"Chad Oliver - The Winds of Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Oliver Chad)

cleaned. It looked like a wolf. He had also carried back some dead wood and twigs, so he must have
been down below timber line.
He built a fire very carefully, using bark for paper. He lit it with one of the matches he had taken from
Wes, and it caught at once. It was just a small blaze, but Wes could feel its warmth. He noticed that the
smoke was carried out through the top of the vault; there must be an air duct of some sort up there.
The man sliced off four steaks with a knife Wes had not seen before, and began to roast them on the
end of sticks. Juices dropped into the fire and sizzled.
Wes could smell the meat cooking. His mouth literally watered, and he was suddenly desperately
hungry.
When the steaks were done, the man went to work on one. There was nothing now of the gulping
haste he had shown with the first candy bars. He took his time, chewing each piece thoroughly, savoring
every bit of it. The pallor in his face was much less marked now than when Wes had first seen him.
He got up and took the metallic gun from the pocket of the jacket he had borrowed from Wes. Once
more he reset the dial on the butt.
He aimed it at Wes's shoulder.
The gun made a whispered choog.
Wes tried to brace himself, but felt nothing.
The man waited.
And then, slowly, incredibly, feeling flowed back into Wes's body. It felt like ice water. His skin
prickled and itched. He tried to move his arm, and the effort was agony, as though his arm had been
asleep and he had suddenly smacked it against a door.
He began to shake violently.
He was coming out of it.
The man watched, and waited, and said nothing at all.
FOUR
It was like being born again.
Weston Chase could feel the life coming back to him, and life was a million icy needles in his veins.
Sometimes it was better to be only half alive. When you were sick enough you didn't feel the pain. When
you got well enough to hurt and to remember, things got tough.
He lay on the cave floor and wanted to scream. Perhaps he did; he couldn't be sure. He was sick and
miserable and empty. His mouth tasted like stale tobacco smoke. His skull ached as though there were a
knife in it. His body was so sore he couldn't even crawl.
But that was only physical.
He could take that.
But the other things—
He was in a cave with a maniac, or worse. And Jo didn't know where he was, nobody knew where
he was. How long had he been here? What was Jo thinking? Surely she would know he hadn't just run
out on her—or would she?
Images blinked on and off like slides in his brain. Jo with her swimming pool he had been so sarcastic
about. The kid next door who had fallen off his bicycle, the blood on his head, and Jo helping him fix the
boy up. A nice boy, the son he had always wanted. And Jo that night in her house, the year before they
were married—
Jo.
He groaned, he wanted to cry like a baby. God, this was fantastic, a nightmare, it couldn't happen—
A pale hand slipped under him.
He was pulled into a sitting position. The white, strange face was next to his.
Dracula, Wes thought hysterically. I'm in a damn silly vampire movie. Garlic! Where's the garlic?
He laughed. When he heard himself he stopped.
The pale man hooked something over Wes's ears. Glasses. His glasses. Then he opened Wes's
mouth and put something in it. Wes choked, started to chew. His jaws didn't work properly, but rich