"Tom Easton - Unto the Last Generation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

pipe to empty on the mossy edge of pavement outside the wall. From there it ran into the same ditch
where they dumped the ashes from the fireplace as well as other garbage.

"Will you put that bucket back? The carpet was wet enough before, and...."

"Can't just let 'em overflow." He obeyed, but then he was fetching and dumping the others.

Felix wished it were later in the year, just enough that the apple trees at least had green apples. But the
blossoms had fallen far too recently. The future crop was no more than nubbins, inedibly hard.

Imaginary scratching wasn't working. He dug at his chin, and again at his arm, inspected his fingernails,
and did it again.

Pa reemerged from the bedroom, licking his lips. Ma glared at Felix and said, "Don't do that. You'll make
it worse."

"It _is_ worse," said Felix.

"I know." Her voice was as sad as mothers' voices had always been when their children ailed and they
were helpless.

And it was worse. The rash had spread on Felix's body since the previous fall, growing thicker on his
elbows and knees and the backs of his fingers and hands. Each new patch began bright red. It swelled
and blistered and cracked and settled down to thick scale and itch. Sometimes pockets of pus grew
beneath it, swelling and hurting and bursting with relief and a little blood.

And all she could do was say, "Don't scratch."

Ox had it too. So did she and Pa and Uncle Alva. But not as badly.

"Poison in the soil," said Uncle Alva. "In the food we eat. The water we drink. Bastards put it there
before they died. When they made the storms and the youvee."

"Shh," said Ma, and she patted the fridge as if that could somehow placate the gods Uncle Alva had to
have offended.
But the effort was futile.

The wind howled. Wood creaked somewhere outside the house. Something crashed.

"Shit," said Pa. "There goes the shed roof again."

"Can't put it back now," said Uncle Alva. "Too much wind."

When neither man moved or said another word, Felix volunteered. "I'll get the animals."

"I'll help." Ox was on his feet already and offering Felix a hand to pull him from the sofa's grip.

The broad-brimmed hats were made of greased leather. So were the long cloaks, and if the wind weren't
blowing, they would keep the rain from cloth and skin. With the wind, however, they were as much a
burden as a blessing. Felix needed one hand to keep the hat in his possession, while the cloak, even as it