"Keith Laumer - Future Imperfect" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

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."
I sorted through the strewn cans, found a couple that seemed sound, cut the tops off. The odor
of kidney beans and applesauce made my jaws ache. He shook his head. "You've got. . . . get clear.
Leave me my gun."
"You won't need a gunтАФ"
 "I need it, mister." His whispering voice had taken on a harsh note. "I'd have used it on
myselfтАФbut I was hoping they'd find me. I could take a couple of them along."
"Forget it, old-timer. You'reтАФ"
"No time for talk. They're hereтАФin the town. I saw them, before. They won't give up." His
eyes got worried. "You've got a car?"
I nodded.
"They'll spot it. Maybe already have. Get. . . . going. . . ."
I used the knife blade to spoon beans into his mouth. He turned his face away.
"Eat it, sailorтАФit's good for you."
His eyes were on my face. "How'd you know I was Navy?"