Supers Box Set

by Kristofer Bartol

  “Gross.”

  Simple yet harsh bleats leap from the speakers.

  “We were up to all kinds of experiments. Age, color, creed—none of it mattered. We were all one race. Harmony played a big role in it.”

  “Yeah, peace and love?”

  Electric waves sizzle and sing. Drums pound like thunder.

  “Well, sure, but I mean Harmony—the super, Clio Wallace; a fine gal. Real tight with Radiation Brother. While he was off in 'Nam, kicking gooks with Candyman—”

  “Okay; word choice.”

  The strums blare complex, consumed by a lapping blue bonfire.

  “She was up here, touring the big cities and spreading love; oneness; Buddhist principles. I don't know how else to put it. There was a mystical nature about her. She just put everyone at ease.”

  “We could use more of that.”

  “Yeah,” sighs the old man. “It was good while it lasted. She was struck-down on a hot August day, not too long after the same befell the Reverend King.” He wrings his hands. “Radiation Brother went rogue. Days later, Miss Bliss met a similar fate in a valley in the Central Highlands. Then Pharos went rogue and, well, that was the end of the Marvelous Six…" He swallows—throat dry and eyes wet. "That was the end of a lot of things.”

  The strongman shifts his weight. “Damn.”

  The Blue Streak stares at his record player. The vinyl spins but he can't hear it.

  ( II | I )

  Cacophony of steel wind and anger. The sky chortles, cut by a cyclone of swords; loud and unflinching. Airborne tanks—beasts that soar above and beyond, with malicious thirst.

  One descends from on high, belly-first, toward a clearing lit round by phosphorus flares. Its auspicious roar threatens to drown the god who commands this earth with his voice, screaming through the loudspeakers: “Purple Haze, was in my brain / lately things, don't feel the same / actin’ funny, but I don't know why,” he halts, burying his concerns, “‘scuse me, while I kiss the sky.”

  His guitar licks at the ears of one Sergeant Greene who stands, hand pressed against pockmarked olive helmet, looking up at the windbound beast that settles before him. He hunches, running forward with his arm outstretched like a nervous turkey, gripping a black and bruised rifle; heavy metal, the M16—known for being easily overcome by wet soil.

  The airborne tank makes touchdown, spilling forth four men into the dirt. The first three foals run to the butcher but the last lingers, transfixed by the hollow tents and stacked metal crates; all drab olive green, offset by the lush hues of the jungle abound.

  Sgt. Greene approaches him and, with one-sided familiarity, pulls his shoulder, yanking him to his knees. Together they run, heads low, away from the thirsty iron beast that roars again and climbs into the sky, joining the flock that flies north for the summer.

  The sergeant uplifts the lost, sheepish greenhorn, walking him into one of a dozen likewise tents.

  “I'm sure you've already been introduced, but anyway,” the sergeant inhales, “welcome to Vietnam.”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “We had a Private Willoughby get plucked in the gills not too long ago—good kid, bad timing—so you'll be taking his chair at my dinner party.”

  “What?”

  They pass under the tent's aft flap and back into the relentless sunlight.

  “You're with me.”

  “Oh—right, sure.”

  “Say,” the sergeant pumps, “what month is it?”

  “What?”

  “We don't keep calendars out here; the gooks are drawn to ‘em like moths to flame. Yeah, every time we make a place homely enough for a calendar it seems we get blitzed. Last I heard it was May, but the sun—that damn thing—it keeps going up and down, and frankly I can't keep track of it.”

  “Um,” the private cranes, “it's June, last I checked.”

  “Seems about right.”

  They press on, weaving between tents and installations; crates and conversations.

  “So what's your shtick?”

  “What?”

  “You ask a lot of dumb questions. Is that it?”

  “My shtick?”

  “Jesus, yes—your shtick; your angle; what do you do?”

  “I'm a soldier.”

  Sgt. Greene stops, turns, and halts the private in his tracks. He stands a head shorter than the greenhorn and yet, with his intense upward gaze, he somehow seems the taller of the two.

  The sergeant eyeballs the private's chest and then, again, his perplexed and anxious expression. The sergeant scowls.

  “Page, right?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You're not a soldier. I'm barely a soldier. I'm not asking what you're dressed-up as, I'm asking what your shtick is. A guy with quiet eyes like you doesn't set-out from the womb for guns and glory. If you had, you'd have been here in sixty-four. But you weren't. So what's your shtick?”

  “Um,” hems the private, “Business Administration?”

  “Ah,” the sergeant turns, leaving the greenhorn behind.

  Private Page pursues. “What?”

  “No more dumb questions.”

  “No, but sergeant-”

  “Sir or Sergeant Greene.”

  “Sir, what's so appalling about business administration?”

  The sergeant shuffles through a conversation, salutes a passing jeep, and crosses the dirt road.

  The private follows, squinting and hot-eared. “Sir?”

  “Page, let's get three things cleared.” Their path takes them through brush, and trees; mighty palms lifted skyward by prickly trunks. “First, you will follow orders. Obvious, right?”

  “Correct, sir-”

  “Wrong,” he trudges. “You were taught at Basic to follow orders. You were taught what those orders might be. But, when the fray comes,” he looks back, “and the fray will come,” he rights, “you will feel pangs of uncertainty; hesitation; fear.”

  “Sir?”

  “Cowardice gets you killed—or worse, it gets me killed. And I ain't gonna be killed, capiche?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Not by you, and not by no gook, but abso-fucking-certainly not by you, capiche?”

  “I capiche, sir.”

  “I give an order and you adhere, because I know best. Well, I know better than you; if the captain gives an order, forget me and do what he says. And that brings me to Number Two.”

  The sergeant clears a low branch from his face as he walks. He releases it, for the greenhorn to handle, but Private Page missteps and takes a spindle-whip to the neck. He lurches.

  “Page, the Captain is a worldly guy. He's seen everything. He's served in a dozen countries, he's killed hundreds of people, and he's fucked at least three women—so when he has an opinion, it's a pretty validated opinion.”

  “Okay?”

  “Now, the captain hates only six things—six things in the whole world. Everything else is kosher; it's negligible; it's water under the bridge.” The sergeant digs his knees into the hillside, hiking what only loosely qualifies as a path. “In order of vehemence, worse to worst, the captain hates sandals, tardiness, fascists, cowards, commies, and draftees. Now,” he summits the hill, waiting for Private Page to follow, “you don't have sandals, or you better not, but the way the captain sees it, shoes are for covering your feet. If you want your feet exposed, just commit to the native lifestyle and go barefoot. Ain't nothing wrong with going barefoot!”

  Page pulls at tree roots and hearty stones, trying to shorten his embarrassing spectacle of climbing.

  “As for tardiness, that's an easy fix: just don't be an idiot. Same for cowardice. If you don't have survival instincts, listen to someone who does.”

  Page pulls his hips against the hill and digs his knees into the dirt, ascending.

  “I presume you're not a fascist, and I'd hope your not a commie, but there's one glaring issue.” The sergeant kneels and extends his hand, offering leverage to the straining greenhorn. He smiles.

>   Page looks up and takes his hand.

  “You're a draftee,” croons Sgt. Greene. He pulls Pvt. Page to his feet.

  Page glowers. “How'd- yeah, so what?”

  “Captain hates draftees. They're the cowards who don't take this seriously; who don't respect the hierarchy, or the brotherhood, or the orders, even if they're stupid—and oftentimes they're stupid.”

  “I'll follow orders, I promise.”

  The sergeant leads him on. “Yeah, maybe, but you didn't promise anything. You graduated college and Uncle Sam scooped you up by your armpit, issued you a pair of combat boots and a rifle, and handed you over to us. You're here because you have to be; your promises mean nothing.”

  Private Page stays quiet.

  “Draftees don't behave as soldiers, they behave as punished toddlers, and now we have to babysit. Or, more appropriately, the captain has to babysit—and he hates babysitting.”

  “Doesn't sound much of a surprise. My dad's a careerist—always off on assignments—and I always imagined it was more about keeping out of the suburbs than getting ahead in the office, proverbially speaking.”

  “Hey, parenthood isn't for everyone,” the sergeant kicks. “Myself included, and I found that out the hard way. Even the captain has a kid back in the states that he barely knows: some postwar baby that didn't fulfill him the way his brothers-in-arms do. Not enough excitement, he said.” He hems. “Yeah, the captain's a hard nut. He's always been a soldier, and that's all he'll ever be.”

  “Sounds like a real tender-hearted sonofabitch.”

  “He'd love it if you told him that.”

  “Sure he would.”

  The sergeant smiles. They crest a hill and make for a defilade—erected in the reverse-slope of a valley, a mere a jaunt away—amidst the discharge of mortarfire across the basin plain. Crackling thumps herald the whistles of death.

  Page stomachs his question, at first, but ultimately asks, “Who is the captain?”

  “Ah, right,” Greene points, “the third thing you need to know: You drew the short straw.”

  Page hesitates in his gait. He stutters.

  “That's right, although, you didn't really choose—Johnson and McNamara did—but you are not prepared for this, and you need to know it going in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An uncharacteristic smart question, Page; I like that,” he hums. “I've served alongside the captain for over two years, and when I first joined the Big Red One I had no idea what I was getting into. I proved myself in Basic, and—not to jerk my own dick, but—I was pretty damn excellent. Someone sent my name upline and I found myself in the care of the Candyman, unprepared for the real world of war.”

  “The Candyman?”

  “The captain, the Candyman. The most revered soldier of America's recent past. He stormed Africa in forty-two, Sicily in forty-three, Normandy in forty-four, Germany in forty-five; Japan, Korea, Hungary, China, the list goes on. The guy's a legend. He taught me everything I know about combat, including but not limited to reading battlefields, running strategy, leading troops—hell, I'd likely be dead if I'd had any other C.O., but no… I had the Candyman.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I can imagine you're nervous. What you might not have realized, however, is that our platoon deals primarily with irregular combat. Atypical orders, atypical situations. We have a great super on our team—Radiation Brother; a heavy specialist out of Manhattan—if that means anything to you.”

  “I'm not sure.”

  Greene stops the greenhorn on the threshold of the sandbag bastion. “Look, Page, if you're here right now, it's because someone wanted you here. You don't get attached to our unit unless the big boys think you have the chops. And, frankly, as a limp-wristed, dick-shivering draftee, I can't understand what qualities someone saw in you that prompted the idea that you were cut-out for us. Because you don't look it. But you must be, so keep your head down and follow orders.”

  Page swallows, black-eyed. “I understand, sir.”

  “Good.”

  They enter the stronghold: a cargo net-covered courtyard wrought of sand-filled sacks and repurposed olive-metal crates, caching canned food while retaining dirt walls. A bevy of dirtied, sullen, bare-armed men polish shoes and rifles. A row of mortar emplacements, set upon an open sky, perform a well-oiled and rhythmic barrage of faraway borders.

  One soldier—his sleeves long-removed and his chest shining with sweat—sleeps in the slightest of shade offered by a redoubt beneath the mortars. There, in the citadel of sand beyond the unencumbered grunt, five lean and clean bodies clad in spandex and stripes stand, idly, as if waiting for a green light.

  “Who are they?” the private asks.

  Greene turns and grins, eyelids lowering. “You're shitting me.”

  “Why; what?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “What?”

  “Shit, man, what planet are you from? Jesus Christ, Page, did you spend college with your nose buried in books?”

  “I had to study.”

  “Study fucking what?”

  “Business adminis-”

  “Those are the goddamn Marvelous Six—how d’you not recognize them?”

  “I only count five.”

  “Well, there used to be seven.”

  “That's screwy.”

  “Miss Bliss and the Marvelous Six. There's seven.”

  “But there's actually five?”

  “Christ,” Sgt. Greene gripes, “well—first of all, Wraith opted out of Vietnam. Said she didn't believe in ‘American interventionism’ or whatever. Last I heard she lives in Montréal. Renounced her citizenship.”

  “Well, I can't argue with that. I didn't want to be here either.”

  “Then, uh, Helios—son o' the Lady Liberty and Hyperion—got shot out of the sky late last year; anti-air flak. The monsoons kept him above the clouds, and it was just a matter of time.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” the sergeant steams, “a real bummer. He was the group's first member—after Miss Bliss and Boy Cumulus, of course.”

  “Boy Cumulus?”

  “Yeah, that chipper fella in the yellow onesie. Flies around on a small cloud; controls the weather. Rain, hail, wind, snow, lightning—fucking all kinds of weather, man. Formed a team with Miss Bliss in sixty-three and soon-after relinquished command to her. I always imagined he didn't want the spotlight; that or she just made for a more photogenic frontman.”

  “What's she do?”

  “Portals. Well, strategy, too; she's no armchair general but I wouldn't quite call her Genghis Khan either. More charismatic, though—and smokin’ hot, right? I'd fuck her, anyway—but I wouldn't recommend slipping her a side-eye let alone a slick digit. See that James Dean-wannabe beside her? That's Pharos, her loverboy.” He scoffs. “Guy thinks he's Steve McQueen or something. You wouldn't catch me saying that to his face, but everyone I know thinks he's a jack-off.”

  “What's his deal?”

  “Tough hide, tougher pride. That and shooting fucking explosive beams from his eyes. Guy's a hot head, three scars away from going insane and burning this country to the ground. Not that that would be a bad thing, but…”

  “I can't believe the government would contract such a liability.”

  “Well, you know Uncle Sam: Gotta win the war at all costs. If the commies have Brute Soldier, Common Man, and Major Disaster, well, we need our loose cannons all the same.”

  “I wouldn't say that's a smart way to win a war. Imagine if our rifles were sentient, and had autonomy, and opinions, and complex social networks—they'd kill us all.”

  “War is messy. Sometimes all it takes to turn a tide is a big gun and a crazy motherfucker.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You'll learn soon enough,” he scoffs. “Intellectuals like you don't understand modern warfare. This isn't the goddamn Hundred Years’ War, man. We're not calling columns of cavalry against lancers and bowmen. Ain't no trebuchets; ain
't no musketmen on bended knee, lined shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to get shot like it's Antietam. There ain't no rules, and there ain't no limits. It's dog-eat-dog. Do you think the slopes play nice? Huh? With their hiding in trees; their spike pits; their running rat tunnels under our bunks and ambushing us when we're sleeping? Yeah, the more pan-faced motherfuckers they throw at us, the more I wish Lyndon would empty our prisons, ship the muggers and murderers west, and then set 'em loose on the gooks. If you ask me, the more crazy we can get, the better.”

  “That explains why they sent over seven.”

  “Psh, only one of them is actually crazy. Raze is a little temperamental—the redhead there—but her beau cools her down. She could burn a village to the ground with a sneeze—hence her name.”

  “Who's her beau?”

  “The tall one, there—Sentinel—but we call him Watchdog on account of his being our ever-loyal nightwatchman. Guy can see in the dark, and even through some objects. He's got some incredible peepers, let me tell you—and ears as acute as a buck's; and these vibes that sound-off when there's something foul brewing. He's like the perfect partner for reconnaissance. They've got him rooting through the borderlines for supply chains they call ‘the Ho Chi Minh Trail.’ He's the fucking coolest, and he's easy to beat at poker. Great guy.” The sergeant calls over to the sentinel, “Hey Watchdog!”

  The sentinel, playing for yuks, salutes him in reply.

  Sgt. Greene walks the private to the back-end of the sandbag basecamp, to a large tan tent emerging from a dusty hillside. Lounging outside the canvas cavern are a platoon of twenty-five men—black, white, and hispanic; stocky, lean, and chiseled. Few spare the moment to acknowledge their arrival.

  Greene identifies seven of these battered men with a careless finger. “That's Price, Sullivan, Dyer, Hudson, Bender, Zagorac, and Miller.” Three give a nod. One speaks.

  Page raises a hand to wave with a short smile.

  "These are my guys," the sergeant says, "and now they're your guys, too, so don't piss 'em off."

  From within the tent emerges a towering, barrel-chested man with muscles bulging from his arms, abdomen, and neck. The dew on his ebony skin shimmers in the sunlight. He wears a leather jacket—unfastened and loose—with tassles hanging below the arms like a beaded curtain that leads to the rest of the world.