Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Mostofthepeoplewerestillupfront,lookingoutintothethickblanketofmist.Nortonhadgatheredalittlecrowdoflisteners,andwasbusyspellbinding-ortryingto.BudBrownstoodrigidlyathispost,butOllieWeekshadlefthis,
Therewereafewpeopleintheaisles,wanderinglikeghosts,theirfacesgreasywithshock.Iwentintothestorageareathroughthebigdoubledoorbetweenthemeatcabinetandthebeercooler.
Thegeneratorroaredsteadilybehinditsplywoodpartition,butsomethinghadgonewrong.Icouldsmelldieselfumes,andtheyweremuchtoostrong.Iwalkedtowardthepartition,takingshallowbreaths.AtlastIunbuttonedmyshirtandputpartofitovermymouthandnose.
Thestorageareawaslongandnarrow,feeblylitbytwosetsofemergencylights.Cartonswerestackedeverywhere-bleachononeside,casesofsoftdrinksonthefarsideofthepartition,stackedcasesofBeefaroniandcatsup.Oneofthosehadfallenoverandthecardboardcartonappearedtobebleeding.
Iunlatchedthedoorinthegeneratorpartitionandsteppedthrough.Themachinewasobscuredindrifting,oilycloudsofbluesmoke.Theexhaustpiperanoutthroughaholeinthewall.Somethingmusthaveblockedofftheoutsideendofthepipe.Therewasasimpleon/offswitchandIflippedit.Thegeneratorhitched,belched,coughed,anddied.ThenitrandowninadiminishingseriesofpoppingsoundsthatremindedmeofNorton’sstubbornchainsaw.
TheemergencylightsfadedoutandIwasleftindarkness.Igotscaredveryquickly,andIgotdisoriented.
