"Guy N. Smith - Throwback" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

'Who?' Jackie barely recognised the sound of her own voice, a nasal grunt that
had her drawing in breath to refill her lungs.

He regarded her steadily, a look that said, 'You fool, you don't even know.'
'The Russians,' he said at length, leaned his full weight back against a
creaking stall table.

She stared, tried to take in his words, let her own personal computer process
the data, spit out the answer.

The Russians. Her mind threatened to go blank again; a familiar ominous word.
The Russians! She had to fight to comprehend and it hurt. And then her
smarting burning flesh went cold.

'The . . . Russians'

He nodded, closed his eyes momentarily, reminded Jackie of a drowsy bird of
prey.

'Somehow. . . they've done . . . this.'His breath rasped in his throat. 'Not
... the bomb ... we wouldn't be here now if it was. Something . . . else . . .
don't know . . . what.' Fighting for air, wheezing, holding hard on to that
table. 'We're all going to ... die!'

The shock to her system blanked her out again and she moved away, walking
unsteadily across the flagged floor, her footsteps echoing. An open door; she
knew she had been through it before. A corridor; through another open door.
This time it was the aroma of cooking food which brought back her hazy powers
of thinking, hit her like a whiff of smelling salts to a fainting person. Her
brain whirred again, that starter-motor turning over sluggishly and just
managing to fire; only just.

Of course, she was in Delany's. She came in here every week; baked jacket
potato and cheese and a pot of peppermint tea. The familiar smell had revived
her and in that instant she knew she had to eat. Whatever had happened to her
body it still cried out for food.

The vestry restaurant in the old church was empty. Ovens steamed, a kettle was
boiling dry. Jackie moved up to the counter. Everybody had gone, spilled out
into the street leaving the food to spoil and waste, yielding to a sudden
panic before their reasoning was blotted out. Hers would go soon, her system
could not stand this stop-start much longer. Then she, too, would follow the
masses, turn into a human lemming.

Some kind of nut shortcake in a long tray, divided up into square portions.
She grabbed one, took a bite, chewing noisily and spilling crumbs. Christ, she
was starving so she could not be as ill as she thought. A glance down at her
hands and she jerked her eyes away. Her fingers were raw, thicker as though
they were swollen, but not bleeding. Just unsightly, ugly.