Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Ormaybeitwasalreadyin,anditwaslookingformeMaybeinamomentIwouldfeelwhateverwasmakingthatsoundonmyshoe.Oronmyneck.
Itcame,again.Iwaspositiveitwasoutside.Butthatdidn’tmakeitanybetter.Itoldmylegstogoandtherefusedtheorder.Thenthequalityofthenoisechanged.SomethingraspedacrossthedarknessandmyheartleapedinmychestandIlungedatthatthinverticallineoflight.Ihitthedoorsstraight-armandburstthroughintothemarket.
Threeorfourpeoplewererightoutsidethedoubledoors-OllieWeekswasoneofthem-andtheyalljumpedbackinsurprise.Olliegrabbedathischest."David!"hesaidinapinchedvoice."JesusChrist,youwanttotaketenyearsoffmy-"Hesawmyface."What’sthematterwithyou?"
"Didyouhearit?"Iasked.Myvoicesoundedstrangeinmyownears,highandsqueaking."Didanyofyouhearit?"
Theyhadn’theardanything,ofcourse.Theyhadcomeuptoseewhythegeneratorhadgoneoff.AsOllietoldmethat,oneofthebag-boysbustledupwithanarmloadofflashlights.HelookedfromOllietomecuriously.
"Iturnedthegeneratoroff,"Isaid,andexplainedwhy.
"Whatdidyouhear?"oneoftheothermenasked.Heworkedforthetownroaddepartment;hisnamewasJimsomething.
"Idon’tknow.Ascrapingnoise.Slithery.Idon’twanttohearitagain."
"Nerves,"theotherfellowwithOlliesaid.
"No.Itwasnotnerves."
"Didyouhearitbeforethelightswentout?"
"No,onlyafter.But..."Butnothing.Icouldseethewaytheywerelookingatme.
