"Norman Spinrad - Journals of the Plague Years 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spinrad Norman)

What you call a fun campaign, a far cry from the mess we got into in Cuba
or that balls-up in Venezuela, let me tell you. Mexico was something like fifty
percent Got It, their armed forces had been wiped out of existence in the
Chihuahua campaign, and so it was just a matter of three weeks of leisurely
pillage, rape, and plunder.
The Mexes? They got a sweet deal, considering. Those who were still
alive by the time we had secured Baja down to La Paz could choose between
deportation to what was left of Mexico or becoming black card citizens of the
state of California, Americans like thee and me, brothers and sisters. Any one
of them who had survived had Gotten It in every available orifice about 150
times by us zombies by then anyway.
Wanna moralize about it? Okay, then moralize this one, meat-fucker:
The damn Plague started in Africa, didn't it? That's the Third World,
ain't it? Africa, Latin America, Asia, except For China, Japan, and Iran,
they're over 50 percent Got It, ain't they? And the It they Got keeps mutating
like crazy in all that filth. And they keep trying to get through with
infiltrators to give us the latest strain, don't they?
The Chinese and the Iranians, they kill their black-carders, don't they?
The Japs, they deport them to Korea. And the Russians, they nuked themselves a
cordon sanitaire all the way from the Caspian to the Chinese border.
 Was I old Walter T., I'd say nuke the whole cesspit of infection out of
existence. Use nerve gas. Fry the Third World clean from orbit. Whatever.
They gave us the damn Plague, didn't they? Way we see it in the Army of the
Living Dead, anything we do after that is only a little piece of what the gorks
got coming!
Believe me, this poor boy wasn't shedding any tears for what we had done
to the Mexes when the marks started coming out just before the sack of Ensenada.
Less still when they couldn't come up with a combo of pallies that worked
anymore, and they shrugged and finally told me it looked like I had reached
Condition Terminal in the ruins of La Paz. Like I said, when I first Got It,
they gave me six years, ten in the Army of the Living Dead.
Now they gave me six months.
I shot up with about a hundred milligrams of liquid crystal, chugalugged a
quart of tequila, and butt-fucked every gork I could find. Think I blew about
ten of them away afterward, but by then, brothers and sisters, who the hell was
counting?

WALTER T. BIGELOW

Oh yes, I knew what they say about me behind my back, even on a cabinet
level. Old Walter T., he was a virgin when he married Elaine, and he's never
even had meat with his own pure Christian wife. Old Walter T., he's never even
stuck it in a sex machine. Old Walter T., he's never even missed the pleasures
of the flesh. Old Walter T., he'd still be the same sexless eunuch even if
there had never been a Plague. Old Walter T., he's got holy water for blood.
How little they know of my torments.
How little they know of what it was like for me in high school. In the
locker room. With all those naked male bodies. All the little tricks I had to
learn to hide my erections. Knowing what I was. Knowing it was a sin. Unable
to look my own father squarely in the eye.