День триффидов
Dead End
Forsafety’ssakeIwasgivingmyselfonlyaninchofventilationatthetopofthewindow,butIclosedeventhatwheneverIsawafarmbesidetheroadahead.
Triffidswereatlarge.SometimesIsawthemcrossingfieldsornoticedtheminactiveagainsthedges.Inmorethanonefarmyardtheyhadfoundthemiddenstotheirlikingandenthronedthemselvestherewhiletheywaitedforthedeadstocktoattaintherightstageofputrescence.Isawthemnowwithadisgustthattheyhadneverrousedinmebefore.Horriblealienthingswhichsomeofushadsomehowcreated,andwhichtherestofus,inourcarelessgreed,hadculturedallovertheworld.Onecouldnotevenblamenatureforthem.Somehowtheyhadbeenbred—justaswehadbredforourselvesbeautifulflowersorgrotesqueparodiesofdogs...Ibegantoloathethemnowonaccountofmorethantheircarrion-eatinghabits—forthey,morethananythingelse,seemedabletoprofitandflourishonourdisaster...
Asthedaywenton,mysenseoflonelinessgrew.OnanybillorriseIstoppedtoexaminethecountryasfarasfieldglasseswouldshowme.OnceIsawsmokeandwenttothesourcetofindasmallrailwaytrainburnedoutontheline—Istilldonotknowhowthatcouldbe,fortherewasnoonenearit.Anothertimeaflaguponastaffsentmehurryingtoahousetofinditsilent—thoughnotempty.
