Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Isawajanitor’spushbroomleaningagainstastack-upofbeercasesandgrabbedit.
Norm’sgoodhandwasrippedloose.Hethuddeddownontotheconcreteloadingplatformandscrabbledmadlyforagripwithhisonefreehand.Hiseyesmetmineforamoment.Theywerehellishlybrightandaware.Heknewwhatwashappeningtohim.Thenhewaspulled,bumpingandrolling,intothemist.Therewasanotherscream,chokedoff.Normwasgone.
Ipushedthetipofthebroomhandleontothebuttonandthemotorwhined.Thedoorbegantoslidebackdown.Ittouchedthethickestofthetentaclesfirst,theonethathadbeeninvestigatinginMyron’sdirection.Itindenteditshide-skin,whatever-andthenpiercedit.Ablackgoobegantospurtfromit.Itwrithedmadly,whippingacrosstheconcretestorage-areafloorlikeanobscenebullwhip,andthenitseemedtoflattenout.Amomentlateritwasgone.Theothersbegantowithdraw.
Oneofthemhadafive-poundbagofGainesdogfood,anditwouldn’tletgo.Thedescendingdoorcutitintwobeforethumpinghomeinitsgroovedslot.Theseveredchunkoftentaclesqueezedconvulsivelytighter,splittingthebagopenandsendingbrownnuggetsofdogfoodeverywhere.Thenitbegantofloponthefloorlikeafishoutofwater,curlinganduncurling,butevermoreslowly,untilitlaystill.Iproddeditwiththetipofthebroom.Thepieceoftentacle,maybethreefeetlong,closedonitsavagelyforamoment,thenloosenedandlaylimpagainintheconfusedlitteroftoiletpaper,dogfood,andbleachcartons.
