Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Ibangedmyheadontheloweredgeofthepartlyraiseddoor.
Norm’slegswereoutsideagain.Oneofhisloafershadfallenoff.Anewtentaclecameoutofthemist,wrappeditstipfirmlyaroundtheshoe,andmadeoffwithit.Norm’sfingersclutchedatthedoor’sloweredge.Hehaditinadeathgrip.Hisfingerswerelivid.Hewasnotscreaminganymore;hewasbeyondthat.Hisheadwhippedbackandforthinanendlessgestureofnegation,andhislongblackhairflewwildly.
Ilookedoverhisshoulderandsawmoretentaclescoming,dozensofthem,aforestofthem.Mostweresmallbutafewweregigantic,asthickasthemoss-corsetedtreethathadbeenlyingacrossourdrivewaythatmorning.Thebigoneshadcandy-pinksuckersthatseemedthesizeofmanholecovers.Oneofthesebigonesstrucktheconcreteloadingplatformwithaloudandrollingthrrrrp!soundandmovedsluggishlytowarduslikeagreatblindearthworm.Igaveonegigantictug,andthetentacleholdingNorm’srightcalfslippedalittle.Thatwasall.Butbeforeitreestablisheditsgrip,Isawthatthethingwaseatinghimaway.
Oneofthetentaclesbrusheddelicatelypastmycheekandthenwaveredintheair,asifdebating.IthoughtofBillythen.BillywaslyingasleepinthemarketbyMr.McVey’slongwhitemeatcooler.Ihadcomeinheretofindsomethingtocoverhimupwith.Ifoneofthosethingsgotholdofme,therewouldbenoonetowatchoutforhim-exceptmaybeNorton.
SoIletgoofNormanddroppedtomyhandsandknees.
