"Whitley Strieber - The Wolfen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Strieber Whitley)

тАЬBrilliant. ThatтАЩs what I thought it was too.тАЭ
They both laughed. Then there was another sound, a staccato growl that ended on a
murmuring high note. The two men looked at one another. тАЬThat sounds like my brother
singing in the shower,тАЭ DiFalco said.
From ahead of them came further soundsтАФrustlings and more of the unusual growls.
DiFalco and Houlihan stopped. They werenтАЩt joking anymore, but they also werenтАЩt afraid,
only curious. The wet, ruined cars just didnтАЩt seem to hold any danger on this dripping
autumn afternoon. But there was something out there.
They were now in the center of a circle of half-heard rustling movement. As both men
realized that something had surrounded them, they had their first twinge of concern.
They now had less than one minute of life remaining. Both of them lived with the central
truth of police workтАФit could happen anytime. But what the hell was happening now?
Then something stepped gingerly from between two derelicts and stood facing the
victims.
The men were not frightened, but they sensed danger. As it had before in moments of
peril, Hugo DiFalcoтАЩs mind turned to a brief thought of his wife, of how she liked to say
тАЬWeтАЩre an us.тАЭ Dennis Houlihan felt a shiver of prickles come over him as if the hair all
over his body was standing up.
тАЬDonтАЩt move, man,тАЭ DiFalco said.
It snarled at the voice. тАЬThereтАЩs more of тАЩem behind us, buddy.тАЭ Their voices were
low and controlled, the tone of professionals in trouble. They moved closer together; their
shoulders touched. Both men knew that one of them had to turn around, the other keep
facing this way. But they didnтАЩt need to talk about it; they had worked together too long
to have to plan their moves.
DiFalco started to make the turn and draw his pistol. That was the mistake.
Ten seconds later their throats were being torn out. Twenty seconds later the last life
was pulsing out of their bodies. Thirty seconds later they were being systematically
consumed.
Neither man had made a sound. Houlihan had seen the one in front of them twitch its
eyes, but before he could follow the movement there was a searing pain in his throat and
he was suddenly, desperately struggling for air through the bubbling torrent of his own
blood.
DiFalcoтАЩs hand had just gripped the familiar checkered wooden butt of his service
revolver when it was yanked violently aside. The impression of impossibly fast-moving
shapes entered his astonished mind, then something slammed into his chest and he too
was bleeding, in his imagination protecting his throat as in reality his body slumped to the
ground and his mind sank into darkness.
The attackers moved almost too quickly, their speed born of nervousness at the youth
of their victims. The shirts were torn open, the white chests exposed, the entrails tugged
out and taken away, the precious organs swallowed. The rest was left behind.
 In less than five more minutes it was over. The hollow, ravaged corpses lay there in
the mud, two ended lives now food for the wild scavengers of the area.
For a long time nothing more moved at the Fountain Avenue Automobile Pound. The
cries of gulls echoed among the rustling hulks of the cars. Around the corpses the blood
coagulated and blackened. As the afternoon drew on, the autumn mist became rain,
covering the dead policemen with droplets of water end making the blood run again.
Night fell.
Rats worried the corpses until dawn.
The two men had been listed AWOL for fourteen hours. Most unusual for these guys.
They were both family types, steady and reliable. AWOL wasnтАЩt their style. But still, what