"Dafydd ab Hugh, Brad Linaweawer DOOM: Endgame (english)" - читать интересную книгу автора

tually I dismissed all the muttering like I would a
Marine who just couldn't stop mumbling to himself. I
hushed them when necessary for an ambush; other-
wise, I ignored it as their unique craziness. Maybe it
was ordinary among Klave; maybe they were consid-
ered loony even among others of their kind. . . . Hell,
I knew they were! They volunteered to accompany us,
far away from anyone to resurrect them if they died.
I didn't notice the constant rumbling until it sud-
denly vanished, replaced by the eerie silence of the
uninhabited planet we all hunted across for trace of
the Newbies. The sifting sand was so fine, it made no
whisper as one grain brushed another, and there were
no trees to sigh in the persistent wind. Every sound
from Arlene and me was magnified a thousand times
by the surrounding silence.... I should have heard
Sears and Roebuck if they were half a klick away!
"Where the hell did they . . . ?" Arlene and I stared
around wildly. I felt the prick of eyeballs on the back
of my neck whichever way I turned. Long ago, I
learned to trust my Fly-stinct: I pointed to my own
eyes, then hooked a thumb over my shoulder. Arlene
nodded, picked up her lever-action, and braced it
against the crook of her arm.
The bastard must've had a homing device we
couldn't pick up with our own receivers. I knew it
couldn't be that easy! But where the hell were they? I
planted my boot on the prisoner's chest and stared
past Arlene. We each took half the clock. I glanced
down at the human; he wasn't going anywhere, so I
lifted my foot and slid sideways to get a better scan.
My foot slipped in the sand, and my heart stoppedЧ
but I recovered my balance with the loss only of my
dignity.
Arlene kept the .45 against her chest, ready to
rock 'n' roll, but not up to her eye; she didn't want to
start focusing on sand dunes or heat reflections and
miss something move. I knew my rifle was cocked
with a round in the chamber, but I had an almost
irresistible urge to run the bolt once more. I fought
down the compulsionЧlast thing I wanted was to
look nervous in front of my "man."
I should have worried instead about looking dead. I
heard the crack of the firearm exactly the same
moment I felt the kick in the back of my vestЧnot
quite a perfect shot, a little high, but with a rifle, you
don't need to be perfect. The round delivered enough
energy to kick me forward onto my face and send my
own M-14 flying into the sand, where it promptly
buried itself. It didn't matter. I was too busy fighting