"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 11 - Armageddon" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

wholly unable to see anything but blackness twenty-four hours a day.
They felt their way around the palace; they pushed their way outdoors.
They tried every light and every switch they could remember. They called out to
each other to see if it was just them, or if everyone had the same problem. Find
a candle! Rub two sticks together! Shuffle on the carpet and create static
electricity. Do anything. Anything! Something to allow some vestige of a shadow,
a hint, a sliver.
All to no avail.
Chang wanted to laugh. He wanted to howl from his gut. He wished he
could tell everyone everywhere that once again God had meted out a curse, a
judgment upon the earth that affected only those who bore the mark of the
beast. Chang could see. It was different. He didn't see lights either. He simply
saw everything in sepia tone, as if someone had turned down the wattage on a
chandelier.
He saw whatever he needed to, including his computer and screen and
watch and quarters. His food, his sink, his stove-everything. Best of all, he could
tiptoe around the palace in his rubber-soled shoes, weaving between his
coworkers as they felt their way along.
Within hours, though, something even stranger hap-pened. People were
not starving or dying of thirst. They were able to feel their way to food and
drink. But they could not work. There was nothing to discuss, nothing to talk
about but the cursed darkness. And for some rea-son, they also began to feel
pain.
They itched and so they scratched. They ached and so they rubbed. They
cried out and scratched and rubbed some more. For many the pain grew so
intense that all they could do was bend down and feel the ground to make sure
there was no hole or stairwell to fall into and then collapse in a heap, writhing,
scratching, seeking relief.
The longer it went, the worse it got, and now people swore and cursed God
and chewed their tongues. They crawled about the corridors, looking for
weapons, plead-ing with friends or even strangers to kill them. Many killed
themselves. The entire complex became an asylum of screams and moans and
guttural wails, as these people became convinced that this, finally, was it-the end
of the world.
But no such luck. Unless they had the wherewithal, the guts, to do
themselves in, they merely suffered. Worse by the hour. Increasingly bad by the
day. This went on and on and on. And in the middle of it, Chang came up with
the most brilliant idea of his life.
If ever there was a perfect time for him to escape, it was now. He would
contact Rayford or Mac, anyone willing and able and available to come and get
him. It had to be that the rest of the Tribulation Force-in fact, all of the sealed
and marked believers in the world-had the same benefit he did.
Someone would be able to fly a jet and land it right there in New Babylon,
and GC personnel would have to run for cover, having no idea who could do
such a thing in the utter darkness. As long as no one spoke, they could not be
identified. The Force could commandeer planes and weapons, whatever they
wanted.
If anyone accosted them or challenged them, what better advantage could
the Trib Force have than that they could see? They would have the drop on
everyone and everybody. With but a year to go until the Glorious Appearing,