That limb he dragged behind him was a tail; his wounded lope the gait of a low slung lizard. That too was under review, as the tremor of change moved down its jutting spine.

‘He looks like a Natural,’ Peloquin replied. ‘Not that that means much.’

Why could his attacker not see for himself, Boone wondered.

He glanced down at the hand on his belly. It had six fingers, tipped not with nails but with claws, now buried half an inch in his muscle.

‘Don’t kill me,’ he said. ‘I’ve come a long way to be here.’

‘Hear that, Jackie?’ said Peloquin, thrusting from the ground with its four legs to stand upright in front of Boone. His eyes, now level with Boone’s, were bright blue. His breath was as hot as the blast from an open furnace.

‘What kind of beast are you, then?’ he wanted to know. The transformation was all but finished. The man beneath the monster was nothing remarkable. Forty, lean and sallow skinned.

‘We should take him below,’ said Jackie. ‘Lylesburg will want to see him.’

‘Probably,’ said Peloquin. ‘But I think we’d be wasting his time. This is a Natural, Jackie. I can smell ’em.’

‘I’ve spilled blood …’ Boone murmured. ‘Killed eleven people.’

The blue eyes perused him. There was humour in them.

‘I don’t think so,’ Peloquin said.

‘It’s not up to us,’ Jackie put in. ‘You can’t judge him.’

‘I’ve got eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ said Peloquin. ‘I know a clean man when I see one.’ He wagged his finger at Boone. ‘You’re not Nightbreed,’ he said. ‘You’re meat. That’s what you are. Meat for the beast.’

The humour drained from his expression as he spoke, and hunger replaced it.

‘We can’t do this,’ the other creature protested.

‘Who’ll know?’ said Peloquin. ‘Who’ll ever know?’

‘We’re breaking the law.’

Peloquin seemed indifferent to that. He bared his teeth, dark smoke oozing from the gaps and rising up over his face. Boone knew what was coming next. The man was breathing out what he’d moments ago inhaled: his lizard self. The proportions of his head were already altering subtly, as though his skull were dismantling and re-organizing himself beneath the hood of his flesh.

‘You can’t kill me!’ he said. ‘I belong with you.’

Was there a denial out of the smoke in front of him? If so it was lost in translation. There was to be no further debate. The beast intended to eat him –

He felt a sharp pain in his belly, and glanced down to see the clawed hand detach itself from his flesh. The hold at his neck slipped, and the creature behind him said:

‘Go.’

He needed no persuasion. Before Peloquin could complete his reconstruction Boone slid from Jackie’s embrace and ran. Any sense of direction he might have had was forfeited in the desperation of the moment, a desperation fuelled by a roar of fury from the hungry beast, and the sound – almost instant, it seemed – of pursuit.

The necropolis was a maze. He ran blindly, ducking to right and left wherever an opening offered itself, but he didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that the devourer was closing on him. He heard its accusation in his head as he ran:

You’re not Nightbreed. You’re meat. Meat for the beast.

The words were an agony profounder than the ache in his legs or his lungs. Even here, amongst the monsters of Midian he did not belong. And if not here, where? He was running, as prey had always run when the hungry were on their heels, but it was a race he couldn’t win.

He stopped. He turned.

Peloquin was five or six yards behind him, his body still human, naked and vulnerable, but the head entirely bestial, the mouth wide and ringed with teeth like thorns. He too stopped running, perhaps expecting Boone to draw a weapon. When none was forthcoming, he raised his arms towards his victim. Behind him, Jackie stumbled into view, and Boone had his first glimpse of the man. Or was it men? There were two faces on his lumpen head, the features of both utterly distorted; eyes dislodged so they looked everywhere but ahead, mouths collided into a single gash, noses slits without bones. It was the face of a freak show foetus.

Jackie tried one last appeal, but Peloquin’s outstretched arms were already transforming from fingertip to elbow, their delicacy giving way to formidable power.

Before the muscle was fixed he came at Boone, leaping to bring his victim down. Boone fell before him. It was too late now to regret his passivity. He felt the claws tear at his jacket to bare the good flesh of his chest. Peloquin raised his head and grinned, an expression this mouth was not made for; then he bit. The teeth were not long, but many. They hurt less than Boone had expected until Peloquin pulled back, tearing away a mouthful of muscle, taking skin and nipple with it.

The pain shocked Boone from resignation; he began to thrash beneath Peloquin’s weight. But the beast spat the morsel from its maw and came back for better, exhaling the smell of blood in its prey’s face. There was reason for the exhalation; on its next breath it would suck Boone’s heart and lungs from his chest. He cried out for help, and it came. Before the fatal breath could be drawn Jackie seized hold of Peloquin and dragged him from his sustenance. Boone felt the weight of the creature lifted, and through the blur of agony saw his champion wrestling with Peloquin, their thrashing limbs intertwined. He didn’t wait to cheer the victor. Pressing his palm to the wound on his chest, he got to his feet.

There was no safety for him here; Peloquin was surely not the only occupant with a taste for human meat. He could feel others watching him as he staggered through the necropolis, waiting for him to falter and fall so they could take him with impunity.

Yet his system, traumatized as it was, didn’t fail. There was a vigour in his muscles he’d not felt since he’d done violence to himself, a thought that repulsed him now as it had never before. Even the wound, throbbing beneath his hand, had its life, and was celebrating it. The pain had gone, replaced not by numbness but by a sensitivity that was almost erotic, tempting Boone to reach into his chest and stroke his heart. Entertained by such nonsenses he let instinct guide his feet and it brought him to the double gates. The latch defeated his blood-slicked hands so he climbed, scaling the gates with an ease that brought laughter to his throat. Then he was off up towards Midian, running not for fear of pursuit but for the pleasure his limbs took in usage, and his senses in speed.