"Gustav Hasvord. The Short-Timers " - читать интересную книгу автора

black metal barrel into his mouth. "NO! Not-"
Bang.
Leonard is dead on the deck. His head is now an awful lump of blood and
facial bones and sinus fluids and uprooted teeth and jagged, torn flesh. The
skin looks plastic and unreal.
The civilians will demand yet another investigation, of course. But
during the investigation the recruits of Platoon 30-92 will testify that
Private Pratt, while highly motivated, was a ten percenter who did not pack
the gear to be a Marine in our beloved Corps.
Sergeant Gerheim is still smiling. He was a fine drill instructor.
Dying, that's what we're here for, he would have said-blood makes the grass
grow. If he could speak, Gunnery Sergeant Gerheim would explain to Leonard
why the guns that we love don't love back. And he would say, "Well done."
I turn off the overhead lights.
I say, "Prepare to mount." Then: "MOUNT!"
The platoon falls into a hundred racks.
I feel cold and alone. I am not alone. All over Parris Island there are
thousands and thousands of us. And, all around the world, hundreds of
thousands.
I try to sleep...
In my rack, I pull my rifle into my arms. She talks to me. Words come
out of the wood and metal and flow into my hands. She tells me what to do.
My rifle is a solid instrument of death. My rifle is black steel. Our
human bodies are bags of blood, easy to puncture and quick to drain, but our
hard tools of death cannot be broken.
I hold by weapon at port arms, gently, as though she were a holy relic,
a magic wand wrought with interlocking pieces of silver and iron, with a
teakwood stock, golden bullets, a crystal bolt, jewels to sight with. My
weapon obeys me. I'll hold Vanessa, my rifle. I'll hold her. I'll just hold
her for a little while. I will hide in this dark dream for as long as I can.
Blood pours out of the barrel of my rifle and flows up on to my hands.
The blood moves. The blood breaks up into living fragments. Each fragment is
a spider. Millions and millions of tiny red spiders of blood are crawling up
my arms, across my face, into my mouth...


Silence. In the dark, a hundred men are breaking in unison.
I look at Cowboy, then at Private Barnard. They understand. Cold grins
of death are frozen on their faces. They nod.
The newly minted Marines in my platoon stand to attention, horizontal
in their racks, their weapons at port arms.
The Marines wait, a hundred young werewolves with guns in their hands.
I lead:

This is my rifle.
There are many like it, but this one is mine...


Body Count