"Guy N. Smith - Sabat 1 - The Graveyard Vultures" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

days a gun had become a part of his personality, a means of instant death combined with his unerring
marksmanship.

Then he saw Quentin on the far side of the clearing, a human shape gradually emerging as his eyes
became accustomed to the darkness, crouched by the graves. Eyes that fixed him, seemed to glow
brightly with their intensity of hate, a cornered wounded beast of the chase waiting to spring on the
hunter.

'So you have come.' The voice was not old and cracked, but smooth and cultured, mockingly defiant.
'You are stubborn, Mark. So foolish, because we could each have gone our own separate ways and
now it is too late.'

'No,' the newcomer stepped forward, gripped the tiny crucifix in the pocket of his jacket and wondered
if it would be powerful enough. 'There is not room enough for the two of us in this world, Quentin ...'

His voice tailed off and he stared in disbelief; saw the graves, the soil thrown up in a heap, their contents
dragged from the open cavities. Oh, Jesus God! Culte des mortes, as it was known in Creole, the native
tongue of Haiti - the cult of the dead . . . necromancy! He found himself stepping back in sheer revulsion.
Another tortured flash of memory, a visit some years ago to Port au Prince where he had experienced at
first hand some of the voodoo rites, houngans digging up corpses in the graveyard at night for a number
of revolting ceremonies; the dead walked and having seen it with his own eyes Mark Sabat did not
dispute it. And Quentin had been there, too, learning his trade, pandering to these witch doctors who
held the secret of the living dead.

Mark could see clearly now that his eyes had accustomed themselves to the dark. Three corpses;
peasants, a man and a woman in middle-age, the hessian sacking in which they had been buried having
rotted away to reveal their emaciated nakedness, putrid green flesh hanging in strips, the whiteness of the
bones beneath almost luminous. And their faces had expressions on them even though they were virtually
skeletal. Masks of terror fixed on he who had disturbed their final peace, arms entwined in a horrific
embrace. And the child between them, that was the worst of all; a young girl, hairless as a babe, her flesh
somehow having defied the damp cold earth and the nibbling worms and remained almost intact. Indeed,
she might still have been alive ... a movement, she lurched against the woman as though seeking parental
protection a limp hand swinging. Oh Jesus God, Sabat thought, she's still got her eyes! Orbs wide with
terror seeing him, pleading with him to save them all from this monster of darkness.

'You'll join them.' Quentin held the axe easily now, no longer struggling to lift it. 'You'll soon be one of the
walking dead, Mark. Or perhaps my Master will find other uses for your dismembered body while your
soul. . . '

'Stop Mark Sabat advanced into the clearing, the crucifix now clear of his pocket and held out at arms
length. 'Enough of these vile practices, Quentin. These people must have eternal peace . . . and you as
well!'
But Quentin stood his ground. He should have cowered before the power of the cross and the pungent
smell of herbs which emanated from the intruder. Instead he gave a hollow faugh and that was when the
younger Sabat knew . . . knew that his own loss of faith had failed him in his greatest hour of need; that
he was but a mere mortal facing up to a devil incarnate. And Quentin was fully aware of this, too! No
longer was the evil brother a helpless figure; age and decay still ravaged him hideously but his muscles
powered him with the speed and strength of one in the prime of life. The cold air hissed as the axe went
back and up, a whistling arc of instant death, its blade honed to razor sharpness. A cry left those
toothless lips that was more animal than human, reverberating in the still atmosphere, the mountains all