Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Heopenedhismouthtosaysomething-Ithinkhewasgoingtocallitoff-andthenthegeneratorroaredintolifeagain,andwhenitwasrunningsmoothly,Normlungedatthebuttontotherightofthedooranditbegantorattleupwardonitsdualsteeltracks.Theemergencylightshadcomebackonwhenthegeneratorstarted.Nowtheydimmeddownasthemotorwhichliftedthedoorsuckedawaythejuice.
Theshadowsranbackwardandmelted.Thestorageareabegantofillwiththemellowwhitelightofanovercastlate-winterday.Inoticedthatodd,acridsmellagain.
Theloadingdoorwentuptwofeet,thenfour.BeyondIcouldseeasquarecementplatformoutlinedaroundtheedgeswithayellowstripe.Theyellowfadedandwashedoutinjustthreefeet.Thefogwasincrediblythick.
"Houp!"Normyelled.
Tendrilsofmist,aswhiteandfineasfloatinglace,eddiedinside.Theairwascold.Ithadbeennoticeablycoolallmorninglong,especiallyafterthestickyheatofthelastthreeweeks,butithadbeenasummerycoolness.Thiswascold.ItwaslikeMarch.Ishivered.AndIthoughtofSteff.
Thegeneratordied.JimcameoutjustasNormduckedunderthedoor.Hesawit.SodidI.SodidOllie.
AtentaclecameoverthefarlipoftheconcreteloadingplatformandgrabbedNormaroundthecalf.Mymouthdroppedwideopen.
