День триффидов
The End begins
ButaglancehadbeenenoughtoshowthatIcouldnothopetomakemywaytothedoortoguidethemthere.Besides,ifIwereto,ifIdidgetthemoutside—whatthen?
Isatdownonastepforawhiletogetoverit,withmyheadinmyhandsandthatawfulconglomeratesoundinmyearsallthetime.ThenIsearchedfor,andfound,anotherstaircase.Itwasanarrowserviceflightwhichledmeoutbyabackwayintotheyard.
MaybeI’mnottellingthisparttoowell.ThewholethingwassounexpectedandshockingthatforatimeIdeliberatelytriednottorememberthedetails.JustthenIwasfeelingmuchasthoughitwereanightmarefromwhichIwasdesperatelybutvainlyseekingthereliefofwakingmyself.AsIsteppedoutintotheyardIstillhalfrefusedtobelievewhatIhadseen.
ButonethingIwasperfectlycertainabout.Realityornightmare,IneededadrinkasIhadseldomneededonebefore.
Therewasnobodyinsightinthelittlesidestreetoutsidetheyardgates,butalmostoppositestoodapub.Icanrecallitsnamenow—theAlameinArms.TherewasaboardbearingareputedlikenessofViscountMontgomeryhangingfromanironbracket,andbelowitoneofthedoorsstoodopen.
Imadestraightforit.
Steppingintothepublicbargavemeforthemomentacomfortingsenseofnormality.Itwasprosaicallyandfamiliarlylikedozensofothers.
Butalthoughtherewasnooneinthatpart,therewascertainlysomethinggoingoninthesaloonbar,roundthecorner.
Iheardheavybreathing.Acorkleftitsbottlewithapop.Apause.
