"James Rollins - Subterranean" - читать интересную книгу автора (Romeyn Henry)

He nodded, dazed.

"Something tells me you had better watch your ass, Ben." Matson strode to the chair behind his desk
and sat. "The big boys are playing with you, and they have a tendency to roll over the little people.
Remember your friend Jack."

Ben stared at the number at the bottom of the page, drawing a breath. Too good to be true.

***

Back in his cell, with an arm draped over his eyes, Ben drifted to sleep and was soon lost in a nightmare
he hadn't had since childhood. He found himself, a boy again, threading his way through meter-wide
columns of damp stone inside a huge cave. He knew this place. His grandfather had once brought him
here to show him Aboriginal petroglyphs.

It was the same cave, but now the rock columns sprouted fruit-laden branches. Curious, he reached for
a red pulpy gourd, but it was just beyond his reach. As he was pulling back his arm, he felt eyes drilling
into the nape of his neck. He whipped around, but no one was there. Yet now those eyes were all
around him. Just at the edge of his vision, he spotted motion from behind a large rock cylinder.

"Who's there?" he called, racing to peer behind the column. Just more empty space. "What do you
want?"

The word "ghosts" came unbidden to his mind.

He started to run . . .

He felt something following him, calling him back. He ignored it and ran, searching for an exit. The pillars
closed around him, slowing his progress. Then he sensed a soft touch at the back of his neck and heard
garbled words whispered in his ear.

"You are one of us."

He screamed, bolting out of the dream.

He woke on his cot, his heart still racing, and rubbed at his temples. Bloody hell. What brought back
that old nightmare? He closed his eyes, recalling that the nightmares had first started after an argument
with his grandfather in an Aboriginal cave outside of Darwin.

"No, it's not true," the thirteen-year-old Ben had yelled, tears welling at the revelation.
 "Yes, it is, young man. And I don't take to being called a liar." His grandfather's wrinkled leather face
frowned at him. "This was once the ancestral home of my grandmother," he repeated, then poked him in
the chest. "A direct relative of yours."

The implications that he could have Aboriginal blood running through his veins had horrified him. He and
his friends had always made fun of the dark-skinned Aboriginal kids at school. And now, in a single
heartbeat, he had been lumped in with them. He shook his head. "I am not a damned darkie!"

A stinging slap to his cheek. "You'll respect your ancestors."