"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 22 - Forests of Gleor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

with both hands. Then slowly he heaved.

Blade stood more than six feet tall and weighed two hundred and ten pounds. He had both enormous
strength and great experience in using that strength. He needed all of both to pull the bar away from the
boy. A fraction of an inch at a time, the bar gave, as sweat popped out on Blade's forehead, as sharp
stabs of pain flared in arms and shoulders and chest, as his shirt split down the back with a sharp ripping
sound that he barely noticed. Then the space was wide enough for the boy's shoulders. Blade put one
hand under each of the boy's arms and lifted slowly. Easily and effortlessly, the boy rose to freedom.

Blade lifted the boy in both arms and carried him outside. He laid him on the damp grass, made sure he
was still breathing normally, then returned to the car.

There might be other people, trapped still farther down in the twisted metal of the car's forward end. If
there were, they were either dead or beyond Blade's helping. He clambered back up the dark corridor,
looking into each compartment for people he could help. He found them.

An older man, sprawled helplessly and apparently choking to death. Blade bent over him and used
mouth-to-mouth breathing until the choking stopped and the thin chest began to rise and fall normally.
Then he pulled a blanket from the rack overhead and spread it over the man.

A woman, slowly bleeding to death from glass cuts in her leg, while the other three people in the
compartment stared helplessly at her face going white. Blade pulled the woman's silk scarf off her head
and used it as a tourniquet. "Now-one of you loosen that scarf every ten minutes once the bleeding stops.
Understand?"

Vague nods. Blade knew the others were still in shock, but he had to hope for the best. He scrambled
out and on upward.

Sometimes there were people who were beyond help-an old woman who lay with her head twisted at
an impossible angle and no pulse at all in her bony wrist. As Blade searched for the pulse that wasn't
there, a small boy tugged at the woman's other hand.

"Grandma, grandma, wake up! I'm scared!"

Blade had to get out of that compartment quickly.

In other compartments there were people who needed nothing but a little time to recover from the shock
of the accident. One of them had the sense to hand Blade a large flask filled with brandy. He passed it
around.

"Don't try climbing out unless you feel in the pink," he said. "It would be bloody silly to fall down the
corridor and break your necks now." The remark drew nervous laughter. "Don't try moving any of the
injured, either. We don't know how they're hurt." They nodded and Blade moved on.

Pick glass out of wounds, wad handkerchiefs over gashes and cuts, apply tourniquets, use
mouth-to-mouth respiration, give sips of brandy and words of encouragement-everything blended
together in a single swirling chaotic nightmare until Blade no longer remembered details. He didn't care
about that. What he did care about was keeping going until there were no more people in the car to look
at. Then he would start on the next car, and then on the last, and then-
 He'd just reached the rear of the car when the sound of approaching sirens and motorcycle engines