【英文短篇小说】Almost The Last Story By Almost The Last Man(2)
时间:2019-01-23 作者:英语课 分类:英文短篇小说
英语课
That was a bit closer, perhaps, but still . . .
No, that one wasn't right, either. So far, with each of these stories, I'm making it all sound too pat.
I really should stop trying to make sense of it. After all, part of the truth of zombies (and by zombies I mean more than just the raw reality of each individual one of them, I mean the concept, the very fact that they exist) is that there is no sense to them. No one expects a hurricane to make sense, or an earthquake to have a point. And I've learned that about zombies by now, too. But it turns out to be just like the way people look up at the passing clouds and without even trying find a seahorse, a cow, or even Abe Lincoln. I can't seem to stop. That is what I do. It just happens.
It's a compulsion, I guess. I look at life, messy, chaotic 1, preposterous 2 life, dismantle 3 its unanswered mysteries and incongruous facts, rearrange them until there is a beauty not supplied by random 4 events, and put them back together again so that all the pieces fit. I transform nonsense into serendipity 5. That's a man up there in that moon, damn it, no matter what I'm told about an accidental pattern of asteroids 6. And I'm supposed to behave differently in response to this latest upheaval 7?
So I find myself telling myself these stories, not consciously choosing to start them and seemingly not able to consciously choose to stop. Maybe that's my way of going into shock. But what I saw when I first stepped from the safety of the vault 8 told me that this pretense 9 of attempting to make sense of how I live now, how we all live now, is in itself senseless.
When I finally opened the vault door, the first thing I noticed was the silence. I was amazed by how quiet it had become. No more guttural raging from the undead; no further death throes from the living. As I moved slowly down the hallways, though, I found evidence of each. Red splashes darkened the walls; stray bones littered the floors. But there were no zombies, and no humans. I could easily put together the story of what had happened during my hermitage from the disgusting detritus 10 alone, but I struggled not to. What I had seen with my own eyes had been horrible enough; I didn't want to add my imagination to the mix. And besides, I was too hungry to do so. That and only that was what had overcome my fear enough to bring me out of the vault. I would not have moved had not my body's command been, "Move or die."
I made my way as slowly as my hunger would allow to the machines I had so often eaten from while researching my previous books. I knew the taste of stale moon pies far too well. My honesty made me put money in the machine rather than break open the glass case, but I felt silly for it. Was there still a world out there that cared?
After I had eaten two bags of pretzels and a box of Raisinets, and downed two cans of orange soda 12, I could think straight again. Only then did it come to me that I should secure the library's front door, because based on the signs around which I had tiptoed, there had been no one left alive with the luck to have done it before. Except for me, everyone who had been in the library when the attack began had died.
I moved slowly and silently toward the front of the building, and strangely, a part of me felt just as badly for the fallen books that had been knocked to the floor in struggles as another part of me did when gazing at what must have been the sites of fallen people. Each time, I was embarrassed for feeling that way, but . . . I'm a writer. That's just one more action I can't control.
I passed the bank of computers at which I had often sat to check my e-mail, and saw that the screensavers still danced. I couldn't resist. I slapped the spacebar and punched in my password. Amid the spam was a note from my agent, wondering if I still lived. I replied to him that I did, and since three days had passed since he'd sent his message, I asked him the same question. I started browsing 13 through my favorite blogs, discovering that no part of the world had escaped this plague, when I suddenly remembered—the front gate. There'd be enough time for exploration on the Internet later.
As I swung shut the wrought-iron gates at the library's main entrance, I worried that I was being premature 14 by not yet having checked every inch of the building. Was I alone in here?
Was I locking death out? Or locking it inside, the better for it to catch me?
I had to take that chance, unless I wanted to spend my days living inside a locked vault until those outside sorted this all out and we all got back to normal.
As I looked down at the base of the steps on the milling undead, it was as if they could sense me, as if they felt that by merely continuing to live that I was taunting 15 them. They careened off each other as they gathered into clumps 16. It was unnerving to study them that way, knowing that they were studying me. I moved back from the gates in the hope that I would be less noticeable. It seemed to work. They wandered off again, listless zombies once more; from this height, they might as well have been commuters on their way to work. Only their job was eating the actual commuters, not that this city had any left. There were none of the living left, at least not on the streets that surrounded the library, that much was clear. All of the action was past.
I could not escape, though, the signs of actions past. I had tried before to avoid the implications of such signs, but would the world ever be rid of them? Dark stains everywhere, as random as oil slicks, told me what had happened out there, what I had thankfully missed while inside the vault. Automobiles 17 appeared to have been flung randomly 18 across the landscape outside, one flipped 19 onto its back on the bottom steps of the library, others piled up against each other as far into the distance as I could see. An armored car lay on its side amid the chaos 20. I could picture the drivers dodging 21 both living and dead, each terrified that he or she would migrate from being one to being the other, losing control first of their vehicles and finally their lives.
I didn't want to keep reliving that, so I looked again at the armored car. It was filled with money, I imagined, which my last royalty 22 statements told me I needed more of. I could probably go out there if I was crazy enough to risk it and grab all the cash I could carry. But what good would that do me now? We had evolved overnight into a world beyond money. A new economy ruled the world, and it was one based on meat. As I stared at the armored car and thought wistfully of a past and future no longer within my reach, I thought I could see something move through a small, narrow window in the vehicle's side. I studied that slot, and though there was no more movement, I could tell that, yes, as I was looking, someone was looking back. I risked stepping closer to the gates again, but unfortunately, at that distance I could not read any expression there. I could barely make out any features at all, an eye, a nose; just enough to tell me that I was not alone.
Then I saw a hand, its curled fingers beckoning 23 me forward.
I was not the last man in the world after all, not some Robinson Crusoe stranded 24 after the rise of the zombies.
Or maybe, come to think of it, I was, and as the tale promised, I'd just found my Friday.
The stories come more slowly now. I know, I know, I promised you that they wouldn't come at all any longer. But if you out there were in here with me, were at my side, you'd see that there is good reason for them to continue.
And besides, maybe this will be the story worth telling.
(Or maybe, just maybe, I will tell them until I finally admit that there might no longer be any stories worth telling.)
So . . .
There once was a woman—I won't give her a name, I won't bother giving any of them names any longer, for after all, aren't they all just archetypes? Aren't they really just you and me?—who had tried and tried (and tried and tried) to have a child, but no matter what she and her husband and the doctors and the insurance companies and the midwives (and the potential grandmothers) did, she kept miscarrying. But somehow, even as her husband suggested, at first gently and then more insistently 25, that they consider adoption 26, she avoided the choice he was pushing upon her, and she also avoided despair. She knew that she would eventually have a child, a child of her own, and so she was able to shut out all the voices that yammered around her. And she almost proved those voices wrong, too, by carrying a fetus 27 nearly to term.
So close . . .
But then it died, too, just like all of the others. She could sense the motionlessness inside, the potential that had become merely a weight. She felt the absence in a way she had never known before one could feel an absence. She had always been honest with her husband before. As a couple, they prided themselves on their honesty. But this time she could not bear to tell him the truth. She knew what would happen next, what the doctors would insist, and she didn't want to endure again what she'd endured so many times already. So she prayed, just as, for the first time in her life since she had been a child, she had been praying for a child of her own. And then, just before the next day's already scheduled prenatal appointment, which she had thought she would have to break so as not to reveal what had occurred, she felt movement within.
But the movement felt more violent than any kicking the baby had done before, prior to what she convinced herself was only a brief nap. She could feel things ripping and tearing inside, and her spotting became bleeding, enough to frighten her. She went alone to the doctor, not wanting to have to be forced to tell her husband what was going on, and when the doctor gave her a sonogram, he saw no heartbeat. He was baffled, and did not know what to tell her. Nothing had prepared him for this. How could there be movement with no heartbeat?
And then, perhaps in response to the sonogram's invasion, the movements increased.
The woman clutched her stomach and screamed, and as the doctor rushed to his wall of supplies to find a way to relieve her agony, the baby chewed its way out of its mother's womb and poked 28 its head through the skin of her stomach. The doctor, even in the midst of the insanity 29 of the event, reacted reflexively, reaching for the child, instinctively 30 wanting to see that, whatever else was incomprehensible about this moment, it was healthy, not able to see the dead skin hidden by the blanket of blood. The child snapped at him as it wriggled 31 free from its dying mother, and the doctor backed away hurriedly, tripping over his own feet, and then fled the room.
Or perhaps he should only attempt to flee. Perhaps after he loses his balance, instead of righting himself and continuing on, he should fall to the floor, and the child, the thing, should fall from the mother, now dead atop the examining table, and begin to feast upon the doctor. Perhaps that would make more dramatic sense.
However the scene ends, we should keep in mind that it is a scene which with many variations played itself out around the world that day, as the fruits of failed pregnancies 32 suddenly resulted not in dead babies, but in undead ones. But neither this mother nor this doctor could know that. But even if they had known, what other choices would they have made? There was barely escape from the plague without; how could there be escape from the plague within?
So let's just say that this particular baby struggled its way free from its mother's guts 33, and slid off the examining table, whether onto the warm doctor or onto the cold linoleum 34 to be decided 35 later. What will happen next would remain the same regardless.
It crawled out of the examining room into an office which by then had been emptied by the (bloodied or unbloodied) doctor's screaming. It pulled and wriggled its way down the street, unable to move in any way other than that of a real baby. Perhaps someday, if it survived, it would learn to walk, though physically 36 it would never have more than a newborn's form, but for now, it crawled, making slow progress. People on the street gave it a wide berth 37, the trail of blood that it left behind itself clear warning of its intent, and though it grew frustrated 38, that frustration 39 could not propel it quickly enough to overtake any of them.
But then a dog came over, sniffing 40, curious, unafraid, and close enough for the zombie child to grab hold of its front paws. It yanked at them roughly, breaking the dog's front legs. As the animal squealed 41 and struggled vainly to retreat, the baby pulled itself forward along the length of the dog's trembling body to reach and snap the back legs as well. The baby had no teeth as yet, and so could not chew its way into the animal's belly 42 as its tiny brain desired, so it had to punch its way in with small but strong fists and suck on the red, raw meat it had exposed.
As the child feasted, it felt itself pulled away from its orgy of blood, and before it could react to this affront 43, tossed through the air. It bounced off the back wall of a small cage, and as it attempted to reorient itself and go on the attack once more, the door slammed shut.
The woman whose dog had just been killed had a cage in which she would transport her dog to the park each day in the back of her van, and the zombie baby found itself trapped within. It beat blindly at the sides of the cage, but the metal was too strong for it to bend.
The woman smiled as she drove it back to her home. The reason she had a dog, she always knew, was because she could not have a child, and now, most unexpectedly, she had a child. She saw it as a gift from God. She did not care that it was dead, or that she would obviously have to be very, very careful or she would end up dead herself. She would love it for the rest of her life, even after the world came through the other side of this plague. She would tell no one of it, so that when all the other zombies were rounded up and destroyed, her baby would remain safe. She would love it and care for it as long as she lived.
But she would never let it out of its cage.
Well . . . maybe that won't turn out to be one of the stories worth telling. Right now, in the midst of it all, it seems somewhat pointless to even bother creating stories, but I know that someday the world will want to make sense of what we went through together, and someone will have to step forward to do that. That someone might as well be me. So I at least have to try.
One thing I've been realizing, as my subconscious 44 mind weaves life into art (well, let others decide later if there's any art there) is that all zombie stories are true. Also, no zombie stories are true. Because, you see, there are no zombie stories until I write them. The universe has no opinion of us. No matter how much we want to pretend, real life does not contain the quality of story. No arcs, no morals, no meaning. Life is what we make of it.
And I was finally, after a lifetime of typing, in a position to make something of it.
It had been a week since I had taken refuge in this place. Undoubtedly 45, whoever was inside the armored car had to have been there nearly as long, or he would not still be alive. However long the person had been trapped, he—or she, I shouldn't forget there was a chance that it could be a she—surely needed food by now. And it was up to me to help.
I rushed back to the candy machine that I had long since cracked open, having abandoned the comforting illusion of order that dropping change in the slot had earlier brought me, and filled my pockets with pretzels, beef jerky, soda, and whatever else could fit. The cans, cold through the cloth of my jacket, reminded me that the city's electricity still worked, which had to be a good sign, right? Somewhere out there the wheels of industry kept turning, and human beings had to be the ones turning them. Or so I hoped. I'm afraid I didn't understand enough about technology to know for sure. I'm not that kind of writer. I'd research that after what I told myself I had to do, if there was an after.
I ran down to the ground floor and paused at the far end of the hallway that led to the main entrance, back enough from the gates so that though I could make out the foot traffic, I could not be easily seen. I watched as the zombies moved in their random patterns and waited for the street ahead to clear. There would come a moment, I was sure, in which nothing stood between me and the armored car, and no one hovered 46 close enough to catch me even if I was noticed.
And then, trying not to think too much about it, I ran. It was not a pretty thing, as I am a writer, not a runner. Those two roles cohabit rarely, and certainly not in me. I am ashamed to say that it was not courage that propelled me clumsily on. It was loneliness that had overcome my fear, not altruism 47.
When I was closer to the armored car than I was to the library's front door, I suddenly thought—what if that hadn't been a living person I had seen staring back at me through that narrow window? What if the guard had died in the crash and was now himself a zombie, and the face was that of something struggling to get out and unable to figure out how . . . and hungry?
It was too late to dwell on that for more than an instant, because out of the corner of an eye, I could see a shuffling 48 form. As I ran more quickly, soda sloshing, the thick back door of the armored car was raised in front of me, and I dove in. The door slammed shut behind me and I turned my head quickly to see that, yes, thankfully, I was visiting someone still alive. The man in the stained guard uniform locking the door looked far the worse for wear than I did, but he was still a man. The air hung heavy with sweat, but after someone has lived in the back of a small truck for a week, I guess I was lucky I could stand it at all.
I lay there, breathing heavily, feeling drained as much from the tension as the exertion 49, and did not protest as the guard patted me down. I knew what he was looking for, and was just thankful at this juncture 50 that he was eating my food instead of attempting to eat me. He snapped a huge chocolate chip cookie in half and shoved both pieces in his mouth, then popped a soda, which exploded across his face thanks to my mad dash. But he wasn't angry, as he surely would have been back in the old days of only a week before. He just laughed, and took a long pull from the can.
"Thanks," he said, wiping the crumbs 51 and foam 52 from his face. "I don't think a soda has ever tasted this good. And as you might guess, I haven't had many reasons to laugh in a while."
I nodded and forced a smile. I was glad to see him, to know that I wasn't alone, but I wasn't happy about the fact that I'd had to come to him, rather than the reverse, to do it.
"Why are you still here?" I said, a little too terse 53, considering what should be joyful 54 circumstances. "Once you knew I was inside, why didn't you make a break for the library? That place is like a fortress 55."
He swiveled clumsily about and showed me his right foot, the ankle of which twisted at an ugly angle.
"I'd never have made it with this," he said. "Once we flipped, and I felt the snap, I knew that it was all over for me."
"But you have to try, Barry," I said. He started when I called him by name, so I pointed 56 at his ID badge, still hanging from his chest pocket. "I didn't want to feel responsible for you starving out here, so I brought food, but it's too risky 57 to do more than once. You can't expect me to continue supplying you. And you can't last forever in here alone."
"I didn't plan on lasting 58 forever." He shrugged 59. The bags under his eyes shrugged with him. "Would have been nice, though. But better starved to death than eaten to death. I'll admit I expected to end up with a bigger coffin 60. But this one will have to do."
"No," I said suddenly and firmly, surprised at myself even as I blurted 61 it out. "I'm not going to let that happen. We ought to be able to get you up those steps and into the library if we work together. I can distract them. They don't move that fast."
"Faster than me," he said wearily.
His expression was a defeated one, but I knew better than to accept it as irreversible. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that people want to live.
"We've got to try," I said. "You don't want me to have come this far for nothing. I ought to at least get a chance to save your life."
He laughed, which I considered progress. I peered out the small window in the rear door, back up the steps of the library to safety. The front gates looked infinitely 62 far away. I was stunned 63 that I had survived the first leg of the journey. But I knew that regardless of how treacherous 64 it seemed, I was going back. If I was going to die, it was going to be in that library, or at the very least trying to get back to that library, and not in the rear of an armored car. Barry might have been willing to settle for a coffin of that size, but mine had to be a little larger.
And contain the complete works of Shakespeare besides.
Barry had not answered, but it was as if we had made a silent decision. We watched and waited, too weary for small talk (which we both hoped and pretended that there would be time for later), too weary for anything but studying the street, praying for a moment when it would be completely clear, and allow Barry time to hobble to safety. But unlike earlier that day, no such moment came. Each time the random patterns of the shuffling undead had the streets almost emptied, there would always be one lone 11 zombie lingering under a stop light as if waiting for it to change. I didn't really think it could be doing that, responding to the world that used to be, no, not in real life, only in stories maybe, but still, there it was. The lights did not function, and so it stared up at the pole.
Until I grew tired of waiting.
"I'm going to distract him," I whispered.
The guard ordered me not to in one of those voices guards have and grabbed at my arm, but I leapt through the door anyway, and was back on the street before he could do anything about it. Instead of running immediately toward the steps leading up to the door of the library as any sane 65 person would have done, I ran at the light-distracted zombie, prayed for it to notice me before I got too close, then veered 66 away at the last possible instant I knew I could still outrun it. It was pulled along in my wake by its undead desire.
"Now," I shouted back at Barry over my shoulder. "This is your chance. Take it!"
No, that one wasn't right, either. So far, with each of these stories, I'm making it all sound too pat.
I really should stop trying to make sense of it. After all, part of the truth of zombies (and by zombies I mean more than just the raw reality of each individual one of them, I mean the concept, the very fact that they exist) is that there is no sense to them. No one expects a hurricane to make sense, or an earthquake to have a point. And I've learned that about zombies by now, too. But it turns out to be just like the way people look up at the passing clouds and without even trying find a seahorse, a cow, or even Abe Lincoln. I can't seem to stop. That is what I do. It just happens.
It's a compulsion, I guess. I look at life, messy, chaotic 1, preposterous 2 life, dismantle 3 its unanswered mysteries and incongruous facts, rearrange them until there is a beauty not supplied by random 4 events, and put them back together again so that all the pieces fit. I transform nonsense into serendipity 5. That's a man up there in that moon, damn it, no matter what I'm told about an accidental pattern of asteroids 6. And I'm supposed to behave differently in response to this latest upheaval 7?
So I find myself telling myself these stories, not consciously choosing to start them and seemingly not able to consciously choose to stop. Maybe that's my way of going into shock. But what I saw when I first stepped from the safety of the vault 8 told me that this pretense 9 of attempting to make sense of how I live now, how we all live now, is in itself senseless.
When I finally opened the vault door, the first thing I noticed was the silence. I was amazed by how quiet it had become. No more guttural raging from the undead; no further death throes from the living. As I moved slowly down the hallways, though, I found evidence of each. Red splashes darkened the walls; stray bones littered the floors. But there were no zombies, and no humans. I could easily put together the story of what had happened during my hermitage from the disgusting detritus 10 alone, but I struggled not to. What I had seen with my own eyes had been horrible enough; I didn't want to add my imagination to the mix. And besides, I was too hungry to do so. That and only that was what had overcome my fear enough to bring me out of the vault. I would not have moved had not my body's command been, "Move or die."
I made my way as slowly as my hunger would allow to the machines I had so often eaten from while researching my previous books. I knew the taste of stale moon pies far too well. My honesty made me put money in the machine rather than break open the glass case, but I felt silly for it. Was there still a world out there that cared?
After I had eaten two bags of pretzels and a box of Raisinets, and downed two cans of orange soda 12, I could think straight again. Only then did it come to me that I should secure the library's front door, because based on the signs around which I had tiptoed, there had been no one left alive with the luck to have done it before. Except for me, everyone who had been in the library when the attack began had died.
I moved slowly and silently toward the front of the building, and strangely, a part of me felt just as badly for the fallen books that had been knocked to the floor in struggles as another part of me did when gazing at what must have been the sites of fallen people. Each time, I was embarrassed for feeling that way, but . . . I'm a writer. That's just one more action I can't control.
I passed the bank of computers at which I had often sat to check my e-mail, and saw that the screensavers still danced. I couldn't resist. I slapped the spacebar and punched in my password. Amid the spam was a note from my agent, wondering if I still lived. I replied to him that I did, and since three days had passed since he'd sent his message, I asked him the same question. I started browsing 13 through my favorite blogs, discovering that no part of the world had escaped this plague, when I suddenly remembered—the front gate. There'd be enough time for exploration on the Internet later.
As I swung shut the wrought-iron gates at the library's main entrance, I worried that I was being premature 14 by not yet having checked every inch of the building. Was I alone in here?
Was I locking death out? Or locking it inside, the better for it to catch me?
I had to take that chance, unless I wanted to spend my days living inside a locked vault until those outside sorted this all out and we all got back to normal.
As I looked down at the base of the steps on the milling undead, it was as if they could sense me, as if they felt that by merely continuing to live that I was taunting 15 them. They careened off each other as they gathered into clumps 16. It was unnerving to study them that way, knowing that they were studying me. I moved back from the gates in the hope that I would be less noticeable. It seemed to work. They wandered off again, listless zombies once more; from this height, they might as well have been commuters on their way to work. Only their job was eating the actual commuters, not that this city had any left. There were none of the living left, at least not on the streets that surrounded the library, that much was clear. All of the action was past.
I could not escape, though, the signs of actions past. I had tried before to avoid the implications of such signs, but would the world ever be rid of them? Dark stains everywhere, as random as oil slicks, told me what had happened out there, what I had thankfully missed while inside the vault. Automobiles 17 appeared to have been flung randomly 18 across the landscape outside, one flipped 19 onto its back on the bottom steps of the library, others piled up against each other as far into the distance as I could see. An armored car lay on its side amid the chaos 20. I could picture the drivers dodging 21 both living and dead, each terrified that he or she would migrate from being one to being the other, losing control first of their vehicles and finally their lives.
I didn't want to keep reliving that, so I looked again at the armored car. It was filled with money, I imagined, which my last royalty 22 statements told me I needed more of. I could probably go out there if I was crazy enough to risk it and grab all the cash I could carry. But what good would that do me now? We had evolved overnight into a world beyond money. A new economy ruled the world, and it was one based on meat. As I stared at the armored car and thought wistfully of a past and future no longer within my reach, I thought I could see something move through a small, narrow window in the vehicle's side. I studied that slot, and though there was no more movement, I could tell that, yes, as I was looking, someone was looking back. I risked stepping closer to the gates again, but unfortunately, at that distance I could not read any expression there. I could barely make out any features at all, an eye, a nose; just enough to tell me that I was not alone.
Then I saw a hand, its curled fingers beckoning 23 me forward.
I was not the last man in the world after all, not some Robinson Crusoe stranded 24 after the rise of the zombies.
Or maybe, come to think of it, I was, and as the tale promised, I'd just found my Friday.
The stories come more slowly now. I know, I know, I promised you that they wouldn't come at all any longer. But if you out there were in here with me, were at my side, you'd see that there is good reason for them to continue.
And besides, maybe this will be the story worth telling.
(Or maybe, just maybe, I will tell them until I finally admit that there might no longer be any stories worth telling.)
So . . .
There once was a woman—I won't give her a name, I won't bother giving any of them names any longer, for after all, aren't they all just archetypes? Aren't they really just you and me?—who had tried and tried (and tried and tried) to have a child, but no matter what she and her husband and the doctors and the insurance companies and the midwives (and the potential grandmothers) did, she kept miscarrying. But somehow, even as her husband suggested, at first gently and then more insistently 25, that they consider adoption 26, she avoided the choice he was pushing upon her, and she also avoided despair. She knew that she would eventually have a child, a child of her own, and so she was able to shut out all the voices that yammered around her. And she almost proved those voices wrong, too, by carrying a fetus 27 nearly to term.
So close . . .
But then it died, too, just like all of the others. She could sense the motionlessness inside, the potential that had become merely a weight. She felt the absence in a way she had never known before one could feel an absence. She had always been honest with her husband before. As a couple, they prided themselves on their honesty. But this time she could not bear to tell him the truth. She knew what would happen next, what the doctors would insist, and she didn't want to endure again what she'd endured so many times already. So she prayed, just as, for the first time in her life since she had been a child, she had been praying for a child of her own. And then, just before the next day's already scheduled prenatal appointment, which she had thought she would have to break so as not to reveal what had occurred, she felt movement within.
But the movement felt more violent than any kicking the baby had done before, prior to what she convinced herself was only a brief nap. She could feel things ripping and tearing inside, and her spotting became bleeding, enough to frighten her. She went alone to the doctor, not wanting to have to be forced to tell her husband what was going on, and when the doctor gave her a sonogram, he saw no heartbeat. He was baffled, and did not know what to tell her. Nothing had prepared him for this. How could there be movement with no heartbeat?
And then, perhaps in response to the sonogram's invasion, the movements increased.
The woman clutched her stomach and screamed, and as the doctor rushed to his wall of supplies to find a way to relieve her agony, the baby chewed its way out of its mother's womb and poked 28 its head through the skin of her stomach. The doctor, even in the midst of the insanity 29 of the event, reacted reflexively, reaching for the child, instinctively 30 wanting to see that, whatever else was incomprehensible about this moment, it was healthy, not able to see the dead skin hidden by the blanket of blood. The child snapped at him as it wriggled 31 free from its dying mother, and the doctor backed away hurriedly, tripping over his own feet, and then fled the room.
Or perhaps he should only attempt to flee. Perhaps after he loses his balance, instead of righting himself and continuing on, he should fall to the floor, and the child, the thing, should fall from the mother, now dead atop the examining table, and begin to feast upon the doctor. Perhaps that would make more dramatic sense.
However the scene ends, we should keep in mind that it is a scene which with many variations played itself out around the world that day, as the fruits of failed pregnancies 32 suddenly resulted not in dead babies, but in undead ones. But neither this mother nor this doctor could know that. But even if they had known, what other choices would they have made? There was barely escape from the plague without; how could there be escape from the plague within?
So let's just say that this particular baby struggled its way free from its mother's guts 33, and slid off the examining table, whether onto the warm doctor or onto the cold linoleum 34 to be decided 35 later. What will happen next would remain the same regardless.
It crawled out of the examining room into an office which by then had been emptied by the (bloodied or unbloodied) doctor's screaming. It pulled and wriggled its way down the street, unable to move in any way other than that of a real baby. Perhaps someday, if it survived, it would learn to walk, though physically 36 it would never have more than a newborn's form, but for now, it crawled, making slow progress. People on the street gave it a wide berth 37, the trail of blood that it left behind itself clear warning of its intent, and though it grew frustrated 38, that frustration 39 could not propel it quickly enough to overtake any of them.
But then a dog came over, sniffing 40, curious, unafraid, and close enough for the zombie child to grab hold of its front paws. It yanked at them roughly, breaking the dog's front legs. As the animal squealed 41 and struggled vainly to retreat, the baby pulled itself forward along the length of the dog's trembling body to reach and snap the back legs as well. The baby had no teeth as yet, and so could not chew its way into the animal's belly 42 as its tiny brain desired, so it had to punch its way in with small but strong fists and suck on the red, raw meat it had exposed.
As the child feasted, it felt itself pulled away from its orgy of blood, and before it could react to this affront 43, tossed through the air. It bounced off the back wall of a small cage, and as it attempted to reorient itself and go on the attack once more, the door slammed shut.
The woman whose dog had just been killed had a cage in which she would transport her dog to the park each day in the back of her van, and the zombie baby found itself trapped within. It beat blindly at the sides of the cage, but the metal was too strong for it to bend.
The woman smiled as she drove it back to her home. The reason she had a dog, she always knew, was because she could not have a child, and now, most unexpectedly, she had a child. She saw it as a gift from God. She did not care that it was dead, or that she would obviously have to be very, very careful or she would end up dead herself. She would love it for the rest of her life, even after the world came through the other side of this plague. She would tell no one of it, so that when all the other zombies were rounded up and destroyed, her baby would remain safe. She would love it and care for it as long as she lived.
But she would never let it out of its cage.
Well . . . maybe that won't turn out to be one of the stories worth telling. Right now, in the midst of it all, it seems somewhat pointless to even bother creating stories, but I know that someday the world will want to make sense of what we went through together, and someone will have to step forward to do that. That someone might as well be me. So I at least have to try.
One thing I've been realizing, as my subconscious 44 mind weaves life into art (well, let others decide later if there's any art there) is that all zombie stories are true. Also, no zombie stories are true. Because, you see, there are no zombie stories until I write them. The universe has no opinion of us. No matter how much we want to pretend, real life does not contain the quality of story. No arcs, no morals, no meaning. Life is what we make of it.
And I was finally, after a lifetime of typing, in a position to make something of it.
It had been a week since I had taken refuge in this place. Undoubtedly 45, whoever was inside the armored car had to have been there nearly as long, or he would not still be alive. However long the person had been trapped, he—or she, I shouldn't forget there was a chance that it could be a she—surely needed food by now. And it was up to me to help.
I rushed back to the candy machine that I had long since cracked open, having abandoned the comforting illusion of order that dropping change in the slot had earlier brought me, and filled my pockets with pretzels, beef jerky, soda, and whatever else could fit. The cans, cold through the cloth of my jacket, reminded me that the city's electricity still worked, which had to be a good sign, right? Somewhere out there the wheels of industry kept turning, and human beings had to be the ones turning them. Or so I hoped. I'm afraid I didn't understand enough about technology to know for sure. I'm not that kind of writer. I'd research that after what I told myself I had to do, if there was an after.
I ran down to the ground floor and paused at the far end of the hallway that led to the main entrance, back enough from the gates so that though I could make out the foot traffic, I could not be easily seen. I watched as the zombies moved in their random patterns and waited for the street ahead to clear. There would come a moment, I was sure, in which nothing stood between me and the armored car, and no one hovered 46 close enough to catch me even if I was noticed.
And then, trying not to think too much about it, I ran. It was not a pretty thing, as I am a writer, not a runner. Those two roles cohabit rarely, and certainly not in me. I am ashamed to say that it was not courage that propelled me clumsily on. It was loneliness that had overcome my fear, not altruism 47.
When I was closer to the armored car than I was to the library's front door, I suddenly thought—what if that hadn't been a living person I had seen staring back at me through that narrow window? What if the guard had died in the crash and was now himself a zombie, and the face was that of something struggling to get out and unable to figure out how . . . and hungry?
It was too late to dwell on that for more than an instant, because out of the corner of an eye, I could see a shuffling 48 form. As I ran more quickly, soda sloshing, the thick back door of the armored car was raised in front of me, and I dove in. The door slammed shut behind me and I turned my head quickly to see that, yes, thankfully, I was visiting someone still alive. The man in the stained guard uniform locking the door looked far the worse for wear than I did, but he was still a man. The air hung heavy with sweat, but after someone has lived in the back of a small truck for a week, I guess I was lucky I could stand it at all.
I lay there, breathing heavily, feeling drained as much from the tension as the exertion 49, and did not protest as the guard patted me down. I knew what he was looking for, and was just thankful at this juncture 50 that he was eating my food instead of attempting to eat me. He snapped a huge chocolate chip cookie in half and shoved both pieces in his mouth, then popped a soda, which exploded across his face thanks to my mad dash. But he wasn't angry, as he surely would have been back in the old days of only a week before. He just laughed, and took a long pull from the can.
"Thanks," he said, wiping the crumbs 51 and foam 52 from his face. "I don't think a soda has ever tasted this good. And as you might guess, I haven't had many reasons to laugh in a while."
I nodded and forced a smile. I was glad to see him, to know that I wasn't alone, but I wasn't happy about the fact that I'd had to come to him, rather than the reverse, to do it.
"Why are you still here?" I said, a little too terse 53, considering what should be joyful 54 circumstances. "Once you knew I was inside, why didn't you make a break for the library? That place is like a fortress 55."
He swiveled clumsily about and showed me his right foot, the ankle of which twisted at an ugly angle.
"I'd never have made it with this," he said. "Once we flipped, and I felt the snap, I knew that it was all over for me."
"But you have to try, Barry," I said. He started when I called him by name, so I pointed 56 at his ID badge, still hanging from his chest pocket. "I didn't want to feel responsible for you starving out here, so I brought food, but it's too risky 57 to do more than once. You can't expect me to continue supplying you. And you can't last forever in here alone."
"I didn't plan on lasting 58 forever." He shrugged 59. The bags under his eyes shrugged with him. "Would have been nice, though. But better starved to death than eaten to death. I'll admit I expected to end up with a bigger coffin 60. But this one will have to do."
"No," I said suddenly and firmly, surprised at myself even as I blurted 61 it out. "I'm not going to let that happen. We ought to be able to get you up those steps and into the library if we work together. I can distract them. They don't move that fast."
"Faster than me," he said wearily.
His expression was a defeated one, but I knew better than to accept it as irreversible. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that people want to live.
"We've got to try," I said. "You don't want me to have come this far for nothing. I ought to at least get a chance to save your life."
He laughed, which I considered progress. I peered out the small window in the rear door, back up the steps of the library to safety. The front gates looked infinitely 62 far away. I was stunned 63 that I had survived the first leg of the journey. But I knew that regardless of how treacherous 64 it seemed, I was going back. If I was going to die, it was going to be in that library, or at the very least trying to get back to that library, and not in the rear of an armored car. Barry might have been willing to settle for a coffin of that size, but mine had to be a little larger.
And contain the complete works of Shakespeare besides.
Barry had not answered, but it was as if we had made a silent decision. We watched and waited, too weary for small talk (which we both hoped and pretended that there would be time for later), too weary for anything but studying the street, praying for a moment when it would be completely clear, and allow Barry time to hobble to safety. But unlike earlier that day, no such moment came. Each time the random patterns of the shuffling undead had the streets almost emptied, there would always be one lone 11 zombie lingering under a stop light as if waiting for it to change. I didn't really think it could be doing that, responding to the world that used to be, no, not in real life, only in stories maybe, but still, there it was. The lights did not function, and so it stared up at the pole.
Until I grew tired of waiting.
"I'm going to distract him," I whispered.
The guard ordered me not to in one of those voices guards have and grabbed at my arm, but I leapt through the door anyway, and was back on the street before he could do anything about it. Instead of running immediately toward the steps leading up to the door of the library as any sane 65 person would have done, I ran at the light-distracted zombie, prayed for it to notice me before I got too close, then veered 66 away at the last possible instant I knew I could still outrun it. It was pulled along in my wake by its undead desire.
"Now," I shouted back at Barry over my shoulder. "This is your chance. Take it!"
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的
- Things have been getting chaotic in the office recently.最近办公室的情况越来越乱了。
- The traffic in the city was chaotic.这城市的交通糟透了。
adj.荒谬的,可笑的
- The whole idea was preposterous.整个想法都荒唐透顶。
- It would be preposterous to shovel coal with a teaspoon.用茶匙铲煤是荒谬的。
vt.拆开,拆卸;废除,取消
- He asked for immediate help from the United States to dismantle the warheads.他请求美国立即提供援助,拆除这批弹头。
- The mower firmly refused to mow,so I decided to dismantle it.修完后割草机还是纹丝不动,于是,我决定把它拆开。
adj.随机的;任意的;n.偶然的(或随便的)行动
- The list is arranged in a random order.名单排列不分先后。
- On random inspection the meat was found to be bad.经抽查,发现肉变质了。
n.偶然发现物品之才能;意外新发现
- "It was serendipity all the way,"he says.用他的话说是“一直都很走运”。
- Some of the best effects in my garden have been the result of serendipity.我园子里最珍贵的几件物品是机缘巧合之下意外所得。
n.小行星( asteroid的名词复数 );海盘车,海星
- Asteroids,also known as "minor planets",are numerous in the outer space. 小行星,亦称为“小型行星”,在外太空中不计其数。
- Most stars probably have their quota of planets, meteorids, comets, and asteroids. 多数恒星也许还拥有若干行星、流星、彗星和小行星。
n.胀起,(地壳)的隆起;剧变,动乱
- It was faced with the greatest social upheaval since World War Ⅱ.它面临第二次世界大战以来最大的社会动乱。
- The country has been thrown into an upheaval.这个国家已经陷入动乱之中。
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室
- The vault of this cathedral is very high.这座天主教堂的拱顶非常高。
- The old patrician was buried in the family vault.这位老贵族埋在家族的墓地里。
n.矫饰,做作,借口
- You can't keep up the pretense any longer.你无法继续伪装下去了。
- Pretense invariably impresses only the pretender.弄虚作假欺骗不了真正的行家。
n.碎石
- Detritus usually consists of gravel, sand and clay.岩屑通常是由砂砾,沙和粘土组成的。
- A channel is no sooner cut than it chokes in its own detritus.一个河道刚被切割了不久,很快又被它自己的碎屑物质所充塞。
adj.孤寂的,单独的;唯一的
- A lone sea gull flew across the sky.一只孤独的海鸥在空中飞过。
- She could see a lone figure on the deserted beach.她在空旷的海滩上能看到一个孤独的身影。
n.苏打水;汽水
- She doesn't enjoy drinking chocolate soda.她不喜欢喝巧克力汽水。
- I will freshen your drink with more soda and ice cubes.我给你的饮料重加一些苏打水和冰块。
v.吃草( browse的现在分词 );随意翻阅;(在商店里)随便看看;(在计算机上)浏览信息
- He sits browsing over[through] a book. 他坐着翻阅书籍。 来自《简明英汉词典》
- Cattle is browsing in the field. 牛正在田里吃草。 来自《简明英汉词典》
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的
- It is yet premature to predict the possible outcome of the dialogue.预言这次对话可能有什么结果为时尚早。
- The premature baby is doing well.那个早产的婴儿很健康。
嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 ); 嘲弄; 辱骂; 奚落
- She wagged a finger under his nose in a taunting gesture. 她当着他的面嘲弄地摇晃着手指。
- His taunting inclination subdued for a moment by the old man's grief and wildness. 老人的悲伤和狂乱使他那嘲弄的意图暂时收敛起来。
n.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的名词复数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声v.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声
- These plants quickly form dense clumps. 这些植物很快形成了浓密的树丛。 来自《简明英汉词典》
- The bulbs were over. All that remained of them were clumps of brown leaves. 这些鳞茎死了,剩下的只是一丛丛的黃叶子。 来自《简明英汉词典》
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 )
- When automobiles become popular,the use of the horse and buggy passed away. 汽车普及后,就不再使用马和马车了。 来自《简明英汉词典》
- Automobiles speed in an endless stream along the boulevard. 宽阔的林荫道上,汽车川流不息。 来自《现代汉英综合大词典》
adv.随便地,未加计划地
- Within the hot gas chamber, molecules are moving randomly in all directions. 在灼热的气体燃烧室内,分子在各个方向上作无规运动。 来自辞典例句
- Transformed cells are loosely attached, rounded and randomly oriented. 转化细胞则不大贴壁、圆缩并呈杂乱分布。 来自辞典例句
轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 ); 按(开关); 快速翻转; 急挥
- The plane flipped and crashed. 飞机猛地翻转,撞毁了。
- The carter flipped at the horse with his whip. 赶大车的人扬鞭朝着马轻轻地抽打。
n.混乱,无秩序
- After the failure of electricity supply the city was in chaos.停电后,城市一片混乱。
- The typhoon left chaos behind it.台风后一片混乱。
n.避开,闪过,音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 );回避
- He ran across the road, dodging the traffic. 他躲开来往的车辆跑过马路。
- I crossed the highway, dodging the traffic. 我避开车流穿过了公路。 来自辞典例句
n.皇家,皇族
- She claims to be descended from royalty.她声称她是皇室后裔。
- I waited on tables,and even catered to royalty at the Royal Albert Hall.我做过服务生, 甚至在皇家阿伯特大厅侍奉过皇室的人。
adj.引诱人的,令人心动的v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的现在分词 )
- An even more beautiful future is beckoning us on. 一个更加美好的未来在召唤我们继续前进。 来自辞典例句
- He saw a youth of great radiance beckoning to him. 他看见一个丰神飘逸的少年向他招手。 来自辞典例句
a.搁浅的,进退两难的
- He was stranded in a strange city without money. 他流落在一个陌生的城市里, 身无分文,一筹莫展。
- I was stranded in the strange town without money or friends. 我困在那陌生的城市,既没有钱,又没有朋友。
ad.坚持地
- Still Rhett did not look at her. His eyes were bent insistently on Melanie's white face. 瑞德还是看也不看她,他的眼睛死死地盯着媚兰苍白的脸。
- These are the questions which we should think and explore insistently. 怎样实现这一主体性等问题仍要求我们不断思考、探索。
n.采用,采纳,通过;收养
- An adoption agency had sent the boys to two different families.一个收养机构把他们送给两个不同的家庭。
- The adoption of this policy would relieve them of a tremendous burden.采取这一政策会给他们解除一个巨大的负担。
n.胎,胎儿
- In the fetus,blood cells are formed in different sites at different ages.胎儿的血细胞在不同时期生成在不同的部位。
- No one knows why a fetus is not automatically rejected by the mother's immune system. 没有人知道为什么母亲的免疫系统不会自动排斥胎儿。
v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 );戳出;拨弄;与(某人)性交
- She poked him in the ribs with her elbow. 她用胳膊肘顶他的肋部。
- His elbow poked out through his torn shirt sleeve. 他的胳膊从衬衫的破袖子中露了出来。 来自《简明英汉词典》
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐
- In his defense he alleged temporary insanity.他伪称一时精神错乱,为自己辩解。
- He remained in his cell,and this visit only increased the belief in his insanity.他依旧还是住在他的地牢里,这次视察只是更加使人相信他是个疯子了。
adv.本能地
- As he leaned towards her she instinctively recoiled. 他向她靠近,她本能地往后缩。 来自《简明英汉词典》
- He knew instinctively where he would find her. 他本能地知道在哪儿能找到她。 来自《简明英汉词典》
v.扭动,蠕动,蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 );(使身体某一部位)扭动;耍滑不做,逃避(应做的事等)
- He wriggled uncomfortably on the chair. 他坐在椅子上不舒服地扭动着身体。 来自《简明英汉词典》
- A snake wriggled across the road. 一条蛇蜿蜒爬过道路。 来自《现代汉英综合大词典》
怀孕,妊娠( pregnancy的名词复数 )
- Since the wartime population needed replenishment, pregnancies were a good sign. 最后一桩倒不失为好现象,战时人口正该补充。
- She's had three pregnancies in four years. 她在四年中怀孕叁次。
v.狼吞虎咽,贪婪地吃,飞碟游戏(比赛双方每组5人,相距15码,互相掷接飞碟);毁坏(建筑物等)的内部( gut的第三人称单数 );取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 );内脏;消化道的下段;肠
- I'll only cook fish if the guts have been removed. 鱼若已收拾干净,我只需烧一下即可。
- Barbara hasn't got the guts to leave her mother. 巴巴拉没有勇气离开她妈妈。 来自《简明英汉词典》
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的
- This gave them a decided advantage over their opponents.这使他们比对手具有明显的优势。
- There is a decided difference between British and Chinese way of greeting.英国人和中国人打招呼的方式有很明显的区别。
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律
- He was out of sorts physically,as well as disordered mentally.他浑身不舒服,心绪也很乱。
- Every time I think about it I feel physically sick.一想起那件事我就感到极恶心。
n.卧铺,停泊地,锚位;v.使停泊
- She booked a berth on the train from London to Aberdeen.她订了一张由伦敦开往阿伯丁的火车卧铺票。
- They took up a berth near the harbor.他们在港口附近找了个位置下锚。
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧
- It's very easy to get frustrated in this job. 这个工作很容易令人懊恼。
- The bad weather frustrated all our hopes of going out. 恶劣的天气破坏了我们出行的愿望。 来自《简明英汉词典》
n.挫折,失败,失效,落空
- He had to fight back tears of frustration.他不得不强忍住失意的泪水。
- He beat his hands on the steering wheel in frustration.他沮丧地用手打了几下方向盘。
n.探查法v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的现在分词 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说
- We all had colds and couldn't stop sniffing and sneezing. 我们都感冒了,一个劲地抽鼻子,打喷嚏。
- They all had colds and were sniffing and sneezing. 他们都伤风了,呼呼喘气而且打喷嚏。 来自《现代英汉综合大词典》
v.长声尖叫,用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 )
- He squealed the words out. 他吼叫着说出那些话。 来自《简明英汉词典》
- The brakes of the car squealed. 汽车的刹车发出吱吱声。 来自《简明英汉词典》
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛
- The boss has a large belly.老板大腹便便。
- His eyes are bigger than his belly.他眼馋肚饱。
n./v.侮辱,触怒
- Your behaviour is an affront to public decency.你的行为有伤风化。
- This remark caused affront to many people.这句话得罪了不少人。
n./adj.潜意识(的),下意识(的)
- Nail biting is often a subconscious reaction to tension.咬指甲通常是紧张时的下意识反映。
- My answer seemed to come from the subconscious.我的回答似乎出自下意识。
adv.确实地,无疑地
- It is undoubtedly she who has said that.这话明明是她说的。
- He is undoubtedly the pride of China.毫无疑问他是中国的骄傲。
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫
- A hawk hovered over the hill. 一只鹰在小山的上空翱翔。
- A hawk hovered in the blue sky. 一只老鹰在蓝色的天空中翱翔。
n.利他主义,不自私
- An important feature of moral behaviour is altruism.道德行为一个重要特点就是利他主义。
- Altruism is crucial for social cohesion.利他主义对社会的凝聚是至关重要的。
n.尽力,努力
- We were sweating profusely from the exertion of moving the furniture.我们搬动家具大费气力,累得大汗淋漓。
- She was hot and breathless from the exertion of cycling uphill.由于用力骑车爬坡,她浑身发热。
n.时刻,关键时刻,紧要关头
- The project is situated at the juncture of the new and old urban districts.该项目位于新老城区交界处。
- It is very difficult at this juncture to predict the company's future.此时很难预料公司的前景。
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫
- The glass of beer was mostly foam.这杯啤酒大部分是泡沫。
- The surface of the water is full of foam.水面都是泡沫。
adj.(说话,文笔)精炼的,简明的
- Her reply about the matter was terse.她对此事的答复简明扼要。
- The president issued a terse statement denying the charges.总统发表了一份简短的声明,否认那些指控。
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的
- She was joyful of her good result of the scientific experiments.她为自己的科学实验取得好成果而高兴。
- They were singing and dancing to celebrate this joyful occasion.他们唱着、跳着庆祝这令人欢乐的时刻。
n.堡垒,防御工事
- They made an attempt on a fortress.他们试图夺取这一要塞。
- The soldier scaled the wall of the fortress by turret.士兵通过塔车攀登上了要塞的城墙。
adj.尖的,直截了当的
- He gave me a very sharp pointed pencil.他给我一支削得非常尖的铅笔。
- She wished to show Mrs.John Dashwood by this pointed invitation to her brother.她想通过对达茨伍德夫人提出直截了当的邀请向她的哥哥表示出来。
adj.有风险的,冒险的
- It may be risky but we will chance it anyhow.这可能有危险,但我们无论如何要冒一冒险。
- He is well aware how risky this investment is.他心里对这项投资的风险十分清楚。
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持
- The lasting war debased the value of the dollar.持久的战争使美元贬值。
- We hope for a lasting settlement of all these troubles.我们希望这些纠纷能获得永久的解决。
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式)
- Sam shrugged and said nothing. 萨姆耸耸肩膀,什么也没说。
- She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. 她耸耸肩,装出一副无所谓的样子。 来自《简明英汉词典》
n.棺材,灵柩
- When one's coffin is covered,all discussion about him can be settled.盖棺论定。
- The coffin was placed in the grave.那口棺材已安放到坟墓里去了。
v.突然说出,脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 )
- She blurted it out before I could stop her. 我还没来得及制止,她已脱口而出。
- He blurted out the truth, that he committed the crime. 他不慎说出了真相,说是他犯了那个罪。 来自《简明英汉词典》
adv.无限地,无穷地
- There is an infinitely bright future ahead of us.我们有无限光明的前途。
- The universe is infinitely large.宇宙是无限大的。
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的
- The surface water made the road treacherous for drivers.路面的积水对驾车者构成危险。
- The frozen snow was treacherous to walk on.在冻雪上行走有潜在危险。
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的
- He was sane at the time of the murder.在凶杀案发生时他的神志是清醒的。
- He is a very sane person.他是一个很有头脑的人。