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

because the nurse quickly shaved an inch on each side of the laceration, splashed
more liquid on him, and began opening a huge needle.
“How bah?” David managed, his tongue lolling.
“You'll live,” she said. “Strictly superficial. Tough skull. But you really yanked the
flesh away from the bone. Five inches at least, laterally at the top.”
“Watah?”
“Sorry.”
“Little?”
She quickly removed the top of the spray bottle, which had an inch of water left in
it. “Open up.”
Most of it ran down David's neck, but it loosened his tongue. “Looking for Chief
Christopher,” he said.
“Don't know him,” she said. “Now hold still.”
“Her. Annie Christopher.”
“Director, I've got about five minutes for you, and if you're lucky, I'll find an IV to
re-hydrate you. But while I'm sewing, you're going to have to shut up and hold still
if you don't want to look worse.”
“Do you see what I see?” Albie squinted into the distance.
Rayford followed his gaze and was surprised by a gush of emotion. A black tower
of smoke billowed several hundred feet in the air. “You think?” he said.
Albie nodded. “Gotta be.”
“Get as close as you can,” Rayford said. “That was my home for a long time.”
“Will do. Now, you going to use every resource available? Or did I waste my
money on this uniform and all the credentials?”



THREE
Buck awoke at noon, Chicago time, and felt twice his age. As had been true every
day since the Rapture, he knew exactly where he was. In the past it was not
uncommon to wake up in a foreign city and have to remind himself where he was,
who he was, and what he was doing there. No more. Even when exhausted and
injured and barely able to function, somehow the self-preservation flywheel kept
spinning in his otherwise unengaged mind.
He had slept soundly, but at the first flutter of his eyelids and that initial glance at
his watch, he knew. It all made sense in a ludicrous way. Buck stared at the wall
next to an elevator in a bombed-out skyscraper in Chicago, heard muffled voices
from around the corner, smelled coffee and a baby. Kenny had his own aroma, a
fresh, powdery sweetness that Buck conjured when they were far apart.
But Kenny was here, barricaded from the outer hallways exposed to the windows
that let in the midday sun. Buck rolled to his back and propped himself up on his
elbows. Kenny had apparently given up trying to climb the makeshift barrier and sat
contentedly playing with one of his loose shoelaces.
“Hey, Kenny Bruce,” Buck whispered. “Come see Daddy.”
Kenny's head jerked up, and then he went to all fours before righting himself and
toddling to the bed. “Da-da.”
Buck reached for him, and the chubby bundle climbed atop him and stretched out
on his stomach and chest. Buck let his head fall back again and wrapped his arms
around Kenny. The boy seldom had the patience to simply rest in his father's arms,
but now he seemed almost ready to nap himself. With the baby's tiny heart beating