"James Herbert - Domain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)

slicing shards. Vehicles - cars, buses, anything not secured to the ground - were tossed into the air like
windblown leaves, falling to crush and maim. People were luted from their feet and thrown into the sides
of collapsing buildings. Intense



blast pressure ruptured lungs, eardrums and internal organs. Lamp standards became javelins of
concrete or metal. Broken electricity cables became dancing snakes of death. Water mains burst and
became fountains of bubbling steam. Gas mains became part of the overall explosion. Everything became
part of the unleashed fury.

Further out, houses and buildings filled with high-pressure air and, as the blast passed on to be
followed by a low-pressure wave, the structures exploded outwards. Anyone caught in the open had
their clothes burnt off and received third-degree burns from which they could never recover. Others were
buried beneath buildings, some to die instantly, many to lie beneath the rubble, slowly suffocating or
suffering long lingering deaths from their injuries.

One fire joined another to become a destructive conflagration.
 Police Constable John Mapstone was to remember his fifth day on the Force for the rest of his life.
He'd always had a bad memory (fortunately, required educational standards for the Force were dropping
by the year) but, because his life was only to last for a few more minutes, this proved to be no handicap.

As soon as he heard the sirens begin their bladder-weakening wail, he knew where the crowds would
be headed. He quickly forgot about the two Rastafarians loitering by the outside displays of the jeans
shop and made his way towards Oxford Circus Underground station, keeping his stride firm and
controlled, although swift. A glance back over his shoulder told him that the Rastafarians had taken the
opportunity to snatch a pair of jeans for themselves, plus a canvas



shoulder-bag. Good luck to you, he thought grimly. Wish you well and long to wear them.

He tried to maintain his poise as he was jostled by the crowd, wishing someone would turn off the
bloody sirens that were inciting the pandemonium. The red and blue signs of the London Transport
Underground were directly ahead and he was already engulfed in a heaving mass of arms and legs.

'Steady on!' he told the people around him. 'Just take it nice and easy.'

Perhaps his face was too fresh and pink, his manner too youthful; nobody took notice of his
reassurances.

There's plenty of time to get under cover.'

He tried to keep his voice low-pitched, remembering his training, but it kept rising towards the end of
each sentence. The blue uniform is a mark of authority, the training sergeant had told the recruits in a loud
voice that had resonated with that authority. People expect to be told what to do by someone in a blue
uniform. This lot obviously hadn't heard one of the sergeant's lectures.

PC Mapstone tried again. 'Please don't rush. Everything will be all right if you don't rush.'