Мгла
The Coming of the Mist.
BackwhenBridgtonwaslittlemorethanacrossroads,mydadwouldtakemeinwithhimandstandtalkingatthecounterwhileIlookedthroughtheglassatthepennycandyandtwo-centchews.ItwasJanuarythaw.Nosoundbutthedripofmeltwaterfallingfromthegalvanizedtingutterstotherainbarrelsoneithersideofthestore.Melookingatthejawbreakersandbuttonsandpinwheels.Themysticyellowglobesoflightoverheadshowingupthemonstrous,projectedshadowsoflastsummer’sbattalionofdeadflies.AlittleboynamedDavidDraytonlookingatthecandyandtheDavyCrockettbubble-gumcardsandvaguelyneedingtogopee.Andoutside,thepressing,billowingyellowfogofJanuarythaw.
Thememorypassed,butveryslowly.
"Youpeople!"Nortonbellowed."Allyoupeople,listentome!"
Theylookedaround.Nortonwasholdingupbothhands,thefingerssplayedlikeapoliticalcandidateacceptingaccolades.
"Itmaybedangeroustogooutside!"Nortonyelled.
"Why?"awomanscreamedback."Mykids’reathome!Igottogetbacktomykids!"
"It’sdeathtogooutthere!"Mrs.Carmodycamebacksmartly.Shewasstandingbythetwenty-five-poundsacksoffertilizerstackedbelowthewindow,andherfaceseemedtobulgesomehow,asifshewereswelling.
Ateenagergaveherasuddenhardpushandshesatdownonthebagswithasurprisedgrunt."Stopsayingthat,youoldbag!Stoprappin’thatcrazybullshit!"
"Please!"Nortonyelled."ifwejustwaitafewmomentsuntilitblowsoverandwecansee-"
Ababbleofconflictingshoutsgreetedthis.
