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.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmldesperate determination.Every so often he had to stop to brush live embersfrom his hair or back or shoulders; he could feel the heat beginning to build,feel the first stirrings of the firestorm.He stopped for another swig of Josephina's blood, then redou-bled hisefforts; the firewood flew like kindling, until at last he'd reached thebottom row.He grabbed the nearest log, couldn't budge it; tried the next,same result.By the time he'd figured out that it was a false bottom, thatthis last layer of logs was nailed to a heavy trapdoor, the heat had grown sointense that his rayon shirt threatened to burst into flames.With a lastdesperate heave he hauled the trapdoor open and threw himself down into thecool darkness of the centuries-old Maroon tunnel."Maroon?" prompted Selene."As in the color?""As incimarron." Jamey rolled down his window to pay the toll, kept it downas they drove onto the bridge."Spanish for fugitive slaves.Every island intheWest Indies with a slave population and a rain forest large enough to hidein had them."The heat drove Whistler on.Behind him the flames roared like traffic on adistant freeway; ahead of him in the unimaginable darkness he could hear thefrenzied chittering of rats.It was hard to judge distance in the absoluteblackness not that he had any idea how far the tunnel led, or even if therewas a way out at the other end.He counted his paces; after two hundred or sothe path took a sharp left Whistler's outstretched fingers brushed thehard-packed dirt of the tunnel wall just before he would have smacked intoit and began a downward slope that continued for another three hundred paces,leveled out again, continuing on another three hundred steps before takinganother sharp bend.But fifty paces after that the tunnel dead-ended."So what did you do?" asked Selene as the Jaguar breezed down the WaldoGrade.Jamey shrugged."Panicked, of course.Freaked large.But after I'd calmedmyself with a swig from my flask, I started feeling my way around thecul-de-sac.The walls were solid dirt, but directly overhead my fingertipsbrushed what felt like wood.Hoping that it was another trapdoor, I squatteddown, jumped straight up with my arms outstretched, hit the board with mypalms.It felt as if it had budged just the slightest bit, so I took anotherwhack at it.And another and another, slamming against the board overhead withall my strength, dirt sifting down on my head, until my palms were bleedingand my legs were turning to jelly.Once more, I told myself, and this time IPage 156 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlgave it everything I had, and the board shifted, and a crack of sunlight cameshooting through and damn near blinded me.I had to retreat all the way backaround that last bend in the tunnel before my eyes stopped hurting.But it waswell worth the pain to know there was a way out.Of course, I'd have to waituntil sunset& "Whistler paused.What was there to say about the next seven or eight hoursalone in the dark with only his grief and rage, his fear, and of course thegoddamn rats, to keep him company?"But how?" Selene prompted."Moved enough dirt to make a mound two feet high directly underneath thetrapdoor.That gave me enough leverage to force the trapdoor open.""And you went straight to Mr.Munger's?"Jamey gave her a surprised glance as they approached the Tarn Junctioncrossroads."Who?""The Rastaman.By the way, he told me to tell you, if I ever caught up toyou, to consider the bread and jerky as a gift, but you owe him five dollarsfor the spliff.""Why, that old thief! It was barely a roach."And the least of the debts Whistler incurred that night.There was only oneother settlement within walking distance of where the Maroon tunnel ended, avillage consisting of a half dozen geodesic domes built by a commune ofGeorgia hippies who had fled Calhoun County back in the sixties only stepsahead of a drug bust.After another pull on his flask he set out for it,limping down the.dundo road on bare feet so burned and bruised and sore thathe'd have needed a great deal more blood than he had available to him (theflask was by this time scarcely a quarter full) to still the pain [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmldesperate determination.Every so often he had to stop to brush live embersfrom his hair or back or shoulders; he could feel the heat beginning to build,feel the first stirrings of the firestorm.He stopped for another swig of Josephina's blood, then redou-bled hisefforts; the firewood flew like kindling, until at last he'd reached thebottom row.He grabbed the nearest log, couldn't budge it; tried the next,same result.By the time he'd figured out that it was a false bottom, thatthis last layer of logs was nailed to a heavy trapdoor, the heat had grown sointense that his rayon shirt threatened to burst into flames.With a lastdesperate heave he hauled the trapdoor open and threw himself down into thecool darkness of the centuries-old Maroon tunnel."Maroon?" prompted Selene."As in the color?""As incimarron." Jamey rolled down his window to pay the toll, kept it downas they drove onto the bridge."Spanish for fugitive slaves.Every island intheWest Indies with a slave population and a rain forest large enough to hidein had them."The heat drove Whistler on.Behind him the flames roared like traffic on adistant freeway; ahead of him in the unimaginable darkness he could hear thefrenzied chittering of rats.It was hard to judge distance in the absoluteblackness not that he had any idea how far the tunnel led, or even if therewas a way out at the other end.He counted his paces; after two hundred or sothe path took a sharp left Whistler's outstretched fingers brushed thehard-packed dirt of the tunnel wall just before he would have smacked intoit and began a downward slope that continued for another three hundred paces,leveled out again, continuing on another three hundred steps before takinganother sharp bend.But fifty paces after that the tunnel dead-ended."So what did you do?" asked Selene as the Jaguar breezed down the WaldoGrade.Jamey shrugged."Panicked, of course.Freaked large.But after I'd calmedmyself with a swig from my flask, I started feeling my way around thecul-de-sac.The walls were solid dirt, but directly overhead my fingertipsbrushed what felt like wood.Hoping that it was another trapdoor, I squatteddown, jumped straight up with my arms outstretched, hit the board with mypalms.It felt as if it had budged just the slightest bit, so I took anotherwhack at it.And another and another, slamming against the board overhead withall my strength, dirt sifting down on my head, until my palms were bleedingand my legs were turning to jelly.Once more, I told myself, and this time IPage 156 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlgave it everything I had, and the board shifted, and a crack of sunlight cameshooting through and damn near blinded me.I had to retreat all the way backaround that last bend in the tunnel before my eyes stopped hurting.But it waswell worth the pain to know there was a way out.Of course, I'd have to waituntil sunset& "Whistler paused.What was there to say about the next seven or eight hoursalone in the dark with only his grief and rage, his fear, and of course thegoddamn rats, to keep him company?"But how?" Selene prompted."Moved enough dirt to make a mound two feet high directly underneath thetrapdoor.That gave me enough leverage to force the trapdoor open.""And you went straight to Mr.Munger's?"Jamey gave her a surprised glance as they approached the Tarn Junctioncrossroads."Who?""The Rastaman.By the way, he told me to tell you, if I ever caught up toyou, to consider the bread and jerky as a gift, but you owe him five dollarsfor the spliff.""Why, that old thief! It was barely a roach."And the least of the debts Whistler incurred that night.There was only oneother settlement within walking distance of where the Maroon tunnel ended, avillage consisting of a half dozen geodesic domes built by a commune ofGeorgia hippies who had fled Calhoun County back in the sixties only stepsahead of a drug bust.After another pull on his flask he set out for it,limping down the.dundo road on bare feet so burned and bruised and sore thathe'd have needed a great deal more blood than he had available to him (theflask was by this time scarcely a quarter full) to still the pain [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]