The Traiteur's Ring

by Jeffrey Wilson

  As the blue light spread over him, the man’s flesh began to melt, falling to the ground in huge chunks. Ben watched from some faraway place as the bloody, bearded face slid off like a fleshy, hideous mask and landed in a steaming pile on the floor. A moment later, the terrorist shed like a burning snake the rest of his outer shell and the red-skinned demon creature stood before him, thrashing violently under the unleashed power of the Rougarou.

  Ben felt anger, hatred for the creature that twisted in the blue light in front of him, and love – love for his team, for his wife, for Jewel – for his son. The emotions churned, coursing through his body. It seemed like gasoline on the fire of the blue light that poured from him with a ferocity that made him feel like he might explode in fragmented pieces. A bat-like shriek echoed off the walls from the wide open, snarling snout of the creature. Then, the red skin of the lumpy head and face began to smoke – and then boil – a moment later the creature evaporated in a cloud of smoke and foul smelling steam. The scream echoed down the tunnel and was gone.

  Ben collapsed forward and caught himself painfully on outstretched arms. The world spun around him in a terrible vertigo, and he tasted blood and bile in his throat. Then, the room went black, and he felt himself slip away.

  Chapter 47

  “What the hell was that?” Chris’s voice sounded tense but not afraid, and Reed spun around to the sound they both heard behind them. He aimed his rifle carefully, placed the red-dot center mass in the terrorist’s chest, but just as he started to squeeze the trigger, the image came into real focus and for a second he froze.

  The terrorist had only one arm – the left arm had been torn away a few inches below the shoulder – except for half of a foot of ragged bone that ended just above where the elbow would have been. He also had a gigantic hole in his chest through which Reed could see the grayish-green heart convulse periodically in some sort of spastic beat. The man’s throat had been torn out, and his head ended in a bloody hole just above his eyebrows – the rest blown away, likely from a high-caliber round from the snipers.

  It took Reed less than a second to take the image in, and then he re-sighted his rifle at the man who could not possibly be alive. Before he fired, he heard Chris’s rifle explode and drown out his teammate’s “What in the fuckin’ hell?” Then, Reed squeezed his own trigger twice.

  One round tore away the right side of the terrorist’s remaining face, one hit him in the stump that remained of his left arm, and the third blew away the bottom portion of the spastic heart in the chest. In response, the man dropped to one knee, steadied himself with the rifle in his remaining arm, and then slowly stood back up. Reed felt his mouth drop open at the impossible sight and felt his rifle drop towards the ground. His shocked mind was no longer able to send the proper signals to his body.

  “I’m dreaming this,” he whispered.

  “What the shit?” Chris screamed.

  And then the corpse raised the AK-47 just as Reed finally noticed the second, equally mutilated, corpse beside the first. Both AK-47s erupted, their muzzle flashes blinding in his NVGs, and Reed felt the hot rounds tear through his body. His last thought before the world turned grey was that gunshot wounds hurt like shit, unlike what he had heard before and remembered from his last injuries.

  Reed felt the world tilt violently back and forth and worried he would vomit and then choke in his own puke. He tasted blood and something else – bile maybe – and stared at the hazy image a few inches from his face. It took a moment for his brain to identify it as Chris’s boot. He saw it looked covered in blood – black in the green world of the NVGs which somehow were still in front of his eyes. Reed tried to push up with his arms, to get his face out of the dirt, but he found with a sort of detached interest that his body would not do anything he told it to do. He felt like he still breathed, could hear a bubbly kind of noise that he thought might be his breath – though it could have just as likely been Chris, he supposed. He turned his head slightly and focused slowly on a tennis shoe-covered foot. As he did, he felt with some sort of sixth sense that the terrorist’s rifle was aimed at his head.

  He felt incredibly calm and sort of not really there.

  I guess I’m dead. Isn’t that a son of a bitch? I hope Ben is okay.

  Then he felt the cold metal of the rifle barrel against his temple, and he closed his eyes softly.

  Fuck me.

  There was a brilliant flash of blue light and a horrible scream which he assumed was the rifle shot and his own last dying gasp – except that he still felt, well, everything. He felt the burning pain in his chest and belly and a coldness in both feet. Then, he heard a wet thud and tasted dirt in his mouth. Reed squeezed his eyes shut to clear the tears that blurred his vision, and then registered the mutilated face of the terrorist, the top of the head still missing. As he watched a faint orange glow faded in the milky eyes and winked out.

  Then, the world really did turn black.

  * * *

  Ben opened his eyes and his first thought was of Reed and Chris outside in the tunnel. He scrambled painfully to his feet as every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He had heard of horrible muscle pain in victims of electrocution, and he imagined it felt exactly like this. He also had a nasty, charred wood taste in his mouth – as if he had taken a big bite of the ash in the bottom of a fireplace. He guessed the taste may have been the source of his thoughts about electrocution. His eyes were drawn to a black circle in the middle of the room (which now had a soft blue glow instead of red). The charred circle was all that marked what had happened and looked like the remnants of a bonfire but with all the wood and soot removed. He did see one red, high-top tennis shoe lying on its side at the periphery of the charred circle. A thin tendril of bluish smoke rose from the otherwise empty shoe.

  Ben shook his head and then limped towards the entrance to the room and out into the tunnel. The sight that greeted him squeezed his chest and throat, and he struggled not to vomit.

  Reed lay face down, his head turned away from Ben and his arms at his sides. He lay in a lake of his own dark blood. Chris lay on his back at a ninety degree angle to Reed, his booted right foot only a few inches from Reed’s face. His cammie pants were soaked and glistening with blood, but more terrifying was the round hole in his forehead just above his left eye. A mutilated – and now clearly lifeless – terrorist corpse had crumpled on top of Chris, what was left of the head across his right thigh. The one remaining eye was open and held no orange glow. A few yards away lay the discombobulated heap of another body – another bad guy he saw with some relief.

  Ben raced to Reed’s side and gently rolled him over. His best friend’s eyes flickered, unseeing. His mouth opened and closed like a guppy spilled out of its bowl onto the bathroom floor. Ben heard a sob escape his own throat.

  “Reed – Oh, God, Reed, I’m so sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry, Reed.” Then, the tears spilled out of his eyes and he cried uncontrollably. He felt Reed’s shoulders tense rhythmically as he struggled for breath.

  Ben lay his friend back in the dirt and stared at the unseeing eyes that moved back in forth beneath grayish lids. Then, he reached out and placed both hands on Reed’s chest. The familiar warm vibration began immediately, and he saw the ring turn to a pulsating orange. Then, his vision blurred with a milky white halo, and he closed his eyes tightly.

  He could feel the heat in both of his arms and a moment later his mouth turned coppery with the taste of blood. He felt an excruciating, ripping pain in both sides of his chest. He felt suddenly unable to breathe as his chest got heavy and his lungs filled with the murky liquid death. He fought away the dizziness and kept both hands on his best friend’s chest, intent on taking all of his pain and all of his wounds.

  Blood filled his mouth and, unable to find the strength to spit, he opened his lips, letting it pour over his chin. He felt the warm and sticky wetness spill over his chest. He felt the world tilt and became aware that his hands had lost contact with Reed, but he couldn�
�t stop the momentum and fell painfully on his side next to his friend.

  Ben could hear his own moaning and the bizarre vibration throughout his entire body. But he could think only about his painful, desperate need for air. He heard a bubbling sound each time he strained to suck in a breath and would have screamed, if only he could get some Goddamn air.

  Slowly the heaviness began to ebb and just as his consciousness started to fade he felt a little puff work its way into his chest. He pushed it back out with all of his might, and then sucked again and this time felt a much bigger gulp slowly expand his burning chest. It took great effort – like trying to breathe through a three-foot long straw, but eventually his lungs filled with sweet oxygen. He again squeezed down to force it back out as he felt his mind clearing. The next breath came easier – and the next – until he breathed almost normally, a throbbing headache replaced his dizziness.

  Ben opened his eyes and shook his head. He found his face to be only inches from Reed’s, and although his friend’s eyes were closed, he saw his skin now looked pink and healthy. His breath went in and out of his open mouth with normal ease. Dried blood caked on Reed’s face, but no longer bubbled out of his mouth. He struggled to his knees on the hard floor of the tunnel next to his best friend.

  There were four black holes in Reed’s vest and Ben tore apart the Velcro flaps that held it in place. Beneath the body armor the same four holes looked back at him from Reed’s Cammie shirt and beneath that his T-shirt. Both were completely soaked in reddish death. Ben tore the T-shirt away.

  The skin of Reed’s chest beneath his clothes was also soaked in blood, and Ben smeared it away to get a better look. He stared in joy and disbelief at the smooth, unblemished skin beneath the bullet holes in Reed’s clothes. The chest rose and fell slowly and softly, with apparent ease.

  I did it. I fuckin’ did it. He’s gonna be okay.

  Then he turned and shuffled on his knees over to Chris. He pushed what was left of the corpses head off of the legs of his team mate and looked him over. From the waist down, his cammies were soaked in blood and Ben saw two bullet holes on Chris’s right hip where the high velocity rounds had torn through his pelvis, no doubt shattering it and his hip joints. God only knew how much damage they did on their way through. Those injuries would be devastating – he doubted if he survived he could ever again walk – but they were the least of his problems. Ben stared at the dark round hole in his friend’s forehead as he felt for a pulse in Chris’s neck – there was none.

  Ben felt the tears flow down his cheeks. Chris should be at home with his wife – not dead in some dirty tunnel in the middle of nowhere thousands of miles away. Ben realized with great pain, that if not for him, that was exactly where Chris would be.

  He’s dead because of me. I killed him as sure as if I’d shot him myself.

  Your destiny was no longer yours to choose, Ben.

  He turned and looked at the old man who squatted on the floor beside him.

  “Fuck that,” he hollered. “These men are my family, and Chris is dead because of me. How do I fix that? How?” He wiped the tears violently from his face. “Can I heal him? Can I heal him even if he is dead?”

  The spirit is still in your friend, and the life is not gone yet from him, so it is possible. It is not likely you could survive, though. You are weak already from healing the other, and it would take time to replace the life energy you have used.

  Ben looked back at Chris and for a moment thought of Christy and his son, still inside her. Then, he thought of Viper Team and how they had all come here with him. None had even understood why he had to be here, but they had come anyway.

  I love you, Christy. I love you, and I love our son.

  He concentrated with all his might, and once he was sure the heart message would make it to his wife, he reached out and placed his hands on Chris. Again the world took on a milky white blurriness and he took a long, slow tactical breath and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  It took Reed a moment to remember just where the hell he was, and when he did he sat up. With one hand, he frisked his body for wounds and with the other snatched his rifle out of the dirt. He sensed more than heard movement to his right and spun in that direction, raising his rifle to a firing position just as his heart beat accelerated at the feel of warm, sticky wetness on his bare chest. The memory came exploding into his head – the zombie-like corpses firing their rifles at him and Chris.

  He saw Ben.

  He kept his rifle up in a one-handed grip and scanned a circle around them as his left hand continued its search for the holes in his flesh that had to be there. He remembered the bullets tearing into his chest, and he was covered in blood. But he found no holes.

  And, I’m awake and standing here for Christ sake, so let it go for now.

  There was no one in the tunnel except him, Ben who knelt over Chris’s body, and the now-motionless corpses. Had he dreamed the whole Goddamn shooting? But then why was he covered in blood ,and why the shit was he naked from the waist up?

  “Ben?” he called out.

  But Ben stayed kneeled over their officer, who Reed now saw was unmoving and covered in blood. His best friend seemed to moan as he rocked back and forth but as he listened the soft moan sounded more like a chant in some strange language he had never heard. He felt a weird sort of déjà vu.

  He walked around his teammates, his rifle now limp in his grip. As he circled around to the front of Ben, he saw his friend’s eyes were open. Even in the soft bluish light, which he now noticed seemed to actually emanate from Ben, he could see their milky-white appearance. It was less like a film over his eyes and more like Ben’s eyes were filled from the inside with a white smoke that swirled around behind his corneas.

  Ben’s hands rested on Chris’s chest, and Reed saw the flickering beams that seemed to dance around his hands and arms, pulsing from his fingers.

  He knew that Chris was dead. The dark hole in his forehead and unseeing eyes told the whole story, and he felt his throat tighten at the loss. He thought for a moment about Emily and how her world would unravel when she found out her husband had died in the service of his country. He had seen it too many friggin’ times.

  “Ben,” he called out softly again.

  His mind went suddenly to the dream – the dream of Ben with his hands glowing blue, surrounded by flickering white light. He remembered the ring – that damn ring – glowing orange and the energy that came from his fingertips.

  He watched Ben chant, his eyes swirling with the white smoke, his hands glowing, the ring pulsating orange, and he knew. He knew it had not been a dream.

  Or else I’m dreaming now.

  But he knew that wasn’t true. He knelt beside Ben and began to cry.

  “Please, Ben,” he whispered. “Please save him.”

  As he watched the little firefly lights seemed to fill the hole in Chris’s head. He saw they danced around the back of his skull where the huge exit wound almost certainly dumped blood and brains into the dirt behind it. Reed gasped as the hole in his team mate’s head began to lighten, and the edges pulled together, filling in.

  He excitedly slapped Ben on the back, but his smile disappeared when he felt warm stickiness there. Reed looked at his hand which was covered now in bright red blood and watery grey gore. He leaned left, and to his horror saw a large gaping hole in the back of Ben’s head. As he watched the hole grew, and blood poured out onto his best friend’s neck.

  “Ben,” he screamed, this time in terror.

  Then, Ben pitched forward face-first into the dirt.

  * * *

  Ben raised the warm glass of iceless lemonade to his lips and waited for his Gammy to speak. He felt a crushing sadness at what he had left behind, but he had no regret. He had done only what he had to. He was a SEAL. He was also a Traiteur.

  There had really been no choice to make.

  Gammy patted the back of his hand and sipped her own drink. She turned to him and smiled the wa
y he remembered from his childhood. It was the smile that said your scraped knee hurts now, but it’s gonna be alright, chile, and you gonna be jess fine. He smiled back.

  “No room for no sadness now, chile. Gammy’s as proud as can be now. You done been turn inna one helluva a man.” She patted his hand again. “You done been a sight good Traiteur, too, no doubt dat.”

  “What about my family?” he asked and felt his eyes swell with tears. “Who will look after them?”

  “Look affa them yo’ own self, I expect,” his Gammy said patiently.

  He sighed a pain-filled sigh.

  “Is that how it works?”

  His Gammy said nothing, but patted his hand again and then sipped her lemonade.

  “I did what I had to do,” he said and sipped his sweet, warm drink.

  “Did whatcha had to do,” she agreed. “’Course now you always did, chile. Ever since dat night, dincha?”

  Ben thought a moment. He didn’t really know.

  He saw the fire – saw it swallowing up his home and could almost feel its heat. He could also feel the tears on his young cheeks as he stood there alone in the woods. He remembered the figures in the fire, flames consuming them as still they grappled with each other. And, he remembered her voice – soft and gentle as always, a grandma’s voice – telling him to run. She told him where to go, who to find, and what to say.