"Harrison, Harry - Bill, the Galactic Hero 5 - on the Planet of Zombie Vampires" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

"Nice tusks, though," mused Rambette, reaching over and twanging one suggestively. "Well, back to work. Bruiser, you better bring your axe. Larry's in one of his wild moods and strong measures might be called for."
"Dat's great!" grinned Bruiser, dragging an oversized door-busting axe out from underneath his bunk and swinging it in whistling arcs through the air. "Not used old Slasher in some long time."
Bill looked at the razor-sharp blade with dismay. He saw something that might have been a spot of rust, or, with a tiny bit of imagination, could possibly have been a few drops of dried blood.
"C'mon, Bill, we better get hopping," said Rambette with a saucy grin.
"Har, har!" grunted Bruiser. "Hopping! I get it. Har, har!"
Bill failed to see any humor in that comment, but he hopped along with the dynamic deadly duo, thinking that only in the military would the prisoners be armed to the teeth and the guard equipped only with a pair of bent, rubber-tipped crutches. Head of the list of things to do was getting a weapon or weapons soonest.
The repair docks were several levels down, and Bill struggled to keep up with Rambette and Bruiser. He was beginning to wish he had his stone foot back again. For all the trouble it had been, that hunk of petrified foot was a weapon of sorts. This Larry character must be one mean bowb if Rambette thought Bruiser needed more than a scowl to get him under control.
"Who's Larry?" asked Bill.
"Just another criminal slob serving out his term on this scow like all the rest of us," said Rambette, turning right.
"What did he do?"
"He might not have done anything," said Rambette. "You see, he's a clone."
"No, I don't see," said Bill.
"There are three of them. Larry, Moe, and Curly. All clones. Three peas out of the same pod. Three nuts off the same tree. One of them busted into the base computer and gave everybody a weekend pass. They've got the same fingerprints and identical retinal patterns, so the brass couldn't figure out which one of them had done the dirty deed. They court martialed them all for it. It was kind of a family package plan."
"That doesn't sound fair to me."
"Been a Trooper long, Bill?"
"Too long."
"Then you ought to know fair ain't got one thing to do with it."
Bill could only sigh retrospectively in agreement.
Bruiser was mumbling incoherently and affectionately to his beloved axe, Slasher, when they entered Repair Dock Four. This was as large as the okra chamber, but filled with massive equipment instead of potting soil, which, to Bill's eyes, was a definite improvement.
"Hop this way," said Rambette, leading them down a metal staircase to the floor, where a group of people were standing around arguing. "Believe it or not, Larry's the one waving the crowbar in the air."
Bill found it easy to believe. His luck was going from bad to worse.
"It went that way," yelled Larry. "And I ain't tracking that beast down for nothing, no way. I got more sense than that."
Larry was a thin man with light brown hair and a sharp, angular face creased with so many wrinkles and worry lines that Bill knew he was a Lifer for sure. Moe looked just like Larry and Curly looked just like Moe who looked like Larry and so on.
"It's all your fault," said Moe, or maybe Curly. "You got careless. Let him get away."
"Who you calling careless?" cried Larry. Or Curly. "I swear, Dad should have dropped your test tube when you were just a bunch of undifferentiated cells. I just can't believe I'm related to you."
"Leave Dad out of this," said Curly, or maybe Moe. "That thing is out there somewhere. We got to do something."
"Everybody split up," said Rambette. "Find the creature."
"Ugh! Not me," said a heavyset muscular black man, shaking his head. "Count me out."
"Everybody!" said Rambette, brandishing a particularly vicious-looking knife. "And that includes you, Uhuru. That's a direct order from Bill, our new MP, isn't it?"
"Uh, sure," said Bill, who was still trying to figure out Larry, Moe, and Curly. He'd lost track when Larry set the crowbar down. He thought Curly had it now, but it might have been Moe.
"A week of bread and water for any cowardly slackers. Right, Bill?"
"No less. We want no slackers here," said Bill, who was beginning to suspect that Larry himself had picked the crowbar up again just to confuse him. Confusing MPs had a long and honorable tradition behind it.
"Go!" cried Rambette. "Look everywhere."
Bill was jolted into action, dropped one crutch, and grabbed a wrench from a tool box. Everyone had scattered and he was alone, armed with a wrench and a crutch, staring down a long, deserted corridor. He started out slowly, quietly.
The ceiling of the repair dock was far above him, almost lost in a maze of suspended walkways, elevated tracks, and all sorts of massive equipment. Huge loops of chains hung down like giant spider webs, clinking softly as they swayed back and forth.
Bill was wondering if the wrench would be enough to handle the ... the...
Agh! He didn't have any idea what kind of a monster he was chasing, or even how big it was. Fangs? Claws? Bigger than a bread box? Smaller than a tank? It could be hiding anywhere. Sweat burst from every pore, which made it even worse. Now the thing could track him by smell!
Maybe it was some horrible alien creature covered with scales, lurking right around the next comer, ready to pounce and tear him limb from limb. Maybe it was a deadly praying mantis grown to impossible size and at this very moment was staring coldly down at him from above, all set to strike. Giant ants and killer bees as big as a man were also possibilities Bill considered, cursing his overactive imagination and trembling with fear, eyes darting every which way, nostrils flared. Very busy. He pressed on, figuring the odds were better if he kept moving.
He turned a corner and looked up. A drop of water hit his face, then another. The floor was wet and slippery. The water tasted faintly of okra.
Bill was facing a long series of lockers, all closed tightly save one, which was slightly ajar. He approached it warily.
Where was everybody else? Bill had never felt so alone, so vulnerable. The repair dock was quiet as a tomb, save for the soft metallic clinking of the chains, the rhythmic dripping water, and the sound of labored breathing.
Labored breathing!? His heart began to pound like a trip-hammer, so loud he knew that the creature of evil out there could hear it!
He stopped, his crutch an inch away from swinging the locker door open, his wrench at the ready in his other right hand. He held his breath and the soft, muffled labored breathing stopped. He exhaled and it started again. An echo? Once more he held his breath. This time the breathing got louder, became a growl.
Suddenly the locker door burst open and something wet and slimy covered his face, blinding him. He was knocked backwards by a huge, crushing weight. A horrible rotting smell engulfed him.
"Help!" he yelled, smothering in slime. "I'm a goner!"
"Bill found the dog!" cried Larry, Moe, or Curly. "Boy, does he stink!"
"Dog?" said Bill, wiping dog slobber from his eyes. "Dog?"
"We tried to get a ship's cat," said Rambette, "but all the cats were checked out and this is what they stuck us with. Barfer is an awful dog."
Bill sat up and stared into the baleful eyes of an oversized sheepdog kind of a mongrel. His multicolored, hyenalike fur was coming out in mangy handfuls. The creature had a stupid, grinning expression and his huge tongue was lolling out of the side of his mouth, dripping copious amounts of dog slobber. He gave Bill another big lick across his forehead, wagging his tail happily.
"Barfer likes you," said the large black man, giving Bill a hand and helping him to his feet. "That makes you a majority of one, on account of none of us can stand to be around him. My name's Uhuru, and I'm pleased to meet you. Looks like you got yourself a dog.