"Pike, Christopher - Whisper Of Death.(1991)TXT" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pike Christopher)

"Dad?" I called. Of course no one answered. I think
I just wanted to hear the sound of my voice. My jitters
from the deserted gas station were still with me. I went
into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I drank a
dozen cups a day. I would have to learn to cut down.
The caffeine wouldn't be good for the baby.

While waiting for the coffee, I flipped on the radio. I
had just bought it the previous month. It was a Sony,
and had twin cassette players and excellent reception.

Only static came out of the speakers.

I leaned over and checked the dial. It was tuned to
my favorite station-98.7 "Rock You Until You Go to
Heaven." Crazy Harry should have been greasing up
the airwaves by now, I thought. I fiddled with the dial.
The static continued. I switched to another station.
More fuzz.

"Damn," I muttered. "He told me it was the better
model."

I turned off the radio. My coffee was ready. I take it
black, with both sugar and Sweet 'N' Low. I mixed
myself a powerful hit and sat in my dad's favorite
chair in the living room, sipping and thinking. Our
house would be nothing to film a movie inside. We
had only two box bedrooms and one bathroom that
would probably be reincarnated as an outhouse. Still,
it was cozy enough. My dad painted in oils in his spare
time, when his back wasn't killing him from all his
driving. He favored mountain scenes copied from
National Geographic photographs. His works covered
the walls around me.

But the silence, the emptiness-it seemed to seep
into me from the floor. I couldn't explain it. I set my
coffee down and walked over and turned on the TV.

Static. Fuzz.

"Like the radio," I whispered.

I flipped through the channels. Nothing.

"Oh, no," I said.

Suddenly I was afraid. Afraid of nothing, that most
awful of fears. Especially when nothing is all there is.