"William Mark Simmons - Undead 1 - One Foot in the Grave" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

off the ground, the tops of the cornstalks now just barely reaching my waist.
"Urk!" I said defiantly, staring back at the red-eyed man who was holding me off the ground with just
one arm.
"So," hissed the holdup artist, "yer da one dat's put us ta all dis trouble." Then he smiled.
Imagine Jack Palance.
Doing a Jack Nicholson grin.
Displaying Bela Lugosi's eyeteeth.
With Arnold Schwarzenegger's accent it would have been a certified Ex-Lax moment. Somehow the
Brooklynese made my assailant sound like Cliff Claven on old Cheers reruns; I might have snickered had
I not just entered the second stage of asphyxiation.
The roaring in my ears became a growl and a dark grey shape hurtled across my shrinking field of
vision. The next thing I knew I was lying in a tangle of broken cornstalks, gasping for air.
"I command you!" the man shrieked as the silver-and-grey furred beast bore him to the ground. "I
command you!" The wolf snarled and redoubled its efforts to tear out the man's throat. It almost
succeeded. Then an ivory fist connected a roundhouse swing and the animal went flying past my
shoulder.
"Unnatural bitch!" the man hissed, rising to one knee. "Abomination! I will teach you your place! I will
show you who's master! I will—"
He stopped suddenly, looking down at the wooden shaft that had just planted itself in his chest.
Mooncloud stepped through a row of cornstalks, reloading the crossbow with another sharpened dowel.
It wasn't necessary; the man fell backward, pale fingers wriggling about but not quite touching the bolt in
his chest. His body writhed, smoked, then crumbled to dust, leaving an empty set of clothes behind.
Porphyria, my ass!
Maybe Spielberg or Lucas could've topped it, but it was better than any Hammer flick I'd ever seen
and the Brits had set the standard.
"You okay?"
I fumbled for an answer before realizing that Mooncloud had addressed the wolf. It whined a bit,
limping over to sniff at the ashy remains of our assailant.
Time to leave: I tried to ease backwards, through an adjacent row of corn, but the crackle of crushed
stalks betrayed me: the wolf turned its head, growled, and trotted toward me.
"Lupé. . ." Mooncloud warned.
The wolf placed its paws on my shoulders and stared down at me with green eyes, its breath like a
furnace on my face. Then the muzzle changed—withdrawing, absorbing back into the creature's face.
Eyes migrated. Fur retracted. Ears slid downward, revising their shape and configuration. Forget
Spielberg and Lucas! Close up this was way beyond any ILM computerized morphing. I was now
looking up at the face of Lupé Garou. Looking down at a body that was undeniably human and definitely
feminine. Not to mention unclothed.
Oh my.
"We'd better get moving," Mooncloud said, breaking the spell. "Mr. Csejthe, do you still need a
bathroom break?"
Lupé was already up and disappearing in the direction of the road as I looked down again—this time
rather ruefully.
"Not anymore."
I emerged from the RV's closet bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. "You didn't tell me
that there were facilities on board." I clutched at the doorframe as the rear suspension compensated for a
pothole. "We could have avoided the whole bush and cornfield routine."
Mooncloud stood over the propane stove and stirred the contents of a small saucepan. "You needed
to make the attempt and we needed to prove to you that escape was not possible. I needed Lupé to
retrieve you so that you would believe our credentials."
Ah.