believing that he was still alive.
The vehicle stood opposite him and it was not the M13 bus. It was much smaller white truck. With improbable relief, Logan recognized a USPS truck, with a blue eagle head and the motto on the side.
Tony did not ask why a postal truck was driving at night. Express delivery–what could be easier and more commonplace? Everything has a reasonable explanation and that thing holding his ankle is simply heavy dirt. The driver of the truck will now help him to get out and will explain how to reach normal trans portation. Maybe the driver will even agree to give him a lift, though this is against the rules... And all this idiotic phantasmagoria, at last, will end!
The driver's door lock clicked and a foot in a laced boot stepped onto the roadway. And at the same moment Tony noticed that the motto on the side of the truck differed a little from what he had gotten used to.
Instead of "We deliver for you," was written "We deliver you." To be more exact, "We de·liver you," with either a dot or a tiny hyphen separating "de" from "liver."
We rip out your liver.
And the eagle's head looked too predatory and spiteful. Logan at once remembered the myth about the eagle tormenting the liver of Prometheus.
The door opened more widely with an unpleasant scratch. The driver, a bulky bald Negro, got out of the truck. And turned his face to Logan.
Or what he had instead of a face.
Seeing it, Tony screamed... or rather, squealed, without controlling himself at all. A high cheekboned white skull looked at him. At the same time, there was black flesh on each side of the head and Tony distinguished the silhouette of chubby cheeks and a fat neck. But between them there was only the deathly white ness of bone, long ago and completely cleared of flesh either by knife or by decomposition. However this skull had a nose–bone white too, but a nose, instead of a triangular hole appropriate to a decayed corpse.
"What's wrong with you?" the dreadful driver inquired in a sepulchral, but almost friendly voice. And Tony, as frightened as he was, noticed that on this terrible whitish mask there was not only a nose, but also lips moving to shape words. Nevertheless he could not squeeze out of his throat anything articulate and only spasmodically twitched, trying to free his leg.
"Oh, I guess, my face," said the Black man (or whatever he actually was). Tony had a flashing thought that this...this being was looking for an occasion to be aggressive, and he pitifully waggled his head.
"Everything is all right, sir," the driver continued just as amiably. "Many people are frightened when they see me for the first time. It's a skin defect called 'vitiligo'. Don't worry, it's not in fectious."
"My God, what an idiot I am," Tony thought, again relax ing with immense relief (which allowed his leg to be pulled several inches deeper at once). Certainly, vitiligo, a pigmentation disorder. He had seen people with this skin condition before, but they were white. On a black face it looks particularly terrible... Especially when the spot is shaped exactly like a skeleton’s face. Moreover, taking into account the existing circumstances...
"Sorry," Tony murmured confoundedly.
"You need help," the driver said more affirmatively than interrogatively.
"Yes, my leg is stuck, and, in general, I'm in a stupid situ ation..."
"Now we'll relieve you of it."
But the motto? What about the motto? Could it be a one more trick of imagination which caused him to not see the preposi tion "for"?
No. There was no "for." And "de" was quite distinctly sep arated from "liver."
The driver stepped towards Tony and Logan saw his right hand that had been hidden by the truck door before. No–the hand itself was okay. No pigment spots and the fingers were not de cayed. But these fingers clenched the handle of a huge butcher's hatchet, devilishly sharp even by sight and with a brown-stained blade.
"What... are you going to...?" Tony, who had instantly
The vehicle stood opposite him and it was not the M13 bus. It was much smaller white truck. With improbable relief, Logan recognized a USPS truck, with a blue eagle head and the motto on the side.
Tony did not ask why a postal truck was driving at night. Express delivery–what could be easier and more commonplace? Everything has a reasonable explanation and that thing holding his ankle is simply heavy dirt. The driver of the truck will now help him to get out and will explain how to reach normal trans portation. Maybe the driver will even agree to give him a lift, though this is against the rules... And all this idiotic phantasmagoria, at last, will end!
The driver's door lock clicked and a foot in a laced boot stepped onto the roadway. And at the same moment Tony noticed that the motto on the side of the truck differed a little from what he had gotten used to.
Instead of "We deliver for you," was written "We deliver you." To be more exact, "We de·liver you," with either a dot or a tiny hyphen separating "de" from "liver."
We rip out your liver.
And the eagle's head looked too predatory and spiteful. Logan at once remembered the myth about the eagle tormenting the liver of Prometheus.
The door opened more widely with an unpleasant scratch. The driver, a bulky bald Negro, got out of the truck. And turned his face to Logan.
Or what he had instead of a face.
Seeing it, Tony screamed... or rather, squealed, without controlling himself at all. A high cheekboned white skull looked at him. At the same time, there was black flesh on each side of the head and Tony distinguished the silhouette of chubby cheeks and a fat neck. But between them there was only the deathly white ness of bone, long ago and completely cleared of flesh either by knife or by decomposition. However this skull had a nose–bone white too, but a nose, instead of a triangular hole appropriate to a decayed corpse.
"What's wrong with you?" the dreadful driver inquired in a sepulchral, but almost friendly voice. And Tony, as frightened as he was, noticed that on this terrible whitish mask there was not only a nose, but also lips moving to shape words. Nevertheless he could not squeeze out of his throat anything articulate and only spasmodically twitched, trying to free his leg.
"Oh, I guess, my face," said the Black man (or whatever he actually was). Tony had a flashing thought that this...this being was looking for an occasion to be aggressive, and he pitifully waggled his head.
"Everything is all right, sir," the driver continued just as amiably. "Many people are frightened when they see me for the first time. It's a skin defect called 'vitiligo'. Don't worry, it's not in fectious."
"My God, what an idiot I am," Tony thought, again relax ing with immense relief (which allowed his leg to be pulled several inches deeper at once). Certainly, vitiligo, a pigmentation disorder. He had seen people with this skin condition before, but they were white. On a black face it looks particularly terrible... Especially when the spot is shaped exactly like a skeleton’s face. Moreover, taking into account the existing circumstances...
"Sorry," Tony murmured confoundedly.
"You need help," the driver said more affirmatively than interrogatively.
"Yes, my leg is stuck, and, in general, I'm in a stupid situ ation..."
"Now we'll relieve you of it."
But the motto? What about the motto? Could it be a one more trick of imagination which caused him to not see the preposi tion "for"?
No. There was no "for." And "de" was quite distinctly sep arated from "liver."
The driver stepped towards Tony and Logan saw his right hand that had been hidden by the truck door before. No–the hand itself was okay. No pigment spots and the fingers were not de cayed. But these fingers clenched the handle of a huge butcher's hatchet, devilishly sharp even by sight and with a brown-stained blade.
"What... are you going to...?" Tony, who had instantly
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