Мгла
The Coming of the Mist.
Theyholdyouspellbound,thewayBillyandSteffyhadbeeninfrontofthepicturewindowlastnight.
Itrolledimpartiallyacrossthetwo-laneblacktopanderaseditfromview.TheMcKeons’nicerestoredDutchColonialwasswallowedwhole.Foramomentthesecondflooroftheramshackleapartmentbuildingnextdoorjuttedoutofthewhiteness,andthenitwenttoo.TheKEEPRIGHTsignattheentranceandexitpointstotheFederal’sparkinglotdisappeared,theblacklettersonthesignseemingtofloatforamomentinlimboafterthesign’sdirty-whitebackgroundwasgone.Thecarsintheparkinglotbegantodisappearnext.
"WhattheChrististhis?"Nortonaskedagain,andtherewasacatchinhisvoice.
Itcameon,eatinguptheblueskyandthefreshblackhottopwithequalease.Eventwentyfeetawaythelineofdemarcationwasperfectlyclear.IhadthenuttyfeelingthatIwaswatchingsomeextra-goodpieceofvisualeffects,somethingdreamedupbyWillysO’BrianorDouglasTrumbull.Ithappenedsoquickly.Theblueskydisappearedtoawideswipe,thentoastripe,thentoapencilline.Thenitwasgone.Blankwhitepressedagainsttheglassofthewideshowwindow.Icouldseeasfarasthelitterbarrelthatstoodmaybefourfeetaway,butnotmuchfarther.IcouldseethefrontbumperofmyScout,butthat’wasall.
Awomanscreamed,veryloudandlong.Billypressedhimselfmoretightlyagainstme.Hisbodywastremblinglikealoosebundleofwireswithhighvoltagerunningthroughthem.
