"Tim LaHaye & Jerry Jenkins - Left Behind Series 8 - The Mark" - читать интересную книгу автора (LaHaye Tim)

David was aghast at Medical Services. He had visited their indoor facility many
times, which, despite their thinning ranks, was pristine and shipshape. What had
begun as the main first-aid station, which serviced dozens of others throughout the
area during the Carpathia wake, now looked like a mobile army surgical hospital.
The rest of the first-aid stations were being dismantled and leftover injured taken
either to the courtyard triage center or into the indoor facility.
Row upon row of makeshift cots snaked across the courtyard. “Why aren't you
moving these people inside?” David said, tugging at his stiff collar.
“Why don't you manage your area and let us manage ours,” a doctor said, turning
briefly from an ashen victim of the heat.
“I don't mean to criticize. It's just that—”
“It's just that we're all out here now,” the doctor said. “At least most of us. The
majority of the treatable cases are heatstroke and dehydration, and most of the
casualties are lightning victims.”
“I'm looking for—”
“I'm sorry, Director, but whoever you're looking for, you're going to have to find on
your own. We don't care about their names or their nationalities. We're just trying to
keep them alive. We'll deal with the paperwork later.”
“I had an employee stationed at—”
“I'm sorry! It's not that I don't care, but I can't help you! Understand?”
“She would have known how to avoid sun- or heatstroke.”
“Good. Now, good-bye.”
“She was at sector 53.”
“Well, you don't want to hear about five-three,” the doctor said, turning back to his
patient.
“What about it?”
“Lots of lightning victims. Big bolt there.”
“Where would the victims have been taken?”
The doctor was finished talking with David. He nodded to an assistant. “Tell him.”
A young man in scrubs spoke with a French accent. “No specific place. Some came
in here. Some were treated in that sector. Some inside.”
David started on the cart but soon abandoned it to jog down the line of victims. This
would be impossible. How could he tell who was who? Annie was in uniform, and
while he was sure he could recognize her, with only shoes peeking out from sheets
soaked to cool patients, he would have to check each face. And he would be
interfering with the medical treatment.
As he trotted along in the heat, David reached in his belt for his water bottle and
found it empty. His throat was parched, and he knew his thirst trailed by several
minutes his real need for water. When had he last taken a swig? When had he eaten?
When had he slept?
The huge screens showed Viv Ivins, Leon Fortunato, and Nicolae Carpathia moving
the pilgrims along, cooing to them, blessing them, touching them. The waves of
heat from the asphalt made David's uniform cling to him like a single, damp weight.
He stopped and bent to catch his breath, but his throat felt swollen, his mouth
unable to produce saliva, his windpipe constricted. Dizzy. Annie. Light-headed.
Hot. Annie. Spinning. Thirst. Hands red.
David pitched forward, his cap sliding off and tumbling before him. His mind told
him to reach for it, but his hands stayed planted above his knees. Break your fall!
Break your fall! But he could not. His arms would not move. His face would take
the brunt of it. No, he could tuck his chin.