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

your station ought to be able to tell the difference between an Aussie and a New
Zealander.”
“My mistake,” David said. “Thanks for the wheels.”
As he pulled away the man shouted, “'Course we're all proud citizens of the United
Pacific States now anyway!”
David tried to avoid eye contact with the many disgruntled mourners turned
celebrants who tried to flag him, not for rides but for information. At times he was
forced to brake to keep from running someone down, and the request was always
the same. In one distinct accent or another, everyone wanted the same thing. “Any
way we can still get in to see His Excellency?”
“Can't help you,” David said. “Move along, please. Official business.”
“Not fair! Wait all night and half the day in the blistering sun, and for what?”
But others danced in the streets, making up songs and chants about Carpathia, their
new god. David glanced again at the monstrous monitors where Carpathia was
shown briefly touching hands as the last several thousand were herded through. To
David's left, guards fought to block hopefuls from sneaking into the courtyard.
“Line's closed!” they shouted over and over.
On the screen, pilgrims swooned as they neared the bier, graced by Nicolae in his
glory. Many crumbled from merely getting near him, waxing catatonic. Guards held
them up to keep them moving, but when His Excellency himself spoke quietly to
them and touched them, some passed out, deadweights in the guards' arms.
Over Nicolae's cooing—“Good to see you. Thank you for coming. Bless you. Bless
you.”—David heard Leon Fortunato. “Worship your king,” he said soothingly.
“Bow before his majesty. Worship the Lord Nicolae, your god.”
Dissonance came from the guards stuck with the responsibility of moving the mass
of quivering, jellied humanity, catching them as they collapsed in ecstasy.
“Ridiculous!” they grumbled to each other, live mikes sending the cacophony of
Fortunato, Carpathia, and the complainers to the ends of the PA system. “Keep
moving. Come on now! There you go! Stand up! Move it along!” David finally
reached sector 53, which was, as he had been told, deserted. The crowd-control
gates had toppled, and the giant number placard had been trampled. David sat there,
forearms resting on the cart's steering wheel. He shoved his uniform cap back on his
head and felt the sting of the sun's UV rays. His hands looked like lobsters, and he
knew he'd pay for his hours in the sun. But he could not find shade again until he
found Annie.
As crowds shuffled through and then around what had been her sector, David
squinted at the ground, the asphalt shimmering. Besides the ice-cream and candy
wrappers and drink cups that lay motionless in the windless heat was what appeared
to be residue of medical supplies. He was about to step from the cart for a closer
look when an elderly couple climbed aboard and asked to be driven to the airport
shuttle area.
“This is not a people mover,” he said absently, having enough presence to remove
the keys before leaving the vehicle.
“How rude!” the woman said.
“Come on,” the man said.
David marched to sector 53 and knelt, the heat sapping his energy. In the shadows
of hundreds walking by, he examined the plastic empties of bandages, gauze,
ointment, even tubing. Someone had been ministered to here. It didn't have to have
been Annie. It could have been anyone. Still, he had to know. He made his way
back to the cart, every seat but his now full.