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

"Shaddap, you stupid mutt. Chase!"

"If I had a hammer, I'd hammer out freedom," someone sing-songed.

"Is this all there is? Somehow I expected more of an after _life_, you know? I paid a lot to be
mindloaded, and...."

"If I had a knife, I'd slice that mutt's throat."
"If it had a throat."

"Asshole."

"It doesn't have one of those either."

"_Not_ quite."

The voices bouncing back and forth made the weedy zone defined by the battered gates and wall seem
crowded. Yet nothing disturbed the brush and brambles. No dog nosed after squirrels. No men or
women paced the overgrown paths, glaring and gesturing at each other as they bantered. The scene was
deserted except for the disembodied voices and a crow spreading its wings atop an eroded, stained
angel.

"What the hell happened to the songbirds?" someone asked. "Haven't seen one since I was a kid and in
the flesh. Helluva long time ago, you know? Nothing but crows."

"And ravens," another voice added. "Sparrows, jays, herring gulls, starlings, grackles. Trash birds, every
one of 'em."

"Don't forget the pigeons."

"I wish I could."

"No hawks either. No eagles, no ducks, no geese."

"We got owls."

"Not bloody many."

"They eat pigeons, don't they?"

Someone giggled madly.

The sun was slipping down behind the knoll. Red filled the western sky and silhouetted black the apple
tree. Shadows stretched from the meager, ragged woods beyond.

Beyond the warped and weathered gate, more shadows pointed straight at blocks of stone. Some stood
erect and proud. A few leaned like drunks who craved a lamppost. All showed signs of age in cracks
and chips and softworn corners. Some were so oriented that the dying light could emphasize rows of
eroded lettering.