Мгла
The End.
ThereisnoAndtheyescapedfromthemistintothegoodsunshineofanewday;orWhenweawoketheNationalGuardhadfinallyarrived;oreventhatgreatoldstandby:Itwasalladream.
Itis,Isuppose,whatmyfatheralwaysfrowninglycalledfanAlfredHitchcockending,"bywhichhemeantaconclusioninambiguitythatallowedthereaderorviewerItomakeuphisownmindabouthowthingsended.Myfatherhadnothingbutcontemptforsuchstories,sayingtheywere"cheapshots."
WegottothisHowardJohnson’snearExit3asduskbegantoclosein,makingdrivingasuicidalrisk.Beforethat,wetookachanceonabridgethatspanstheSacoRiver.Itlookedbadlytwistedoutofshape,butinthemistitwasimpossibletotellifitwaswholeornot.Thatparticulargamewewon.
Butthere’stomorrowtothinkof,isn’tthere?
AsIwritethis,itisaquartertooneinthemorning,Julythetwenty-third.Thestormthatseemedtosignalthebeginningofitallwasonlyfourdaysago.BillyissleepinginthelobbyonamattressthatIdraggedoutforhim.AmandaandMrs.Repplerarecloseby.IamwritingbythelightofabigDelcoflashlight,andoutsidethepinkbugsaretickingandthumpingofftheglass.Everynowandthenthereisalouderthudasoneofthebirdstakesoneoff.
TheScouthasenoughgastotakeusmaybeanotherninetymiles.Thealternativeistotrytogasuphere;thereisanExxonoutontheserviceisland,andalthoughthepowerisoff,IbelieveIcouldsiphonsomeupfromthetank.But
Butitmeansbeingoutside.
