Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Thisisnoordinaryfog.Nobodyhascomeintothemarketsinceithit.Ifyouopenthatloadingdoorandsomethingcomesin-"
"Somethinglikewhat?"Normsaidwithperfecteighteen-year-oldmachocontempt.
"Whatevermadethenoise,Iheard."
"Mr.Drayton,"Jimsaid."Pardonme,butI’mnotconvincedyouheardanything.Iknowyou’reabig-shotartistwithconnectionsinNewYorkandHollywoodandall,butthatdoesn’tmakeyouanydifferentfromanyoneelse,inmybook.WayIfigure,yougotinhereinthedarkandmaybeyoujust...gotalittleconfused."
"MaybeIdid,"Isaid."Andmaybeifyouwanttostartscrewingaroundoutside,yououghttostartbymakingsurethatladygothomesafetoherkids."Hisattitude-andthatofhisbuddyandofNormthebag-boy-wasmakingmemadandscaringmemoreatthesametime.Theyhadthesortoflightintheireyesthatsomemengetwhentheygoshootingratsatthetowndump.
"Hey,"Jim’sbuddysaid."Whenanyofusherewantyouradvice,we’llaskforit."
Hesitantly,Olliesaid:"Thegeneratorreallyisn’tthatimportant,youknow.Thefoodinthecoldcaseswillkeepfortwelvehoursormorewithabsolutelyno-"
"Okay,kid,you’reit,"Jimsaidbrusquely."I’llstartthemotor,youraisethedoorsothattheplacedoesn’tstinkuptoobad.MeandMyronwillbestandingbytheexhaustoutflow.Giveusayellwhenit’sclear..."
"Sure,"Normsaid,andbustledexcitedlyaway.
"Thisiscrazy,"Isaid.
