Читать книгу The Most Russian Person - Vladimir Shatakishvili - Страница 15

Second gaps of consciousness. The fire burned, boiled, igniting the body with inhuman pain. It seemed that the pain would boil the blood, the vessels would burst and the blood would flood. On the black earth or on white snow.

And again the failure into the abyss without a name. Yes, no name, no kin… Unconscious.

Unconscious, unconscious.

Then the flight was interrupted to overturn him into a new terrible abyss of pain which moved to his legs.

But what is it so unbearably pressing him?

Oh, this is probably a concrete slab, it will now flatten him, rub into dust, and this dust with its lightness – like on wings – will summon him from this trap, from this pitch darkness to light.

He screamed, as it seemed to him, loudly. He called for help.

There was nothing of it. No sound was made by Medyanik. The weakened mind drew to him the abyss and the depth, united the remnants of the will into a silent cry for help that no one heard.

Standing above the unconscious battalion commander, as Ivan Nikiforovich was called, Lieutenant Bizyukov and his communications personnel understood that it was necessary to immediately transport the one who didn’t show any signs of life to the nearest locality.