"Richard Preston - The Hot Zone2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Preston Richard)

is the black vomit.
He appears to be holding himself rigid, as if any movement would
rupture something inside him. His blood is clotting up-his bloodstream is
throwing clots, and the clots are lodging everywhere. His liver, kidneys,
lungs, hands, feet, and head are becoming jammed with blood clots. In
effect, he is having a stroke through the whole body. Clots are
accumulating in his intestinal muscles, cutting off the blood supply to
his intestines. The intestinal muscles are beginning to die, and the
intestines are starting to go slack. He doesn't seem to be fully aware of
pain any longer because the blood clots lodged in his brain are cutting
off blood flow. His personality is being wiped away by brain damage.
This is called depersonalization, in which the liveliness and details of
character seem to vanish. He is becoming an automaton. Tiny spots in his
brain are liquefying. The higher functions of consciousness are winking
out first, leaving the deeper parts of the brain stem (the primitive rat
brain, the lizard brain) still alive and functioning. It could be said
that the who of Charles Mont has already died while the what of Charles
Monet continues to live.
The vomiting attack appears to have broken some blood vessels in his
nose-he gets a nosebleed. The blood comes from both nostrils, a shining,
cloudless, arterial liquid that drips over his teeth and chin. This blood
keeps running, because the clotting factors have been used up. A flight
attendant gives him some paper towels, which he uses to stop up his nose,
but the blood still won't coagulate, and the towels soak through.
When a man is ill in an airline seat next to you, you may not want to
embarrass him by calling attention to the problem. You say to yourself
that this man will be all right. Maybe he doesn't travel well in
airplanes. He is airsick, the poor man, and people do get nosebleeds in
airplanes, the air is so dry and thin ... and you ask him, weakly, if
there is anything you can do to help. He does not answer, or he mumbles
words you can't understand, so you try to ignore it, but the flight seems
to go on forever. Perhaps the flight attendants offer to help him. But
victims of this type of hot virus have changes in behavior that can render
them incapable of responding to an offer of help. They become hostile,
and don't want to be touched. They don't want to speak. They answer
questions with grunts or monosyllables. They can't seem to find words.
They can tell you their name, but they can't tell you the day of the week
or explain what has happened to them.
The Friendship drones through the clouds, following the length of the
Rift Valley, and Monet slumps back in the seat, and now he seems to be
dozing ... Perhaps some of the passengers wonder if he is dead. No, no,
he is not dead. He is moving. His red eyes are open and moving around a
little bit.
It is late afternoon, and the sun is falling down into the hills to
the west of the Rift Valley, throwing blades of light in all directions,
as if the sun is cracking up on the equator. The Friendship makes a
gentle turn and crosses the eastern scarp of the Rift. The land rises
higher and changes in color from brown to green. The Ngong Hills appear
under the right wing, and the plane, now descending, passes over parkland
dotted with zebra and giraffes. A minute later, it lands at Jomo Kenyatta