"c102" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

8:00 P.M., Monday, January 3, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate pulled the car off to the side of I-70 again and coasted to a stop. He couldn't quite get the hang of using his left foot for the brakes. He winced as he retied his shirt around the shotgun blast to his right leg. He cursed loudly again to relieve the pain. How could he have been so stupid as to violate his own "rule"—don't get sick or injured during the collapse of civilization. PorterCare Hospital's parking lot had been the bedlam he'd imagined. Hundreds, if not thousands, of cold and hungry (and perhaps even some injured) had descended on them seeking warmth, food, and solace. He'd grudgingly turned around and headed home, using his left leg for gas and very grateful the car was an automatic. Still, he took frequent stops on the side of the road to retie the makeshift bandage he'd constructed out of his shirt and gather his strength to drive a little further. He was almost to Strasburg. Save for the headlights and the overhead light, the horizon blended into the sky in one giant canvas of black. The wound was still seeping blood at a rate faster than Nate would have liked, and the car's floormat was slick with blood. He kept his parka zipped around him. He debated whether to start using it as an additional compress. His mind was just too woozy to decide. The headlights of the occasional oncoming cars were blazing knives of pain. Okay, Nate, hold yourself together. Only another mile. One mile at a time, he told himself, pushing back the thought of how many dozens more miles came after that. His head bobbed, almost drowsy. He slapped his face. Got to get home. He concentrated on Amber. Got to find Amber. To do that, got to get home. Maybe she'd be there, waiting for him. Yes, of course she would. He felt like a shit for not trusting her. He put the car back in gear and nudged it forward, half on the median and kicking up a cloud of dust he could hear crunching behind him. Got... A car flew by him, horn blaring. ...to... A car on the other side stabbed him with white hot headlights. ...get... His leg sent a shooting reminder up his back that he'd better hurry. ...home... Something darted across the road; a jackrabbit. Nate reacted slowly. Slammed on the brakes. Skidded. He felt the car sliding on the gravel in a sickening, slow-motion rush. Falling off a building must feel like this, he thought. He watched dreamily as a billboard post threw itself into the car like a linebacker.

back | next home


Chapter 10.2

8:00 P.M., Monday, January 3, 2000
Agate, Colorado

Nate pulled the car off to the side of I-70 again and coasted to a stop. He couldn't quite get the hang of using his left foot for the brakes. He winced as he retied his shirt around the shotgun blast to his right leg. He cursed loudly again to relieve the pain. How could he have been so stupid as to violate his own "rule"—don't get sick or injured during the collapse of civilization. PorterCare Hospital's parking lot had been the bedlam he'd imagined. Hundreds, if not thousands, of cold and hungry (and perhaps even some injured) had descended on them seeking warmth, food, and solace. He'd grudgingly turned around and headed home, using his left leg for gas and very grateful the car was an automatic. Still, he took frequent stops on the side of the road to retie the makeshift bandage he'd constructed out of his shirt and gather his strength to drive a little further. He was almost to Strasburg. Save for the headlights and the overhead light, the horizon blended into the sky in one giant canvas of black. The wound was still seeping blood at a rate faster than Nate would have liked, and the car's floormat was slick with blood. He kept his parka zipped around him. He debated whether to start using it as an additional compress. His mind was just too woozy to decide. The headlights of the occasional oncoming cars were blazing knives of pain. Okay, Nate, hold yourself together. Only another mile. One mile at a time, he told himself, pushing back the thought of how many dozens more miles came after that. His head bobbed, almost drowsy. He slapped his face. Got to get home. He concentrated on Amber. Got to find Amber. To do that, got to get home. Maybe she'd be there, waiting for him. Yes, of course she would. He felt like a shit for not trusting her. He put the car back in gear and nudged it forward, half on the median and kicking up a cloud of dust he could hear crunching behind him. Got... A car flew by him, horn blaring. ...to... A car on the other side stabbed him with white hot headlights. ...get... His leg sent a shooting reminder up his back that he'd better hurry. ...home... Something darted across the road; a jackrabbit. Nate reacted slowly. Slammed on the brakes. Skidded. He felt the car sliding on the gravel in a sickening, slow-motion rush. Falling off a building must feel like this, he thought. He watched dreamily as a billboard post threw itself into the car like a linebacker.


back | next home