normal city. And, unlike other posters in this weird night, it looked the same then as now.
But had he just imagined it or had he really seen at the last moment vertical pupils inside the headlights? Pupils which turned in his direction?
And that warm wave that had poured over him... in it there was no smell of gasoline and oil which could be expected from a working machine. It resembled much more the hot stinking breath from the chops of a big animal. And more likely a scavenger than a predator.
Tony ran for about hundred yards, then slowed to a walk, panting and telling himself that there were no grounds for panic. Everything has an explanation, even in this crazy place. Perhaps, after sunrise, he'll even laugh at his fears. (The thought that he would have to stay here until morning did not pain him as much as earlier–not because Tony began to like this place any better, but because he had started to get used to the inevitability... or to that which more and more seemed inevitable.) He darted a glance along the street stretching into fog–as empty and dark as as previ ously, then listened–it was absolutely silent. However, this silence was not calming. It seemed deliberate, unnatural–he realized that he was not hearing even his own footsteps, as if fog, like cotton wool, absorbed sounds. Tony stopped and forcefully stamped his right foot, wishing to overcome this oppressive silence. Old asphalt under his foot cracked, crumbling to pieces, and Tony fell knee deep in the wide open hole.
"Shit!" he muttered, having fallen to his left knee and try ing to pull out his right leg. This, however, was not so easy. Apparently, underground water approaching close to the surface had affected the street from below, and his leg plunged into a dense viscous dirt, dirt which, without asphalt above, would be a real bog... Logan, still feeling more rage and vexation than fear (now his trousers were ruined for sure!), pulled his leg harder, then, without having succeeded, rested both hands against the asphalt–and felt it continue to break and crumble under his palms, like thin ice on a swamp surface...
"Hooey!" Tony thought. "I can't sink in the middle of a New York street!"
But he felt the real horror only in the following instant when he realized that his leg had not simply got stuck in a cold dense bog–but was being pulled downwards. He felt something blunt and strong (fingers? tentacles? jaws?) close on his ankle and drag it deeper...
His leg was already sunk to the groin. "Help," Tony des perately shouted, though several seconds ago the notion of calling for aid in this area would have seemed a bad idea to him. Even now, having heard the hoarse sound of his own voice, he looked around with more fear than hope.
And saw in the fog two burning eyes–headlights. Ap proaching.
"Bus M13," Logan thought. "It's followed me. Or I've just called it and now it'll come for my soul..." Tony realized, though too late, that, while running away, he had again jumped out from the sidewalk to the middle of the street. And now this damned bus does not need to do anything supernatural, it will simply squash the helpless victim in a trap...
Tony lay down on the street, seizing the unbroken portion of asphalt, and furiously heaved his body in an attempt to free his right leg. It looked as is he might even win back some inches, but the headlights behind him were inexorably closing. There was no engine noise so far, but the crunch and rustle under its wheels became clearer and clearer. One more jerk–horror on the verge of madness gave extra force to Logan–and he succeeded in freeing his leg almost to the knee. At that moment, right behind him, something crunched with an especially vile sound–probably, the bus had crushed a dead bird–and Tony understood that he wouldn't be in time. He screwed up his eyes, expecting the blow...
But no blow followed. Wheels rustled to the right of him and stopped. Logan opened his eyes without
But had he just imagined it or had he really seen at the last moment vertical pupils inside the headlights? Pupils which turned in his direction?
And that warm wave that had poured over him... in it there was no smell of gasoline and oil which could be expected from a working machine. It resembled much more the hot stinking breath from the chops of a big animal. And more likely a scavenger than a predator.
Tony ran for about hundred yards, then slowed to a walk, panting and telling himself that there were no grounds for panic. Everything has an explanation, even in this crazy place. Perhaps, after sunrise, he'll even laugh at his fears. (The thought that he would have to stay here until morning did not pain him as much as earlier–not because Tony began to like this place any better, but because he had started to get used to the inevitability... or to that which more and more seemed inevitable.) He darted a glance along the street stretching into fog–as empty and dark as as previ ously, then listened–it was absolutely silent. However, this silence was not calming. It seemed deliberate, unnatural–he realized that he was not hearing even his own footsteps, as if fog, like cotton wool, absorbed sounds. Tony stopped and forcefully stamped his right foot, wishing to overcome this oppressive silence. Old asphalt under his foot cracked, crumbling to pieces, and Tony fell knee deep in the wide open hole.
"Shit!" he muttered, having fallen to his left knee and try ing to pull out his right leg. This, however, was not so easy. Apparently, underground water approaching close to the surface had affected the street from below, and his leg plunged into a dense viscous dirt, dirt which, without asphalt above, would be a real bog... Logan, still feeling more rage and vexation than fear (now his trousers were ruined for sure!), pulled his leg harder, then, without having succeeded, rested both hands against the asphalt–and felt it continue to break and crumble under his palms, like thin ice on a swamp surface...
"Hooey!" Tony thought. "I can't sink in the middle of a New York street!"
But he felt the real horror only in the following instant when he realized that his leg had not simply got stuck in a cold dense bog–but was being pulled downwards. He felt something blunt and strong (fingers? tentacles? jaws?) close on his ankle and drag it deeper...
His leg was already sunk to the groin. "Help," Tony des perately shouted, though several seconds ago the notion of calling for aid in this area would have seemed a bad idea to him. Even now, having heard the hoarse sound of his own voice, he looked around with more fear than hope.
And saw in the fog two burning eyes–headlights. Ap proaching.
"Bus M13," Logan thought. "It's followed me. Or I've just called it and now it'll come for my soul..." Tony realized, though too late, that, while running away, he had again jumped out from the sidewalk to the middle of the street. And now this damned bus does not need to do anything supernatural, it will simply squash the helpless victim in a trap...
Tony lay down on the street, seizing the unbroken portion of asphalt, and furiously heaved his body in an attempt to free his right leg. It looked as is he might even win back some inches, but the headlights behind him were inexorably closing. There was no engine noise so far, but the crunch and rustle under its wheels became clearer and clearer. One more jerk–horror on the verge of madness gave extra force to Logan–and he succeeded in freeing his leg almost to the knee. At that moment, right behind him, something crunched with an especially vile sound–probably, the bus had crushed a dead bird–and Tony understood that he wouldn't be in time. He screwed up his eyes, expecting the blow...
But no blow followed. Wheels rustled to the right of him and stopped. Logan opened his eyes without
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