"Brian Lumley - E-Branch 2 - Invaders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)
'So what do you think?' she finally said, as they got back into the 'Rover.
'Good time not to think/ he answered, and Liz could only agree. At least he'd remembered what
little he'd been told. So they tried not to think, and continued not thinking as he started up the
vehicle and let her coast the downhill quarter-mile to the Old Mine Gas station ...
Lights of a sort came on as they turned off the road to climb a hard-packed ramp to the elevated
shelf that fronted the shack. The illuminated sign flickered and buzzed, finally lit up in a
desultory, half-hearted neon glare; grimy windows in the shack itself burned a dusty, uncertain
electrical yellow. In an ancient river valley like this, dry since prehistory, it got dark very
quickly, even suddenly, when the sun went down.
It also got cooler; not cold by any means - not in this freakish El Nino weather - but cooler.
After they pulled up at the lone pump, Jake helped Liz shrug herself into a thin safari jacket,
took his own from the back of the 'Rover and put it on. In the west, one shallow trough in the
crest of the domed hills still held a golden glow. But the light was rapidly fading, and the
amethyst draining from the sky, squeezed out by the descending sepia of space. To the east, the
first stars were already winking into being over blackly silhouetted mountains.
Maybe twenty-five paces to the right of the main shack a lesser structure burrowed into the side
of the steep knoll. The 'See the Creechur' sign pointed in that direction. Liz wondered out loud,
'What sort of creature, do you reckon?'
But now there was a figure standing in the shadow of the
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shack's suddenly open screen door. And it was that figure that answered her. 'Well, it's a
bloody/wnnjy one, I guarantee that much, miss!' And then a chuckle as the owner of the deep,
see 'im, best take a torch with yer. Bloomin' bulb's blown again ... or maybe 'e did it 'imself.
Don't much care for the light, that creechur feller. Now then, what can I do fer you folks? Gas,
is it?'
Jake nodded and tilted his hat back. 'Gas. Fill her up.'
'Ah!' The other's gasp seemed genuine enough. 'Eh? What's this, then? Brits, are yer? A pair of
whingein' pommies way out 'ere? Now I asks yer, what next!?' He grinned, shook his head. 'Just
kiddin'. Don't yer be takin' no note o' me, folks.'
To all appearances he was just a friendly old lad and entirely unaccustomed to company. His rheumy
little pinprick eyes, long since abandoned to the wrinkles of a weathered face, gazed at his
customers over a bristly beard like that of some garrulous stagecoach driver in an ancient
Western. As he took the cap off the Land Rover's tank, his wobbly spindle legs seemed about ready
to collapse under him. And as if to make doubly sure he'd said nothing out of turn: 'Er, no
offence meant,' he continued to mumble his apologies.
'No offence taken,' Liz gave a little laugh. And Jake had to admire her: her steady, give-away-
nothing voice. She quickly went on, 'Can we get a drink or something, while you're filling her up?
It's been a long and thirsty road, and a way to go yet. Maybe a beer? You do have beer, right?'
'Did yer ever meet up with an Australian' (but in fact he said Orstrylian) 'who didn't have a beer
close ter hand?' The old man grinned again, started the pump and handed the nozzle to Jake, then
hobbled back and 'elp open the inner door to the shack for Liz. 'Just you help yerself, miss.
They're all lined up on the shelves back o' the bar there. Not a lot ter choose from, though -
Fosters every one! It's my favourite. And since I'm the one who drinks most of it, it's my choice
too.'
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