"034 (B014) - The Fantastic Island (1935-12) - Ryerson Johnson" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Hideous groans and jabberings issued from the unseen depths of the pits. The whip-crackers, their half-naked bodies in the red volcanic glare sleek with glistening sweat looked like satanic apparitions come to earth.



"Back on the yacht I said maybe we were headed for hell," Monk muttered. "Now, I know it!"



"The cracking noises we heard were from the whips," Ham observed.



"What's in the pits, I wonder?" Pat asked, in a hushed tone.



Monk was already edging forward, crawling on his stomach.



"Hold Habeas Corpus," he whispered back. "I'll find out."



"Blast your hog," Ham complained, but he held the pig.



As he muscled to a position where he could look down into the pits, Monk gasped with grim surprise. In every one of the circular holes, as far as he could see down the long line, stakes were driven, and to the stakes were attached chains, and to the end of the chains were fastened men.



There was one man with a shovel in each pit, digging. The diggers wore loin cloths only, lacking the lizardleather collars worn by the whip-cracking overseers. These collars Monk correctly assumed to be emblems of authority.



Each of the pit-men was digging a hole of a circumference allowed by the length of his chain. The holes, extending across the plain in a straight line, were of uniform width -- about ten feet.



Under the lash of the whips, in the hellish red volcano glare, the chained men were actually digging their way to death.





SUDDENLY, from behind Monk, sounded a fast thudding on the hardpacked ground. Something thrust hard against his back as he swerved around. A shrill squeal sounded.