"William Mark Simmons - Undead 2 - Dead on My Feet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

while I prayed for only a broken arm or dislocated shoulder on the way down: either was survivable,
while a broken leg or ankle would leave me helpless until he returned. The semi had only bought me
some timeтАФprobably seconds rather than minutes.
Power cables broke my fall. Three lines of electrical burns across my back and buttocks, a flash, a
pop, and I was thrown under the overpass. I rolled, trying to minimize the impact and discourage my
singed clothing from bursting into flame. Came up on my feet. Took two steps. Fell down again.
The buzzing in my head diminished after a few moments and I regained some motor control in my left
leg. I creaked to my feet and staggered into an ungainly sort of run, barely resisting the impulse to lisp:
"Sanctuary . . . sanctuary . . ." in a bad Charles Laughton impression.
There were lights up ahead and I was staggering across a parking lot when the creature came floating
back down some twenty yards ahead of me.
His clothes were torn, transforming the black-on-black Goth look to more of a punk statement. His
face was bruised and one hand bloodied. The semi had made some impression, at least. So had I: "What
are you?" he pondered, his googly eyes narrowing.
"I'm what goes bump in the night, Junior," I growled. I hunched forward, hands on skinned knees,
and considered my next move as he contemplated his.
"You're too warm to be one of us," he mused, "but not warm enough to be human . . ."
"Sticks and stones."
"Killing you would be prudent but . . ."
"But?" He was stronger and faster and it was a miracle that I was still breathing, so I wasn't making
plans past the next thirty seconds.
" . . . You may have your uses."
Uses? I was beyond fear, now, and edging into seriously pissed off. "What is it with you guys and the
black-is-the-only-color-in-my-spectrum get-ups?" I snarled. "If it isn't black trench coats and
eye-shadow, it's leather and chains."
"Black is the color of death," he intoned, saying it like some bad Vincent Price impression. He pulled
a cellular phone from his pocket, activated it and punched in a number.
"Color of death, my ass," I hissed, still trying to re-inflate my lungs. "Color of brain-damaged losers
who watch too much MTV and think a lack of fashion sense makes them look dangerous. Too bad
Wal-Mart doesn't carry a Pretend-I'm-A-Badass line; that way you wouldn't have to accessorize at
Dweebs-R-Us."
He cursed and shook the phone. Between our little tussle and his unexpected ride on the semi, it was
apparently DOA.
"Hey," I said, bracing myself, "even Marilyn Manson moved on to color and spandex: get a clue."
As he attempted to return it to his pocket, he was off-balance for all of four seconds.
I hit him with my shoulder on the third. He went down and I went right over him. If I'd been wearing
pants instead of jogging shorts he would have snagged me. Instead, long clawlike nails raked my leg and
clutched my left Reebok. I left it in his grasp, sprinting across manicured grounds and rounding the corner
of the next building. A door was open! I leapt for it and nearly collided with an elderly black couple who
were just emerging. A twisting pirouette and I was safely inside!
He was right behind me standing on the steps, hands clenching and unclenching in impotent fury. I
glanced over my shoulder and saw the large, wooden cross on the back wall of the entrance hall. Felt a
smile start to bloom across my face: he couldn't enter a church. I turned back and saw that he was
already gone. Just as well: I was too spent to gloat.
 "Sir, are you a friend of the family?"
I turned again and found myself face-to-tie-clasp with one of the deacons. Or so I assumed. He was
tall and elderly with pale, seamy features and a snowy pompadour such as only a mature, Southern
gentleman can properly cultivate. He wore a plain, black suit and tie, sharply contrasted by a crisp white
shirt and the man, himself, was nearly as monochromatic as his apparel.
"Beg pardon?" I asked, resisting the urge to grab my trembling knees, tuck my head down and gasp