Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Ithought,Idunno,maybeabird,orsomething-"
SothenOlliemoved,buntinghimasidewithonethickshoulderandblunderingintothegeneratorroom.Jimstumbledoveroneofthebleachcartonsandfelldown,justasIhaddoneinthedark."I’msorry,"hesaidagain.Hisredhairhadtumbledoverhisbrow.Hischeekswerecheese-white.Hiseyeswerethoseofahorrifiedlittleboy.Secondslaterthegeneratorcoughedandrumbledintolife.
Iturnedbacktotheloadingdoor.Normwasalmostgone,yetheclunggrimlywithonehand.Hisbodyboiledwithtentacles,andbloodpatteredserenelydownontheconcreteindime-sizedroplets.Hisheadwhippedbackandforthandhiseyesbulgedwithterrorastheystaredoffintothemist.
Othertentaclesnowcreptandcrawledoverthefloorinside.Thereweretoomanynearthebuttonthatcontrolledtheloadingdoortoeventhinkofapproachingit.Oneofthemclosedaroundahalf-literbottleofPepsiandcarrieditoff.Anotherslippedaroundacardboardcartonandsqueezed.Thecartonrupturedandrollsoftoiletpaper,two-packsofDelseywrappedincellophane,geyseredupward,camedown,androlledeverywhere.Tentaclesseizedthemeagerly.
Oneofthebigonesslippedin.Itstiprosefromtheflooranditseemedtosnifftheair.ItbegantoadvancetowardMyronandhesteppedmincinglyawayfromit,hiseyesrollingmadlyintheirsockets.Ahigh-pitchedlittlemoanescapedhisslacklips.
Ilookedaroundforsomething,anythingatalllongenoughtoreachoverthequestingtentaclesandpunchtheSHUTbuttononthewall.
