"Nicola Griffith - Song of Bullfrogs, Cry of Geese" - читать интересную книгу автора (Griffith Nicola)

Song of Bullfrogs, Cry of Geese
a short story
by Nicola Griffith
I sat by the side of the road in the afternoon sun and watched the cranefly struggle. A breeze, hot and
heavy as a tired dog's breath, coated the web and fly with dust. I shaded my eyes and squinted down the
road. Empty. As usual. It was almost two years since I'd seen anything but Jud's truck on Peachtree.

Like last month, and the month before that, and the third day of every month since I'd been out here
alone, I squashed the fear that maybe this time he wouldn't come. But he always did come, rolling up in
the cloud of dust he'd collected on the twenty mile drive from Atlanta.

I turned my attention back to the fly. It kept right on struggling. I wondered how it felt, fighting something
that didn't resist but just drained the life from it. It would take a long time to die. Like humankind.

The fly had stopped fighting by the time I heard Jud's truck. I didn't get up and brush myself off, he'd be
few minutes yet; sound travels a long way when there's nothing filling the air but bird song.

He had someone with him. I sighed. Usually, Jud would give me a ride back down to the apartment.
Looked like I'd have to walk this time: the truck was only a two-seater. It pulled up and Jud and another
man, about twenty-eight I'd guess, maybe a couple of years younger than me, swung open their doors.

"How are you, Molly?" He climbed down, economical as always with his movements.

"Same as usual, Jud. Glad to see you." I nodded at the supplies and the huge gasoline drums in the back
of the truck. "A day later and the generator would've been sucking air."

He grinned. "You're welcome." His partner walked around the front of the truck. Jud gestured. "This is
Henry." Henry nodded. Like Jud, like me, he wore shorts, sneakers and t-shirt.

Jud didn't say why Henry was along for the ride but I could guess: a relapse could hit anybody, anytime,
leave you too exhausted even to keep the gas pedal down. I hoped Henry was just Jud's insurance, and
not another piece in the chess game he and I played from time to time.

"Step up if you want a ride," Jud said.

I looked questioningly at Henry.

"I can climb up into the back," he said. I watched him haul himself over the tailgate and hunker down by a
case of tuna. Showing off. He'd pay for the exertion later. I shrugged, his problem, and climbed up into
the hot vinyl seat.

Jud handled the truck gently, turning into the apartment complex as carefully as though five hundred
people still lived here. The engine noise startled the nuthatches nesting in the postal center into a flurry of
feathers; they perched on the roof and watched us pull up ten yards in, at what had been the clubhouse. I
remember when the brass Westwater Terraces sign had been shined up every week: only three years
ago. Six months after I'd first moved in people had begun to slow down and die off, and the management
had added a few things, like the ramps and generator, to try and keep those who were left. It felt like a
lifetime ago. I was the only one still here.

"Tiger lilies are looking good," Jud said. They were, straggling big and busy and orange all around the