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

"Maybe later."

"Before we leave."
"Before then, Hussey. This rain ain't goin' to quit right away."

The bedroom door slammed against the wall. The third member of their party appeared, his forehead and
scalp beaded with sweat. His beard was cropped short, like grizzled fur. "Like fuckin' a corpse," he
muttered.

"Hey, she's warm," said Ron.

"Warmer than your hand, Kiwi. And about as boney."

Kiwi glared at Hussey. "Not for long, you fuckin' kid. Smartass."

No one said a word. The only sounds were the rain on the house's roof and sides and the sobs of the
woman in the bedroom.

CHAPTER 2

"Is anybody else up yet?"

The plaintive voice seemed to come from beyond the bent and twisted apple tree that dominated the
knoll and framed beneath one arching limb the red, red setting sun. A breeze drifted it across the
blackberries and cat-claw brambles that sprawled down the slope beside the narrow path. From
somewhere it coaxed chaotic chords of organ and violin and accordion.

If someone with a nose had been on hand, he might have noticed that the breeze carried the scent of new
growth and thin soil with just a touch of something sour, as if the world itself were spoiling.

"Saw squirrel."

That one rasped and growled and drew the ear toward a pair of masonry pillars that still supported a
corroded wrought-iron gate, its leaves leaning this way, that way, dripping ornate letters from their gothic
peaks. A few letters were missing entirely. Those that remained on one of the gate's leaves spelled out:
"E_ernal _ife." Those that remained on the other said: "Bultin Bo_rd Cet_ry." To either side of the pillars
stretched a low stone wall. A number of stones had fallen free of their mortar.

A narrow path passed between the decrepit gates. In its center, green and blue flies swarmed around a
small pile of dung.

The music shifted. Trumpets replaced the organ, flutes the violin. The accordion vanished.

The rattle and bang of a very different rhythm sprang into the air.

"Shut up, Hammerhead!"

"Squirrel run. Wanta chase."