"Daniel Keys Moran - Armageddon Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moran Daniel Keys)

a voice so soft and clear that it sounded like running water, "were not made to be walked upon."

Georges got out of the car, and Jalian watched him, waiting; not unsure or confused or wondering,
simply waiting for what would happen next.

Georges Mordreaux stood at the side of the still-running green Camaro, looking at the girl who stood at
the edge of the cement, on a small stretch of gravel, who was looking back at him with very silver eyes,
and suddenly he was more in love than he had been since the age of nineteen. You know, that was in
1731.

DATELINE 1969 GREGORIAN.


Ralesh d'Arsennette y ken Selvren, Eldest Hunter of Clan Silver-Eyes, lay comatose in the hospital that
the ambulance had taken her to. The doctors who examined her fully expected her to die. Her entire
system was in shock; she appeared to have suffered radiation burns of some sort.

Her personal effects the doctors found vastly strange: a white overtunic and white leggings, three knives,
and two devices that they found themselves unable to understand in any regard. One of the gadgets
looked like a meter of some sort, or a compass; the other looked like a hand grenade. The local police
were still debating whether or not they ought to call in the FBI, two days after Ralesh had been admitted.

For two days, while the police argued among themselves, Ralesh lay in a coma, a glucose solution
dripping slowly into her veins.

On the third day, the silver-eyed freak was gone from her room in intensive care, and her personal
effects were missing from storage.
 In place of the items that she took, the Eldest Hunter of Clan Silver-Eyes left two things: a male intern
and a female nurse. The nurse had been tied and gagged and knocked unconscious. The intern, who had
simply not been born the right sex, had his throat cut from ear to ear.

DATELINE 1968 GREGORIAN.


"Walk?" asked Georges blankly. "On the freeway?"

An eighteen-wheeler blasted by them. The wind sent Jalian's hair streaming backward. She nodded
silently. "Walk on the freeway," Georges repeated. He considered the idea. "Where are you headed?"

"Anywhere." Jalian shrugged. "Nowhere. One place seems as good as another, as long as it can be
reached over a freeway. The freeways," she added, "the freeways are beautiful."

"What are you?" Georges was staring at her.

Jalian studied him, without meeting his eyes particularly "I might ask you the same questionтАж I'm a
wanderer. I walk the freeways, and I wait for the fires that you destroyed yourselves with. There are,"
she said with the gravest expression Georges had yet seen on her, "thirty-years until Armageddon."

"Thirty-eightтАФwhat do you mean?"