"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

and tossed it quietly into the spittoon. Then I opened the window and
climbed out into the street. I really wanted to stick around and see it all
happen, but I had to get out of there as fast as possible. The itchers give
me nosebleeds
I ran across the backyard. I could hear my itcher working full blast.
First all the dogs in the neighborhood started howling and barking --they
sense the itcher before humans do. Then someone in the bar started yelling
so loud that my ears clogged even at that distance. I could just see the
crowd going wild in there--some fall into deep depression, others freak out,
and some panic with fear. The itcher is a terrifying thing. Ernest will have
a long wait before he can get a full house in his place again. The bastard
will guess of course that it was me, but I don't give a damn. It's over.
There is no more stalker named Red. I've had enough. Enough of risking my
own life and teaching other fools how to risk theirs. You were wrong,
Kirill, my old buddy. I'm sorry, but you were wrong and Gutalin was right.
This was no place for humans. The Zone was evil.
I climbed over the fence and headed home. I was biting my lip. I wanted
to cry, but I couldn't. All I saw was emptiness and sadness. Kirill, my
buddy, my only friend, how could it have happened? How will I get on without
you? You painted vistas for me, about a new world, a changed world. And now
what? Someone in far-off Russia will cry for you, but I can't. And it was
all my fault. No one else but me, a good-for-nothing. How could I take him
into the garage when his eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark? I'd lived my
whole life like a wolf, caring only about myself. And suddenly I decided to
be a benefactor and give him a little present. Why the hell did I ever
mention that empty to him? When I thought about it, I felt a pain in my
throat and I wanted to howl. Maybe I did. People were avoiding me on the
street. And then things got easier: I saw Guta coming.
She was coming toward me, my beauty, my darling girl, walking with her
pretty little feet, her skirt swaying over her knees. Eyes followed her from
every doorway. But she was walking a straight line, looking at no one, and I
realized that she was looking for me.
"Hello," I said. "Guta, where are you going?" She took me in in one
glance--my bashed-in face, my wet jacket, my scraped hands--but she didn't
say a thing.
"Hello, Red. I was just coming to see you."
"I know. Let's go to my place."
She turned away and said nothing. Her head is so pretty on her long
neck, like a young mare's, proud but submissive to her master.
"I don't know, Red. You may not want to see me any more."
My heart contracted. What now? But I spoke calmly.
"I don't understand what you're getting at, Guta. Forgive me, I'm a
little drunk today, so I'm not thinking straight. Why wouldn't want to see
you any more?"
I took her hand and we walked slowly toward my place. Everybody who had
been eyeing her before was hurrying to hide his mug now. I've lived on this
street all my life and everybody knows Red very well. And anyone who doesn't
will get to know me fast enough, and he can sense that.
"Mother wants me to have an abortion," she said suddenly. "I don't want
to." I had walked several steps before I understood what she was saying.