The Long Night

by Jessica Scott

  A wave of puffy clouds washed over him, threatening to pull him under once more. "If the devil is real, does that mean the things we do are not our fault?"

  "Sam, we are responsible for our own actions," Chaplain said. "The devil may tempt us but we have the freedom to choose."

  "So if we fail? If we choose wrong?"

  "Then we have to ask for forgiveness for our sins. For our weakness." He paused. "Our God is a loving God. We must simply seek repentance and sin no more."

  "It doesn't sound that easy. Why does God forgive us over and over again?"

  Chaplain smiled. "Because He loves us."

  Sam closed his eyes, surrendering to the warm puffy clouds once more. The chaplain's words were little comfort.

  He was certain that God, if He existed, would have no forgiveness for a man who'd sinned as Sam had sinned. A child was dead because of Sam. All so his men could go home again.

  Maybe it had been done in the heat of battle. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer. But he felt it. The wrongness of taking that shot.

  A dog bayed in the distance; a sad, mournful sound. It haunted his sleep, tormenting him. Whispering that his choice, his sin, would come for him. Soon. Soon the debt would be paid.

  Why him?

  He knew.

  * * *

  The bed next to him was empty. The empty space was the first thing Sam saw when he opened his eyes, the first thing his brain registered.

  The second thing he realized was that his thoughts were clear and empty, not puffed up, swollen caricatures.

  He blinked and looked at the bed. The plastic mattress was exposed and glistening with cleaner. The sterile smell penetrated Sam's sinuses.

  A motion near the door caught his eye. Tick stood there. Watching. Waiting. Judging.

  But Sam didn't say that. He couldn't force the harsh condemning word out of his mouth. So he said nothing as Tick approached.

  "You ready to bring your lazy ass back to work?" Tick asked. His eyes were wary, betraying the fear he tried to hide. The fear that maybe Sam had really lost his shit.

  "You gonna let me go back to work?" Sam asked. He shifted and his hand moved freely. He looked down. His wrists were unbound. He pushed upright.

  "Depends on whether or not you want to go crazy again. Docs said you've been sleeping better the last few nights." Tick folded his arms over his chest. "Why didn't you tell anyone you hadn't slept?"

  Sam frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  "You lost your shit when we found Hale. Scared the living shit out of Jinx. I think you gave him PTSD, man. Seriously fucked that kid up, seeing you screaming like that."

  Sam sucked in a shuddering breath. "So that wasn't a nightmare. What Hale did—it was real?"

  Tick nodded once. "Yes. I wish it wasn't true, but it was."

  Sam sniffed and sat up. "Fuck."

  "Yeah." Tick swallowed. "So you'll have to pull duty in the TOC for a little while, ’til the commander and everyone are sure you're okay. But we'd like you to come back, Sam. If you're up for it."

  He looked over at the empty, naked bed. "What happened to him?"

  "Bill?" It struck him that Tick knew his name. "He pulled the sutures out. Bled out before the orderly knew what happened."

  Sam scrubbed his hands over his face. A strange grief twisted inside him. Something not quite sadness. Not quite raw.

  "So now what?" Sam says.

  "The commander is arguing to get any actions against you dropped. So long as you keep taking care of yourself and get enough sleep." Tick coughed into his hand. "We need you back, Sam. We're down too many men."

  Sam nodded. He wanted out of the hospital, but not to go back on patrol. No, he wasn't sure he could ever roll back on patrol. Not yet. Not until he convinced himself that the dog had been real, that he'd really shot her.

  It was suddenly the most important thing in the world that the dog was fucking real and not a ghost.

  That he wasn't fucking crazy.

  Sam stood and started pulling on the clean uniform that Tick had thrown onto the foot of his bed. It was something so simple and yet for a moment, Sam just sat, wearing his pants, feeling the cold metal of his dog tags bounce against his chest.

  With each piece of his uniform, a piece of his soul fell back into place.

  Finally he stood. "I'm ready."

  "I know you are." Tick gripped his shoulder. "I believe you about the dog."

  Sam looked at him quickly. He blinked. Had Tick told him this before? "What?"

  Tick nodded. "Yeah, man. I believe you. For what it's worth, I don't think you're crazy, either."

  Sam said nothing, his throat blocked, his heart pounding in his ears. If Tick believed him, maybe that meant he wasn't crazy. Maybe he'd just forgotten to sleep, forgotten to take a knee.

  He glanced back at the empty hospital bed. He felt nothing for the kid who'd died there. Nothing other than the vague sadness he felt when any soldier died. Maybe that said something about the kind of person he was.

  The walk out of the hospital was quiet. Sobering. Sam followed his first sergeant from the hospital and a thought whispered against the back of his neck that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't crazy.

  Tick wasn't normally a man of many words but today the silence felt comforting.

  Nothing but the sound of boots crunching on gravel interrupted his thoughts.

  And the uncertain feeling he was being watched.

  23

  Sam walked into the company ops and felt every pair of eyes turn in his direction. A hush, awkward and heavy, settled over the soldiers in front of him. Jinx was behind the ops desk, his face cut with shadows from pale light and not enough sleep. The kid looked like he'd aged five years in a week.

  His eyes, though—his eyes flashed with surprise, but only for a moment. Then his face broke into a wide smile and he came around the desk. Too fast, he crashed into Sam and hugged him close.

  "Damn but it's good to see you, Sarn't Brown."

  Sam breathed deeply, the smell of dust and familiar dirt. The ops wasn't much, but it was as close to home as he'd felt in a long, long time.

  "Sorry, man. Sorry for leaving you alone." Sam's throat was tight, his lungs hard to fill.

  "Nah. It's all good. You had a rough time." Jinx slapped Sam on the back of the neck. "But you're back now, right?"

  "Yeah, man, I'm back. I promise not to freak out anymore, either."

  Jinx laughed at the faint joke and went back to the weapons rack. He reappeared a moment later. "I think this is yours," he said, with a glance at Tick. Tick nodded once and Sam slipped the sling over his shoulder.

  Sam slid his hands over the barrel, over the smooth stock. He released a deep breath. His hand shook a little bit as he cleared his weapon, then flipped the ejection port cover closed.

  Another piece of something that had been missing slipped back into place.

  Tick slapped him on the shoulder. "Keep your head up. As soon as the investigation is closed, we'll let you know. Got the commander to agree to give you your weapon back until its finished."

  Sam looked up sharply. "I'm still being investigated?" His fingers tightened on the butt of his weapon. Fear slithered up his spine and whispered that they were going to take it from him again. That his wrists would be bound and the puffy clouds would come and carry him away again.

  "Yeah." Tick dropped his hand. "We tried, but they won't drop it."

  "But you believed me. About the dog?"

  Tick nodded. "I believe you. The battalion commander, though, is another ballgame."

  Sam swallowed. He nodded back, and felt the weight settle on his shoulders. It wasn't an easy feeling. Reality shifted in front of him and for a moment, he was back, back in the hospital. Back in that trailer.

  "I'm going to head back to my trailer," he said, looking at Tick.

  "Yeah. Get some sleep." Tick watched him carefully, his eyes searching, seeking.

  He wasn't sure Tick would have given him back his weapon
so soon after being released from the hospital, but as he slipped away from the company ops and between the Jersey barriers, he counted his blessings that Tick trusted him.

  Either that or Tick was an idiot. But it felt damn good to have his weapon against his stomach and chest once more. Comforting. He rested his hand on the butt as he walked, felt the sway of it bump against his sternum.

  There was only one place he was headed. He was being investigated. Which meant that if he didn't find the dog or proof that she'd been real, he was toast, his military career ended by what was either a negligent discharge or a fucking hallucination. Either way, Sam's elbow scraped against the cement as he slid through a narrow space. Breaking away, heading toward the source of his damnation or salvation.

  Either way, he'd know.

  It felt good to be outside, in the heat and the sand and the dust. His blood pounded against his ears, but he kept on toward his path. His head was clear. He knew what he needed to see. Even if it proved he'd lost his damn mind, he needed to see. Just once more.

  The tower loomed in front of him, a lone sentry on an empty part of the base. The city was there, just on the other side of the wall. But it was the tower, pitch black against the afternoon sky, that drew him.

  "Hey!"

  Sam stood at the base of the tower and looked up. A skinny black kid looked down at him.

  "That's ‘hey, Sergeant,’ soldier," Sam said. The kid wouldn't know whether Sam was supposed to be there or not.

  "Sorry, Sarn't. I wasn't expecting anyone."

  "Go back to guarding your post. I'm walking the perimeter." As good a lie as any. The kid wouldn't care and Sam…Sam needed to check beneath the tower. He didn't want to do it with an audience.

  The kid stuck his head back in the tower. Sam took a deep breath. Hesitated.

  Then stepped beneath the tower.

  The sand had blown into tiny dunes, drifts formed by the wind. Undisturbed by a dying dog. Or a living one, for that matter. There was no hint that anything other than a spider had walked there recently.

  A dog certainly hadn't died there.

  Hope sank in his chest. He thought he'd known. Damn it, he'd been so certain. He stayed there, crouched beneath the guard tower. Above him, the kid took a step and dust sprinkled down on Sam's head and neck.

  It was a long moment before he straightened and dusted himself off.

  He sighed and headed back toward the main base, dipping through one of the barriers to take the long way home. He needed to clear his head. To wrap his brain around what he'd done.

  He'd shot at a figment of his imagination. A hallucination. There was no dog. And since there was no dog, that meant Sam was one cracker short of a sleeve.

  He'd never guessed this would be what crazy felt like. That questioning of his own memory, wondering what had happened and what parts his mind had filled in.

  He walked away slowly, fighting the dejection that threatened to crush his soul with each step. It hadn't happened. It hadn't been real.

  Which meant he'd really lost his shit.

  He let his mind wander, listening to the crunch beneath his boots. Wondering if the sound was real or if he was hearing things.

  Funny thing, this insanity stuff.

  He rounded one of the barriers and damn near tripped over a far too familiar dog. He froze, shock crawling over his skin when she looked up at him. Her body went rigid. She was too close. Close enough that he could see her whiskers tremble. Close enough that he would never get his weapon raised in time if she lunged.

  He held his breath, afraid to break eye contact. Afraid to exhale.

  Her lip trembled. A quiet whuff blew past the lips of her muzzle.

  Sam blinked, unsure of what he'd just seen. But then she whuffed again. The tip of her tail twitched. Just enough. Just enough for Sam to be nearly certain he'd officially gone off the deep end. Now a dog who'd threatened him a few days ago was wagging her tail at him. Jesus, insanity was a wild fucking ride.

  "I shot you," he said. His voice croaked in his throat.

  She whuffed low in her throat at him and turned away, pausing to look back at him.

  "Holy fuck, I'm in a demonic version of Lassie." She wagged her tail. Sam sighed. "What the hell, I've already lost my mind anyway."

  He followed her, his hand on his weapon. The sun sank behind the barriers, casting cold shadows. He knew where he was heading. His palms became slicked with sweat the moment it dawned on him. Farther from the American side of the base than a lone GI needed to be. His bowels threatened to turn to water.

  Every step became harder and harder to take. And then it was there, a looming hulk in the shadows: LEVIATHAN SHIPPING written in big block red letters.

  Sam's breath caught in his throat. She stopped at the entrance of the container, her tail brushing against the yellow crime scene tape that blocked most of the entrance.

  He was shocked when she slipped beneath the tape and into the darkness. No one had locked the damn door.

  He heard her claws scrape against the wood floor. Imagined bloody paw prints in the darkness.

  He didn't want to follow her. He didn't want to step into the madness inside that container. That much he knew was real. Hale had cracked. Had slaughtered those people.

  For what? What the hell had Sam missed? How had his friend, his fucking brother, become a goddamned psycho?

  There was nothing like the fear that turned his guts sour, that made his sweat stink.

  He didn't want to do it. His mind revolted, urging his feet to cooperate, to take him the hell away from the terror and the madness inside.

  Instead, his feet carried him closer. One step. Then another. Until he ducked beneath the thin yellow tape and entered the darkness.

  * * *

  Cold crawled over his skin, descending on him like a bucket of snow. Thick and heavy and wet, it numbed him and wrapped around him. His heartbeat slowed. His movements were heavy.

  He groped in the darkness for his flashlight and pulled it from the pouch on his hip.

  Light flooded the inside of the container and he wished he didn't see it: blood, too much blood. He heard the echo of the screams in that blood, felt the sound of Hale's knife as it sliced into men's flesh.

  "What the hell happened?" he whispered to the dog. The idea that he was talking to a dog – the very dog Merrick said had named herself – no longer seemed fucking nuts.

  She sat at the end of the container, her back against the farthest wall, in a clean spot among the splattered streaks and handprints.

  This was what violence looked like. It reeked of shit and piss and death.

  The dog sat silently now. No more friendly wags of her tail. No more whuffs. Silent. Stoic.

  Watching.

  Sam had the uncomfortable thought that she'd lured him here to his death. Standing in the middle of that trailer, surrounded by the end of life, he felt his will to live slipping. The fear clung to him, seeping into his pores, whispering that he was already dead, he just didn't know it yet.

  The insanity taunted him, plagued him. Whispered that he was well and truly crazy and he should just give up. Give up wanting to go home. Give up wanting to go back to Faith.

  He didn’t deserve any of that.

  He’d been lying to himself.

  There was no hope for someone like him. No forgiveness.

  He had allowed this to happen. He'd been so focused on other things; he'd missed all the signs that Hale was slipping into madness.

  Guilt, sick and twisted, writhed in his soul. For the rest of his life, he would remember the feeling of standing in that container, the stink of death clinging to his skin, burning into his nostrils.

  He would never get the stain off. It would always be there: permanent, haunting his sleep. Reminding him of what he'd failed to stop.

  Blood streaked across the rivets. Splattered and smeared, it stained the walls. It would never come out. It was seared into the metal. The ghosts of the dead haunted it.

&n
bsp; "They should burn this," he mumbled, scanning the walls with his light. The light flickered, and fear skittered down Sam's spine.

  "What am I supposed to see?" But the dog didn't answer him. Funny, he thought; in this version of reality, the dog should talk to him.

  His light flickered again. "Oh, shit no." He had the sudden, clenching fear that if the light went out, he'd never find his way out of the darkness and back to sanity.

  He shifted and turned slowly, the light illuminating his path down the opposite wall. Bloody, ugly words, written in harsh letters, stopped him short.

  You were bought with a price.

  Sam read the sentence, again and again, until it was branded onto his memory. He glanced at the dog as his light flickered once more, fading this time to complete darkness before sputtering on again.

  "Was that why you brought me here?" he asked her. She didn't move. Sam shook his head. "I must be losing my mind if I think a damn dog is going to answer me," he mumbled.

  He looked back at Hale's last words. Sadness bloomed inside of him, spilling like ink onto a page. Threatening to blind him with tears in the already tenuous light.

  "She will answer you, you know."

  24

  Sam spun at an all-too-familiar voice.

  Merrick.

  Merrick stood in the entrance to the container, his body silhouetted against the fading light outside. He stepped into the beam of Sam's flashlight. His skin was tight and translucent, cast in harsh shadows and black contours.

  Sam's lungs panicked. "You're dead."

  Merrick tsked and took another step closer. His boot made no sound when it touched the wood.

  "I feel pretty good for a dead man," Merrick said with an arrogant smile. "You, however, look like you've had a rough couple of days." He tucked his hands into the pockets of his uniform. “Sleep recently?”

  Sam lifted his weapon, his flashlight cupped beneath the barrel of his M4. "Don't come any closer."

  The light flickered. Merrick snapped his fingers and it flared brighter, brighter than any battery was capable of. The brilliant flash painted the picture on the back of Sam's eyes when he blinked.