"ab Hugh, Dafydd & Linaweaver, Brad - Doom 03 - Infernal Sky 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (ab Hugh Dafydd)

inch-long links, were even more promising than the
rope. The chain looked rusted, but I was certain that
it would support our weight.
The tentacles started above us and extended well
below the fortieth floor—not all the way to the
ground, but a lot farther away from the demons in the
hallway working so hard to make our acquaintance.
Arlene used the duct tape and the wiring to create a
spaghetti ladder that didn't look as if it would hold
her weight very long, never mind my extra kilos. But
we needed an extra leg up to get over to the ropes.
"Great," I said. "This looks like a job for Fly
Taggart."
Before I could clamber out the window, however,
her hand was on my arm. "Hold on a minute," she
said. "My idea, my mission."
The locked door was rattling like a son of a bitch,
and the thought of our entrails decorating the office
made me a trifle impatient. That was one kind of
spaghetti I could pass over.
"Arlene," I said, as calmly as possible under the
circumstances, "I have absolute confidence in you,
but this is no time to hose the mission. Let's face it, I
have more upper body strength and a greater reach
than you do, so I should go first." While I explained
the situation, we both worked feverishly to finish our
makeshift rope. Then I tied it around my waist.
Naturally I gave her no opportunity to argue. I was
at that window so fast she probably feared for my life.
A good way to keep her from staying pissed. I took
one mighty leap, making sure she held the other end
of the lifeline, and I climbed up and over, where I
grabbed hold of the nearest rope and started lowering
myself, groaning a bit at the strain and reminding
myself that I had all this great upper body strength. I
only wished I had more of it to spare.
Once I was on the ropes, I swung myself over to
where Arlene could reach them more easily. She
clambered out the window over my head and fol-
lowed my lead.
The annoying voice in the back of my head chose
that precise moment to start an argument. Damned
voice had a lousy sense of timing.
Getting tired, are you? Feeling a bit middle-aged
around the chest area? Old heart hanging in there? The
arms are strong from all those push-ups and pull-ups,
but how's the grip? Your hands are weaker than they
used to be, aren't they? You know, you haven't had
these injuries looked at. . . .
"Nothing a blue sphere couldn't fix up," I mut-