"Terry McGarry - Miasma" - читать интересную книгу автора (McGarry Terry)

As he stood staring at the stain, his machine idling, a middle-aged woman stepped up from the row
behind him, asked him if he was all right, and took his hand in both of hers, turning it over. Her hands
were dark brown, and the nails were not painted, but in maneuvering his fingers to check the damage
they looked exactly like his motherтАЩsтАФbony, competent, masculine hands that controlled but never broke
whatever they touched. They became his motherтАЩs hands: the skin paled to pink, the nails lengthened,
colored, then shortened again, bitten down, the skin wasting, turn-ing gray, sallow, flaccid.

Granger gave a strangled cry, and fled.

They would fire him, of course. He hadnтАЩt even gone to the floor manager to plead sickness. It didnтАЩt
matter; there were other mindless jobs.
In fact, it could be good timing. This might be the day when a fire broke out or some disgruntled former
employee came in and let loose with an Uzi. Halloween made people crazy. And now he would get home
before dark. The evening streets were unbearable, with their roving gangs and drug dealers, and tonight
killers could wear masks with impunity. And suppose teenagers were throwing eggs? A shard could slice
your eye . . .

There was a drugstore cattycorner to his apartment building. If he could make it across and back,
without a busтАЩs brakes giving out just as it approached his crosswalk, he would have a treat tonight.

It was Halloween. He deserved one.

As Granger approached the rack at the far end of the store, his hands grew clammy and his heart rate
increased. It seemed he could not get enough air into his lungs. It seemed that the air itself had filled with
grit, had thickened into some unbreathable substanceтАФthat it would suffocate him if he did not get what
he needed quickly.
He scanned the shelfтАЩs contents, desperate now that he had made the decision to seek this pleasure.
Disappointment threatened; his eyes stung. He had read almost everything here, and his category was
sorely depleted by people buying books for Halloween. Then, with a yelp of triumph, he pounced: one
unfamiliar book, shiny black, with a die-cut cover showing the malevolent faces of two children staring
out a top-floor window. A glow surrounded them, like the light of a candle through the evil grin carved in
a pumpkin. The embossed red letters of the title dripped down around the house.

It was perfect.

In the printed word, Granger found a depth of controlled terror that made him squirm. Disaster was
inexorable, but left him whole and unscathed. Disaster was climax. тАЬDonтАЩt go up the stairs!тАЭ he would cry
to the characters, much as radio fans must have screamed to Fibber McGee, тАЬDonтАЩt open the closet!тАЭ
But Fibber McGee always opened the closet.

He made his purchase, and clutched the secure bulk of the book in his pocket as he left the store. This
time the security alarm didnтАЩt even go off.

In his building, he collected his mail from the little steel box with his surname on it and began the six-flight
climb to his apartment, which was low enough for egress in case of fire, but far enough above the boiler
room that he would prob-ably survive an explosion. He scanned the hallway for strangers before
unlocking his door. Inside, he made his customary four-point check: smoke detectors working, fire
extinguishers in place, gas off, electrical wires secure.
He had done this for his mother, in their house, every day of her life after Father died. She refused to
follow his safety instructions; it had driven him nuts. Planes crash, she had said, but life has to go on, as