День триффидов
The End begins
Ihesitatedamoment,butthereseemedtobenothingforitbuttogoonmakingmywaydown.
OnthenextturnInearlytrippedoveramanwholayacrossmywayintheshadow.Atthebottomoftheflightlaysomebodywhoactuallyhadtrippedoverhim—andcrackedhisheadonthestonestepsashelanded.
AtlastIreachedthefinalturnwhereIcouldstandandlookdownintothemainhail.Seeminglyeveryoneintheplacewhowasabletomovemusthavemadeinstinctivelyforthatspot,eitherwiththeideaoffindinghelporofgettingoutside.Maybesomeofthemhadgotout.Oneofthemainentrancedoorswaswideopen,butmostofthemcouldn’tfindit.Therewasatight-packedmobofmenandwomen,nearlyallofthemintheirhospitalnightclothes,millingslowlyandhelplesslyaround.Themotionpressedthoseontheoutskirtscruellyagainstmarblecornersorornamentalprojections.Someofthemwerecrushedbreathlesslyagainstthewalls.Nowandthenonewouldtrip.Ifthepressofbodiesallowedhimtofall,therewaslittlechancethatitwouldlethimcomeupagain.
Theplacelooked—well,maybeyou’llhaveseensomeofDore’spicturesofsinnersinhell.ButDorecouldn’tincludethesounds:thesobbing,themurmurousmoaning,andoccasionallyaforlorncry.
AminuteortwoofitwasallIcouldstand.Ifledbackupthestairs.
TherewasthefeelingthatIoughttodosomethingaboutit.Leadthemoutintothestreet,perhaps,andatleastputanendtothatdreadfulslowmilling.
