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

I toss Rafter Man one of my booties. Of course, he doesn't know what to
do with it. "What-"
Shhhh.
We wait in ambush, enjoying the anticipation of violence. Five minutes.
Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Then the Viet Cong rats crawl out of their
holes. We freeze. The rats skitter along the rafters, climb down the
screening, then hop onto the plywood deck, making little thumps, moving
through the darkness without fear.
Chili Vendor waits until the skittering converges in the corner. Then
he jumps out of his rack and flips on the overhead lights.
With the exception of Rafter Man we're all on our feet in the same
second, forming a semicircle across the corner. The rats zip and zing, their
tiny pink feet clawing for traction on the plywood. Two or three escape-so
brave, or so terrified-in such situations motives are immaterial-that they
run right over out feet and between our legs and through the deadly gauntlet
of carefully aimed boots and stabbing bayonets.
But most of the rats herd together under the board.
Mr. Payback takes a can of lighter fluid from his bamboo footlocker. He
squirts lighter fluid into the little hole in the board.
Daytona Dave strikes a match. "Fire in the hole!" He pitches the
burning match into the corner.
The board foomps into flame.
Rats explode from beneath the board like shrapnel from a rodent
grenade.
The rats are on fire. The rats are little flaming kamikaze animals
zinging across the plywood deck, running under racks, over gear, around in
circles, running faster and faster and in no particular direction except
toward some place where there is no fire.
"GET SOME!" Mr. Payback is screaming like a lunatic. "GET SOME! GET
SOME!" He chops a rat in half with his machete.
Chili Vendor holds a rat by the tail and, while it shrieks, pounds it
do death with a boot.
I throw my K-bar at a rat on the other side of the hootch. The big
knife misses the rat, sticks up in the floor.
Rafter Man doesn't know what to do.
Daytona Dave charges around and around with fixed bayonet, zeroing in
on a burning rat like a fighter pilot in a dogfight. Daytona follows the
rat's crazed, erratic course around and around, over all obstacles, gaining
on him with every step. He butt-strokes the rat and then bayonets him, again
and again and again. "That's one confirmed!"
And, as suddenly as it began, the battle is over.
After the rat race everyone collapses. Daytona is breathing hard and
fast. "Whew. That was a good group. Real hard-core. I thought I was going to
have a fucking heart attack."
Mr. Payback coughs, grunts. "Hey, New Guy, how many confirmed did you
get?"
Rafter Man is still sitting on his canvas cot with my boot in his hand.
"I...none. I mean, it happened so fast."
Mr. Payback laughs. "Well, sometimes it's fun to kill something you can
see. You better get squared away, New Guy. Next time the rats will have