"Robert McCammon - Doom City" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

walkin’. Lot of pokin’ around.” His gaze rested on the little girl, then back
to Brad. The payphone was still ringing, and Brad felt the scream kicking
behind his teeth. “You’re the first two I’ve seen with skin,” Spence said.
“I’ve been sittin’ over there for the last twenty minutes or so. Just waitin’
for the world to end, I guess.”
“What ... happened?” Brad asked. Tears burned his eyes. “My God ... my
God ... what happened?”
“Somethin’ tore,” Spence said tonelessly. “Ripped open. Somethin’ won
the fight, and I don’t think it was who the preachers said was gonna win. I
don’t know ... maybe Death got tired of waitin’. Same thing happened to
the dinosaurs. Maybe it’s happenin’ to people now.”
“There’s got to be other people somewhere!” Brad shouted. “We can’t be
the only ones!”
“I don’t know about that.” Spence drew on his cigarette one last time
and flicked the butt into the street. “All I know is, somethin’ came in the
night and had a feast, and when it was done it licked the plate clean. Only
it’s still hungry.” He nodded towards the ringing phone. “Wants to suck on
a few more bones. Like I said, man ... Doom City. Doom City here, there
and everywhere.”
The phone gave a final, shrilling shriek and went silent.
Brad heard the child crying again, and he put his hand on her head,
stroked her hair to calm her. He realised he was doing it with his bloody
hand. “We’ve ... we’ve got to go somewhere ... got to do something ...”
“Do what?” Spence asked laconically. “Go where? I’m open to
suggestions, man.”
From the next block came the distant sound of a telephone ringing.
Brad stood with his bloody hand on Kelly’s head, and he didn’t know what
to say.
“I want to take you somewhere, my friend,” Spence told him. “Want to
show you something real interestin’. Okay?”
Brad nodded, and he and the little girl followed Neil Spencer north
along Dayton Street, past more silent houses and buildings.
Spence led them about four blocks to a Seven-Eleven store, where a
skeleton in a yellow dress splotched with blue and purple flowers lolled
behind the cash register with a National Enquirer open on its jutting
knees. “There you go,” Spence said softly. He plucked a pack of Luckies off
the display of cigarettes and nodded towards the small TV set on the
counter. “Take a look at that, and tell me what we ought to do.”
The TV set was on. It was a colour set, and Brad realised after a long,
silent moment that the channel was tuned to one of those
twenty-four-hour news networks. The picture showed two skeletons – one
in a grey suit and the other in a wine-red dress – leaning crookedly over a
newsdesk at centre camera; the woman had placed her hand on the man’s
shoulder, and yellow sheets of the night’s news were scattered all over the
desktop. Behind the two figures were three or four out-of-focus skeletons,
frozen forever at their desks as well.
Spence lit another cigarette. An occasional spark of static shot across
the unmoving TV picture. “Doom City,” Spence said. “Not only here, man.
It’s everywhere. See?”
The telephone behind the counter suddenly started ringing, and Brad