Читать книгу Dukkha Unloaded - Loren W. Christensen - Страница 7

PROLOGUE

A rush of wind sent debris skittering along the empty sidewalks, filthy gutters, and streets long in need of repair. Though few vehicles passed through the darkened skid row intersection of Northwest Third and Couch at three a.m., its lone traffic signal, swaying in the wind, continued to cycle its colors, casting hues off the sides of old buildings and the cracked windshield of a decaying station wagon propped up on four rusted wheels.

A lone dog, a white mutt with protruding ribs, a broken ear, and a two-inch stub for a right rear leg, hobbled along the sidewalk, sniffing at a wino’s puke and startling on every noise. On an especially dark southwest corner of the intersection, it stopped and looked up one of the city’s few remaining turn-of-the-century lampposts, a fifteen-foot high, paint-chipped black column crowned with four skeletal arms reaching outward in cardinal directions, as if holding court over the sad, decaying streets.

A rope, one end looped over one of the lamp’s arms, the other end around the neck of an old man, rubbed and creaked against the flaking metal with each gust of wind that lurched the body. Red, amber, and green played on the bloody, black face.

The three-legged dog emitted a low growl, and backed up two or three irregular steps, sniffed right, left, and looked back up at the limp figure silhouetted against the night sky. He cowered against the building wall and began a trembling whine.

About a quarter of the way down the block, two sets of eyes peered around the edge of a graffiti-covered alcove of a long, empty building, watching and smiling as the body slow danced in the wind.