The Children of the Corn / Дети кукурузы (by Stephen King, 1977) - аудиокнига на английском

Children of the Corn Stephen King Burt turned the radio on too loud and didn't turn it down because they were on the verge of another argument and he didn't want it to happen. He was desperate for it not to happen. Vicky said something. “What?” he shouted. “Turn it down! Do you want to break my eardrums?” He bit down hard on what might have come through his mouth and turned it down. Vicky was fanning herself with her scarf even though the T-Bird was airconditioned. “Where are we, anyway?” «Nebraska.” She gave him a cold, neutral look. “Yes, Burt. I know we're in Nebraska, Burt. But where the hell are we?” “You've got the road atlas. Look it up. Or can't you read?” “Such wit. This is why we got off the turnpike. So we could look at three hundred miles of corn. And enjoy the wit and wisdom of Burt Robeson.” He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He decided he was holding it that tightly because if he loosened up, why, one of those hands might just fly off and hit the ex-Prom Queen beside him right in the chops. We “re saving our marriage, he told himself. Yes. We're doing it the same way us grunts went about saving villages in the war. “Vicky,” he said carefully. “I have driven fifteen hundred miles on turnpikes since we left Boston. I did all that driving myself because you refused to drive. Then—” “I did not refuse!” Vicky said hotly. “Just because I get migraines when I drive for a long time -'Then when I asked you if you'd navigate for me on some of the secondary roads, you said sure, Burt. Those were your exact words. Sure, Burt. Then -'Sometimes I wonder how I ever wound up married to you.” “By saying two little words.” She stared at him for a moment, white-lipped, and then picked up the road atlas. She turned the pages savagely. It had been a mistake leaving the turnpike, Burt thought morosely. It was a shame, too, because up until then they had been doing pretty well, treating each other almost like human beings. It had sometimes seemed that this trip to the coast, ostensibly to see Vicky's brother and his wife but actually a last-ditch attempt to patch up their own marriage, was going to work. But since they left the pike, it had been bad again. How bad? Well, terrible, actually. “We left the turnpike at Hamburg, right?” “Right.” “There's nothing more until Gatlin,” she said. “Twenty miles. Wide place in the road. Do you suppose we could stop there and get something to eat? Or does your almighty schedule say we have to go until two o'clock like we did yesterday?” He took his eyes off the road to look at her. “I've about had it, Vicky. As far as I'm concerned, we can turn right here and go home and see that lawyer you wanted to talk to. Because this isn't working at—” She had faced forward again, her expression stonily set. It suddenly turned to surprise and fear. “Burt look out you're going to—” He turned his attention back to the road just in time to see something vanish under the T-Bird's bumper. A moment later, while he was only beginning to switch from gas to brake, he felt something thump sickeningly under the front and then the back wheels. They were thrown forward as the car braked along the centre line, decelerating from fifty to zero along black skidmarks. “A dog,” he said. “Tell me it was a dog, Vicky.” Her face was a pallid, cottage-cheese colour. “A boy. A little boy. He just ran out of the corn and . congratulations, tiger.” She fumbled the car door open, leaned out, threw up. Burt sat straight behind the T-Bird's wheel, hands still gripping it loosely. He was aware of nothing for a long time but the rich, dark smell of fertilizer. Then he saw that Vicky was gone and when he looked in the outside mirror he saw her stumbling clumsily back towards a heaped bundle that looked like a pile of rags. She was ordinarily a graceful woman but now her grace was gone, robbed. It's manslaughter. That's what they call it. I took my eyes off the road. He turned the ignition off and got out. The wind rustled softly through the growing man-high corn, making a weird sound like respiration. Vicky was standing over the bundle of rags now, and he could hear her sobbing. He was halfway between the car and where she stood and something caught his eye on the left, a gaudy splash of red amid all the green, as bright as barn paint. He stopped, looking directly into the corn. He found himself thinking (anything to untrack from those rags that were not rags) that it must have been a fantastically good growing season for corn. It grew close together, almost ready to bear. You could plunge into those neat, shaded rows and spend a day trying to find your way out again. But the neatness was broken here. Several tall cornstalks had been broken and leaned askew. And what was that further back in the shadows? “Burt!” Vicky screamed at him. “Don't you want to come see? So you can tell all your poker buddies what you bagged in Nebraska? Don't you -” But the rest was lost in fresh sobs. Her shadow was puddled starkly around her feet. It was almost noon. Shade closed over him as he entered the corn. The red barn paint was blood. There was a low, somnolent buzz as flies lit, tasted, and buzzed off again. maybe to tell others. There was more blood on the leaves further in. Surely it couldn't have splattered this far? And then he was standing over the object he had seen from the road. He picked it up. The neatness of the rows was disturbed here. Several stalks were canted drunkenly, two of them had been broken clean off. The earth had been gouged. There was blood. The corn rustled. With a little shiver, he walked back to the road. Vicky was having hysterics, screaming unintelligible words at him, crying, laughing. Who would have thought it could end in such a melodramatic way? He looked at her and saw he wasn't having an identity crisis or a difficult life transition or any of those trendy things. He hated her. He gave her a hard slap across the face. She stopped short and put a hand against the reddening impression of his fingers. “You'll go to jail, Burt,” she said solemnly. “I don't think so,” he said, and put the suitcase he had found in the corn at her feet. “What?” “I don't know. I guess it belonged to him. “ He pointed to the sprawled, face-down body that lay in the road. No more than thirteen, from the look of him. The suitcase was old. The brown leather was battered and scuffed. Two hanks of clothesline had been wrapped around it and tied in large, clownish grannies. Vicky bent to undo one of them, saw, the blood greased into the knot, and withdrew. Burt knelt and turned the body over gently. “I don't want to look,” Vicky said, staring down helplessly anyway. And when the staring, sightless face flopped up to regard them, she screamed again. The boy's face was dirty, his expression a grimace of terror. His throat had been cut. Burt got up and put his arms around Vicky as she began to sway. “Don't faint,” he said very quietly. “Do you hear me, Vicky? Don't faint.” He repeated it over and over and at last she began to recover and held him tight. They might have been dancing, there on the noon-struck road with the boy's corpse at their feet. “Vicky?” “What?” Muffled against his shirt. “Go back to the car and put the keys in your pocket. Get the blanket out of the back seat, and my rifle. Bring them here.” “The rifle?” “Someone cut his throat. Maybe whoever is watching us. “ Her head jerked up and her wide eyes considered the corn. It marched away as far as the eye could see, undulating up and down small dips and rises of land. “I imagine he's gone. But why take chances? Go on. Do it.” She walked stiltedly back to the car, her shadow following, a dark mascot who stuck close at this hour of the day. When she leaned into the back seat, Burt squatted beside the boy. White male, no distinguishing marks. Run over, yes, but the T-Bird hadn't cut the kid's throat. It had been cut raggedly and inefficiently—no army sergeant had shown the killer the finer points of hand-to-hand assassination -but the final effect had been deadly. He had either run or been pushed through the last thirty feet of corn, dead or mortally wounded. And Burt Robeson had run him down. If the boy had still been alive when the car hit him, his life had been cut short by thirty seconds at most. Vicky tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped. She was standing with the brown army blanket over her left arm, the cased pump shotgun in her right hand, her face averted. He took the blanket and spread it on the road. He rolled the body on to it. Vicky uttered a desperate little moan. “You okay?” He looked up at her. “Vicky?” “Okay,” she said in a strangled voice. He flipped the sides of the blanket over the body and scooped it up, hating the thick, dead weight of it. It tried to make a U in his arms and slither through his grasp. He clutched it tighter and they walked back to the T-Bird. “Open the trunk,” he grunted. The trunk was full of travel stuff, suitcases and souvenirs. Vicky shifted most of it into the back seat and Burt slipped the body into the made space and slammed the trunk lid down. A sigh of relief escaped him. Vicky was standing by the driver's side door, still holding the cased rifle. “Just put it in the back and get in.” He looked at his watch and saw only fifteen minutes had passed. It seemed like hours. “What about the suitcase?” she asked. He trotted back down the road to where it stood on the white line, like the focal point in an Impressionist painting. He picked it up by its tattered handle and paused for a moment. He had a strong sensation of being watched. It was a feeling he had read about in books, mostly cheap fiction, and he had always doubted its reality. Now he didn't. It was as if there were people in the corn, maybe a lot of them, coldly estimating whether the woman could get the gun out of the case and use it before they could grab him, drag him into the shady rows, cut his throat -Heart beating thickly, he ran back to the car, pulled the keys out of the trunk lock, and got in. Vicky was crying again. Burt got them moving, and before a minute had passed, he could no longer pick out the spot where it had happened in the rear-view mirror. “What did you say the next town was?” he asked. “Oh. “ She bent over the road atlas again. “Gatlin. We should be there in ten minutes.” “Does it look big enough to have a police station?” “No. It's just a dot.” “Maybe there's a constable.” They drove in silence for a while. They passed a silo on the left. Nothing else but corn. Nothing passed them going the other way, not even a farm truck. “Have we passed anything since we got off the turnpike, Vicky?” She thought about it. “A car and a tractor. At that intersection.” “No, since we got on this road, Route 17.” “No. I don't think we have. “ Earlier this might have been the preface to some cutting remark. Now she only stared out of her half of the windshield at the unrolling road and the endless dotted line. “Vicky? Could you open the suitcase?” “Do you think it might matter?” “Don't know. It might.” While she picked at the knots (her face was set in a peculiar way— expressionless but tight-mouthed—that Burt remembered his mother wearing when she pulled the innards out of the Sunday chicken), Burt turned on the radio again. The pop station they had been listening to was almost obliterated in static and Burt switched, running the red marker slowly down the dial. Farm reports. Buck Owens. Tammy Wynette. All distant, nearly distorted into babble. Then, near the end of the dial, one single word blared out of the speaker, so loud and clear that the lips which uttered it might have been directly beneath the grill of the dashboard speaker. “ATONEMENT!” this voice bellowed. Burt made a surprised grunting sound. Vicky jumped. “ONLY BY THE BLOOD OF THE LAMB ARE WE SAVED” the voice roared, and Burt hurriedly turned the sound down. This station was close, all right. So close that yes, there it was. Poking out of the corn at the horizon, a spidery red tripod against the blue. The radio tower. “Atonement is the word, brothers “n” sisters,” the voice told them, dropping to a more conversational pitch. In the background, off-mike, voices murmured amen. “There's some that thinks it's okay to get out in the world, as if you could work and walk in the world without being smirched by the world. Now is that what the word of God teaches us?” Off-mike but still loud: “No!” “HOLY JESUS!” the evangelist shouted, and now the words came in a powerful, pumping cadence, almost as compelling as a driving rock-androll beat: “When they gonna know that way is death? When they gonna know that the wages of the world are paid on the other side? Huh? Huh? The Lord has said there's many mansions in His house. But there's no room for the fornicator. No room for the coveter. No room for the defiler of the corn. No room for the hommasexshul. No room -Vicky snapped it off. “That drivel makes me sick.” “What did he say?” Burt asked her. “What did he say about corn?” “I didn't hear it. “ She was picking at the second clothesline knot. “He said something about corn. I know he did.” “I got it!” Vicky said, and the suitcase fell open in her lap. They were passing a sign that said: GATLIN 5 MI. DRIVE CAREFULLY PROTECT OUR CHILDREN. The sign had been put up by the Elks. There were . 22 bullet holes in it. “Socks,” Vicky said. “Two pairs of pants . a shirt . a belt . a string tie with a -” She held it up, showing him the peeling gilt neck clasp. “Who's that?” Burt glanced at it. “Hopalong Cassidy, I think.” “Oh. “ She put it back. She was crying again. After a moment, Burt said: “Did anything strike you funny about that radio sermon?” “No. I heard enough of that stuff as a kid to last me for ever. I told you about it.” “Didn't you think he sounded kind of young? That preacher?” She uttered a mirthless laugh. “A teenager, maybe, so what? That's what's so monstrous about that whole trip. They like to get hold of them when their minds are still rubber. They know how to put all the emotional checks and balances in. You should have been at some of the tent meetings my mother and father dragged me to . some of the ones I was “saved” at. “Let's see. There was Baby Hortense, the Singing Marvel. She was eight. She'd come on and sing “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms” while her daddy passed the plate, telling everybody to “dig deep, now, let's not let this little child of God down.” Then there was Norman Staunton. He used to preach hellfire and brimstone in this Little Lord Fauntleroy suit with short pants. He was only seven.” She nodded at his look of unbelief. “They weren't the only two, either. There were plenty of them on the circuit. They were good draws. “ She spat the word. “Ruby Stampnell. She was a ten-year-old faith healer. The Grace Sisters. They used to come out with little tin4oil haloes over their heads and—oh!” “What is it?” He jerked around to look at her, and what she was holding in her hands. Vicky was staring at it raptly. Her slowly seining hands had snagged it on the bottom of the suitcase and had brought it up as she talked. Burt pulled over to take a better look. She gave it t6 him wordlessly. It was a crucifix that had been made from twists of corn husk, once green, now dry. Attached to this by woven cornsilk was a dwarf corncob. Most of the kernels had been carefully removed, probably dug out one at a time with a pocket-knife. Those kernels remaining formed a crude cruciform figure in yellowish bas-relief. Corn-kernel eyes, each slit longways to suggest pupils. Outstretched kernel arms, the legs together, terminating in a rough indication of bare feet. Above, four letters also raised from the bonewhite cob: I N R I. “That's a fantastic piece of workmanship,” he said. “It's hideous,” she said in a flat, strained voice. “Throw it out.” “Vicky, the police might want to see it.” “Why?” “Well, I don't know why. Maybe -, “Throw it out. Will you please do that for me? I don't want it in the car.” “I'll put it in back. And as soon as we see the cops, we'll get rid of it one way or the other. I promise. Okay?” “Oh, do whatever you want with it!” she shouted at him. “You will anyway!” Troubled, he threw the thing in back, where it landed on a pile of clothes. Its corn-kernel eyes stared raptly at the T-Bird's dome light. He pulled out again, gravel splurting from beneath the tyres. “We'll give the body and everything that was in the suitcase to the cops,” he promised. “Then we'll be shut of it.” Vicky didn't answer. She was looking at her hands. A mile further on, the endless cornfields drew away from the road, showing farmhouses and outbuildings. In one yard they saw dirty chickens pecking listlessly at the soil. There were faded cola and chewing-gum ads on the roofs of barns. They passed a tall billboard that said: ONLY JESUS SAVEs. They passed a cafe with a Conoco gas island, but Burt decided to go on into the centre of town, if there was one. If not, they could come back to the cafe. It only occurred to him after they had passed it that the parking lot had been empty except for a dirty old pickup that had looked like it was sitting on two flat tyres. Vicky suddenly began to laugh, a high, giggling sound that struck Burt as being dangerously close to hysteria. “What's so funny?” “The signs,” she said, gasping and hiccupping. “Haven't you been reading them? When they called this the Bible Belt, they sure weren't kidding. Oh Lordy, there's another bunch. “ Another burst of hysterical laughter escaped her, and she clapped both hands over her mouth. Each sign had only one word. They were leaning on whitewashed sticks that had been implanted in the sandy shoulder, long ago by the looks; the whitewash was flaked and faded. They were coming up at eighty-foot intervals and Burt read: A. CLOUD. BY. DAY .A. PILLAR. OF FIRE BY NIGHT “They only forgot one thing,” Vicky said, still giggling helplessly. “What?” Burt asked, frowning. “Burma Shave. “ She held a knuckled fist against her open mouth to keep in the laughter, but her semi-hysterical giggles flowed around it like effervescent ginger-ale bubbles. “Vicky, are you all right?” “I will be. Just as soon as we're a thousand miles away from here, in sunny sinful California with the Rockies between us and Nebraska.” Another group of signs came up and they read them silently. TAKE . THIS . AND . EAT . SAITH . THE. LORD. GOD Now why, Burt thought, should I immediately associate that indefinite pronoun with corn? Isn't that what they say when they give you communion? It had been so long since he had been to church that he really couldn't remember. He wouldn't be surprised if they used cornbread for holy wafer around these parts. He opened his mouth to tell Vicky that, and then thought better of it. They breasted a gentle rise and there was Gatlin below them, all three blocks of it, looking like a set from a movie about the Depression. “There'll be a constable,” Burt said, and wondered why the sight of that hick one-timetable town dozing in the sun should have brought a lump of dread into his throat. They passed a speed sign proclaiming that no more than thirty was now in order, and another sign, rust-flecked, which said: YOU ARE NOW ENTERNG GATLIN, NICEST LITTLE TOWN IN NEBRASKA—OR ANYWHERE ELSE! POP. 4531. Dusty elms stood on both sides of the road, most of them diseased. They passed the Gatlin Lumberyard and a 76 gas station, where the price signs swung slowly in a hot noon breeze: REG 35. 9 HI-TEST 38. 9, and another which said: HI TRUCKERS DIESEL FUEL AROUND BACK. They crossed Elm Street, then Birch Street, and came up on the town square. The houses lining the streets were plain wood with screened porches. Angular and functional. The lawns were yellow and dispirited. Up ahead a mongrel dog walked slowly out into the middle of Maple Street, stood looking at them for a moment, then lay down in the road with its nose on its paws. “Stop,” Vicky said. “Stop right here. Burt pulled obediently to the curb. “Turn around. Let's take the body to Grand Island. That's not too far, is it? Let's do that.” “Vicky, what's wrong?” “What do you mean, what's wrong?” she asked, her voice rising thinly. “This town is empty, Burt. There's nobody here but us. Can't you feel that?” He had felt something, and still felt it. But -'It just seems that way,” he said. “But it sure is a one-hydrant town. Probably all up in the square, having a bake sale or a bingo game.” “There's no one here. “ She said the words with a queer, strained emphasis. “Didn't you see that 76 station back there?” “Sure, by the lumberyard, so what?” His mind was elsewhere, listening to the dull buzz of a cicada burrowing into one of the nearby elms. He could smell corn, dusty roses, and fertilizer—of course. For the first time they were off the turnpike and in a town. A town in a state he had never been in before (although he had flown over it from time to time in United Airlines 747s) and somehow it felt all wrong but all right. Somewhere up ahead there would be a drugstore with a soda fountain, a movie house named the Bijou, a school named after JFK. “Burt, the prices said thirty-five-nine for regular and thirty-eight-nine for high octane. Now how long has it been since anyone in this country paid those prices?” “At least four years,” he admitted. “But, Vicky—” “We're right in town, Burt, and there's not a car! Not one car! “Grand Island is seventy miles away. It would look funny if we took him there.” “I don't care.” “Look, let's just drive up to the courthouse and -, “No!” There, damn it, there. Why our marriage is falling apart, in a nutshell. No I won't. No sir. And furthermore, I'll hold my breath till I turn blue if you don't let me have my way. “Vicky,” he said. “I want to get out of here, Burt.” “Vicky, listen to me.” “Turn around. Let's go.” “Vicky, will you stop a minute?” “I'll stop when we're driving the other way. Now let's go.” “We have a dead child in the trunk of our car!” he roared at her, and took a distinct pleasure at the way she flinched, the way her face crumbled. In a slightly lower voice he went on: “His throat was cut and he was shoved out into the road and Iran him over. Now I'm going to drive up to the courthouse or whatever they have here, and I'm going to report it. If you want to start walking towards the pike, go to it. I'll pick you up. But don't you tell me to turn around and drive seventy miles to Grand Island like we had nothing in the trunk but a bag of garbage. He happens to be some mother's son, and I'm going to report it before whoever killed him gets over the hills and far away.” “You bastard,” she said, crying. “What am I doing with you?” “I don't know,” he said. “I don't know any more. But the situation can be remedied, Vicky.” He pulled away from the curb. The dog lifted its head at the brief squeal of the tyres and then lowered it to its paws again. They drove the remaining block to the square. At the corner of Main and Pleasant, Main Street split in two. There actually was a town square, a grassy park with a bandstand in the middle. On the other end, where Main Street became one again, there were two official-looking buildings. Burt could make out the lettering on one: GATLIN MUNICIPAL CENTER. “That's it,” he said. Vicky said nothing. Halfway up the square, Burt pulled over again. They were beside a lunch room, the Gatlin Bar and Grill. “Where are you going?” Vicky asked with alarm as he opened his door. “To find out where everyone is. Sign in the window there says “Open”.” “You're not going to leave me here alone.” “So come. Who's stopping you?” She unlocked her door and stepped out as he crossed in front of the car. He saw how pale her face was and felt an instant of pity. Hopeless pity. “Do you hear it?” she asked as he joined her. “Hear what?” “The nothing. No cars. No people. No tractors. Nothing. “ And then, from a block over, they heard the high and joyous laughter of children. “I hear kids,” he said. “Don't you?” She looked at him, troubled. He opened the lunchroom door and stepped into dry, antiseptic heat. The floor was dusty. The sheen on the chrome was dull. The wooden blades of the ceiling fans stood still. Empty tables. Empty counter stools. But the mirror behind the counter had been shattered and there was something else . in a moment he had it. All the beer taps had been broken off. They lay along the counter like bizarre party favours. Vicky's voice was gay and near to breaking. “Sure. Ask anybody. Pardon me, sir, but could you tell me—” “Oh, shut up. “ But his voice was dull and without force. They were standing in a bar of dusty sunlight that fell through the lunchroom's big plate-glass window and again he had that feeling of being watched and he thought of the boy they had in their trunk, and of the high laughter of children. A phrase came to him for no reason, a legal-sounding phrase, and it began to repeat mystically in his mind: Sight unseen. Sight unseen. Sight unseen. His eyes travelled over the age-yellowed cards thumb-tacked up behind the counter: CHEESEBURG 35c WORLD'S BEST JOE 10c STRAWBERRY RHUBARB PIE 25c TODAY'S SPECIAL HAM