"Anderson, Kevin J - The League of Extraordinary Gentleman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Kevin J)

Shrill whistles pierced the growing noise, and he took comfort in knowing the police were rushing to the scene.

Bartholomew went to the window, stood on tiptoe, and used the flat of his hand to wipe fog from the pane. The glass remained blurry from the grime outside, but an immense shadow passed along the street. When he pressed his face close, the boy could see well enough that his eyes widened in fear.

Massive mechanical treads rolled past at street level, crushing cobblestones, clanking and clattering like the loudest factory line.

Bartholomews windows splintered and fell in. He screamed, scrambling backward as the whole frame came crashing down. Part of the wall and ceiling slumped under the crushing passage of the huge vehicle. Broken bricks and crumbling mortar buried and destroyed his toy horse and buggy.

He crawled for shelter under his bed, a place usually reserved for nighttime monsters. Right now, though, the boy was only afraid of the very real and tangible beast outside.

Then the mechanical juggernaut surged past, smashing gutters and shouldering aside brick corners that got in its way.

As dust and rubble continued to patter all around him, Bartholomew peered out from his hiding place. Safe, for now.

But he knew his father was out in the streets, armed with little more than his whistle and truncheon. Even a stern constable in a clean uniform would be no match for that thing.



Tabard Row had been quiet all evening, and Constable Dunning paused in his rounds to smoke his pipe. He took a long draw on the tobacco, savoring the moment of bliss.

His children were home together, asleep. Their mother had died of consumption two years earlier, and the boy Bartholomew had been forced to grow up much faster than he should have. Once, he'd playfully tried on his fathers constable cap, and it had nearly fallen down to his small shoulders. Bartholomew was the man of the house whenever his father left to patrol the night streets, and the boy took his responsibilities with admirable, heart-aching seriousness, though his father occasionally saw him playing with his toys. Just a little boy, no more than six years old.

At least he was safe tonightЕ

Constable Dunning's peaceful feeling was suddenly shattered by the pitiful wailing of dogs. A moment later a monstrous rumble shook the ground, accompanied by breaking glass and shattering walls.

Dunning drew his baton and trotted toward the sound, by habit tapping his truncheon on the wall as he went, making a sound like rapid gunfire. Shrill whistles sounded the alarm from other officers heading in the same direction. Drawing a deep breath, he blew a long high-pitched note on his own whistle.

"Its down in Moorgate Passage!" one of the policemen called, joining up with Dunning. They ran together, reacting out of instinct without stopping to worry about the nature of the threat. From the sound of it, this was more serious than a drunken brawl, a cutpurse, or a pair of whores trying to claw each others' eyes out.

The two constables sprinted onto Threadneedle Street, heading for Moorgate. Dunning stumbled and nearly sprawled on his face in a filthy gutter as he and his companion collided with a pair of utterly terrified dogs racing in the opposite direction, off into the night.

"Bleedin' ratbags! Whats gotten into 'em?" said Dunning.

Then again perhaps the mutts had the right idea.

Like a factory-made demon, a giant, armor- plated machine careened around - and through - a corner of the narrow street, demolishing everything in it's path.

"Good Christ!" Dunnings companion skittered to a halt, eyes wide. His truncheon drooped in his grip, laughably insignificant compared to the mechanized titan lurching toward them with a roar of engines and a belch of oily exhaust smoke.

It was a tank vehicle plated with thick iron sheets, riveted into place on a body that rode on implacably paired tracks. Glaring headlamps shone forward like the baleful gaze of a dragon. It's reinforced bow slammed like a battering ram through the wall, knocking it down without pause. The heavy treads crushed fallen bricks into powder. Dunning couldn't even guess how many tons the vehicle weighed.

Three other constables converged from their own beats, stopped in their tracks. "Its an infernal Juggernaught!"

"Run!" Dunning's tone was urgent as he backed away. Not cowardlyЧjust sensible. There would be no real protection against a mechanized leviathan that could plow through solid walls.

While three of the policemen staggered backward, Dunning's companion took an unexpected initiative. Swallowing hard, he raised his truncheon, stepped into the middle of the street, and blew his whistle again for good measure. He stood his ground in the glare of the behemoths headlights, raised his hand, and said, "Halt! In the name of the Queen!"

"Get out of the way, you fool!" Dunning shouted.