"McCammon, Robert R. - The Wolf's Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

The killer cried out in pain, and as his arm went dead he lost control of the ax. It left his hand and thunked two inches deep into the oak-paneled wall. Michael hit him in the ruined nose, snapping his head back, and followed with a blow to the point of the chin. The German grunted, spewed blood, and fell back against the second-floor railing. Michael followed him, drew his arm back to strike at the throatЧbut suddenly the assassinТs arms streaked out, the fleshy hands closing on his neck once more and lifting him off his feet.
Michael thrashed, but he had no traction. The killer was holding him almost at armТs length, and in another few seconds the idea would come to throw Michael over the railing to the tiled floor below. There was an oak beam two feet above MichaelТs head, but it was smooth and polished and there was nothing to hold on to. The blood roared in his brain, oily sweat surfaced from his poresЧand deep within, something else stretched and began to awaken from a sleep of shadows.
The fingers pressed into his arteries, interrupting the flow of blood. The killer shook him, partly in disdain and partly to secure a tighter grip. The end was near; the German could see the other manТs eyes beginning to bulge.
MichaelТs arms reached up, fingers grazing the oak. His body trembled violently, a movement that the assassin interpreted as the nearing of death.
For him, it was.
Michael GallatinТs right hand began to twist and contort. Beads of sweat ran down his face, and utter agony played across his features. The black hair on the back of his hand rippled, the sinews shifting. There were little popping noises of cracking bones. The hand gnarled, the knuckles swelled, the flesh turning mottled and thick, the black hair beginning to spread.
УDie, you son of a bitch!Ф the killer said, speaking in German. He squeezed his eyes shut, all concentration on strangling the man to death. Very soon nowЕ very soon.
Something moved under his hands. Like scurrying ants. The body was getting heavier. Thickening. There was a pungent, animal smell.
The killer opened his eyes and looked up at his victim.
He was holding something that was no longer a man.
With a scream, he tried to throw the thing over the railingЧbut two pairs of claws dug into the oak beam and latched there, and the monster brought up a still-human kneecap and hit him in the chin with a power that all but knocked him senseless. He released the thing and, still screaming, but now in a high, thin drone, scrambled away from it. He fell over scattered armor, crawled toward the bedroom door, looked back, and saw the monsterТs claws wrench free of the beam. The thing fell to the floor, hitching and convulsing, and thrashed out of its brown terrycloth robe.
And now the assassin, one of the best of his breed, knew the full meaning of horror.
The monster righted itself, crawling toward him. It was not yet fully formed, but its green eyes caught and held him, promising agony.
The killerТs hand closed on a spear. He jabbed at the thing, and it leaped aside, but the spear tip caught it on the malformed left cheek and drew a scarlet line against the black. He kicked desperately at it, trying to pull himself through the bedroom door and get to the terrace railingЧand then he felt fangs snap shut on his ankle, a crushing power that broke the bones like matchsticks. The jaws opened and snapped on the other leg at the calf. Again, bones broke, and the assassin was crippled.
He screamed for God, but there was no answer. There was only the steady rumbling of the monsterТs lungs.
He threw up his hands to ward it off, but human hands were of no consequence. The beast jumped upon him, its wet snout and staring, terrible eyes right in his face. And then the snout winnowed toward his chest, the fangs gleaming. There was a hammer blow to his breastbone, followed by another that almost split him in two. Claws were at work, the nails throwing up a red spray. The killer writhed and fought as best he could, but his best was nothing. The beastТs claws entered his lungs, ripped away the heaving tissue, drove down into the manТs core; and then the snout and the teeth found the pulsing prize, and with two twists of the head the heart was torn from its vine like an overripe, dripping fruit.
The heart was crushed between the fangs, and the mouth accepted its juices. The killerТs eyes were still open, and his body twitched, but all his blood was flooding out and there was none left to keep his brain alive. He gave a shuddering, terrible moanЧand the monster threw its head back and echoed the cry in a voice that rang through the house like a death knell.
And then, nosing into the gaping hole, the beast began its feeding, tearing with rampant rage at the inner mysteries of a man.
Afterward, as the lights of Cairo dimmed and the first violet light of the sun began to come up over the pyramids, something caught between animal and man spasmed and retched in the mansion of the Countess Margritta. From its mouth flowed grisly lumps and fragments, a creeping red sea that went under the banister and over the edge to the tiled floor below. The naked retching thing curled itself into a fetal shape, shivering uncontrollably, and in that house of the dead no one heard it weep.


ONE
Rite of Spring


1


Again the dream awakened him, and he lay in the dark while the gusts bellowed at the windows and an errant shutter flapped. He had dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed he was a man who dreamed he was a wolf who dreamed. And in that maze of dreams there had been bits and pieces of memory, flying like the fragments of an exploded jigsaw puzzle: the sepia-toned faces of his father, mother, and older sister, faces as if from a burned-edge photograph; a palace of broken white stones, surrounded by thick, primeval forest where the howls of wolves spoke to the moon; a passing steam train, headlight blazing, and a young boy racing along the tracks beside it, faster and faster, toward the entrance of the tunnel that lay ahead.
And from the puzzle of memory, an old, leathery, white-bearded face, the lips opening to whisper: Live free.
He sat up on his haunches and realized then that he had been lying not in his bed but on the cold stone floor before the fireplace. A few embers drowsed in the darkness, waiting to be stirred. He stood up, his body naked and muscular, and walked to the high bay windows that overlooked the wild hills of northern Wales. The March wind was raging beyond the glass, and scattershots of rain and sleet struck the windows before his face. He stared from darkness into darkness, and he knew they were coming.
They had let him alone too long. The Nazis were being forced toward Berlin by a vengeful Soviet tide, but Western EuropeЧthe Atlantic WallЧwas still in HitlerТs grip. Now, in this year of 1944, great events were in motion, events with great potential for victory or terrible risks of defeat. And he knew full well what the aftermath of that defeat would mean: a solidified Nazi hold on Western Europe, perhaps an intensified effort against the Russian troops and a savage battle for territory between Berlin and Moscow. Though their ranks had been thinned, the Nazis were still the best-disciplined killers in the world. They could still deflect the Russian juggernaut and surge again toward the capital of the Soviet Union.
Mikhail GallatinovТs motherland.
But he was Michael Gallatin now, and he lived in a different land. He spoke English, thought in Russian, and contemplated in a language more ancient than either of those human tongues.
They were coming. He could feel them getting nearer, as surely as he sensed the wind whirling through the forest sixty yards away. The worldТs tumult was bringing them closer, to his house on this rocky coast that most men shunned. They were coming for one reason.
They needed him.
Live free, he thought, and his mouth curled with the hint of a smile. There was some bitterness in it. Freedom was an illusion, in the shelter of his own house on this stormy land, where the nearest village, EndoreТs Rill, lay more than fifteen miles to the south. For him, a great part of freedom was isolation, and he had come to realize more and more, as he monitored the shortwave broadcasts between London and the Continent, listening to the voices speak in codes through the blizzards of static, that the bonds of humanity had chained him.
So he would not refuse them entrance when they arrived, because he was a man and they would also be men. He would listen to what they had to say, might even consider it briefly before he refused. They had come a long way, over rough roads, and he might possibly offer them shelter for the night. But his service to his adopted homeland was done, and now it was up to young soldiers with mud-grimed faces and nervous fingers on carbine triggers. The generals and commanders might bark orders, but it was the young who died carrying them out; that was the way it had been throughout the ages, and in that respect, the future of warfare would never change. Men being what they were.
Well, there was no keeping them away from his door. He could lock the gate, way up at the end of the road, but they would find a way over it, or cut the barbed-wire fence and walk in. The British had a lot of experience in snipping barbed-wire. So it was best just to leave the gate unlocked, and wait for them. It might be tomorrow, or the day after that, or next week. Whenever; he would still be here.
Michael listened to the song of the wild for a moment, his head cocked slightly to one side. Then he returned to the flagstone floor in front of the fireplace, lay down and curled his arms around his knees, and tried to rest.


2


УHe picked a damn lonely place to live, didnТt he?Ф Major Shackleton lit a cigar and cranked down the glossy black FordТs rear window on his side to let the smoke seep out. The cigar tip glowed red in the gloomy twilight of late afternoon. УYou Brits like this kind of weather, huh?Ф
УI fear we have no choice but to like it,Ф Captain Humes-Talbot answered. He smiled as politely as he could, his aristocratic nostrils flared. УOr at least accept it.Ф
УRight.Ф Shackleton, a United States Army officer with a face like the business end of a battle-ax, peered out at the gray, low clouds and the nasty drizzle. He hadnТt seen the sun for more than two weeks, and the chill was making his bones ache. The elderly, stiff-backed British army driver, separated from his passengers by a glass window, was taking them along a narrow pebbled road that wound between dark, cloud-shrouded crags and stands of thick pine forest. The last village theyТd passed, Houlett, was twelve miles behind them. УThatТs why you people are so pale,Ф he went on, like a bulldozer through a tea party. УEverybody looks like a ghost over here. You ever come to Arkansas, IТll show you a springtime sun.Ф
УIТm not sure my schedule will allow it,Ф Humes-Talbot said, and cranked down his window a turn and a half. He was wan and thin, a twenty-eight-year-old staff officer whose closest brush with death had been diving into a Portsmouth ditch as a Messerschmitt fighter screamed past seventy feet overhead. But that had been in August of 1940, and now no Luftwaffe aircraft dared to cross the Channel.
УSo Gallatin served with distinction in North Africa?Ф ShackletonТs teeth were clenched around the cigar, and the stub was wet with saliva. УThat was two years ago. If heТs been out of service since then, what makes your people think he can handle the job?Ф