Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur (читать хорошую книгу полностью txt) 📗

hear the din from around the hut, but into a kind of coma in which

sense of time was lost, and the acute discomfort of the cold and her

bonds receded.

Hours must have passed in this stupor of exhaustion and cold, when she

was roused by another kick in her stomach and she gasped and sobbed

with the fresh pain of it.

She was aware immediately of a change in the volume of sound outside

the hut. There were many hundreds of voices raised in an excited roar,

like that of a crowd at a circus.

Her guards dragged her roughly to her feet, and one of them stooped to

cut the rawhide that bound her ankles, and then straightened to do the

same to those at her wrists. Vicky sobbed at the bright agony of blood

flowing back into her feet and hands.

Her legs collapsed under her and she would have fallen, but rough hands

held her and dragged her forward on her knees towards the low entrance

of the hut. Outside, there was a dense pack of bodies that filled the

narrow street.

Dark menacing figures that pressed forward eagerly as she appeared in

the entrance of the hut, and a blood-crazed roar went up from the

crowd.

Her guards dragged her forward along the street, and the crowd swarmed

forward, keeping pace with her, and the roar of their voices was like

the sound of a winter storm.

Hands clutched at her, and her guards beat them away laughingly,

and hustled her onwards with her paralysed legs flopping weakly under

her. They carried her forward into the goods yards of the railways,

through the steel gate, past the mountainous pile of naked mutilated

corpses, all that remained of men whom she had helped to nurse.

The yard was lit by the smoky fluttering light of hundreds of torches,

and it was only when she was almost up to the warehouse veranda that

she recognized the figure that lolled indolently upon his cushions,

using the raised concrete ramp as a grandstand from which to direct and

watch the execution.

Vicky's terror came rushing back like a black icy flood, and she tried

desperately to twist herself free of the clutching hands, but they

carried her forward and then lifted her suddenly.

Three of the heavy Galla lances had been set into the soft earth of the

yard in the form of a tripod, with the steel lance tips bound firmly at

the apex of the pyramid. With a force that she could not resist, her

arms and legs were spread, and again she felt the lashing of rawhide at

her wrists and ankles.

Her captors fell back in a circle, and she found herself suspended from

the tripod of lances like a starfish, and the weight of her body cut

the leather straps viciously into her flesh.

She looked up. Directly above her on the concrete ramp sat Ras

Kullah. He said something to her in a high piping voice, but she did

not understand the words and she could only stare in fascinated terror

at his thick, soft lips. The tip of his tongue came out and ran slowly

across his lips, like a fat golden cat.

He giggled suddenly and motioned to the two women who flanked him on

the cushions. They came down into the yard, with their silver

jewellery tinkling and the multicoloured silk of their robes glowing in

the lamplight like the plumage of two beautiful birds of paradise.

As though they had rehearsed their movements, one went to each side of

Vicky as she hung on the tripod of lances. Their faces were serene,

remote and lovely as two exotic blooms on the long graceful stems of

their necks.

It was only when they reached up to touch her that Vicky saw the little

silver knives in their hands, and she wriggled helplessly,

her head twisting to watch the blades.

With expert economical movements the two women slit the fabric of

Vicky's clothing, from the yoke of her blouse at the throat, down in a

single stroke to the hem of her skirt, and the dress fell away like an

autumn leaf, and dropped into the mud below her.

Ras Kullah clapped his hands with glee, and the dense pack of dark

bodies swayed and growled, pressing a little closer.

With the same unhurried knife strokes, the sheer silk of Vicky's

underwear was cut away and discarded, and she hung there naked and

vulnerable, unable to cover her pale smooth body, with the long finely

sculptured limbs spread and pinioned.

She dropped her head forward so that the golden hair fell forward and

covered her face.

One of the Galla women moved around until she faced Vicky directly. She

reached out with the little silver knife and touched the point to the

white skin just below the base of her throat where a pulse beat visibly

like a tiny trapped animal, and slowly, achingly slowly,

she drew the blade downwards.

Vicky's whole body convulsed, every limb stiffened and her back arched

rigidly so that the shape of the muscle stood out clearly beneath the

smooth unblemished skin.

Her head flew back, her eyes wide and staring, her mouth gaping open

and she screamed.

The woman drew the knife on downwards, between the tense straining

breasts. The white skin opened to the shallow carefully controlled

razor point, and a vivid scarlet line marked the slow track of the

blade as it moved on inexorably downwards.

The voice of the crowd rose, a gathering roar like the sound of a storm

wind coming from afar, and Ras Kullah leaned forward on his cushions.

His eyes shone and the wet pink lips were parted.

Two things happened simultaneously. From the darkness beyond the

station buildings, Priscilla the Pig burst out into the torch-lit

area.

Up until that moment when Jake Barton thrust down fully on the

throttle, the gentle hum of the engine had been drowned by the animal

roar of the crowd.

The heavy steel hull, driven by the full thrust of the old Bentley

engine, ploughed into the crowd and went through it like a combine

harvester through a field of standing wheat. Without any slackening of

speed, it tore a pathway through the dense pack, directly towards the

clearing where Vicky hung on the tripod of lances.

At the same moment, Gareth Swales stepped out of the black oblong of

the warehouse door, directly behind where Ras Kullah sat.

He had the Italian rifle over the crook of his injured arm, and he

fired without lifting the butt to his shoulder.

The bullet smashed into the elbow of the Galla woman's knife arm,

and the arm snapped like a twig, the knife flew from the nerveless

fingers and the woman shrieked and collapsed into the mud at Vicky's

feet.

The second woman swirled, her right hand drew back like the head of a

striking adder, and she aimed the knife blade at Vicky's soft white

stomach; as she began the stroke that would plunge it hilt-deep,

Gareth moved the rifle muzzle fractionally and fired again.

The heavy bullet caught the woman in the exact centre of her golden

forehead. The black hole -appeared there like a third empty eye

socket, and her head snapped backwards as though from a heavy blow.

As she went down, Gareth worked the bolt of the rifle and dropped the

muzzle, again only fractionally, but as Ras Kullah twisted around

desperately on his cushions, his mouth wide open and a gurgling cry

keening from the thick wet lips, the muzzle of the rifle was aimed

directly into the pink pit of his throat and Gareth fired the third

shot. It shattered the front teeth in Ras Kullah's upper jaw, before

plunging on into his throat and then exiting through the back of the