"Marc Laidlaw - The Black Bus" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laidlaw Marc)

gave up his will, if he had ever had it.

It was merciful, for a time, to escape his dread and innate skepticism, his
constant sense of something going wrong. But his anxiety did not end, exactly тАФ
only changed, uncurling like the tail-end of that paisley, and left him weaving through
the gates again, this time one of a hushed line, holding hands in long chains like
human molecules, everyone deserting the theater silently, the entire crowd speaking
in whispers or not at all. Something vast slept behind them, and they departed quietly
so as not to wake it.

The matter of the bus had already been discussed, he discovered, as with
gestures Sonora indicated they were to board not their own defunct vehicle but the
black bus that had pulled up by the amphitheater gate. Apparently there was room
for them in it, and he went along, though he would not be the driver of this bus. And
that was something of a relief, too. It had been so long since heтАЩd been able to sit
back and simply watch the changing roadside. He had always felt so responsible for
everything. . . .

Inside was pleasant contrast to the inky, angular black exterior. Here it was all
warmth and glow, soft pillows and cushions spread everywhere, low bunks
overhead for sleeping, plenty of blankets for the cold nights of traveling. He slipped
off his shoes and went on hands and knees onto the padded platform, crawling
toward the back of the bus, the warm rumbling cave above the engine. In his own
delapidated vehicle, the engine had growled under the hood, always up in front of
him. It was less efficient, but he missed it for a moment. Curled against a pillow,
eyes shut, he dreamed a clear picture of the other bus as it had been, new and freshly
painted, when heтАЩd first hired on as its driver. Years ago, and thousands of miles
behind him, that had been. He realizedтАФ had known all along, tonight, without
admitting it till nowтАФthat it would never be fixed. The old bus was dead.

Now the passengers of the black bus, those who had invited them aboard
some unknown time during the show (as if their plight had communicated itself
osmotically), pulled down black shades, as though no spark of light could be
permitted out. Sonora and Chad joined in the effort, but Driver was content not to
move.

I wonder, he thought, since IтАЩm apparently not the driver of this bus, I wonder
if I get to keep my name.

THEY WERE all passengers now, Sonora thought, watching Driver, halfway
convinced (but never quite) that she was sharing his thoughts. His fear was obvious
enough, betrayed by his stiff posture, as he lay among the cushions like a wooden
martyr marionette dropped down from a cross to which it was still attached by
strings. His mind barked out loud warnings; he felt threatened, but it was easing.

She smiled and put her hand on his breast. тАЬItтАЩs strange for you, not driving,
isnтАЩt it?тАЭ

тАЬWeтАЩre not moving yet,тАЭ he said with a wry smile, as if he had seen into her
intentions.