Читать книгу The Fall and Rise of Cain - Greg T. Nelson - Страница 3

The same dream every time. I’m face down on the asphalt and shaking with fear. Breathing in pain and noise and wincing as shot after shot hammer the car beside me as glass and paint chips rain onto my back. I’m paralyzed with an unreal terror pushing me harder against the hot Texas asphalt. Struggling for clear thought, I reach toward the gun that lays just out of reach when another shot skips off the gravel past my ear and I pull myself into a ball. Then, suddenly, there is a silence, louder than all the shooting had been and I dare to raise my eyes towards the Russians. They’re smiling, amused at my cowering. To my right, a man stands with a big television camera resting casually on his shoulder and bloody gore covering his shirt. He shakes his head sadly at me and speaks, “Don’t look at me pal, I’m dead already.” Anger swells over the fear and I push my palms down into the tarmac to stand and then I hear it, soft like a gull in the distance but pleading, “Richard”. Like a blanket over me, the horror is back, drowning the anger and I turn screaming. “JUDITH! ... And in an instant, the Texas sun is gone and I’m back on the couch drenched in sweat and crying.