"Brennert, Alan - The Refuge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brennert Alan)

ALAN BRENNERT

THE REFUGE

WINTER SCREAMED ITS DIScontent. Another blast of frigid wind and freezing rain
lashed at the man wading through knee-deep snowdrifts; the icy rain,
needle-sharp, blinded and buffeted him, as it had for -- how long? He didn't
know. He had no way of telling how long he had been here, lost under sunless
skies, in the cold, brutal heart of the storm. The pearl-gray sheen of the
clouds hinted at daylight, but could not tell him how many hours he had
struggled, through snow draped like a pall across the coffin of the forest
floor. Hours of bitter wind that chafed and burned; of snow turning to sleet
turning to hail turning back to snow again. Nor could it tell him how he got
here, or where he was; his mind, it seemed, was as clouded, as opaque, as the
sky itself.

He did know some things: he knew that his name was Raymond Bava; could see his
mother's face, feel the rough tickle of his father's beard as he lifted young
Ray into his arms. He could see faces, hear voices, summon up names of lovers
and family and friends . . . but there was no progression to the images, no
order from which to construct a life, or a memory of a life. And at the moment,
it was hardly a priority. He had a vague recollection of growing up in winters
like these; he knew the signs of frostbite, of chilblains, as well as anyone. He
knew that if he did not find shelter soon, he would be dead--and then it
wouldn't matter who he was, or where he grew up, the work he had done or the
lovers he had known. And so he stumbled on, damning whatever fates had brought
him here so ill-prepared: as his bootless shoes sank foot-deep into the snow; as
the rain soaked through his light cotton jacket; as his frostbitten fingers grew
colder, harder, paler.

Suddenly another blast of wind caught him, tossing him off-handedly into a
snowbank, losing him some of his hard-won ground. He shouted an obscenity into
the air, but all it did was plunge an icy blade of air into his lungs and he
instantly regretted it. For a moment, his pain and despair got the better of him
-- how hard could it be, he wondered, to just close his eyes, to cease the
struggle? But the beginnings of delirium proved his salvation: he had begun to
think of the storm as a living thing-- a killing thing which existed to kill
him, which would take considerable joy in his slow, painful demise. "God damn
you," he whispered, once again taking in a gulp of frigid air, this time
invigorating him; "I'll be damned if I'll make it easy for you." Fueled by an
irrational, delirious hatred, he pushed himself to his feet and continued on.

The forest of dead skeletal trees -- gaunt sentries standing watch over some
long-lost redoubt -- gave way to a low rise. Reflexively he climbed it, skidding
more than once on the icy drifts, finally gaining its small summit. He expected,
frankly, to see nothing: nothing but denuded trees, icy rain, and drifted snow.

He was wrong.