Мгла
The Expedition to the pharmacy.
Racingstripes,Ithoughtcrazily.Itseyeswerereddish-purple,likepomegranates.Itstruttedbusilytowardusonwhatmighthavebeenasmanyastwelveorfourteenmany-jointedlegs-itwasnoordinaryearthlyspiderblownuptohorror-moviesize;itwassomethingtotallydifferent,perhapsnotreallyaspideratall.Seeingit_MikeHatlenwouldhaveunderstoodwhatthatbristlyblackthinghehadbeenproddingatinthepharmacyreallywas.
Itclosedinonus,spinningitswebbingfromanoval-shapedorificeonitsupperbelly.Thestrandsfloatedouttowardusinwhatwasnearlyafanshape.Lookingatthisnightmare,solikethedeath-blackspidersbroodingovertheirdeadfliesandbugsintheshadowsofourboathouse,Ifeltmymindtryingtotearcompletelyloosefromitsmoorings.IbelievenowthatitwasonlythethoughtofBillythatallowedmetokeepanysemblanceofsanity.Iwasmakingsomesound.Laughing.Crying.Screaming.Idon’tknow.
ButOllieWeekswaslikearock.HeraisedAmanda’spistolascalmlyasamanonatargetrangeandemptieditinspacedshotsintothecreatureatpoint-blankrange.Whateverhellitcamefrom,itwasn’tinvulnerable.Ablackichorsplatteredfromitsbodyanditmadeaterriblemewlingsound,solowitwasmorefeltthanheard,likeabassnotefromasynthesizer.Thenitscutteredbackintothemistandwasgone.Itmighthavebeenaphantasmfromahorribledrug-dream...exceptforthepuddlesofstickyblackstuffithadleftbehind.
TherewasaclangasBuddyfinallydroppedhissteelpinchbar.
