Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Mybreathingsoundedlikealowwindrattlinginstraw.Ibumpedmynoseontheflimsyplywooddoorgoingoutandmyheartlurched.Therewerewindowsinthedoubledoors,butforsomereasontheyhadbeenpaintedblack,andthedarknesswasnearlytotal.Igotoffcourseandranintoastackofthebleachcartons.Theytumbledandfell.Onecamecloseenoughtomyheadtomakemestepbackward,andItrippedoveranothercartonthathadlandedbehindme.Ifelldown,thumpingmyheadhardenoughtoseebrightstarsinthedarkness.Goodshow.
Ilaytherecursingmyselfandrubbingmyhead,tellingmyselftojusttakeiteasy,justgetupandgetoutofhere,getbacktoBilly,tellingmyselfnothingsoftandslimywasgoingtocloseovermyankleorslipintoonegropinghand.Itoldmyselfnottolosecontrol,orIwouldendupblunderingaroundbackhereinapanic,knockingthingsoverandcreatingamadobstaclecourseformyself.
Istoodupcarefully,lookingforapencillineoflightbetweenthedoubledoors.Ifoundit,afaintbutunmistakablescratchonthedarkness.Istartedtowardit,andthenstopped.
Therewasasound.Asoftslidingsound.Itstopped,thenstartedagainwithastealthylittlebump.Everythinginsidemewentloose.Iregressedmagicallytofouryearsofage.Thatsoundwasn’tcomingfromthemarket.Itwascomingfrombehindme.Fromoutside.Wherethemistwas.
Somethingthatwasslippingandslidingandscrapingoverthecinderblocks.And,maybe,lookingforawayin.
