JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 358 из 425I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw that the pickup truck had been joined by two other cars, one with a V-plate that means the vehicle is registered to a combat veteran of the armed services. When I slowed down, they slowed down. When I sped up, they sped up. I doubted they would follow us any farther once I turned onto Lane Forty-two, however. “Ki? Are you okay?”
“Sleepun,” she said from the footwell. “Okay,” I said, and started down the hill. I could just see the red bicycle reflectors marking my turn onto Forty-two when it began to hail—great big chunks of white ice that fell out of the sky, drummed on the roof like heavy fingers, and bounced off the hood.
They began to heap in the gutter where my windshield wipers hid. “What’s happening?” Kyra cried. “It’s just hail,” I said. “It can’t hurt us.”
This was barely out of my mouth when a hailstone the size of a small lemon struck my side of the windshield and then bounced high into the air again, leaving a white II mark from which a number of short cracks radiated. Were John and George Kennedy lying helpless out in this? I turned my mind in that direction, but could sense nothing. When I made the left onto Lane Forty-two, it was hailing almost too hard to see. The wheelruts were heaped with ice.
The white faded out under the trees, though. I headed for that cover, flipping on my headlights as I went. They cut bright cones through the pelting hail. As we went into the trees, that purple-white blister glowed again, and my rearview mirror went too bright to look at. There was a rending, crackling crash. Kyra screamed again. I looked around and saw a huge old spruce toppling slowly across the lane, its ragged stump on fire. It carried the electrical lines with it. BIOCKED in, I thought.
This end, probably the other end, too. ’re here. For better or jor worse, we’re here. The trees grew over Lane Forty-two in a canopy except for where the road passed beside Tidwell’s Meadow. The sound of the hail in the woods was an immense splintery rattle. Trees were splintering, of course; it was the most damaging hail ever to fall in that part of the world, and although it spent itself in fifteen minutes, that was long enough to ruin a season’s worth of crops. Lightning flashed above us. I looked up and saw a large orange fireball being chased by a smaller one.
They ran through the trees to our left, setting fire to some of the high branches. We came briefly into the clear at Tidwell’s Meadow, and as we did the hail changed to torrential rain.
“Sleepun,” she said from the footwell. “Okay,” I said, and started down the hill. I could just see the red bicycle reflectors marking my turn onto Forty-two when it began to hail—great big chunks of white ice that fell out of the sky, drummed on the roof like heavy fingers, and bounced off the hood.
They began to heap in the gutter where my windshield wipers hid. “What’s happening?” Kyra cried. “It’s just hail,” I said. “It can’t hurt us.”
This was barely out of my mouth when a hailstone the size of a small lemon struck my side of the windshield and then bounced high into the air again, leaving a white II mark from which a number of short cracks radiated. Were John and George Kennedy lying helpless out in this? I turned my mind in that direction, but could sense nothing. When I made the left onto Lane Forty-two, it was hailing almost too hard to see. The wheelruts were heaped with ice.
The white faded out under the trees, though. I headed for that cover, flipping on my headlights as I went. They cut bright cones through the pelting hail. As we went into the trees, that purple-white blister glowed again, and my rearview mirror went too bright to look at. There was a rending, crackling crash. Kyra screamed again. I looked around and saw a huge old spruce toppling slowly across the lane, its ragged stump on fire. It carried the electrical lines with it. BIOCKED in, I thought.
This end, probably the other end, too. ’re here. For better or jor worse, we’re here. The trees grew over Lane Forty-two in a canopy except for where the road passed beside Tidwell’s Meadow. The sound of the hail in the woods was an immense splintery rattle. Trees were splintering, of course; it was the most damaging hail ever to fall in that part of the world, and although it spent itself in fifteen minutes, that was long enough to ruin a season’s worth of crops. Lightning flashed above us. I looked up and saw a large orange fireball being chased by a smaller one.
They ran through the trees to our left, setting fire to some of the high branches. We came briefly into the clear at Tidwell’s Meadow, and as we did the hail changed to torrential rain.