"LaHaye, Tim - Left Behind 11 - Armageddon" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

"Those are the people we're trying to reach," Chloe said. "And here we all sit, unable to show our faces, rais-ing babies who hardly ever see the sun. Isn't there some-where in the middle of nowhere where the GC wouldn't even know we were around?"
"The next best thing is Petra," Buck said. "They know who's there, but they can't do a thing about it."
"That's starting to sound more attractive all the time. Anyway, what are we going to do about what just hap-pened?"
Buck and Sebastian looked at each other.
"Come on, guys," Chloe said. "You think Priscilla doesn't know you're gone and isn't going to ask where you've been?"
"She knows I was on watch."
"But you don't come over here unless something's up."
"I'm hoping she slept through it."
Chloe stood and moved to Buck's lap. "Look, I'm not trying to be cantankerous. Buck, tell him."
"Chloe Steele Williams is not trying to be cantanker-ous," he announced.
"Good," Sebastian muttered. "Coulda fooled me."
Chloe shook her head. "George, please. You know I think you're one of the best things that's ever happened to the Trib Force. You bring gifts nobody else has, and you've kept us from disaster more than once. But every-one living here deserves to know what you guys saw tonight. Not telling people, pretending it didn't happen, isn't going to change that we came this close to being found out."
"But we didn't, Chloe," Sebastian said. "Why stir up everybody?"
"We're already stirred up! I'm with these wives and kids all day. Even without bands of GC nosing around right over our heads in the middle of the night, we live like prairie dogs. The kids get fresh air only if they happen to wake up before the sun and someone herds them out the vehicle bay door. You guys have to sneak around and drive thirty miles, hoping you're not followed, to get to your planes. All I'm saying is that if we're going to have to defend ourselves, we have a right to be prepared."


Rayford would have to ask Tsion about this one. What was it about the darkness that was so oppressive it left victims in agony? He had heard of disaster scenes-train wrecks, earthquakes, battles-where what haunted the rescue workers for years had been the shrieks and moans of the injured. As he and Abdullah and the two young people tiptoed across the massive runways, around heavy equipment and between writhing personnel, it was clear these people would rather be dead. And some had already died. Two crashed planes lay in pieces, still smol-dering, many charred bodies still in their seats.
As he moved from the dead to the suffering, Rayford was overcome. The wailing pierced him and he slowed, desperate to help. But what could he do?
"Oh! Someone!" It was the shriek of a middle-aged woman. "Anyone, please! Help me!"
Rayford stopped and stared. She lay on her side on the tarmac near the terminal. Others shushed her. A man cried out, "We are all lost and blind, woman! You don't need more help than we do!"
"I'm starving!" she whined. "Does anyone have any-thing?"
"We're all starving! Shut up!"
"I don't want to die."
"I do!"
"Where is the potentate? He will save us!"
"When was the last time you saw the potentate? He has his own concerns."
Rayford was unable to pull away. He looked ahead, but even he had but twenty feet of visibility, and he had lost the others. Here came Abdullah. "I dare not call you by name, Captain, but you must come."
"Comrade, I cannot."
"Can you make it back to the plane?"
"Yes."
"Then we will meet you there."
Abdullah was off again, but their muffled conversation had caused a lull in the cacophony of agony. Now some-one called out, "Who is that?"
"Where is he going?"
"Who has a plane?"
"Can you see?"
"What can you see?"
The woman again: "Oh, God, save me. Now I lay me down to sleep-"
"Shut up over there!"
"God is great; God is good. Now I thank him-" "Put a sock in it! If you can't produce light, shut your mouth!"
"God! Oh, God! Save me!"
Rayford knelt and touched the woman's shoulder. She wrenched away with a squeal. "Wait!" he said, reaching for her again.
"Oh! The pain!"
"I don't mean to hurt you," he said quietly.
"Who are you?" she groaned, and he saw the United European States' number 6 tattooed on her forehead. "An angel?"
"No."
"I prayed for an angel."
"You prayed?"
"Promise you'll tell no one, sir. I'm begging you."
"You prayed to God?"
"Yes!"