"Lawrence Watt-Evans - Spirit Dump" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

a kid, and changing the name doesn't change the fact that they're still dumps."
"They plow 'em under now, though," Paul pointed out. "It's more sanitary. The stuff doesn't just sit
there collecting vermin."
"Whatever, it's still a dump, and it's ugly."
"Never said it wasn't." He glanced at Suze, and his expression dimmed; she wasn't laughing. She was
staring dully out the window on the other side, watching the passing trees.
"There's nothing wrong with dumps," he said. "Gotta put all the trash somewhere, don't you?"
Angie snorted. "Dumps make me sick," she said. "When I was a kid, my uncle Bert used to hang
around the town dump-- he'd shoot rats there, they paid him a bounty, maybe a quarter each, which was
hardly worth the bullet. He thought it was fun, though, and he'd pick through all the stuff and sometimes
he'd bring home some of it. Old magazines, and sometimes books, and machinery parts-- he used to fix
my mother's washing machine, and I don't think he ever in his life paid for parts. And people throw away
the damnedest things."
"Doesn't sound so bad," Paul said.
"Yeah, it was-- everything he brought in stank. He stank. And he was filthy, always. I can still see him
standing there, holding up a bunch of mangled rats by their tails..."
"Well, there probably aren't any rats in the landfill back there, anyway," Paul said. "That's why they
bury it all now, so rats won't get in there."
"'Course, that means nobody can pick through it, either," Angie pointed out. "Uncle Bert would lose
out both ways-- if he hadn't drunk himself to death ten years ago."
Paul shrugged. "I guess he would," he agreed. He shook his head. "And people throw away the
damnedest things. "
A moment later they turned off the main road-- which wasn't exactly a highway to begin with-- onto a
narrow strip of dirt. Angie started away from the window as they passed within inches of the tree
branches on either side.
"Shit," she said, "You sure you know where you're going?"
"I'm sure," Paul told her.
About a quarter mile from the road the car suddenly emerged into sunlight; Paul brought it to a stop
and killed the engine. "Everybody out," he announced, "We're here."
Angie leapt out and looked around; Suze didn't move until Paul came around the car and opened her
door.
She looked up at him, then reluctantly climbed out.
The three of them stood in a strip of grassy meadow atop a small ridge. Behind them were the woods,
all secondary growth and brambly underbrush; ahead of them the land dropped off abruptly, a steep
slope of bare earth and tuffets, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet high. Grass and wildflowers filled the gap
between trees and drop, which varied from about a dozen feet in width to as much as forty.
At the foot of the slope the scrub forest gradually resumed, starting with grass and weeds, graduating
through thorns and briars to bushes, a few browning evergreens, and finally to crowded, unhealthy maple
and ash.
Suze looked around, appalled.
"This is your great scenic spot?" she demanded.
Angie said, "Looks more like Uncle Bert's old hang-out, only without the trash. They'd throw it all
down the slope and let it pile up at the bottom."
"Hey, I said it wasn't the view that mattered-- though I'd like to point out that you can see Sugarloaf if
you look over that way." He pointed to the distant mountain, a blue lump on the horizon.
"So what is it, then?" Suze asked.
"Come here, and I'll show you," Paul told her, marching up to the very brink and beckoning her
forward.
Slowly, reluctantly, she approached.
"Come on," he said, "I'm not going to push you over or anything."