'Holy shit,' Pete said, almost in his ear. Jonesy waited for McCarthy to finish — it sounded as if he had more to say — but the man just swung his feet into bed and pulled the covers up. Jutting from the edge of the tub, also overgrown with fungus, was a boot-clad foot. This was the day when they began to realize just how much they had changed.
'Aw, fuck, sing it again,' Pete says. In those spots the snowmobile's tread clattered angrily on the frozen ground, which was mostly rock beneath a thin cover of soil and fallen needles. You can read me. The laboratory, an incongruous modernistic cube—bone white against the—again—ominousbasalt of the looming prominences—sat high above the rutted road.
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