"McCammon Robert R. - They Thirst" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

heart and no amount of time on the other side of twilight could ever heal it
again. No, no, no,
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Mama was saying now, over and over again as if that word had some magic that
would prevent Papa from stepping out into the snowy daylight, as if that word
would seal the door, wood to stone, to keep him within and the secrets out.
And when she was silent, Papa had reached up and lifted the double-barreled
shotgun from the gunrack beside the door. He cracked open the breech, loaded
both chambers with shells, and carefully laid the weapon down again. Then he had
held her and kissed her and said I love you. And she had clung to him like a
second skin. That was when Josef had knocked at the door and called out, Emil!
We're ready to leave!
Papa had hugged her a moment longer, then gripped the rifle he had bought in
Budapest, and unlatched the door. He stood on the threshold, and snowflakes flew
in around him. Andre! he had said, and the boy had looked up. You take care of
your mother, and make sure this door stays bolted. Do you understand?
Yes, Papa.
In the doorway, framed against a bleached sky and the purple teeth of the
distant mountain ranges, Papa had turned his gaze upon his wife and had uttered
three softly spoken words. They were indistinct, but the boy caught them, his
heart beating around a dark uneasiness.
Papa had said, "Watch my shadow."
When he stepped out, a whine of November wind filled the place he'd left. Mama
stood at the threshold, snow blowing into her long dark hair, aging her moment
by moment. Her eyes were fixed on the wagon as the two men urged the horses
along the cobbled path that would take them to the others. She stood there for a
long time, face gaunt against the false white purity of the world beyond that
door. When the wagon had lumbered out of sight, she turned away, closed the
door, and bolted it. Then she had lifted her gaze to her son's and had said with
a smile that was more like a grimace, Do your schoolwork now.
It was three days since he had gone. Now demons laughed and danced in the fire,
and some terrible, intangible thing had entered the house to sit in the empty
chair before the hearth, to sit between the boy and the woman at their evening
meals, to follow them around like a gust of black ash blown by an errant wind.
The corners of the two-room house grew cold as the stack of wood slowly
dwindled, and the boy could see a faint wraith of mist whirl from his mother's
nostrils whenever she let out her breath.
"I'll take the axe and get more wood," the boy said, starting to rise from his
chair.
"No!" cried his mother quickly, and glanced up. Their gray eyes met and held for
a few seconds. "What we have will last through the night. It's too dark out now.
You can wait until first light."
"But what we have isn't enough-"
"I said you'll wait until morning!" She looked away almost at once, as if
ashamed. Her knitting needles glinted in the firelight, slowly shaping a sweater
for the boy. As he sat down again, he saw the shotgun in the far corner of the
room. It
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glowed a dull red in the firelight, like a watchful eye in the gloom. And now
the fire flared, spun, cracked; ashes churned, whirled up the chimney and out.