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

Rayford hurried toward the palace. He wanted to check on the others and tell them of his plan. He had experi-enced more bizarre events in six years than he ever could have imagined, and while many had been bigger and louder and wilder, this was unique. These poor people! Yes, they had made their choices, and yes, they had had their opportunities to turn to God. But what a price!
They were in agony. Everywhere he went, more and more people came into the twenty-foot limit of his visi-bility. Many were dead. More sat rocking or lay weep-ing. All had given up looking for ways to see anything but a blackness so thick it disoriented them. Those who tried to follow the music or Fortunato's voice limped or shuffled with arms extended to the front or sides, tipping one way and then the other as if drunk or dizzy. They ran into each other, into buildings, tripped over debris, and many simply seemed to run out of gas, slowing, stopping, and tumbling. Rayford wished he could help, but there was nothing he could do.
On his way to Chang's quarters, Rayford came up with an idea and changed course. He stayed on the elevator and reached the top floor of the palace. There he tiptoed past several executives and their aides, who talked on phones or sat before computers, trying to dictate but unable to see whether their messages were getting through.
The phone calls all had the same theme and tone. Carpathia had a new assistant since the time when Rayford had worked with him. Chang had told him her name. He assumed she was the one on the phone at the desk outside Carpathia's new office. Rayford noticed her double take when she heard him sit on a couch across from her area, but he said nothing and she continued her conversation.
"I don't know," she said with a whine. "He wants me to try to carry on as if I am not suffering like all the oth-ers. But I am, Mom. There are little things I can do when he is in here, because he emits this glow of some sort and I can at least find a few things. But he's called a meeting of the brass and they're planning some sort of a pilgrim-age.... No, I don't get to go, and I don't want to. He's not even telling the rank and file that their bosses are leaving.
"Ooh! Ouch ... oh, I don't know how to describe it. Cramps, I guess. A headache like nothing I've ever had, and I've had some doozies...."
She sounded American, but her back was to Rayford and he could not see the number on her forehead or hand.
"And it feels as if I'm carrying a huge weight on my shoulders, pressing on my spine. My hips hurt, my knees, ankles, feet. Like your arthritis, I suppose. But, Mom, I'm thirty-six years old. I feel like I'm seventy-five.... Yes, I'm eating. I feel my way back to my apartment and I can manage, but when I lie down, I want to sleep for a hundred years. But I can't.... Well, because of the pain! No position relieves it. It's like this darkness itself is pushing on me and causing all this, and it's the same for everybody."
Rayford shifted his weight and the woman froze. "Hold a minute, Mom." She turned and Rayford saw the -6 on her forehead, confirming his guess. The United North American States. "Is someone there? May I help you?"
He was tempted to tell her he had some questions about the meeting but that he would wait until she was off the phone. But he knew she knew who was left on the decimated senior staff, and she would not recognize his voice. He wished he could speak soothingly to her, to say something Jesus would say. But she was beyond help now. Rayford had never felt so hog-tied.
"Sorry, Mom," she said. "Now I'm hearing things. I'd better get off. This meeting's coming up, and I don't even know what he's going to want. No one will be able to read anything unless they hold it up to his light, and there are twenty expected.... Yes, twenty.... I know. ... Yeah, we're down from thirty-six. Imagine.
"Exciting? No. Not for a long time. He is not the man I thought he was.... Oh, in every way. Mean, cruel, vicious, egotistical, selfish. I swear, I'd need a thesaurus. ... Well, I can't! ... No! Of course I can't! Where would I go? What would I do? He knows what I know, and he wouldn't be able to let me out of his control.... No, now I just have to live with it.... I don't know, Mom. It can't end well. I don't care anymore. Death will be a relief.... Well, I'm sorry, but I mean it.... Now don't, Mom. I'm not planning anything rash.... I know you have. We all have. All but Uncle Gregory, I guess. He's still holding out, is he? ... How does he live? You know what happens if he's found out.... No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. That way if somebody asks, I'll be able to tell them I don't know. Just tell him I'm proud of him and keep it up, but be careful. You and Dad be careful too. If you're caught aiding him in any way..."
Rayford heard footsteps in the hall, and it was clear she did too. "Gotta go, Mom. Stay well."
She hung up and turned when the door swung open. A big, bony man of about fifty looked wide-eyed at Ray-ford and his mouth fell open. He pointed at Rayford's forehead, and Rayford noticed the mark of the believer on him too.
"May I help you?" Carpathia's assistant said. "Who is it?"
Rayford held a finger to his lips and pointed down the hall. He mouthed, "Five minutes," and the man shut the door and ran off.
The woman shrugged. "Thanks for dropping by," she muttered, "whoever you were."
"Whoever it was has left," Rayford said.
She jumped. "And how long have you been here?"
"Long enough to know about Uncle Gregory."
"I'm so stupid! I don't know you, do I?"
"No."
"You're not senior staff."
"I'm not."
"Is anyone with you?"
"No, Krystall."
"How do you know my name?"
"I can help your uncle."
"Tell a soul, I'll deny every word."
"Don't you want him helped?"
"You're trying to trap me."
"I'm not. If I was GC, I would not be able to see, would l?"
"You can't see."
"I can. And I can prove it. Your colors don't match."
"You couldn't prove that by me, idiot. I can't see them either. I dress by sense of touch these days, like every-body else."
"My mistake. Hold up some fingers; I'll tell you how many.... Three, and your right hand is facing me, and the three fingers are your pinkie, ring, and middle."
"How do you know that?"
"You mean how can I see?"
"You can't see."
"Then how do I know you're showing me six fingers now, all five on your left and the index on your right, the backs of your hands toward me? I can see by your face you're starting to be convinced. You're hiding your hands under the desk now."
Krystall pressed her lips together and looked as if she was about to cry. Rayford stood.
"Stay where you are," she said, voice quavery, hands in her lap.
Rayford slipped around behind her. "That would be no fun," he said, and she jumped and spun in her chair. "Now I can see your hands again," he said. "They're balled in your lap, thumbs pointing."
"Okay, so you can see me. How?"
"Because this darkness is a curse from God, and I am one of his."
"Are you serious?"
"I can help your uncle, Krystall."
"How?"
"Were you implying he has not yet taken the mark?"