"Kyle, Duncan - Terror's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kyle Duncan)

I staggered up me narrow track, my heart beginning to hammer frighteningly. Then I blundered out into me open, where another defile crossed mine and instantly a rifle cracked and I heard the bullet fizz by, smacking into a rock to my right.

I dived forward, flinging my body headlong into the defile ahead, scraping knees and elbows painfully on me rough sandstone. It was like diving on to emery paper. But I was up quickly and driving my body forward because there was nothing else I could do. It couldn't go on. I'd travelled only about a quarter mile and I was almost exhausted, my energy was being drained away fast by the murderous combination of heat and height. Up there, three or four thousand feet above sea level, the air is thinner. I was flogging along with my sea-level lungs and a body accustomed to temperate climates, in a high-altitude desert.

Trying to move fast, I knew I was slowing with every step, forcing each leg forward with my hands on my knees, not even aware until I heard the shot that I'd left shelter and was exposed again. Blindly I flung myself flat, but on to a lump of rock that smashed against my ribs and sent a tremendous flash of pain through my body. I glanced back dizzily. I could see nobody, but that didn't mean a thing; they could be in any of a hundred places, waiting to pick me off as I rose. I didn't rise. I edged my body agonizingly forward across the baking rock until I could slide into a dark, protected crevice and crouched there, gasping, knowing I was done. I no longer had the strength to run, barely the strength to crawl. I was bruised and beginning to suffer from oxygen starvation; sweat was sluicing out of me and the sun was hot as hell. What lay ahead, if I lived that long, was heatstroke.

That was when the thought struck me. I don't know why it hadn't hit me before. It came in the form of a question, and the question was: if they were hunting me with rifles, why in hell hadn't they hit me? Because they were bad shots? Hardly. At forty or fifty yards it's not difficult to hit a man-sized target. Then why? Even to think was appallingly difficult. I felt as though I were crouching in a furnace and my mind seemed to be only a quarter my own. I forced myself to concentrate. On the lake I'd been forced along, shepherded, driven northward. And then, at Overton Beach, there hadn't been a cruiser between me and the shore. And in the car ... the shot that had been fired at the car had missed. From fifty yards it had missed a car? A car] The driver had been in cahoots too, waiting for me. That's why they hadn't hit the car. But up here? Among the red rocks? A rifleman need only go high, wait for me to show myself and pick me off.

True or false?

It could only be true. So why was I still in one sweaty piece? There had been at least two easy chances.

I thought I knew the answer, but still I weighed it carefully. The only possible answer seemed to be that they hadn't shot me because they didn't want to shoot me. But was that the only possible answer? It seemed to be, unless they were all blind and their hands trembled as badly as mine. Which couldn't be true. They could stroll in the heat, come slowly and easily towards an unarmed man. Also, they'd be accustomed to the temperature, to the high land.

No. The first answer must be the right one. They didn't want to shoot me. Next question: what did they want? No answer; no way of guessing. I didn't begin to comprehend what was happening. But ... I clung to the one thought: they weren't going to shoot me!

Slowly I forced myself to stand upright and looked round for a way to the top of the rocks. If I was wrong, they'd shoot me now instead of ten minutes from now, by which time I'd be a sweating, semi-conscious wreck a short distance farther on.

Over there. Over there it would be easier. There was a worn rock forming almost a staircase upward. I began to climb, awkwardly because my strength was almost gone, making each upward step with an audible grunt of effort. One more yard and I would be in clear sight. I hesitated. What if I were wrong? But I already knew the answer to that. I took a deep, gasping breath and forced myself higher.

Crack.' The bullet smacked into the sandstone a yard from me and instinctively I almost dived for cover again. I was trembling so much I could hardly keep my balance, but I forced myself to straighten and turned my head to look in the direction from which the shot had come. A man was standing there, atop a rock, rifle at his shoulder, perhaps forty yards away. As I watched he moved his head to sight and fired again and red stone chips flew from the rock a couple of feet away. Two shots at forty yards. Two shots that missed. I struggled one weary step higher, straightened and stood with my hands loose at my sides, staring across at him.

Then a movement caught my eye. Another man, another rifle, off to my right. The next shot came from him and it, too, flew by. I looked round. There were two more of them, an arc of four men, all with rifles at the shoulder, all close. And quite suddenly they all started firing at once. God knows how many shots there were! And God knows why I didn't fling myself down on the blistering rock! From four directions the shots whistled past, one after another, a stutter of firing that sounded almost like a machine gun. I remember closing my eyes, clamping my teeth together, waiting for one to hit me. It seemed impossible that among all that rifle fire not one bullet should touch me, even by accident.

Then, suddenly the last sounds had bounced away among the rocks and I was standing in an incredible flat silence, uninjured, looking across that weird landscape from one man to the next. For all of a minute it stayed like mat. Then one of them shouted, 'Okay, let's go!' And they turned their backs to me and began to move slowly away, back down towards the road.

Maybe it was the relief, perhaps sheer weakness, but I was suddenly dizzy and almost passed out. I know I stood swaying in the burning sunlight until the sheer heat of it reminded me that to collapse on the spot would be more certainly lethal than the rifle fire.

It took me nearly an hour to pick my way back to the road and even though it was downhill, I wasn't recovering at all. Sweat still flooded out of me, breathing was difficult. I remember glancing at my watch and being astonished that it was still only eleven, and realizing that the worst of the heat was still to come. The two cars had long gone, of course, and the road was deserted. I stood beside it for a little while until I realized just how hot the sun was on my head and neck, so I found myself a shady place beside a big boulder and crouched there, waiting. It was forty minutes before a vehicle came along and I must have been half dozing because I almost missed it. In a panic I staggered out of the shade on to the road, waving my arms, and forced it to stop or run me down.

I blinked at it. The car was bright and clean and shiny and the blazing sun shone blindingly off its chromium. Then the door opened and a middle-aged woman got out. When she spoke, there was a quaver in her voice.

'Is something wrong?'

I almost laughed, not because the words were funny, or even because they were conventional, but because I was close to hysteria.

I said, simply, 'I got lost.' My mouth was so dry it hurt to speak.

'Lost?' The quaver was still there. She was torn between a wish to help and fear of this unknown stranger on a lonely road.

'Lost,' I croaked. 'I've been out in the sun. Have you water?'

'Water? No.'

'Could you give me a lift?'

'You're British?'

'Yes.'