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

Clearwater Revival launched into "Bad Moon Rising."
"Clever." Mooncloud had doffed her lab coat and was wearing a sleeveless shirt of blue cotton and
tan slacks. Beaded moccasins completed the ensemble.
I shrugged. "Radio—it's what the teeming millions demand and expect."
"Teeming millions? In southeast Kansas?"
"Teeming thousands," I corrected.
"At one o'clock in the morning?"
"Hundreds. Teeming hundreds."
She arched an eyebrow. "How about teeming dozens. . . ." It wasn't a question.
"Hey, it's a job—with benefits and insurance. Something I can't afford to walk away from with a
preexisting condition like this." I sorted through stacks of compact disks for my next piece of music.
"All the insurance in the world isn't going to help you if the doctors don't understand what they're
treating."
I stopped and leaned across a pair of dusty turntables. "Dr. Mooncloud . . . I appreciate the fact that
you traveled all the way to Pittsburg, Kansas, to meet me and review my case. I suppose I should be
flattered as hell that you've followed me to work and are sitting here in an empty building in the wee hours
of the morning to try to offer me a special treatment program. Most doctors won't even make house
calls."
"I am not most doctors, Mr. Csejthe." Her smile was pure Mona Lisa. "And you are not most
patients."
"Patience and I seem to be mutually exclusive these days," I said. "Can you guarantee me a cure if I
come to Seattle?"
"A cure? Only God guarantees cures and He's a notoriously reluctant prognosticator. I can guarantee
you a medical research team with experience in your kind of malady and a strong interest in your
particular case. It won't cost you a thing and I can guarantee you a job in the Seattle area—"
"I've already got a job right here. And working the night shift is perfect when your skin suddenly
develops an allergy to sunlight."
There was a muffled thump and the lights suddenly went out. The studio was an interior room with no
windows to the outside: the darkness was sudden and complete. As was the silence. C.C.R. had gotten
as far as "don't go out tonight," quitting as if someone had yanked amp and mike cords in perfect unison.
Then the emergency lighting kicked in like flashlights of the gods, amplifying the shadows in
Mooncloud's frown to intimidating proportions. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"Gremlins." Surprise eclipsed annoyance as I watched this professional woman—who had just spent
the last forty minutes speaking of medical matters that bordered on twenty-first century science—make
the same gesture my grandmother had used to ward off the "evil eye."
"A bird, actually," I said, pulling the phone over and flipping through the pad of emergency numbers.
"There's a place on the utility pole, just thirty feet from the building, where the power lines junction with a
transformer. When a bird picks that particular spot to roost: zap! One fried feathered friend and one
powerless public radio station."
"You don't have a backup generator?"
"Darlin'," I drawled, "this is Kansas and we're public radio." I fumbled the receiver to my ear and
began punching out a series of numbers on the keypad. "We just call the power company and they send
a guy over with a long pole who resets the circuit breaker—" I stopped, listening to the silence as I
pushed the buttons. Breaking the assumed connection, I listened for a dial tone.
"What sort of bird would roost at one in the morning?" she asked, making the gesture again.
I smacked the receiver back into the cradle with a sigh. "Phone's dead."
The emergency lights flickered. And, inexplicably, went out.
"Um, they can't do that," I announced to no one in particular. The emergency lights were on individual
battery sources: even if it were remotely possible for one to go out that quickly, they all wouldn't fail at
the same time.