"Hansen, Michael - Ten Minutes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hansen Michael)
By Michael Hansen
I work the graveyard shift on the docks, loading and unloading trucks all night, so IТm pretty beat when I get off at dawn. Still, IТd never miss walking my son Sam to school every morning. HeТs seven and pretty active, and sometimes these tired old legs of mine have a hard time keeping up, but thereТs something about walking with him in that crisp early morning air, the low sun beaming on us like liquid gold - itТs magic, man, the only magic I know of anymore. And when we get to his school and stop at the entrance, he always lets me squat down and give him a big hug and a kiss. I figure heТs almost old enough heТll be too embarrassed soon to let his daddy kiss him in public, but I hope I have a little time left. Every day he gets older, every day he needs me a little less, and IТll admit thatТs a bit scary. SamТs all I have left since his mom died. I love him. HeТs my life.
Anyway, the morning it all happened IТd just dropped Sam off and begun my slow walk home; I was still on school grounds, over at the main gate in the cyclone fence. I couldnТt tell you what went through my mind when I first heard the sirens; like I say, I was pretty tired. Maybe I thought there was a fire somewhere, or some senior citizen was having a heart attack. Of course, if IТd been watching TV IТd have been seeing the live interrupt broadcast of what had just happened at our local downtown bank, of the failed robbery attempt and the murdered tellers and customers, and all the dead cops. But I wasnТt watching TV, so I didnТt know it was major trouble rolling up on me. I was just minding my business, stumbling home to bed.
I had to squint against the rising sun when that battered blue step-van lurched around the corner a few blocks down from me. It slalomed a bit from side to side, then accelerated right toward me. When I realized just how fast, I stopped to watch, suddenly disturbed at just how many sirens I could hear, all getting closer fast.
A black and white with siren skidded howling around the same corner, right on the vanТs ass- the driver of the van couldnТt seem to pull away. Then the cop in the front passenger seat leaned out his window and started shooting at the van, the noise of his pistol fire slapping through the quiet air like the cracking of a whip -- the spang of rounds hitting metal proved that at least some of the copТs shots were on target.
My mouth dropped open and hung that way. As I watched, a grenade arced out the side door of the fleeing van to bounce a few times on the asphalt. It exploded with a flat, painful boom as the cop car rolled over it, shredding the front tire. The cop carТs rear end fishtailed wildly as the front rim ground along the street, tatters of rubber flapping as sparks and chunks of asphalt flew. One tire jounced up over the curb, and that was it: the cop car flopped over onto its side and slid to rest along the playground fence with a skirling clash, its siren still wailing like a grieving widow. The cop that had been leaning out the passenger window was smeared in half beneath the car, but the driver was squirming groggily as he hung suspended in his seat belt.
IТd hit the deck when the grenade exploded - old reflexes die hard, and it took me right back to the jungles of Nam, where a noise like that had always meant hot red blood dripping from the lush jungle growth afterwards as we bagged up the chunks of meat. I lay still as a statue in the tall grass by the schoolyard, watching the step-van lean forward slightly as it scuffed to a halt in the middle of the street.
A tall kid with big ears hopped out of the van with a revolver in one hand and a grenade in the other. He trotted back to the overturned black- and-white, staring in what I considered a hungry fashion at the crushed pulp of a cop extending from beneath the car. Then, as I watched in unwilling fascination, he aimed his pistol at the helpless driver, who was now straining to free himself from his seat belt. The cop stopped struggling and faced him. I could see the copТs face through the windshield. He took it like a man - he looked his killer right in the eyes and didnТt flinch at all as Big Ears grinned and fired three times, starring the safety glass into whiteness. The driver sagged bonelessly in his harness as the gunman yanked the pin from the grenade with his teeth and dropped it in the driverТs open window.
Big Ears was loping back to the van as the grenade went off, shattering every window in the black-and-white with a terrible roar; the siren finally shut up. The gas tank went in a secondary explosion powerful enough to lift the back of the car and shift it several inches to the side. The burning gas roiled up to heaven in an orange pillar of smoky flame.
Several more men now clustered at the open van door, whooping and laughing as they leaned out of the dark interior to admire their friendТs handiwork; they all had weapons in their hands. A little guy with brown hair high-fived Big Ears as he clambered back inside: "Way to go, Slash!"
Rage filled me to trembling, but I didnТt move. I just lay there like a coward in the tall grass and did nothing. I know there was nothing I could have done for him, but the shame still welled up within me - something died in my breast like a slug dissolving in salt. The patch of grass I lay in was about twenty-five yards from them. Sam: the thought of him was all I clung to as I lay there hidden in helpless fury. I waited for them to drive their van anywhere but here, out of our lives.
The vanТs engine got louder as the driver tried to take off, but the engine stuttered and started making a clattering sound as he wrenched the gearshift over into drive. The van's engine abruptly died with a prehistoric gargle, and all the other sirens were suddenly much closer now.
Every hair on my body stood on end like porcupine quills. My mind was a total blank as I bounded to my feet and huffed to the schoolyard gate, where I paused in a frenzy of indecision. I remember my empty hands kneading the air as they hung by my sides, like they were creatures separate from me.
They had uncontested access to the children right now, and they were proven killers who laughed as they did it. The cops were too far away. Somebody had to do something. Somebody had to something RIGHT NOW. And I was the only one there.
I heard menТs voices inside, raised in anger, and followed by a single gunshot. Like I was fired from the same gun, I suddenly found myself trundling toward the school building, faster than I'd moved in years.
Out of training, heavier than I'd once been, my mind raced like a redlining hotrod engine as I ran. I prayed with all my heart: Please! I shouted soundlessly to the empty heavens above as I ran, Please, heТs all I have!
The morning sun was bright, but the cold blue sky stared down like an uncaring eye, watching the foolish, balding little man scurry across the playground as fast as he could, just one more scrawny nonentity in stained work clothes. It seemed a nightmare eternity that I ran and planned and prayed, but finally I reached the exit door.
I stood next to the closed door, panting. The exit was at one end of the schoolТs long central hall. All the classrooms opened off the hallway, but each classroom also had a separate exit to the outside. I could hear some commotion inside already; voices childish and adult were raised in reaction to the gunshot. But the babble of voices all sounded uncertain, as if no one were quite sure what was happening, or what to do.
I sucked in a deep breath and bellowed at the top of my lungs, "GET THE CHILDREN OUTSIDE NOW! THERE ARE MEN WITH GUNS IN THE HALL! GET THE CHILDREN OUTSIDE NOW! THERE ARE MEN WITH GUNS IN THE HALL! . . ." I continued sounding the alarm, even as (after a few endless seconds of delay) pandemonium erupted within the building in response to my warning. Classroom doors began slamming open around both corners of the building and I could hear the childrenТs yelling become suddenly clear as they finally started streaming into the open air. Then I heard angry shouts from inside, getting nearer. I had succeeded in luring the gunmen away from Sam and the other children - toward myself.
Someone kicked the door open from inside, hard, and I shut right up, taking an involuntary step back as it whipped around and slammed against the wall, revealing two of the gunmen standing in the doorway, Slash and another man. Now I was point blank with the two, and they did not look happy at all. Slash was in front, brandishing his revolver. A big guy with a sawed-off shotgun stood slightly behind him and to my left, holding the exit door open. Slash's face was flushed, and his slitted eyes were dancing. I clenched my fists at my side so my killers wouldn't see them shake - if the cop could be brave about it, so could I. Slash pointed his .38 snub-nose right at my face, and squeezed the trigger.
That pistol shot crashed like thunder. The round passed through the outside edge of my face, blowing out my left eye and . . . other stuff, how much I couldnТt tell at the time. My head snapped around at the impact, and I grunted. There was a roaring in my head as if a heavenly choir of warrior angels shouted all at once in a sustained bass howl of fury. The left half of my maimed field of vision was black, shot through with screaming red strands of agony as the angels howled. I looked at the wall with my blurred vision, and I could see red goo dripping down it; I could see little splinters of white bone sticking out of the stucco, and I thought numbly: those are my brains - those are pieces of my skull.
Then the roaring passed, and I swiveled my ruined head back around to glare at my murderers with my one remaining eye. They looked as surprised as I was that I was still alive. I have no idea what kind of expression was on my face, but they obviously didnТt like it one bit. I saw the color bleach instantly out of their faces, and they both recoiled from me as if a pair of giant hands had grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks and jerked them backward hard.
I heard a horrible whoop of rage come from somewhere, and I had just enough time to realize I was the one making it as I dipped my shoulder and backhanded Slash in the side of his neck with all my strength. I heard something crunch in SlashТs neck as he rocketed sideways to slam into the wall, his eyes twin stunned zeros. I reached out one hand as he bounced back to me, snagged his shirt, and reeled him in close to me like landing a fish.
The other gunman was just waking up enough to let go of the door. He was a tall, bigheaded dude with a buzz-cut and devilish eyebrows, and he leveled his sawed-off shotgun now to let go at me with both barrels. I dragged Slash in close and huddled behind him as the sawed-off roared. I could feel the buckshot thudding into and through my human shield. Slash's back splashed wet red instantly, and some of the shot continued through to embed themselves in me. My free hand clawed desperately for the dying man's weapon, and I stripped his pistol away. I straightened and flung my gory burden toward the guy with the now empty shotgun, then aimed my new .38 at him. Buzz-Cut staggered back into the hallway as his friendТs corpse crashed wetly against him and slid to the floor, where it propped the exit door open.
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