Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Iwashalfinandhalfout,directlyundertheraiseddoor.Atentaclepassedbyonmyleft,seemingtowalkonitssuckers.ItattacheditselftooneofNorm’sbulgingupperarms,pausedforasecond,andthenslidarounditincoils.
NowNormlookedlikesomethingoutofamadman’sdreamofsnakecharming.Tentaclestwistedoverhimuneasilyalmosteverywhere...andtheywereallaroundme,aswell.Imadeaclumsyleapfrogjumpbackinside,landedonmyshoulder,androlled.Jim,OllieandMyronwerestillthere.TheystoodlikeatableauofwaxworksinMadameTussaud’s,theirfacespale,theireyestoobright.JimandMyronflankedthedoortothegeneratorcompartment.
"Startthegenerator!"Iyelledatthem.
Neithermoved.Theywerestaringwithadrugged,thanatoticavidityattheloadingbay.
Igropedonthefloor,pickedupthefirstthingthatcametohand-aboxofSnowybleach-andchuckeditatJim.Ithithiminthegut,justabovethebeltbuckle.Hegruntedandgrabbedathimself.Hiseyesflickeredbackintosomesemblanceofnormality.
"Gostartthatfu**inggenerator!"Iscreamedsoloudlyithurtmythroat.
Hedidn’tmove;insteadhebegantodefendhimself,apparentlyhavingdecidedthat,withNormbeingeatenalivebysomeinsanehorrorfromthemist,thetimehadcomeforrebuttals.
"I’msorry,"hewhined."Ididn’tknow,howthehellwasIsupposedtoknow?YousaidyouheardsomethingbutIdidn’tknowwhatyoumeant,youshouldhavesaidwhatyoumeantbetter.
