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

light eight months ago. Shortly thereafter the formation of epidermal carcinomas necessitated avoidance
of all exposure to ultravi—"
 "I am familiar with my own medical history, Doctor; the treatments for skin cancer and subsequent
diagnosis of pernicious anemia." My temper was frayed like an old rope that had been stretched too far,
too long. "A moment ago you used a word I haven't heard before."
"Porphyria."
"That's the one."
"It's a genetic disorder," Marsh explained, "a hereditary disease that affects the blood. Porphyria
causes the body to fail to produce one of the enzymes necessary to make heme, the red pigment in your
hemoglobin. You're gonna love this—" he grinned wryly "— it's the vampire disease."
I must have goggled a bit. "The what?"
"The vampire disease. At least that's what the tabloids have dubbed it."
I scowled: I was not amused by the idea of a "vampire disease" and any connection to the tabloids
was something I liked even less.
Marsh looked to Mooncloud for help, but she was preoccupied with her clipboard. "There was a
paper done back in eighty-five by a Canadian chemist named David Dolphin," he said. "He hypothesized
that porphyria could have been the basis for some of the medieval legends of vampires and werewolves."
He held up a finger. "Extreme sensitivity to light: the most common symptom."
I shook my head. "And vampires can't stand sunlight, right? Give me a br—"
"It's more than that, Chris. Some porphyria victims are so sensitive to sunlight that their skin becomes
damaged and, in extreme cases, lose their noses and ears—fingers, too. In other cases, hair may grow on
the exposed skin."
"Werewolves," I muttered.
Marsh added a second finger to the first. "Another symptom is the shriveling of the gums and the lips
may be drawn tautly, as well, giving the teeth a fanglike appearance."
"Great. Anything else?"
"Well, although it remains incurable, we have a few options in terms of treatment, now. But back in
the Middle Ages there was just one way to survive. To fulfill your body's requirements for heme, you had
to ingest—drink—large quantities of blood."
I stared at Marsh. "Nice. How about garlic and crosses?"
He shrugged. "I don't know anything about the religious angle, but garlic is a definite no-no."
"Really."
"Stimulates heme production. Which can turn a mild case of porphyria into an extremely painful one."
"And you're telling me I have this 'porphyria disease'?"
"No," Mooncloud said. "You asked what your symptoms were like. I said 'porphyria'—which they
are. Like. But porphyria is a genetic disorder and tends to be hereditary."
"Which is why all that inbreeding during the Middle Ages produced pockets of it," Marsh said.
"But since there's no record of it in your family history," Mooncloud continued, "it seems unlikely.
Particularly since it's shown up rather late in life for a genetic condition. Which also rules out hydroa and
xeroderma pigmentosum. But I won't rule it out until we've run a full spectrum of genetic tests. Maybe
they can tell us what the blood tests didn't."
"Okay." I felt my temper ease back a couple of notches. "Let's get started."
"Not here," Mooncloud said.
"Then where?"
"Washington."
"D.C.?"
She shook her head. "Seattle."
 "Tomorrow should see mostly sunny skies with highs in the upper eighties. Currently, it's
seventy-three degrees under mostly cloudy skies and although the lunar signs are less than auspicious, I'd
give little credence to them. . . ." I tapped a button and then closed the microphone as Creedence