JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 241 из 425She was warmed up, she wasn’t throwing like a girl anymore, and her aim was deadly. Stones splashed all around me. I batted another away—a big one that likely would have cut open my forehead if it had hit—but her follow-up struck my bicep and tore a long scratch there. Enough. I rolled over and swam back out beyond her range, gasping for breath, trying to keep my head up in spite of the growing ache in the back of my neck.
When I was clear, I trod water and looked in at them. Whitmore had come all the way to the edge of the embankment, wanting to get every foot of distance she could. Hell, every damned inch. Devore was parked behind her in his wheelchair. They were both still grinning, and now their faces were as red as the faces of imps in hell. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Another twenty minutes and it would be getting dark.
Could I keep my head above water for another twenty minutes? I thought so, if I didn’t panic again, but not much longer. I thought of drowning in the dark, looking up and seeing Venus just before I went under for the last time, and the panic-rat slashed me with its teeth again. The panic-rat was worse than Rogette and her rocks, much worse. Maybe not worse than Devore. I looked both ways along the lakefront, checking The Street wherever it wove out of the trees for a dozen feet or a dozen yards. I didn’t care about being embarrassed anymore, but I saw no one.
Dear God, where was everybody? Gone to the Mountain View in Fryeburg for pizza, or the Village Cafe for milkshakes? “What do you want?” I called in to Devore. “Do you want me to tell you I’ll butt out of your business? Okay, I’ll butt out!” He laughed.
Well, I hadn’t expected it to work. Even if I’d been sincere about it, he wouldn’t have believed me. “We just want to see how long you can swim,” Whitmore said, and threw another rock—a long, lazy toss that fell about five feet short of where I was. They mean to kill me, I thought. They really do. Yes. And what was more, they might well get away with it. A crazy idea, both plausible and implausible at the same time, rose in my mind. I could see Rogette Whitmore tacking a notice to the COMMUNITY DOIN’s board outside the Lakeview General Store.
TO THE MARTIANS OF TR-90, GREETINGS!
Mr, MAXWELL DEVORE, everyone’s favorite Martian, will give each resident of the TR ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS if no one will use The Street on FRIDAY EVENING, THE 17th OF JULY, between the hours of SEVEN and NINE RM.
When I was clear, I trod water and looked in at them. Whitmore had come all the way to the edge of the embankment, wanting to get every foot of distance she could. Hell, every damned inch. Devore was parked behind her in his wheelchair. They were both still grinning, and now their faces were as red as the faces of imps in hell. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Another twenty minutes and it would be getting dark.
Could I keep my head above water for another twenty minutes? I thought so, if I didn’t panic again, but not much longer. I thought of drowning in the dark, looking up and seeing Venus just before I went under for the last time, and the panic-rat slashed me with its teeth again. The panic-rat was worse than Rogette and her rocks, much worse. Maybe not worse than Devore. I looked both ways along the lakefront, checking The Street wherever it wove out of the trees for a dozen feet or a dozen yards. I didn’t care about being embarrassed anymore, but I saw no one.
Dear God, where was everybody? Gone to the Mountain View in Fryeburg for pizza, or the Village Cafe for milkshakes? “What do you want?” I called in to Devore. “Do you want me to tell you I’ll butt out of your business? Okay, I’ll butt out!” He laughed.
Well, I hadn’t expected it to work. Even if I’d been sincere about it, he wouldn’t have believed me. “We just want to see how long you can swim,” Whitmore said, and threw another rock—a long, lazy toss that fell about five feet short of where I was. They mean to kill me, I thought. They really do. Yes. And what was more, they might well get away with it. A crazy idea, both plausible and implausible at the same time, rose in my mind. I could see Rogette Whitmore tacking a notice to the COMMUNITY DOIN’s board outside the Lakeview General Store.
TO THE MARTIANS OF TR-90, GREETINGS!
Mr, MAXWELL DEVORE, everyone’s favorite Martian, will give each resident of the TR ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS if no one will use The Street on FRIDAY EVENING, THE 17th OF JULY, between the hours of SEVEN and NINE RM.