"David,.Peter.-.Howling.Mad" - читать интересную книгу автора (David Peter)

maybe I can show it who's boss.
He took a deep breathЧhis lastЧand turned.
It was standing only ten feet away. It roared, and its fetid breath was
overwhelming. Byron gasped, paralyzed.
The creature leaped the distance as if it were nothing. Its jaws clamped down,
cutting off Byron's scream and coincidentally, Byron's head. Blood spurted,
matting down the creature's coarse dark fur.
The sounds of ripping and crunching did not stop for some time. And when they
did, there followed a loud, ungodly howl that seemed to freeze the world for a
moment. Seemed to reverse time and send it spiralling back to the days of the
primitive. It was as though something had crept out of the primeval jungle to
unleash itself upon the modern world.
The howl hung there for a moment and then dissipated. The creature turned away
from its hideous accomplishments and crept off into the night, swaying slightly
as if in drunken delight. It left no tracks, left no trace of where it had come
from or where it was now going. All it left was the gutted body of one
disenchanted, and now disemboweled, American.




"Ah, Doctor Parsons. I thought you might want to take a look personally. Don't
see many like this."
It was not the way Parsons liked to start off his mornings. He far preferred a
hot cup of tea and a croissant as he sat back at his desk in his third-floor
office. Running a hospital was a day-in, day-out demanding job that rarely gave
any respite during his working hours (which seemed endless). So the mornings
were what he liked to think of as his quiet, contemplative time.
Parsons was of medium build, with slicked-back brown hair punctuated on either
side of his temples by bands of silver. He was of an indeterminate age between
forty and sixty. When he'd shown up in town about six months ago to become the
hospital administrator, he had positively radiated confidence. And since this
hospital served at least four towns that he knew of, the administrator of
McKeeville General Hospital could not be someone daunted by responsibility.
Parsons was, however, daunted by the joviality of Doctor DeFalco, who had left
the urgent summons on Parsons' desk that he should hasten immediately down to
the morgue the moment he came in. He did not relish the visit, but was heedful
of the air of importance in the message.
DeFalco, Parsons decided, had been working in the morgue for far too long. He
seemed to be most cheerful when investigating a death that was particularly
gruesome. It was becoming an unhealthy occupation for him, Parsons thought.
DeFalco was Parsons' physical oppositeЧhefty compared to Parsons' gauntness, an
excessively jovial face next to Parsons' "graveside manner." DeFalco pushed his
glasses back on his large red nose and said, "This one is really something
else.''
He gestured Parsons over to a table where a body was covered with a cloth. He
pulled it aside and Parsons, veteran medical man that he was, blanched
nevertheless.
"Easiest autopsy I ever did," said DeFalco happily. "Everything was sliced open,
from crotch to sternum. Two cops were losing their breakfast when they were