"Dafydd ab Hugh, Brad Linaweawer DOOM: Infernal Sky (english)" - читать интересную книгу автора

getting in each other's way and tearing each other up
when they should have been focusing on us instead.
Fly had it tougher than I did because he was
hanging like a piece of sacrificial meat directly outside
the window where the enemy was massing. He was
holding the rope with one hand, leaving the other free
to fire repeatedly at that rectangle of horror and
doom.
"Fly, I'll cover you if you climb lower," I promised.
Grateful for the time I'd spent rappelling down cliffs
in my high school days, I maneuvered so that the rope
was wrapped around me like a lonely boa constrictor,
freeing my gun hand. As I started firing thirty-caliber
rounds at the window, Fly slung his weapon over his
shoulder and used both hands to lower himself.
When he was safe enough—safety being relative
when you're playing tag with all the denizens of
hell—he yelled, "My turn to cover you!"
I made like a monkey and headed straight for
certain death. Fly kept up a barrage that was truly
impressive. The odds were at an all-time low, but as I
made it past the window, I was ready to rethink my
position on God. Fly and Albert had God. I had luck
. . . and a fireball that came so close it singed my hair.
Well, my high-and-tight needed a trim.
Fly ran out of rope and I joined him just in time to
see his very special expression, the one he only wears
when Options 'R Us has closed its doors permanently.
I couldn't help myself. I looked up. There is no
mistaking a fire eater. And this one was getting ready
to fry everything it could see.
The only hope was to break one of the windows, get
inside the building quicker than a thought, and then
haul ass down to the street. We had one chance.
Fortunately we'd brought along that really big boot.
"Aw, gimme a break, you two," begged Mulligan,
thoroughly beaten. "I don't care how you escaped
from the tower. It's none of my business. I'll never ask
again."
He threw the remaining beers at Fly and me as if
they were grenades. The way the brews were shaken
up, they might as well have been.
While I pointed mine at the broad expanse of the
Pacific Ocean and fired off the white spray, Mulligan
changed his tone. He didn't sound like a wily old
master gun. He didn't even sound like a marine. He
sounded like a Boy Scout trying to requisition a last
piece of candy.
"Okay," I said. "I'll tell you the rest, from the point
where Fly and I have no disagreements about what