"Colin Wilson - Spiderworld 03 - The Fortress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

His memory of the map told him that the river was two blocks to the north. He
stopped in a doorway and scanned the avenue for moving shadows; it seemed empty.
Overhead, a vast spiderweb heaved up and down in the wind; but in such a gale the
spider would be crouched in the shelter of some windowless room. Niall hurried on
up the avenue; now his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness he could
move more quickly. In the freezing wind, his face and bare arms were beginning to
feel numb. But the cold also brought him comfort; he knew the spiders disliked it
even more than he did.
While still a block away from the river, he halted on a street corner to rest.
Overhead an immense black cloud covered the moon; he judged that it would take at
least ten minutes to pass. He was unwilling to venture on to the embankment in total
darkness; if the spiders were guarding the bridge, then it also seemed likely they
would be patrolling the river.
He sat on the pavement with his back against the railings of a basement area.
Something yielded, and he realised he was leaning against a gate. The thought of
sheltering from the wind, even for a few moments, was tempting. He pushed the gate,
and it opened with a creak of rusty hinges. Groping on his knees, he felt worn stone
steps, slippery with rain. He descended cautiously until he was below street level.
There was an unpleasant smell, like rotting vegetation, but at least he was sheltered
from the wind. Now his skin was no longer exposed, he experienced an illusion of
warmth. He sat there shivering, his arms folded round his knees, and wondered why
the smell of decaying vegetable matter seemed to grow stronger.
There was a light touch on his arm, and he started with fear. Since his first
assumption was that a spider's fangs were poised to plunge into his bare flesh, he
became immobile. The touch groped upward to his shoulder and, at the same time,
something brushed the calf of his left leg. As he sprang to his feet, a cold softness
closed round his ankle, and the stench of decay was suddenly nauseating. He tore his
foot free and felt the same cold softness groping at his arm. Then, as he shrank away,
it closed round his upper arm, pulling him against the railing.
In spite of the fear and nausea, it was a relief to know he was not dealing with
a spider. These cold, damp feelers moved slowly and deliberately; another was
slipping between his legs and winding round his right knee. When he reached down,
his hand encountered something cold, soft and slimy; as he squeezed, it seemed to
ooze between his fingers. It might have been a cold-blooded worm.
Another of the wormlike fingers tried to pull the metal rod out of his right
hand. Niall gripped it tightly and thrust between the railings; he felt it plunge into
something soft. Again and again he thrust with all his strength; each time he felt it
sink home. Yet the feelers continued to move, groping round his body with unhurried
deliberation.
As he felt a cold touch against his face, his loathing turned to cold fury; once
again he gripped the end of the rod and thrust between the bars to the full extent of his
arm. His hatred seemed to convulse his brain like a shock, and he felt its power
rippling through the muscles of his arm and into the rod. He gripped tighter,
clenching his teeth, and again felt the shock run down his arm. Suddenly, the feelers
released their hold. Niall staggered back against the wall, then clawed his way up the
steps and fell out into the street. Coughing and retching, he stumbled forward across
the road, then recovered his balance and ran. The cold wind was as welcome as a
caress.
Before he had run a dozen yards, self-control returned. He withdrew into a
doorway and stood there, eyes closed, resting the back of his head against the wall