The Shining 原版小说-第99部分

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seen　as　little　snow　as　he　could　manage　in　his　lifetime）；　and　the　wind　was　
blowing　a　capricious　gale　—　now　from　the　west；　now　backing　around　to　the　north；　
sending　clouds　of　powdery　snow　across　his　field　of　vision；　making　him　coldly　
aware　again　and　again　that　if　he　missed　a　turn　he　might　well　plunge　two　hundred　
feet　off　the　road；　the　Electra　cartwheeling　ass　over　teapot　as　it　went　down。　
Making　it　worse　was　his　own　amateur　status　as　a　winter　driver。　It　scared　him　to　
have　the　yellow　center　line　buried　under　swirling；　drifting　snow；　and　it　scared　
him　when　the　heavy　gusts　of　wind　came　unimpeded　through　the　notches　in　the　hills　
and　actually　made　the　heavy　Buick　slew　around。　It　scared　him　that　the　road　
information　signs　were　mostly　masked　with　snow　and　you　could　flip　a　coin　as　to　
whether　the　road　was　going　to　break　right　or　left　up　ahead　in　the　white　drive…in　
movie　screen　he　seemed　to　be　driving　through。　He　was　scared；　all　right。　He　had　
driven　in　a　cold　sweat　since　climbing　into　the　hills　west　of　Boulder　and　Lyons；　
handling　the　accelerator　and　brake　as　if　they　were　Ming　vases。　Between　rock　'n'　
roll　tunes　on　the　radio；　the　disc　jockey　constantly　adjured　motorists　to　stay　
off　the　main　highways　and　under　no　conditions　to　go　into　the　mountains；　because　
many　roads　were　impassable　and　all　of　them　were　dangerous。　Scores　of　minor　
accidents　had　been　reported；　and　two　serious　ones：　a　party　of　skiers　in　a　VW　
microbus　and　a　family　that　had　been　bound　for　Albuquerque　through　the　Sangre　de　
Cristo　Mountains。　The　bined　score　on　both　was　four　dead　and　five　wounded。　〃So　
stay　off　those　roads　and　get　into　the　good　music　here　at　KTLK；〃　the　jock　
concluded　cheerily；　and　then　pounded　Hallorann's　misery　by　playing　〃Seasons　
in　the　Sun。〃　〃We　had　joy；　we　had　fun；　we　had　—　〃　Terry　Jacks　gibbered　happily；　and　
Hallorann　snapped　the　radio　off　viciously；　knowing　he　would　have　it　back　on　in　
five　minutes。　No　matter　how　bad　it　was；　it　was　better　than　riding　alone　through　
this　white　madness。　
　　（Admit　it。　Dis　heah　black　boy　has　got　at　least　one　long　stripe　of　yaller　。。。　
and　it　runs　rant　up　his　ebberlubbin　back！）　
　　It　wasn't　even　funny。　He　would　have　backed　off　before　he　even　cleared　Boulder　
if　it　hadn't　been　for　his　pulsion　that　the　boy　was　in　terrible　trouble。　Even　
now　a　small　voice　in　the　back　of　his　skull　—　more　the　voice　of　reason　than　of　
cowardice；　he　thought　—　was　telling　him　to　hole　up　in　an　Estes　Park　motel　for　the　
night　and　wait　for　the　plows　to　at　least　expose　the　center　stripe　again。　That　
voice　kept　reminding　him　of　the　jet's　shaky　landing　at　Stapleton；　of　that　


　
　
sinking　feeling　that　it　was　going　to　e　in　nose…first；　delivering　its　
passengers　to　the　gates　of　hell　rather　than　at　Gate　39；　Concourse　B。　But　reason　
would　not　stand　against　the　pulsion。　It　had　to　be　today。　The　snowstorm　was　
his　own　bad　luck。　He　would　have　to　cope　with　it。　He　was　afraid　that　if　he　
didn't；　he　might　have　something　much　worse　to　cope　with　in　his　dreams。　
　　The　wind　gusted　again；　this　time　from　the　northeast；　a　little　English　on　the　
ball　if　you　please；　and　he　was　again　cut　off　from　the　vague　shapes　of　the　hills　
and　even　from　the　embankments　on　either　side　of　the　road。　He　was　driving　through　
white　null。　
　　And　then　the　high　sodium　lights　of　the　snowplow　loomed　out　of　the　soup；　
bearing　down；　and　to　his　horror　he　saw　that　instead　of　being　to　one　side；　the　
Buick's　nose　was　pointed　directly　between　those　headlamps。　The　plow　was　being　
none　too　choosy　about　keeping　its　own　side　of　the　road；　and　Hallorann　had　
allowed　the　Buick　to　drift。　
　　The　grinding　roar　of　the　plow's　diesel　engine　intruded　over　the　bellow　of　the　
wind；　and　then　the　sound　of　its　airhorn；　hard；　long；　almost　deafening。　
　　Hallorann's　testicles　turned　into　two　small　wrinkled　sacs　filled　with　shaved　
ice。　His　guts　seemed　to　have　been　transformed　into　a　large　mass　of　Silly　Putty。　
　　Color　was　materializing　out　of　the　white　now；　snow…clotted　orange。　He　could　
see　the　high　cab；　even　the　gesticulating　figure　of　the　driver　behind　the　single　
long　wiper　blade。　He　could　see　the　V　shape　of　the　plow's　wing　blades；　spewing　
more　snow　up　onto　the　road's　left…hand　embankment　like　pallid；　smoking　exhaust。　
　　WHAAAAAAAAA！　the　airhorn　bellowed　indignantly。　
　　He　squeezed　the　accelerator　like　the　breast　of　a　muchloved　woman　and　the　Buick　
scooted　forward　and　toward　the　right。　There　was　no　embankment　over　here；　the　
plows　headed　up　instead　of　down　had　only　to　push　the　snow　directly　over　the　
drop。　
　　（The　drop；　ah　yes；　the　drop　—　）　
　　The　wingblades　on　Hallorann's　left；　fully　four　feet　higher　than　the　Electra's　
roof；　flirted　by　with　no　more　than　an　inch　or　two　to　spare。　Until　the　plow　had　
actually　cleared　him；　Hallorann　had　thought　a　crash　inevitable。　A　prayer　which　
was　half　an　inarticulate　apology　to　the　boy　flitted　through　his　mind　like　a　torn　
rag。　
　　Then　the　plow　was　past；　its　revolving　blue　lights　glinting　and　flashing　in　
Hallorann's　rearview　mirror。　
　　He　jockeyed　the　Buick's　steering　wheel　back　to　the　left；　but　nothing　doing。　
The　scoot　had　turned　into　a　skid；　and　the　Buick　was　floating　dreamily　toward　the　
lip　of　the　drop；　spurning　snow　from　under　its　mudguards。　
　　He　flicked　the　wheel　back　the　other　way；　in　the　skid's　direction；　and　the　
car's　front　and　rear　began　to　s　places。　Panicked　now；　he　pumped　the　brake　
hard；　and　then　felt　a　hard　bump。　In　front　of　him　the　road　was　gone　。。。　he　was　
looking　into　a　bottomless　chasm　of　swirling　snow　and　vague　greenish…gray　pines　
far　away　and　far　below。　
　　（I'm　going　holy　mother　of　Jesus　I'm　going　off）　
　　And　that　was　where　the　car　stopped；　canting　forward　at　a　thirty…degree　angle；　
the　left　fender　jammed　against　a　guardrail；　the　rear　wheels　nearly　off　the　
ground。　When　Hallorann　tried　reverse；　the　wheels　only　spun　helplessly。　His　heart　
was　doing　a　Gene　Krupa　drumroll。　


　
　
　　He　got　out　—　very　carefully　he　got　out　—　and　went　around　to　the　Buick's　back　
deck。　
　　He　was　standing　there；　looking　at　the　back　wheels　helplessly；　when　a　cheerful　
voice　behind　him　said：　〃Hello　there；　fella。　You　must　be　shit　right　out　of　your　
mind。〃　
　　He　turned　around　and　saw　the　plow　forty　yards　further　down　the　road；　obscured　
in　the　blowing　snow　except　for　the　raftered　dark　brown　streak　of　its　exhaust　and　
the　revolving　blue　lights　on　top。　The　driver　was　standing　just　behind　him；　
dressed　in　a　long　sheepskin　coat　and　a　slicker　over　it。　A　blue…and…white　
pinstriped　engineer's　cap　was　perched　on　his　head；　and　Hallorann　could　hardly　
believe　it　was　staying　on　in　the　teeth　of　the　wind。　
　　（Glue。　It　sure…God　must　be　glue。）　
　　〃Hi；〃　he　said。　〃Can　you　pull　me　back　onto　the　road？〃　
　　〃Oh；　I　guess　I　could；〃　the　plow　driver　said。　〃What　the　hell　you　doing　way　up　
here；　mister？　Good　way　to　kill　your　ass。〃　
　　〃Urgent　business。〃　
　　〃Nothin　is　that　urgent；〃　the　plow　driver　said　slowly　and　kindly；　as　if　
speaking　to　a　mental　defective。　〃If　you'd　'a　hit　that　post　a　leetle　mite　harder；　
nobody　woulda　got　you　out　till　All　Fools'　Day。　Don't　e　from　these　parts；　do　
you？〃　
　　〃No。　And　I　wouldn't　be　here　unless　my　business　was　as　urgent　as　I　say。〃　
　　〃That　so？〃　The　driver　shifted　his　stance　panionably　as　if　they　were　having　
a　desultory　chat　on　the　back　steps　instead　of　standing　in　a　blizzard　halfway　
between　hoot　and　holler；　with　Hallorann's　car　balanced　three　hundred　feet　above　
the　tops　of　the　trees　below。　
　　〃Where　you　headed？　Estes？〃　
　　〃No；　a　place　called　the　Overlook　Hotel；〃　Hallorann　said。　〃It's　a　little　way　
above　Sidewinder　—　〃　
　　But　the　driver　was　shaking　his　head　dolefully。　
　　〃I　guess　I　know　well　enough　where　that　is；〃　he　said。　〃Mister；　you'll　never　get　
up　to　the　old　Overlook。　Roads　between　Estes　Park　and　Sidewinder　is　bloody　damn　
hell。　It's　driftin　in　right　behind　us　no　matter　how　hard　we　push。　I　e　through　
drifts　a　few　miles　back　that　was　damn　near　six　feet　through　the　middle。　And　even　
if　you　could　make　Sidewinder；　why；　the　road's　closed　from　there　all　the　way　
across　to　Buckland；　Utah。　Nope。〃　He　shook　his　head。　〃Never　make　it；　mister。　
Never　make　it　at　all。〃　
　　〃I　have　to　try；〃　Hallorann　said；　calling　on　his　last　reserves　of　patience　to　
keep　his