"James Herbert - The Survivor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)

Help them, God, help - ' The whining roar drowned his cries as the falling plane
passed over him, skimming over the High Street, its four engines and the rushing
of wind combining to create a terrible sound, the force of the engines preventing it
from merely dropping from the sky. The old man could see that the windows in
the front section were lit up by a red blaze, and tails of fire were emerging from
the huge crack in its body, flattened by the rushing wind. The aircraft was hardly
held together, the rear section dragging downwards, about to break away from the
main body at any moment.

The plane disappeared from view, the boathouses mercifully hiding the inevitable
and final destruction from the old man's vision. There seemed to be a pause - a
moment of silence, a moment when it appeared that nothing had happened - but
then came the explosion. The sky shone red and he saw the flames in the near
distance reach up from behind the boathouses. He fell to his knees at the sound,
and the blast appeared to make even the bridge tremble. It filled his ears and he
clapped his hands to them, leaning forward from the waist so that his face almost
touched his knees. But still the noise penetrated and reverberated inside his head,
the shock of what had happened held in abeyance for the moment whilst his brain
dealt with the physical pain. At last, the sound seemed to diminish. It had only
taken seconds, but they were frozen seconds, timeless.

Slowly he raised his head, his hands still tight against his ears, his eyes wide with

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 Herbert, James - The Survivor UC FR


fear. He saw the pulsating glow, the rising palls of smoke, but everything else was
still. He saw other figures along the High Street, their faces just white blobs in the
strangely red-hued night light, standing transfixed, afraid or unable to move. The
shattering of glass from a restaurant window at the foot of the bridge broke the
stillness, and the old man observed the whole street was Uttered with glistening
shards of glass. People began to appear at windows and doorways; he heard voices
calling out. Nobody seemed sure of what had happened. He staggered to his feet
and began to run towards the fields where he knew the plane had come to rest.

As he ran past the boathouses, the old man noticed they were ablaze at the rear. He
reached a small lane that led into the long fields beyond, his breathing becoming
more painful with each step. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw there
were several small fires in the buildings behind him. Turning a corner, he stopped
at the edge of the field, one hand clutched to his chest, his shoulders heaving with
exertion and the effort of breathing.

He stared aghast at the wrecked aeroplane lit up by its own fires. Its belly was
crushed, its nose pushed up and squashed flat. The only wing he could see was
lying alongside the rear end which had finally broken off completely from the
main body. Only the tail rose majestically from the mangled wreckage, almost
untouched, but somehow obscene because of it, glowing red in the light from the
flames, defiant, but now ugly in its sleekness.