Мгла
The Storage Area. Problems with the Generators. What Happened to the Bag-Boy.
Theywentwillinglyenough,huddlingtogetherastheypassedthroughtheswingingdoors.Olliekilledthegenerator,andjustasthelightsstartedtofail,Isawaquiltedrug-thesortofthingmoversusetopadbreakablethings-floppedoverastackofreturnablesodabottles.IreachedupandgrabbeditforBilly.
Therewastheshuffling,blunderingsoundofOlliecomingoutofthegeneratorcompartment.Likeagreatmanyoverweightmen,hisbreathinghadaslightlyheavywheezingsound.
"David?"Hisvoicewaveredalittle."Youstillhere?"
"Righthere,Ollie.Youwanttowatchoutforallthosebleachcartons."
"Yeah."
Iguidedhimwithmyvoiceandinthirtysecondsorsohereachedoutofthedarkandgrippedmyshoulder.Hegavealong,tremblingsigh.
"Christ,let’sgetoutofhere."IcouldsmelltheRolaidshealwayschewedonhisbreath."Thisdarkis...isbad."
"Itis,"Isaid."Buthangtightaminute,Ollie.IwantedtotalktoyouandIdidn’twantthoseothertwofuckheadslistening."
"Dave...theydidn’ttwistNorm’sarm.Yououghttorememberthat."
"Normwasakid,andtheyweren’t.Butnevermind,that’sover.We’vegottotellthem,Ollie.Thepeopleinthemarket."
"Iftheypanic-"Ollie’svoicewasdoubtful.
"Maybetheywillandmaybetheywon’t.Butitwillmakethemthinktwiceaboutgoingout,whichiswhatmostofthemwanttodo.Whyshouldn’tthey?Mostofthemwillhavepeopletheyleftathome.Idomyself.Wehavetomakethemunderstandwhatthey’reriskingiftheygooutthere."
Hishandwasgrippingmyarmhard
