JК
Desperation :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 393 из 422”
Steve stepped into the powder magazine and shone his light around, first running it over the floor, then the cinderblock walls, then the ceiling. “No spiders,” he reported. “No snakes.”
“David, stand right outside the door,” Johnny said. “We shouldn’t all cram in there together, I think. And if you see anyone or anything-”
“Give a yell,” David finished. “Don’t worry.
Steve centered the beam of the flashlight on a sign in the middle of the floor-it was on a stand, like the one in restaurants that said PLEASE WAIT FOR HOSTESS TO SEAT you. Only what this one said-in big red letters-was:
WARNING WARNING WARNING
BLASTING AGENTS AND BOOSTERS MUST BE KEPT
SEPARATE!
THIS IS A FEDERAL REGUL4TION CARELESSNESS WITH EXPLOSIVES WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!
The rear wall was studded with spikes driven into the cinderblock. Hung on these were coils of wire and fat _ white cord. Det-cord, Steve assumed. Against the right and left walls, facing each other like bookends with no books between them, were two heavy wooden chests. The _ one marked DYNAMITE and BLASTING CAPS and USE EXTREME CAUTION was open, the lid up like the lid of a child’s toybox. The other, marked simply BLASTING AGENT in black letters against an orange background, was padlocked shut.
“That’s the ANFO,” Johnny said, pointing at the pad locked cabinet. “Acronym stands for ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.”
“How do you know that.” Mary asked.
“Picked it up somewhere,” he said absently. “Just picked it up somewhere.”
“Well, if you think I’m gonna blow the padlock off that one, you’re nuts,” Ralph said.
“You guys have any ideas that don’t involve shooting.”
“Not just this second,” Johnny said, but he didn’t sound very concerned.
Steve walked toward the dynamite chest.
“No dyno in there,” Johnny said, still sounding weirdly serene.
He was right about the dynamite, but the chest was far from empty. The body of a man in jeans and a George town Hoyas tee-shirt was crammed into it. He had been shot in the head. His glazed eyes stared up at Steve from below what might once have been blond hair. It was hard to tell.
Steeling himself against the smell, Steve leaned over and worked at the keyring hanging on the man’s belt.
“What is it.” Cynthia asked, starting toward him. A beetle came out of the corpse’s open mouth and trundled down his chin. Now Steve could hear a faint rustling. More insects under the dead guy. Or maybe one of his nice new friend’s beloved rattlers.
“Nothing,” he said. “Stay where you are.”
The keyring was stubborn.
Steve stepped into the powder magazine and shone his light around, first running it over the floor, then the cinderblock walls, then the ceiling. “No spiders,” he reported. “No snakes.”
“David, stand right outside the door,” Johnny said. “We shouldn’t all cram in there together, I think. And if you see anyone or anything-”
“Give a yell,” David finished. “Don’t worry.
Steve centered the beam of the flashlight on a sign in the middle of the floor-it was on a stand, like the one in restaurants that said PLEASE WAIT FOR HOSTESS TO SEAT you. Only what this one said-in big red letters-was:
WARNING WARNING WARNING
BLASTING AGENTS AND BOOSTERS MUST BE KEPT
SEPARATE!
THIS IS A FEDERAL REGUL4TION CARELESSNESS WITH EXPLOSIVES WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!
The rear wall was studded with spikes driven into the cinderblock. Hung on these were coils of wire and fat _ white cord. Det-cord, Steve assumed. Against the right and left walls, facing each other like bookends with no books between them, were two heavy wooden chests. The _ one marked DYNAMITE and BLASTING CAPS and USE EXTREME CAUTION was open, the lid up like the lid of a child’s toybox. The other, marked simply BLASTING AGENT in black letters against an orange background, was padlocked shut.
“That’s the ANFO,” Johnny said, pointing at the pad locked cabinet. “Acronym stands for ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.”
“How do you know that.” Mary asked.
“Picked it up somewhere,” he said absently. “Just picked it up somewhere.”
“Well, if you think I’m gonna blow the padlock off that one, you’re nuts,” Ralph said.
“You guys have any ideas that don’t involve shooting.”
“Not just this second,” Johnny said, but he didn’t sound very concerned.
Steve walked toward the dynamite chest.
“No dyno in there,” Johnny said, still sounding weirdly serene.
He was right about the dynamite, but the chest was far from empty. The body of a man in jeans and a George town Hoyas tee-shirt was crammed into it. He had been shot in the head. His glazed eyes stared up at Steve from below what might once have been blond hair. It was hard to tell.
Steeling himself against the smell, Steve leaned over and worked at the keyring hanging on the man’s belt.
“What is it.” Cynthia asked, starting toward him. A beetle came out of the corpse’s open mouth and trundled down his chin. Now Steve could hear a faint rustling. More insects under the dead guy. Or maybe one of his nice new friend’s beloved rattlers.
“Nothing,” he said. “Stay where you are.”
The keyring was stubborn.