Short Stories Read Free Page B

seemed too disgusted to go  through with it this time. I hate our fucking gung-ho paratroopers, you know  that? They want to go out and kick ass, and they get everybody else in trouble  when they do. Yeah. Sergei couldn't argue with that. Half the time, if you leave the ghosts  alone, they'll leave you alone, too. I know. Vladimir nodded. Of course, the other half of the time, they won't. Oh, yes. Ohhh, yes. I haven't been here real long, but I've seen that. Now  Sergei pointed out to the mountainside. A few men  Afghans, hard to see at a  distance in their robes of brown and cream  were moving around, not far from  where the bumblebee had flayed the ghosts a few days before. What are they up  to out there? No good, Vladimir said at once. Maybe they're scavenging weapons the dukhi  left behind. I hope one of the stinking ragheads steps on a mine, that's what I  hope. Serve him right. Never had Sergei seen a curse more quickly fulfilled. No sooner had the words  left Vladimir's mouth than a harsh, flat craack! came echoing back from the  mountains. He brought his Kalashnikov up to his shoulder. Vladimir did the same.  They both relaxed, a little, when they realized the explosion wasn't close by. Lowering his assault rifle, Vladimir started laughing like a loon. Miserable  son of a bitch walked into one we left out for the ghosts. Too bad. Oh, too  bad! He laughed again, louder than ever. On the mountainside, the Afghans who  weren't hurt bent over their wounded friend and did what they could for him.  Sergei said, This won't make the villagers like us any better. Too bad. Oh, too bad! Vladimir not only repeated himself, he pressed his free  hand over his heart like a hammy opera singer pulling out all the stops to emote  on stage. And they love us so much already. Sergei couldn't very well argue with that, not when he'd been the one who'd  pointed out that the villagers didn't love the Red Army men in their midst. He  did say, Here come the Afghans. The wounded man's pals brought him back with one of his arms slung over each of  their shoulders. He groaned every now and then, but tried to bear his pain in  silence. His robes were torn and splashed  soaked with red. Sergei had seen what  mines did. The Afghan's foot maybe his whole leg up to the knee would look as if  it belonged in a butcher's shop, not attached to a human being. One of the Afghans knew a little Russian. Your mine hurt, he said. Your man  help? He pointed to the Soviet medic's tent. Yes, go on, Sergei said. Take  him there. Softly, Vladimir told him.

    A fleabite might not bother a sleeping man. If he'd been bitten before, though,  he might notice a second bite, or a third, more readily than he would have  otherwise. The dragon stirred restlessly.

    Satar squatted on his heels, staring down at the ground in front of him. He'd  been staring at it long enough to know every pebble, every [dot] of dirt, every  little ridge of dust. A spider scuttled past. Satar watched it without caring. Sayid Jaglan crouched beside him. I am sorry, Abdul Satar Ahmedi. It is the will of God, Satar answered, not moving, not looking up. Truly, it is the will of God, agreed the commander of the mujahideen. They do  say your father is likely to live. If God wills it, he will live, Satar said. But is it a life to live as a  cripple, to live without a foot? Like you, he has wisdom, Sayid Jaglan said. He has a place in Bulola he may  be able to keep. Because he has wisdom, he will not have to beg his bread in the  streets, as a herder or peasant without a foot would. He will be a cripple! Satar burst out. He is my father! Tears stung his  eyes. He did not let them fall. He had not shed a tear since the news came to  the mujahideen from his home village. I wonder if the earthquake made him misstep, Sayid Jaglan said. Ibrahim said the earthquake was later, Satar answered. Yes, he said that, but he might have been wrong, Sayid Jaglan said. God is