Нил Шустерман «Red Rider's Hood»
белый сепиа серый

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Автор Нил Шустерман

Neal Shusterman

Red Rider's Hood

Dark Fusion book 2

Werewolf legends and werewolf facts, according to grandma

On the power of the moon: "For three days, the moon is full enough to boil the blood and make a man turn wolf. The sec­ond day the curse is at its strongest, and the higher the moon is in the sky, the more deadly the wolf. "

On werewolf appetites: "In human form, they can eat any­thing humans eat, although they're partial to meat. In wolf form, they're driven to eat their weight in meat each night, and it must be the meat of a fresh kill. "

On the mind of the werewolf: "The mind of a human infected with the werewolf curse doesn't always start off being evil, but the way I see it, a person turns evil real quick. "

On werewolf redemption: "Ain't no such thing. No antidote, no remedy, no turning back. Only way to save a werewolf's soul is to end its misery, and hope the good Lord truly does have infinite mercy. "

On the chances of surviving a werewolf: "We all have to die someday. Let's hope we die as humans. "

For Steve Layne

1 

Red as fresh blood

It's a jungle out there. Buildings grow all around you out of the cracking pavement, blocking out the daylight, making you forget the sun's there at all. Those buildings can't block out the moonlight, though. Nothing can block that out. Trust me, I know.

I can't tell you my name, because then you'd be in danger, too. I got enemies, see, and the only reason I'm alive right now is because my Mustang convertible―red as fresh blood, and as powerful as they come―is faster than anyone, or any thing, can run. You can call me Red. Red Rider. It's what they called me back when I had my old Radio Flyer wagon as a kid, and it's what they call me now.

As for the Mustang, I found it in a junkyard when I was thir­teen, and spent three years nursing it back to health.

Call it a hobby. By the time I turned sixteen―which was on the last day of the school year―it was ready for me to drive. Little did I know what I'd be driving myself into that hot and horrible summer.

See, when you ride out into these streets, you never know what you're in for. Good or bad; thrilling or dangerous. Some­times it's a little bit of both. It's not that my neighborhood's an awful place, but it's crowded. We got every culture here: His­panic, African-American, white, Vietnamese, Armenian―you name it. We're this big melting pot, but someone turned up the heat too high, and the stew started to burn. Gangs, crime, fights, and fear are now a regular part of our local stew.

It all started the day I had to deliver some "bread" to my grandma. That's what she calls money, because she's still stuck In the sixties, when money was "bread," cops were "fuzz," and everything else was "groovy. " Don't even bother telling her it's a whole other millennium. Going to her house, you'd think the sixties never ended. There are love beads hanging in doorways, Jimi Hendrix playing on an old record player, and a big old Afro on her head. It really ticks people off in movie theaters, because when Grandma sits down, there's nothing but hair for the people behind her, And the funny thing is, she's not even black. She married a black man, though, and their daughter married a Korean, and that's how they got me. I guess I'll marry a Puerto Rican girl or something, and fill out that gene pool swimming inside me.

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