"Sunglasses After Dark v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Collins Nancy A)

A wino dressed in rags and doused in kerosene rolled on the ground, clawing at the flames that ate his hair and skin. His face was a riot of heat blisters and broken capillaries. A dog, its tail alight, raced madly from place 0o place, howling in dumb, uncomprehending pain. A curtain of flame parted to reveal a family of Puerto Ricans crouching against the red earth. The parents had the children clustered around them, and although their mouths never opened, the Other could hear the wailing of frightened infants and violent coughing.
The Other found the dreamer squatting in the heart of the fire. He was dressed in white and there wasn't a drop of sweat marring his linen suit.
The Other smiled at him and laughed even louder when he recoiled. He tried to squirm away by shifting dreams, but the Other was too fast for him to escape her so easily. She clamped her hands around his wrists, pulling him to his feet. She felt him shiver in revulsion as she pressed her mouth to his.
The dreamer began to sweat. The first beads broke out on his forehead and upper lip. Within seconds he was soaked in perspiration, his lips cracking from dehydration. A wisp of smoke rose from his collar. His pant leg ignited with a polite cough. He struggled desperately to free himself. The Other shook her head as if admonishing an unruly child. His hair ignited with a dry crackle and blisters rose on his face with the speed of time-lapse photography.
By the time his eyes boiled in their sockets, the Other had grown bored and was looking for fresher game.
She walked into Malcolm's dream, trailing shreds of black leather and the acrid odor of smoke in her wake. She knew what she'd find Malcolm doing. He'd become her favorite over the past few weeks. Malcolm possessed a surprising wealth of fear and evil. More than enough to go around.
Malcolm was putting alligator clips on a nine-year-old girl's nipples. She was sitting upright, her girl-scout uniform hanging in tatters about her waist. He'd bound her hands behind her back with the badge sash and stuffed the beret in her mouth. Her face was made up like a Vogue model's.
The Other placed a hand on Malcolm's shoulder, easing herself into the rhythm of his dream.
Malcolm began to dwindle. He whimpered, trying to shield himself, and prayed he would wake up soon. The Other's laughter grew deeper as her features flowed into coarser, far more familiar contours. The Other towered over him like a mountain; its voice was thunder, shaking him to the marrow.
"Come on, Malcolm. Time to play with Daddy."
Claude was still in the after-hours joint, staring at Kalish's death notice. He was startled when a sixteen-year-old girl popped into existence in the chair opposite him.
"Are you awake?" was the first thing she asked him.
Taken aback, Claude had to think about it before answering. "No, I don't think so."
"Damn! Then I'm still dream-walking. I need to get back before she gains control." The girl got to her feet and began to pace the confines of Hagerty's dreamscape. She turned and stared hard at him. "You're not one of the patients, are you?" It wasn't a question.
"No, I work here . . . I mean, at Elysian Fields. Hell! Why should I bother explaining myself to a dream?'
"Am I?"
"What else could you be? You're not that god-awful nightmare. At least I don't think you are."
The girl stopped smiling. "She's been here? In your dreams?"
Claude felt his conscious mind starting to rebel. He didn't want to dream anymore, but his subconscious was forcing the issue. The walls of the club began to melt. The girl drew her legs under herself and floated in midair, hands locked across her knees. There was something familiar about her, but Hagerty couldn't place it.
"Pretend you never saw us. Pretend we never existed. Leave this place and go somewhere nice and peaceful, Claude Hagerty. . ."
"How do you know my name?"
"You created me, didn't you? I'm your dream, aren't I?"
She fell silent, as if listening to something far away. Hagerty thought she was beautiful. "I'm afraid I can't stay. She's in control now. And she's decided it's time to go." The girl unwrapped herself and kicked upward, soaring through layers of dream with the ease of a championship swimmer.
Hagerty moved to follow, but his feet were mired in syrup. "Wait! Tell me who you are! Are you the woman in Room 7?"
She did not pause in her ascent, but her voice sounded as if she was standing beside him. Or in him.
"My name is Denise Thorne. Her name is Sonja Blue."
Time to go.
She'd had enough of this place, with its endless drugs and intravenous feedings. Her defenses against the narcotics were complete. The madhouse was not without diversions, but they did not justify delaying her departure.
Time to go.
She stood up, tossing matted hair out of her eyes. She felt the drugs as her system purged the intruders from her bloodstream, reducing them to phantoms. Her mind was clear and her body her own. She could hear Malcolm as he wept in his sleep. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders once. Twice. The canvas fabric fell away, revealing naked white flesh. She lifted her arms, studying the scars studding the inner forearms. They had not bothered to trim her fingernails during her imprisonment. Good. She'd need them.
Moonlight limned her in silver and shadow, beckoning her to leave. She sank her nails into the padding of the wall and chuckled as it tore in her grasp. Lizardlike, she scaled the wall of her prison until she was level with the window. It was three inches thick, interwoven with wire mesh, designed to withstand repeated blows from a sledgehammer. It took four blows from her right fist for it to break, although every finger in her hand shattered on the third try. She pulled herself through the narrow window into the darkness, midwife to her own rebirth. Her ribs groaned then snapped as she forced herself through the opening, spearing her left lung. She spat a streamer of blood into the night air.
She clung to the brick face of the building, luxuriating in the feel of cold air rushing past her naked flesh. For the first time in months, she was alive. The wind caught her laughter, sending it across Elysian Fields' grounds. Behind her she could hear the Danger Ward's inmates shrieking and wailing as their nightmares dumped them back into the reality of their madness. Her right hand was beginning to burn, but she was used to pain. It would pass.
Sonja Blue began to crawl, headfirst, down the wall of the madhouse.
Claude Hagerty woke to find himself standing outside Room 7, the keys in his hands. He came to his senses with a startled intake of breath. A wave of disorientation struck him and he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. Looking down the corridor, he could see the security gate standing open.
Then he heard the patients. How could he have slept through that, much less sleepwalk?
The dream was still with him. He could see the young girl with the honeyblonde hair, dressed in clothes that were just coming back into style. He saw the sadness in her eyes and heard the weariness in her voice. What was it she had said?
She's decided it's time to go now.
Hagerty unlocked Room 7 and pushed the door open. He wasn't concerned about the patient escaping or worried about getting hurt. He already knew what he'd find.
The straitjacket lay on the floor like an empty snakeskin. He tracked the vertical rips in the canvas wall padding. Cotton ticking oozed from the rents. Cool air gusted into the room, dispelling the closeness. Even in the half-dark he could make out the jagged teeth of the broken safety glass lining the window. The blood drying on the wall was the color of shadow.


3
Affidavit of William "Billy" Burdette, Night Manager of Hit-n-Git #311
Burdette: Look, I told you guys this shit five times already. If you don't believe me, why don't you give me one of them lie-detector tests?
Officer Golson: It's for our files, Mr. Burdette. We have no reason to doubt your account of what happened. We just simply need to have it transcribed by a departmental steno, that's all. It'll save you from coming back downtown should we have any further questions . . .
Burdette: Oh . . . all right! So where do you want me to begin?
Officer Golson: Start from the beginning, Mr. Burdette.
Burdette: Huh? Oh, okay. Uh, my name is William Burdette, I work at the Hit-n-Git over on Claypool. I'm the night manager there and I work the graveyard shift-that's from eleven at night to seven in the morning-by myself. It's a rough part of town. Lots of street people and junkies. I've been held up a couple of times before this. This morning, I guess it was around 4 am. I was in the back of the store, near the canned-food section, when she homes in. We've got one of them chimes that goes off when someone comes though the doors. So I look up and see this bag lady come in. I think, Oh, great! That's all I need is some old scuzz coming in and tracking up my store! So's I put up my mop and go behind the counter so I can keep an eye on iiogs, right? But when I get up front, I sees she's no bag lady. At least I don't think so. She's real young-early twenties, maybe-and she's wearing these gangy clothes that look like she took them off a wino or something.
Officer Golson: Could you describe what she was wearing in more detail, Mr. Burdette?
Burdette: Oh, sure. Let's see . . . Well, the shirt was a long-sleeved flannel jobbie, like they give out at the mission. It was three sizes too big for her and she had the sleeves rolled up over her elbows. That's how I seen them marks up and down her arms.