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

tits in holy water. If this was my Condition Terminal, I was determined to take
as much of the world with me as I could before I went out. I meat-fucked myself
deaf, dumb, and blind and must've Given It to five hundred Mexes in the bargain.
Then they started phasing in the Sex Police. Well, as you might imagine,
there was no love lost between the Army of the Living Dead and the SPs. Those
uptight Unholy Rollers took any opportunity to snuff us. Looters were shot.
Meatfuckers caught in the act were executed. And of course, brothers and
sisters, the Army of the Living Dead gave as good as we got and then some.
We'd kill any of the bastards we caught on what remained of our shrinking
turf. We'd get up kamikaze packs and go into their turf after them. When we
were really loaded, we'd catch ourselves some SP assholes and gang-bang them
senseless. Needless to say, we weren't into using interfaces.
Things got so out of hand that the Pentagon brought in regular airborne
troops to round us up. That little action took more casualties in two days than
the whole Baja campaign had in three weeks.
When they started dropping napalm from close-support fighters, it finally
dawned on those of us still around that the meat-fuckers had no intention of
rounding us up and shipping us to the next theater. They were out to kill us
all, and they were probably working themselves up to tactical nukes to do it.
Well, we weren't the Army of the Living Dead for nothing. I don't know
where it started or who started it. It just seemed to happen all at once.
Somehow all of us that were left stuffed our loot in our packs, armed ourselves
with whatever we could lay hands on, and suddenly there was a human wave assault
on the border.
 It was the bloodiest ragged combat any of us ever saw, crazed zombies
against gunships, fighters, and tanks. How many of the bastards did we get on
the way? More than you might imagine, better believe it, we were stoned, drunk,
in a berserker rage, and we were now the Living Dead twice over, with Double
Nothing to lose, triple so for yours truly.
How many of us got through? A thousand? Five hundred? Something to keep
you from oversleeping, citizens. Hundreds of us zombies, our packs stuffed with
money, false IDs and ordnance, over the border into San Diego, hunted, dying,
betrayed by even the Army, with nothing left for kicks but to take our vengeance
on you, meatfuckers!
And I was one of them. The meanest and the craziest, it pleases me to
believe. Betrayed, facing Condition Terminal, with nothing left to do with what
little was left of my life but bop till I dropped and take as many of you as I
could with me.

LINDA LEWIN

I drove aimlessly around California for months, down 101 or the Coast
Highway to Los Angeles, down 5 to San Diego, up to L.A. again, up 5 to the Bay
Area, back around again, like a squirrel in a cage, like one of those circuit-
riding preachers in an old Western.
I Had It. My days were numbered. I needed cash--for gas, for food, for a
flop in a motel, for what pallies I could score, for updating the data strip on
my phony blue card. I hooked wherever I could, using my interface always, for I
swore to myself that I would never do to anyone what Rex had done to me. I
didn't want to go to Condition Terminal with that mark on my soul.