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

The staircase, one of the many smaller entrances to the Underground station, seemed to be swallowing
up the mobs, and the policeman was gulped down with them. The clamour below was horrendous and he
desperately looked around for colleagues, but there were too many people to distinguish any individual.
A struggling convergence had been caused by the electronic ticket entrances, but people were sliding and
climbing over them as fast as they could. Others were fleeing through the ticket-collecting exits, making
for the moving stairs, wanting to be deep below street level before



the impossible, the incredible, the 'nobody's-mad-enough-to-press-the-button', happened.

PC Mapstone tried to turn, holding up his arms, Canute commanding the advancing tide. His helmet
was knocked askew, then disappeared among the heaving shoulders. He could only let himself go,
moving backwards, his boots barely touching the ground.

If they would only act sensibly, he told himself. There was no need for all this. But the fear was
contagious and soon it would chip away at the fragile barrier of his own calmness. He became part of the
herd.
 His back struck something solid and he was dimly aware that he had reached the metal turnstiles. By
now, the restricting cushioned arms of the ticket machine had been twisted from their bearings by the
immense pressure of the crowds and Mapstone was carried over one side by the bodies streaming
through. He managed to turn and land on his feet, and began to push his way towards the escalators,
using his arms like a swimmer moving through thick, viscous liquid. The up-staircase had come to a halt
because of the crowds treading downwards; the down-staircase appeared to be working normally. He
was on it now and the movement, slow though it was, almost unbalanced him. He tried to grab the thick
band of moving rubber that was the handrail, but there were too many people on either side. A body slid
past on the immovable centre between staircases, the man obviously realizing it was the quickest way
down. Another followed him. Then another. Another. Then too many.

A jumble of bodies slid down, going fast, arms flailing, grabbing at anything, trying to hold on to the
upright bodies on the stairways. A desperate hand grabbed an arm and held on; bodies piled up behind;
the weight was too much; the person on the stairs was dragged forward; the people in front



began to fall; those behind began to tumble. PC Mapstone began to scream.

The staircase, its mechanism no longer able to cope with the overload, suddenly jolted to a stop. And
then there was no control at all in the spilling, tumbling mass.

Many of those on the centre section fell into the people on the adjacent escalator, creating another
human avalanche.

Mapstone, young, strong, but no longer eager, tried to keep upright, using his hands against the bodies
in front, grabbing for the handrails on either side. It was no use. He managed to get one hand around the
thick rubber band, but his arm was immediately snapped at the wrist by the crush behind. He shouted in
pain and the sound was no louder than the shouts around him. His light was blocked out, sudden bright
chinks appearing but disappearing just as quickly, creating a twisting, nightmare kaleidoscope in his
vision.