"David L. Robbins - Endworld 17 - Atlanta Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robbins David L)

might call off the hunt.

"I have to tinkle," Chastity said in her mom's left ear.

"Not now."

"I have to go," Chastity insisted.

"Do you want the Bubbleheads to find us?" the mother demanded.

"No."

"Then keep quiet! And hold it in until we're sure the Bubbleheads are
gone."
 "Yes, Mommy," Chastity said, and sighed.

The woman peered out, leaning to the left, water cascading over her
head and shoulders. She blinked her eyes to clear her vision, striving to
detect movement in the undergrowth.

Where the hell were the Terminators?

Had the squad given up already?

No.

She spotted a silvery shape to the left, perhaps 15 yards off, and the
shape was moving! The form was advancing slowly toward the knoll. She
ducked from sight and pressed her forehead against the roots, clasping
Chastity to her bosom. "Shhhh!" she whispered. "Don't make a sound."

For once, her daughter obeyed.

The rain was drumming on the ground and thumping on the uncovered
side of the root system. Combined with the swishing of the wind, the
shaking of the trees, and the intermittent crack of thunder, the storm was
creating a constant racket, the din effectively deadening the tread of the
Terminator's silver boots.

Where way the Terminator?

Her curiosity getting the better of her, the mother eased her head to the
left and risked a hasty peek. And froze, terrified.

The Terminator was five feet from the roots, his back to the knoll, the
silver dome of his head sweeping from right to left and back again. The
three slim, silver tanks between his shoulder blades were visible. His silver
left hand, the fingers splayed, was on his left hip. In his right hand, which
was draped at his side, was the Fryer nozzle.