"James Maxey - The Final Flight of the Blue Bee" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maxey James)

He'd helped his grandmother on the farm. Unfortunately, she'd kept bee hives--they'd been at the farm
for half a century, and the honey provided a steady income. But Mick had been hospitalized three times
in the last year, and the cost of treating him exceeded the income the honey brought in. One day there
was an article in the paper about a physician, Dr. Robert E. Eggers, who had developed a radical new
allergy treatment. His grandmother had used the last of her savings to see that Mick became one of Dr.
Eggers' patients.

A whirlwind of events--the experimental therapy, a mix of venom and radiation, had nearly killed Mick.
In desperation, Robert had taken the comatose teen to the one place on the planet that had the
equipment needed to save him--the Bee Hive, the Blue Bee's cavernous secret headquarters.

Mick came out of his coma stronger than ever, his muscles swelling and growing as he followed Robert's
training advice and secret pollen-based vitamin therapy. To his amazement, Mick possessed new senses,
could smell things he hadn't smelled before, and see in spectrums of light that had once been hidden. With
his newly heightened sense of smell, it didn't take long for him to identify Robert as the Blue Bee. Robert
responded by presenting him with a costume and a Sting-gun on his eighteenth birthday. The amazing
team of Blue Bee and Stinger was born.

And in secret, far from the public eye, the private team of Mick and Robert found love.
****
As a child, Honey's family had attended a church with a fire-and-brimstone pastor. Week after week, her
young mind had been filled with dread of the torments of Hell. She'd endured restless, nightmare-plagued
nights for years.

None of her worst nightmares rivaled this.

She was blind. The touch of bees on her eyelids glued her eyes shut with a force her strongest desires for
light could never overcome. A mask of bees crawled over her face, sparing only a small circle around her
nose. The bees on her clenched lips squelched her yearning need to scream, to shriek, or beg for mercy.
The thought of bees swarming into her again left her entire mouth Sahara dry, her tongue glued to the roof
of her mouth. She could hear only the drone of a million wings, the sound traveling through her bones, as
the bodies of bees burrowed into her ears.

She no longer had any concept of up or down. The bees moved her, supporting her weight, carrying her
along a lumpy, lurching carpet. The mass of the bees was unreal, like a thousand heavy woolen quilts
piled upon her, entombing her. The heat boiled copious, fevered sweat from her entire body. She could
feel--or perhaps imagined feeling--a million tiny tongues licking at her moist skin.

The mass of bees smelled vaguely of clover, yeast, and urine.

Where were they taking her? Time was impossible to gauge. Occasionally, she would hear distant,
muffled noises. A gun shot? Stinger shouting? The dinging of elevator bells?

She may as well have been trapped in a barrel of cement for all the sense she could make of what was
happening.

At last, after what might have been hours, the bees retreated from her ears. Cool air rushed against them,
a whistling of wind.

"He'll love this," Stinger said.