"A. R. Yngve - Alien Beach" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yngve A. R)

"Let them come. If they try anything...ffchh...boom!"
"Maybe the angels are coming. Inshallah."
 "Angels with - ugh! - arms like snakes! You're talking nonsense!"
"Monsters. Demons. It's the end of the world."
“Aw, shut up!”
"It must be a fraud. The Jews set it up to undermine our faith."
"The demons are coming from hell, in the guise of angels."
"Naah, it's nothing but actors in rubber suits... look, you can almost see the zippers!"
"Aha, like that American show, 'X-Files'..."
"To hell with 'X-Files'. This is for real!" The bravest customer, a suave youngster with
leanings toward Western culture and clothing, turned to look at the soldier - as if he alone
possessed an understanding the older men lacked. The soldier had sat down in his regular corner
at the end of the counter, drinking the strong local coffee, eating late breakfast, watching the TV
news. The young Arab touched the soldier's sleeve, addressing him with serious intent. With an ill
grace, the soldier gave him half a red-eyed look.
"Hey, amrikani. What do you say?” The young man gestured toward the TV screen. “Is this
an American bluff?"
The soldier felt vaguely accused by the youngster's tone of voice, and he didn't like the dark
stares from some of the older customers. He made an averting gesture - couldn't think clearly. He
had nothing in common with these people, he was an alien here. And the land he used to call
"home" had become an alien world of artificial people obsessed with health, money, silicon,
steroids, and happiness pills. The soldier couldn't answer the Arab's question. He could only think
of one thing to say, but aimed at the sky: Take me away from here. Take me anywhere, but away
from this planet. Which of course would have sounded stupid. So he looked down at his plate and
kept his mouth shut.
One elderly man with a hookah at his table stopped puffing to say: "He's homesick. Go home
to Mars, amrikani!" Everyone laughed. The soldier nodded toward the joker with a faint smile.
"Home... phone home," he said in nasal English. Only the young Arab seemed to get the joke; he
fell silent, as if he understood its underlying meaning. The soldier stood up and walked out of the
café. He had to struggle uphill now, if he was to get anywhere with his newly found aim in life. First
of all, he must avoid just going through the old drinking routine. The urge was there all right, to buy
the cheapest illegal liquor and get drunk in the afternoon. His headache, forgotten for almost half
an hour, was returning... he could no longer tell, whether it was withdrawal or the war injury that
was the source. He stood there in the hot, dusty street, people jostling by, fingering his forehead,
fighting the old numb thirst for booze, looking around with unseeing eyes. He moved his right
tentacle toward his jaw, and wondered what had happened to his stubble... his jaw had never felt
so large and smooth... The headache grew stronger - he groaned with pain, squinting - and the
blue-green waves roared crashing through the street. As he crouched, he saw his feet: flat, long,
and gray, making little flapping sounds as he staggered through the wet, white sand. His gaze shot
upward. The sun turned green (natural or filtered through the atmosphere?), outshining its tiny
white companion star. He opened his mouth and screamed. "Gnnh… chiskr-r-r... chiskr-r-r... chis
chiptl mmer-r-r-lleee!!" The soldier collapsed in the street. The passing citizens stared at the fallen
Westerner, amazed at his inhuman gibberish. A few men rushed out of the café and leaned down
to see what had happened. The soldier lay unconscious but seemingly in turmoil - his arms and
legs made strange, almost undulating movements, as if he attempted to dance. Or swim. "He's
having an epileptic fit," one of the café-goers said. "Get this man to the American military hospital.
Hurry!" A pen was wedged between the soldier's jaws; the café owner called for a taxi on his
cellular phone. Within a minute, the men could carry the soldier into the passenger seat. He had
ceased moving now, and lay limp in the seat as the car drove him through the streets of the city.
Chapter Two