"Clive_Barker_Tortured_Souls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive - Coldheart Canyon)

"These we kill," Montefalco said, very calmly.
General Urbano began to nod, but the motion was too much for his sickened system. He puked a yellowish puke, which spattered his immaculately polished boots. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth; then he said:
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes. These we kill."
Later that night, Montefalco went back to see Talisac. He went alone, which turned out to be a wise move. Neither Urbano nor Bogoto had the guts for what awaited him there.
The place had deteriorated considerably in the forty-eight hours since he'd last stepped over the threshold; the bodies were still everywhere, but they were in a new condition. It looked as though all the moisture, all the energy, had been sucked out of them, leaving them withered. The eyes had gone from the sockets and the lips had been drawn back from the teeth, giving them all the look of blind, squealing monkeys.
The flesh on their torsos had withered to bones; as had the meat on their arms and legs. The skin itself was now like a thin layer of dried tissue, covering the structure of the bone. When the dwarf Camille appeared to greet Montefalco, and kicked a couple of the corpses aside, they rolled away from her kick like so many paper mannequins.
"Is it done?" Montefalco asked her.
"Oh yes, it's done," Camille said with a twinkling smile, "and I think you're going to be very pleased."
A voice emerged from the shadows, speaking words Montefalco could not comprehend.
"He's asking me to unveil it," Camille said.
The General scanned the dirt-walled room, looking for what 'it' might be; and there at the end of the chamber he saw a monumental form, covered with a threadbare tapestry obviously brought down from the floor above.
"That?" he said, not waiting for confirmation before approaching it. As he strode through the bodies, they cracked beneath his heels, erupting into dust and fragments. Soon the room was filled with spiralling bits of pale human stuff.
Montefalco grabbed hold of the tapestry. As he did so, Camille named the thing--'VENAL ANATOMICA."
The General pulled the tapestry off and revealed it.
As might have been guessed from its scale beneath the carpet, it was of heroic size, nine feet tall or more. It had death's face, and was equipped with a variety of medieval murder weapons. There were nails crudely hammered into its shoulder and leg. Blood had coagulated around the nails, but when Anatomica began to move (as now it did) fresh blood bubbled up from the wounds and ran down his body.
"Does it know me?" the General asked.
"Yes," said Camille, "it is ready to obey your instructions." Talisac spoke, and Camille translated! "He says he has no loyalty to its Creator, only to you, General Montefalco."
"That's good to hear."
Montefalco beckoned to it.
"Come on then."
The creature made a hesitant step. Then another.
"Can I come with you?" Camille said.
Montefalco looked down at her nakedness. "Only if you cover yourself up," he said.
She smiled, and then went away to fetch herself a flea-bitten fur coat.
They went out into the night together: the three of them. The General, the Dwarf and Venal Anatomica.
Daybreak wasn't far off. Neither was the end of certain things. Though Greta Sabatier had been killed by the bandits on the road to Calcyx--a fate she had not foreseen--she had been right about that much. An age was coming to an end: and it was the Age of Lovers.


Book Six
The Second Coming
I
In his bunker of dirt and corpses Talisac waited alone, while his body--which was a thing without precedent--twitched and jumped and spasmed.
There was a child inside of him; the MONGROID, the infant of the Second Coming. Or so he'd come to believe, after the years he'd spent experimenting upon others, and himself. It wasn't until he had created an homunculus that would be to all intents and purposes his child, its flesh made up of the same DNA as his, that he had come to believe there was something holy in the imminent arrival. It was another Virgin Birth.
In only a matter of hours now, the child would be in his arms.
He would have no one to share the triumph of what he'd achieved, but so be it. He'd been alone all his life, even in the company of his fellow human beings. Alone with his ambition, alone with his failures, alone with the strange dreams that came to find him in the middle of the night; dreams of his child, speaking to him, telling him that the world was going to end, but that it wouldn't matter, because they'd be together, Man and Child, to the End of Time.
He could feel the child struggling to get out now. He could hear its tiny, high-pitched voice as it worked to free itself.
The pain was excruciating; a vicious hallucinogen. He sobbed and he screamed; the Convent had never heard such cursings as it heard now.
But finally the womb tore as the Holy Child scrabbled with his little hands, his little nails, and in a gush of blood-tinged fluids the Mongroid was disgorged onto the ground amongst the corpses.

II
"Kreiger?"
Lucidique went to the window and called down into the garden around her father's house. Zarles Kreiger, The Scythe-Meister, who had lately become Lucidique's lover, had gone out into the garden to bring her some perfumed flowers. The bedroom stank of the pungent oil that their violently transfigured bodies gave off. It was a bitter and unpleasant smell; not the salty smell of natural sex.
But the garden was full of sweet smelling flowers that would conceal the bitterness; and some of the strangest scents were those of blossoms that opened after dark. It was now almost two in the morning; and the smells that rose from the darkened garden were giddyingly strong.
She called Kreiger's name again. Then she seemed to see him; a dark presence moving through the bushes.
If it was indeed Kreiger, why didn't he answer her call? Perhaps it wasn't him.
Keeping her silence now, she crept down the stairs and went out into the garden.
There was a gentle, balmy breeze tonight: it made the bushes and trees churn. The garden was large, and its layout complex, but she'd been playing here since she was a child. She could have found her way down its narrow, labyrinthine paths and around its rose patches and secret groves with her eyes closed.
She went directly to the place where she thought she'd seen the man when she'd been up at the bedroom window. Despite the sweetness of honeysuckle and the night-blooming jasmine, her nostrils caught the scent of something else, somebody else, in the vicinity. There was a stink that was not the bitter smell of her own body, or that of Kreiger. This was something else. Something that made her think of disease, of corruption, of death.