"Mikhail Evstafiev. Two Steps From Heaven " - читать интересную книгу автора

feet from concealment, squealing with delight like children. Isn't it fun to
shoot at a moving target! To kill one of the infidels is a sacred task
"Aim at his back," advised Ali. "Got him! Good lad!" It looked as
though the fleeing soldier had received an invisible whiplash across his
back. The next shot made the soldier clasp his right arm against his body,
the bullet must have gone clean through. Sayeed Mohammed aimed again and
again, firing one shot after another, the shuravi was a tough one, he simply
wouldn't die. Fell, got up, went on. Another bullet struck, the soldier kept
crawling, they'd got him, he was squirming in agony. The final shot, and it
was over, the soldier lay motionless. "Let's go!" cried Sayeed Mohammed,
eyes shining with elation, slung the rifle over his shoulder proudly and
marched obediently after his brother. The soldier lay on his stomach. Blood
flowed from his nostrils. His face, his curly black hair, his tanned skin
and blood-spattered sweatshirt were powdered with dust.
"You shot well," praised his brother and took the dead man's submachine
gun. Sayeed Mohammed saw the approving glances of the other mujaheddin. "Cut
off a finger," said his brother, handing him a big knife. "He's your first
shuravi."
Sayeed Mohammed walked around the dead soldier, squatted by his head,
lifted the limp left hand, spread out the fingers, chose the index as the
easiest to cut off, laid the knife against the center, pressed down and
sliced through skin. The tip of the knife sank into the ground. He didn't
have enough strength. Sayeed Mohammed pressed down again, harder, a bone
snapped ...

Fog descended on the mountain pass a blizzard began to blow. His
camel-hair hat and blanket were covered in snow. Snowflakes lay on his thick
dark brows and long eyelashes and on his barely visible first trace of a
mustache. In an hour or so the snow would bury him and he would have no
strength to withstand the cold. He would never get up again, he would soon
freeze completely, fall asleep, stop thinking and hoping for rescue, he was
already no longer remembering his family, his older brother. No, Ali would
always be beside him, he would wait for him, take him by the hand and lead
him into Paradise. He had always followed his older brother.
Another sound joined the wailing of the snowstorm. Fear held Sayeed
Mohammed rigid more than the cold and snow. A helicopter! Was it possible
that the Russians had returned to finish off those who had remained alive
after the bombing? Could they possibly know that he was still alive? How?
Why did the shuravi hate the Afghans so much? Why had they come to
Afghanistan? Why had they been killing innocent Afghan people for so many
years? He would never surrender, he knew what the Russians do with
prisoners!
...A few years ago Sayeed Mohammed had pulled his head between his
shoulders, like now, closed his eyes and shuddered at the growing sound of
approaching choppers. From a distance they had looked like a flock of black
birds, noisy, frightening and merciless to the mujaheddin. He prepared to
run and save himself, hide, dig in, disappear. Ali had taken his hand and
they hid in a dry watercourse. Peering out at the terrifying choppers that
filled the sky they saw, through a pair of binoculars, how the shuravi
landed behind the village, how they ran out and took up defensive positions.