"David Robbins - Blade 8 - Devil Strike" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robbins David L)

• Chapter 18

• Chapter 19
 • Epilogue

Prologue
What were all those vultures doing there?

Horace Greeley applied the brakes and gazed out the windshield, his brown eyes riveted on the dozen or
so vultures circling high in the air less than a quarter of a mile away. By his estimation, the vultures were
soaring above Jacumba. He thought of the town's population, 63 men, women, and children, and dread
seized him.

The presence of vultures could only mean one thing!

Alarmed, Horace floored the accelerator, and the old green jeep jumped forward, its engine coughing.
Black puffs of smoke trailed from the tail pipe. He glanced at the loaded Taurus Model 83 on the seat
beside him, and wished he had a more powerful handgun than a .38 Special. If worst came to worst, he'd
need all the firepower he could muster.

The jeep rounded a curve, and there lay the quaint, tranquil community, sweltering in the intense July
heat. Not a soul was in sight.

Horace kept the jeep under ten miles an hour as he approached the outskirts of the town. Even on such a
hot day, he reasoned, there should be folks strolling about and kids at play. He wondered if he should
make a U-turn and head for help, but decided he needed concrete proof before he could alert the
authorities. Vultures were an ominous omen, to be sure, but a slim possibility existed that there might be a
perfectly logical explanation for the presence of the carrion-eaters.

Several of the big, ugly birds sank lower and lower and disappeared below the rooftops.

Horace slowed when he came within a hundred yards of the westernmost structures, his anxiety
mounting. He might be biting off more than he could chew, he told himself. After all, he made his living as
a carpenter, not a policeman or a soldier. He'd served a two-year stint in the Free State of California
Army, but his enlistment had occurred 29 years ago, when he was 18.

More of the vultures were sinking to the ground, apparently in the center of Jacumba.

His palms sweating, his mouth dry, Horace stopped 40 yards outside of the town and surveyed the
buildings. Most were in need of a paint job. Roofs sagged, windows were missing, and walls were
cracked. The dilapidated state of the town typified the conditions found in practically every community
located in extreme southern California 106 years after World War Three. Paint, nails, lumber, and
especially glass were all hard to come by. The people had to make do as best they could.

A huge white dog, four feet high at the shoulders, materialized between two houses and stared at the
jeep.

Horace leaned out the window and waved at the dog. "Hi, there, fella," he called out.