Aetherchrist

Начало книги

I watch the channel 12 reruns on my disassembled television. On my countertop, sky blue diodes sprout through a mesh of blood and copper wiring. Through a cracked screen, I stare back at myself, wide-eyed, mouth agape. Dead. I turn the channel. The dial revolves like the cylinder of a six-shooter. Each chamber, each channel, is piecemeal prophecy leading to my death on screen. I’ll die soon, but I’m not sure how or when. So, I turn back to channel 2, hoping the TV will eventually bridge the gap between the day I came to Springfield to sell knives and the day I’ll end up sprawled across the pavement in a lifeless heap.

We’re driving down VT-103 in Jim’s two-door coupe. He’s got the heat blasting, so I crack the window. Snow still covers the ground, but it’s starting to recede. That doesn’t mean winter’s going to be gone anytime soon, though.

Jim looks out the driver-side window, takes in the endless stretch of empty pasture. He pulls his shirt over his nose. “They’re spreading that fucking liquid shit again.”

Читать дальше →