"Keith Laumer - Catastrophe Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

stopped dead, not even breathing. Ten seconds crept by like a parade of cripples dragging
themselves to a miraculous shrine. Then I heard it again: a gasping moan from inside the
ruined store.
I stood frozen, listening to silence, the board still in my hands, my teeth bared, not
sure whether I had really heard a noise or just the creak of my own nerves. In this dead
place, the suggestion of life had a shocking quality, like merriment in a graveyard.
Then, unmistakably, the sound came again. I dropped the plank, got the pistol clear
of its holster. Beyond the broken door I could make out crooked ranks of home-made
shelves, a drift of cans and broken bottles across the narrow floor.
"Who's there?" I called inanely. Something moved in the darkness at the back of the
room. Cans clattered as I kicked them aside. A thick sour stink of rotted food penetrated
my respirator mask. I stepped on broken ketchup bottles and smashed cans, went past a
festering display of lunch meat, a freezer with raised lid, jumped and almost fired when a
foot-long rat darted out.
"Come on out," I called. My voice sounded as confident as a rookie cop bracing
Public Enemy Number One. There was the sound of a shuddering breath.
I went toward it, saw the dim rectangle of a dust-coated window set in a rear door.
The door was locked, but a kick slammed it open, let in a roil of sun-bright haze. A man
was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his lap full of plaster fragments and
broken glass. A massive double laundry sink rested across his legs below the knees,
trailing a festoon of twisted pipes. His face was oily-pale, with eyes as round as half-
dollars, and there was a quarter-inch stubble across hollow cheeks. Mud was caked in a
ring around each nostril, his eyes, his mouth. Something was wrong with his nose and
earsтАФthey were lumped with thick, whitish scar tissueтАФand there were patches of keloid
on his cheekbones. Joints were missing from several of the fingers of his clawlike left
hand, which was holding a .45 automatic, propped up, aimed approximately at my left
knee. I swung a foot and kicked the gun off into the shadows.
"Didn't need. . . . do that," he mumbled. His voice was as thin as lost hope.
I got a grip on the weight across his legs, heaved at it. Water sloshed, and he gave a
wail as his head fell sideways.
It took five minutes to get him free, drag him up front where the light was better,
settle him in comparative comfort on the floor with his head propped up on broken flour
sacks covered with newspaper. He snored with his mouth slackly open. He smelled as
though he had been dead for a week. Outside, the sun was glaring low through drifting
smoke and dust layers, shaping up for another spectacular sunset.
I used my Boy Scout knife to cut away stiff cloth, examined his legs. They were
both badly broken, but the bruises were several days old, at least. The last tremor had not
been the one that caught him.
He opened his eyes. "You're not one of them," he said, faintly but clearly.
"How long have you been here?"
He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement. "Don't know. Maybe a week."
"I'll get you some water."
"Had plenty. . . . water," he said. "Cans, too. . . . but no opener. Rats were the
worst."
"Take it easy. How about some food?"
"Never mind that. Better get moving. Bad here. Tremors every few hours. Last one
was bad. Woke me up. . . ."
"You need food. Then I'll get you to my car."
"No use, mister, I've got. . . . internal injuries. Hurts too much to move. You cut out
now. . . . while you can."