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Сергей Жарковский – Creature of unknown kind (страница 8)

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Having waited a moment, ensign Bashkalo licked the mustache, sticky with blood, lowered the barrel of the machine gun and said into space:

– And what now, bitch? Is that all, bitch?

Meanwhile, two hundred million years ago Vadim was smothered by an enormous sun, by overwhelming heavy, damp odors, making his knees weak, knocking him down and tossing at the same time. And he fell with his eyes shut, not painfully but heavily on the left side and left shoulder, as if somebody had snatched him back and thrown him to the left. He knew for sure that he had already fallen, struck the ground, but inside everything continued to fly, to churn, howling with cold in the lower abdomen… and a huge wet rough palm grabbed him in that place between the ears, where the balance control center of the brain is located, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it to another huge wet rough palm. And back. And forth again. And he was aware of all this, with no sign of fainting. His head was ringing clearly, and this ringing clarity was thrown from side to side.

He waited. The panic of the five senses subsided with his eyes shut. Signals from the periphery appeared: “It's wet!”, they informed him. He opened one eye and immediately saw a prehistoric bennettite flower on its stalk, bent in front of his nose. Vadim shook himself up. With one eye open, somehow the head wasn't spinning.

He was sitting in the thickets of Wollemi, his last “flare” was giving off smoke in front of him, dirty gauze strips were hanging on a stems of strange grasses, including his own, the clean one with the ball, wet with drool. There were also a few rusty nuts thrown by Alex the Aspirant. The sun was pressing from above, it was sweltering, the air was bitter, and one had to literally drink it, rather than inhale, so dense it was.

– July 14, 64, 765, 563, 122 BC, – said Mumbler aloud, without hiding. Not two hundred million, but also nice. Please shave, like dad said.

Vadim looked around. Behind him was a pile of some kind of a fern, from which some kind of bamboo tree protruded. Not bamboo. Dinosaur-like, with scales. On the left, in an Ilex's embrasures, which was not focusing in the eyes, glistened either a hairy lake or a Savannah, simply flooded with water. Everything was sparkling unbearably, everything was wet, everywhere were rainbows. On the right there were impenetrable bushes. Not bushes. Something green and impenetrable. The Lost World, the “black” Conan Doyle in eight volumes. All this did not interest Vadim; he had already come to his senses. He was interested in the way out. From here, from this side nothing clearly indicated the time hole, but even in this heat there was a feeling of heavy chill on the sweaty back, cold from the Zone. The hole was there and the hole was open. Vadim was surprised: the temperature difference was very high, dozens of degrees, there must be steam, it should be steaming like bath doors in winter. But there was no steam. Vadim looked at his wet dirty hands. Seemed like he was sitting in the puddle. The ground under his ass was deeply slushy, saturated with wet humus; brown water flooded the dents from his palms right before his eyes. Something buzzed past his face like a slow bullet, Vadim twitched the head away. His vision still could not cope with the general focus, the huge green sunny world fell on its side every time he opened the second eye, the dizziness was still there, as strong as ever… Something in the stomach slurped loudly and gave a nasty taste in his mouth; but it pleased him. “Now I am going to vomit”, thought Vadim, “And it will become easier, as on the “neutral” with the first “kiss”. Yes, yes, it is already getting easier.”

Then it began. He did not have time. The hell knows why “Montana” on his hand started to play.

Tam-ta-tam-ta. Ta-ta-tam. Never let me go. Tam-tadam-tadam…

The first organized melody played on planet Earth, the Solar System, Milky Way, God's World, by the very first tune attracted to the confused, disoriented Vadim the keen attention of a young Triceratops, who had just left his group of hatchlings in the morning of this ancient day. The young Triceratops had gone into the jungle because it was now time for the heroic and dangerous adventure of searching for the mother of his offspring. He was equally scared and uncertain, but male pride was burning at his intimate parts and forcing him on, and he was ready to snack on flint and rape T-Rex females. So, is it possible to blame him for the fact that the squeaking of the watch, inaccurate in its electronic annoyance, and the general light-headedness of the melody infuriated him to the point of “kill immediately, bite!”? The young Torosaurus walked through the Jurassic, looking out for the moos of young females, and here we go – music by Poulton, words by Fosdick, performance by Elvis Presley. Who would not be furious? Everyone would be furious.

Vadim did not immediately distinguish the attacking horned hippo from the surrounding flora. And that actually saved his life, when he finally did, like a bunny on a mysterious picture, and realized that the tenth chapter of “The Lost World” had already begun.

PART ONE

1990. DIFFERENT OFFERS

Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)

File “Blinchuk-4”

A fragment of self decryption, pp. 1-5

(Spelling errors fixed)

(For the previous meetings, we had developed a little communication ritual, I do not want to decipher the reasons behind. Blinchuk, scarcely seeing me and scarcely saying “Hello”, started whining again and again, with the peevishness of a helpless sick man, how it nags at him, on his deathbed, that he never visited the Zone. But he could have. Oh, he could have! His rating would crush any Wobenaka. Or Gena the Genious, now deceased. But it didn't work out. And even now, when it doesn't matter anymore, the evil troublers, trackers, they are also selfish smugglers, and related others – the little boozers, the clumsy beggars, and border-hoppers, allowed him to go only to the “neutral”. But he still didn't reach the exit, he was banned. He, who had been working as a god of the Perimeter for fifteen years! And here is your regard, here is your glory. And what is he supposed to do, whom to ask so that he will at least be buried there, in the Trouble. In the park of the Old Tens. That is his dying wish. If only you, comrade writer, could put in a word for me before your aliens. It is not the Ass, his former subordinate and protégé, that the old General and Major Blinchuk should ask. And so on so forth.)

– Sergey Borisovich, this is now the third time you're trying to wring a tear from me, saying how unfortunate you are, nobody needs you, old retired General-Major; damned Maloroslikov pranked you, the bloody Putin hadn't given a hand.

– And what, is it so hard for you to listen to the whining of a dying man once again? I should have finished you, such an insensitive shit you are, right at the moment you appeared in my Pre-Zone on April 6th, 1998 on a thirteen-hour bus. I would have sent someone, and – you would be finished like a gnat. Actually, get out of here! Now I'll call Dr. Vyatkin, and he'll expose you. Doctor Vyatki-in! Come here!

– For the third time, Sergei Borisovich. This is already recorded and will not disappear.

– Got out of it. Well, give me some water.

(Drinks)

– So they set me up as the Commandant at the Trouble in 1990. In November. After the putsch, the mess, the bickering, that time I was a Colonel. And then Pasha Grachev called me from Ukraine, and… And until the end, until the fifteenth, until last year… Did you at least know this, writer?

– The whole world knows this, Sergey Borisovich. But the putsch was in 91. And you were appointed as a Commandant of the Zone in 1990. By the Gorbachev’s decree.

(Pause)

– You know what? Fuck you, smart ass!

(Drinks)

– The whole world… I did my job badly if the whole world knows me!

(Drinks)

– On the other hand, though I was like the Governor-General… How can you not know me… And everybody knew… Ones who needed to know and who didn't need to… So, I didn't tell you yesterday, I didn't tell you the day before, but I will tell you today. I was, Shug… pshug… pshuitz… Stierlitz171, damn it! I have been watching you carefully, from that day, when you came to my Pre-Zone on a fake visa. Ufologist-conspirator! I know exactly who you are. That's why I agreed to talk to you, as I'm dying. I know that the “troublers” trust you, that the trackers care of you and that you had your hands on the Trouble Radio and saved many in the Trouble through this matter. And that you're kind of a priest-confessor here… Although you're a boor.

– Sergey Borisovich.

– Quiet and “yes, sir”, you scribbler! Damned putsch in ninety-one… Well yes, in ninety-one! And you say “yes” and list-ten, what if there is a reason why I, an old stub with the brain cancer, am telling you the same for the third time. About death, about funerals, about the fact that I have never been in the Zone, never stood a foot. So get this, writer! Maybe repeating makes sense, think about it. And you tell me about your putsch.