"Robert R McCammon - They Thirst" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

The boy understood, and Papa had nodded with satisfaction.
The next morning he watched through the kitchen window while Uncle Josef
hitched the two old gray-and-white horses to the family's wagon. His parents
had drawn away, standing across the room near the bolted slab of a door. Papa
had put on his woolen cap and the heavy sheepskin coat Mama had made for him
as a Christmas present years before, then slipped the coil of rope around one
shoulder. The boy picked listlessly from a bowl of beef broth and tried to
listen, knowing that they were whispering so that he would not hear. But he
also knew that if he did hear, he really wouldn't know what they were
whispering about, anyway. It's not fair! he told himself as he dipped his
fingers into the broth and brought out a chunk of meat. If I'm to be the head
of the house, shouldn't I know the secrets, too?

Across the room Mama's voice had suddenly surged up out of control. Let the
others do it! Please! But Papa had caught her chin, tilted her face up, and
looked gently into those morning-gray eyes. I have to do this thing, he'd
said, and she looked like she wanted to cry but could not. She'd used up all
her tears the night before, lying in the goosedown bed in the other room. The
boy had heard her all through the night. It was as if the heavy hours were
cracking her heart and no amount of time on the other side of twilight could
ever heal it again. No, no, no, Mama was saying now, over and over again as if
that word had some magic that would prevent Papa from stepping out into the
snowy daylight, as if that word would seal the door, wood to stone, to keep
him within and the secrets out.
And when she was silent, Papa had reached up and lifted the double-barreled
shotgun from the gunrack beside the door. He cracked open the breech, loaded
both chambers with shells, and carefully laid the weapon down again. Then he
had held her and kissed her and said I love you. And she had clung to him like
a second skin. That was when Josef had knocked at the door and called out,
Emil!
We're ready to leave!
Papa had hugged her a moment longer, then gripped the rifle he had bought in
Budapest, and unlatched the door. He stood on the threshold, and snowflakes
flew in around him. Andre! he had said, and the boy had looked up. You take
care of your mother, and make sure this door stays bolted. Do you understand?

Yes, Papa.

In the doorway, framed against a bleached sky and the purple teeth of the
distant mountain ranges, Papa had turned his gaze upon his wife and had
uttered three softly spoken words. They were indistinct, but the boy caught
them, his heart beating around a dark uneasiness.
Papa had said, "Watch my shadow."
When he stepped out, a whine of November wind filled the place he'd left. Mama
stood at the threshold, snow blowing into her long dark hair, aging her moment
by moment. Her eyes were fixed on the wagon as the two men urged the horses
along the cobbled path that would take them to the others. She stood there for
a long time, face gaunt against the false white purity of the world beyond
that door. When the wagon had lumbered out of sight, she turned away, closed
the door, and bolted it. Then she had lifted her gaze to her son's and had