"Marc Laidlaw - The Vicar of R'lyeh" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laidlaw Marc)

Forty-eight minutes later, panicking over his growing lateness, Geoff spiraled down through increasingly
lower levels of the parking lot. He was late, but he was worrying more about the dream. What did it
mean? That he was becoming polluted? That his pure visions had become contaminated by the foul
effluents in which he labored daily? It seemed more urgent that he get away. Finish this job and get back
to what he loved. Put all this crap behind him. If he could just get through it.

As he descended, the fluorescent lights grew dingier and more infrequent; fresh white paint gave way to
bare, sooty concrete; the level markers were eroded runes. Even at this hour, he found not a single free
parking space until he reached the lowest level. At the end of the farthest row, he found a retractable
metal gate raised just over halfway. Beyond it, a promising emptiness, dark.

His car scraped under the gate with half an inch of clearance. He found himself in a cavernous lot he had
never seen before, darkness stretching beyond the reach of his headlights. This lot was anything but
crowded. A mere dozen or so cars parked companionably in the nearest row of spaces. He pulled in
beside them and shut off his engine though not yet his lights. Stairs? Elevators? He saw no sign of either.
The safest course would be to walk back under the gate to the main level.

Slamming the door killed the light from his car, but enough flowed from the gateway to show a layer of
dust on the adjacent Volkswagen. Geoff peered through the passenger window, shuddering when he saw
a row of tiny plastic figures perched on the dashboard, winged and faceless except for tentacles and the
keyhole eyes of superintelligent cuttlefish. The toys were self-illuminated, in the manner of their kind, and
pulsed with faint colors that signaled their intentions to those who could read them. Scattered over the
seats were piles of sticks and matted weeds. Also a fallen stack of books, and a spiral notebook open to
a page covered with scribbles he took for treasure maps. What kind of treasure seeker plundered the
recesses of a not very ancient parking garage?

Fearing he might be mistaken for a prowler, he straightened up, tugging his backpack over his shoulders.
On his way toward the gate, he glanced back and saw that the car bore an all too popular bumper
sticker: HE IS RISEN.

The sudden grinding of the metal gate called up terrors of confinement, though in fact the gate was
opening the rest of the way. Blue-tinged headlights came down the ramp, blinding him. He threw up a
hand to shade his eyes, and saw a long black limo cruising through the entryway. It came to a stop, fixing
him in its headlights, the engine thrumming so deeply that he felt the throbbing through his shoes.

тАЬCome forward!тАЭ piped a voice, thin and irresistable.

Geoff walked around the side of the limo. One of the doors was open. Inside, a luxurious compartment
of oxblood leather and recessed lights comfortably contained Warren and another man unknown to him.

тАЬGeoff? What are you doing down here?тАЭ

тАЬWho is this?тАЭ came the reedy voice that had bid him approach.

тАЬUhтАжthis is Geoffrey Abbott, our lead designer.тАЭ

тАЬReally? Come in, young man.тАЭ

Warren gave an uncomfortable smile, then waved him in. Geoff sat, balancing his backpack on his knees.
As the car purred forward, Warren nodded toward the other man, a small fine-boned figure in a grey