Supers Box Set

by Kristofer Bartol

  “Calypso’s got all her wits about her. Her psychic energy schtick is something to be wary of, but if you focus too much on that you’ll let your guard down where it really matters—your constitution. She’s wily; real smart and sly, and with a biting tongue. She’ll talk you into trouble—trouble with the law, trouble with yourself, trouble with your wife… Vixen learned her craft from Calypso, and they ran in similar circles, but never together. It was like evading one fox only to get nipped by the other. Always wanted something from ya.

  “Like any man, I must admit, I was charmed. Sometimes even afflicted… I’ve played their game, both knowingly and unknowingly… They sure know their way around a conversation.”

  “My dad ever make conversation?”

  “Well, I can’t speak for him-”

  “But you’ve heard the legends. You’ve ran in ‘similar circles.’ ‘You went toe-to-toe.’ Any pillow talk arise?”

  “Shit, Mike,” the ebony giant glowers, “‘pillow talk’ my ass. What’re you sayin’?”

  “‘Did my dad ever fuck anyone outside of his marriage’ is what I’m ask-”

  “No, no, you’re insinuating I did, too,” Ajax prods. “You’re sayin’ I fell to the vices; that I cheated on my honey—and I told you, I didn’t. Flirting, sure—conversation, like I said. Sometimes those things happen. There’s no indecency in sharing words; in sharing words and getting those old butterflies in your chest, knowing full-well you won’t do anything physical to ruin what you have with the one you love.”

  “Getting a rise out of-”

  “Fuck you, ‘rise’! There’s no rise! Flirting is all mental—an immeasurable tease and tango—it doesn’t get your rocks off! I didn’t sleep with anyone outside Harmony, no less some leather-clad foxes running across rooftops and burgling penthouses. I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else, and I’m offended you’d suggest such a thing.”

  “Alright, sorry-”

  “And Mike?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can go an’ fuck yourself.”

  Mike waves off Radiation Brother and walks to the aft of the patrol boat, leaning against the cold railing as the rain seems, without proof, to fall harder. The tail gunner, leaning against his mounted .50 cal, leers listless at the greenhorn, and Mike pretends not to feel his gaze.

  The wake of the last boat parts the river, splitting it down its thalweg like the belly of a butchered hog; carving-out the path of the waterborne convoy that drives onward, and onward, through the canopied bosque.

  As the river widens, this canopy recedes, bisecting the dendritic shawl, receiving the rain with open arms; bowing verdant limbs and bushels over the water like spectators craning to glimpse something special. The heartiest of vegetation swells beyond their sandbars, constricting the channel into a winding narrows, far from the river's swale; thick with drooping riparian grass.

  The boats slow, navigating each curve and bend with caution; rumbling motors and churning froth. The rain falls in reams, drenching the prevailing arborescence; making slick the iron ships; obscuring the world as if behind fogged glass.

  The canal snakes into a straightaway lined with ferns and crowning fronds, blooming again with mangroves at the junction of harsh waters—the canal's confluence with its attributor, an angry avenue of marbled browns, churning blues, and torquing foam, roaring through the mire of boggy tropicana.

  The convoy departs its faithful greenway, here, turning sharp into the coursing river, against its lively flow—the sopping thoroughfare awakened by the storm above. Engorged with runoff. Surging, churning; turbid with sediments. Roiling wide, bleak, and ornery; discouraging all swimmers.

  The upstream undercurrent breaks on imperceptible antidunes, snapping brackish water stossward—against the flow, airborne, for only long enough to be noticed—and back into the pungent brine, rippling away with the rest of the meltwater.

  These murky waters slosh on deck, glistening Uncle Sam’s iron, and spilling over the sides—an entrancing ploy, like aquatic nymphs twirling for attention; beckoning overboarders with each riffle ridden.

  A sisyphean half-mile—traversed only by necessity—against a torrent that demands as much patience as fortitude.

  Ahead, looming over the virile jungle, towers a sheer karst cliff; a smooth, slate-gray, limestone edifice pockmarked with eroded craters and bespeckled with stubborn foliage. A thin river snakes below this weathered visage—a slow distributary, diverging from the main flow; separating the karst monument from a small village, perched on the inside of the riverbend.

  A product of its environment, the riparian village stands—erect but weary—of indigenous bamboo and thatched reeds, built upon a hill against the jungle dark. Three canoes linger, beached, on the sands below.

  The convoy moors. Boots go over the side and splash into the mired shallows. Salutations shared, and the patrol boats embark again upriver, against the seething current, with rumbling motors and churning froth.

  Pvt. Page cradles his rifle and trudges the slough to its shore, digging his heels into the crunching sand.

  The village whispers. Its bamboo faces creak, swollen with rain and tired of standing. Doorways spill shadow. Thatchwork funnels rain into rivulets, pouring off the eaves in a thousand thalassic knickpoints.

  The platoon marches up the beach, scanning the deserted village for signs of the contrary.

  PFC Zagorac signals Page to follow him, up the rightmost structure’s runway; boots acutely clomping on the wood tread. Bracing the walls on either side of the doorway; sweeping in, looking left and right; dark, and empty. A table and some baskets, stacked. Herbs hung from the ceiling posts.

  They pass through to an elevated walkway, spanning to the next structure; cleared. Hammocks and sacks. Two fowl cages of bundles twigs and twine. Boom, pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

  Gunshots echo from across the road. To the window, throwing aside its ratty sunscreen, Zagorac and Page spy starbursts within the ramshackle huts before them. Wild screams, and a body tossed out the window—a torn gook, with his bare chest spilling important meat.

  Shouts of “CLEAR” ring-out, and Sgt. Greene leans around the corner to mention a second deceased inside; the two treacherous slopes, he says, were in possession of American rifles.

  A shawl of silence falls around their shoulders, first disturbing, and vexing; smoldering in their stomachs—a quiet, hot rage—boiling and uncomfortable; torminum.

  Sgt. Greene then finds a hatch—a creaking portion of floor beneath a woven mat—leading down to a basement, a compact complex of tunneled dirt. A push-button ignites a dim string of electric lights.

  He hollers out, “I found what those two stuck around for!” and he descends.

  The incandescence of the simple strand illuminates the hollowed bulbous nests, the carved dirt walls, and the stacked caches of weapons and ammunition.

  “Shit,” Sgt. Greene exhales; his complexion loose.

  Along the walls hang racks of harvesting tools, recently stone-sharpened: arced-steel sickles, crescent-bladed billhooks, and long-necked, culling aruvals. In one corner stand a score of five-foot tubes, each labeled “TORPEDO, BANGALORE M1A1.” Posted nearby is a map of the area. Four familiar olive-green metal chests stand on the left, and Sgt. Greene goes to them immediately.

  He pries open a crate with the butt of his rifle, uncovering an array of absconded American armaments: the classic M16 automatic, black and versatile, with a thick stock tapered toward a barrel wrapped in its trademark noisemaker grip; the AR-15 Commando, ribbed carbine based on the prior, favoring urban combat; the generic Belgian FN FAL, automatic and sheen, with a muzzle break to smother recoil; the legendary Springfield M1903 bolt-action rifle of warm brown wood, thin and iron-strapped, with a top-loading open clip; and the China Lake pump-action grenade launcher, with its square body, tubular throat, and flip-up leaf iron sights.

  After retrieving his jaw from the floor, Sgt. Greene reports up the ladder shaft of his find.

  He pri
es open another crate—matte grey; one of twenty—with the butt of his rifle.

  Inside are the undemocratic hand-me-downs of the Second World War, bestowed upon the Viet Cong by Russian war-hoarders when the new empire was purging its attic: their own leftover bolt-action Mosin–Nagant rifles, pan-fed DP-27 LMGs, and submachine buzzsaw PPSh-41s, as well as the 41's tin-can-byproduct cousin, the PPS-43; confiscated from the battlefields of Germany, bolt-action Kar98k rifles, automatic Sturmgewehr StG-44s, durable MP40 submachines, and the French MAT49; Chinese donations of the Type 50 and K-50M submachines, as well as the arms of their former Japanese violators—bolt-action Type 38 rifles, Type 99 semis and LMGs, Type 30 carbines, and Type 100 submachines.

  He calls it a staging ground, “But the kiddies are away on holiday. Shall we leave them a gift?”

  Private Dyer smiles down the shaft. “Oh, but I have nothing to wrap it with.”

  He drops two canvas satchels into Greene’s arms.

  “Perhaps settle this one,” dropping a third, “beside those bangalores.”

  Greene exaggerates a wink—pointing to his eye for emphasis.

  Dyer smiles.

  Two minutes later, the hut jumps six inches over a muffled boom. The earth around the base of the hut sags, sinking; taking much of the hut’s support beams; collapsing the interior of the structure and pulling the walls down into a heap of splintered, battered bamboo.

  Dyer, Greene, and the Candyman each lob an AN-M14 incendiary grenade upon the bamboo heap, erupting the former hut with splatters and spurts of glorious thermite—an orange pyre spitting streaks and sparks like a firework, burning with rage.

  The platoon regroups below, on the path into another jungle; creeping through the dismal understory—unwelcoming, dark, and dripping.

  They press onward, one cautious step at a time, and between them float the colic whispers of caustic questions; the journalistic rigamarole… Why were only two men left to guard this village? Where are the rest of the Viet Cong? When did they leave, and when were they supplied? Who outfitted and armed them? What strategic purpose does this secret firebase serve? And—above all else—How did they acquire American armaments?

  Were our corpses stripped and vandalized? Were our shipments seized or sunk? Were we ambushed or raided somewhere nearby? Or did it all come from the North? Questions without answers.

  The platoon treads the jungle path and out, beyond the treeline, to an expanse of marsh and a rain-soaked berm. The grey sky curves towards them from the horizon. Six hollow thumps echo through the air, followed by a chorus of whistles, prolonged and impending.

  Candyman shouts, “They have us zeroed!” waving his arm and ordering his men, “Into the water!”

  Two-dozen men dive into the murky brown, splashing and swimming away from the berm; dividing themselves into two uneven units. The missiles land in a thunderous sequence, pummeling the embanked path into a crater that fills quickly with marshwater.

  Pvt. Page surfaces from the paddy, gasping for air and looking around. Blasted dirt falls misty among the rain, sprinkling down as droplets of fine mud on Page's wet face and stringy hair.

  His eyes achieve focus on his father's swooping arm, beckoning his men onward. He notices, across the berm, that Sgt. Greene and his squad are surging through the marsh—away from him.

  Greene hollers to his men and waves them up an embankment, into the ferns where the mortars have not yet fallen.

  Page turns back to his father, the Candyman, who is looking at him directly, commanding with an outstretched arm and sunburnt scowl. The sinew in his neck bulges visible beneath his skin.

  The greenhorn feels himself swishing, slogging, trudging through the murk; lifting his rifle up and high-stepping to the embankment. The Candyman's curdling growl loudens as his ears regain their sense—hearing orders to move up towards the artillery, to end the enfilade.

  The thumping sounds again, and whistles.

  Page hurdles the embankment and sprints through the ferns. His father trails beside him, barking orders and encouragement; pacing himself to remain only as fast as his son.

  Mortars fall behind them—thumping, whistling, thundering—cratering the earth, expelling soft soil and torn vegetation like the mist of a wet cough.

  “Move your ass!” Candyman strains. “Faster! Faster or you're dead!”

  Page pumps his arms, sprinting; panting; pushing off the ground with every step—and yet great speed evades him.

  Candyman runs alongside his son, craning his head to bend Michael's ear, “They're repositioning on us, Mikey! You gotta hustle! Shake the lead out! Charlie's got his sights on you!”

  Mortars fall around them—deafening bombardment; airburst clods and metals shards.

  “Move, Mike!” the Candyman prods. “Imagine there's a carrot cake waiting for you at the treeline! Are you gonna let Charlie eat your cake?”

  Mike furrows his brow and snorts steam.

  “Think how moist that cake is!”

  Mike boils inside, tapping into a reservoir of rage; an adrenaline rush, overdriving his legs like a train engine gaining momentum—an unstoppable stride.

  He sprints, toward the treeline and away from the mortar fire; away from his father.

  Candyman cheers, “Yeah! There we go Mike!” and chases after his son.

  Michael slides into cover behind a fallen tree, at the rear of his comrades’ assault. The platoon ahead of him have taken positions behind earthworks and trees, leering out at the armed slopes; engaging in a boyish catch-and-return of ammunition.

  Candyman falls-in beside him, grinning. “Now you’ve got it!”

  He pokes his rifle over the log and fires down the line. Michael follows in turn.

  The platoon forces the gooks into a tactical retreat. Everyone moves north.

  Father and son burst forward, hurdling their cover and running through the jungle.

  Artillery thumps again in the distance—a rumbling that seems to whisper, honeyed and sly, their names; beckoning them like a schoolyard seeker on the prowl for prying eyes.

  The thunder whistles and falls with the raindrops, cracking the weald; shaking the earth; filling the jungle with a wicked and wise smoke—white billows that riffle and swirl as they expand, molded by the conflict of subcanopial temperatures.

  Candyman’s geniality vanishes in the heat of the sprint. He scowls, seeing all shades of red—and white, and blue.

  He and Pvt. Page arrive on their platoon’s defensive line, though the seething Candyman rushes through and onward, into the gooks’ carved clearing; their outpost of artillery guns and munitions caches.

  The gooks look on, bewildered, at the old man who has burst the line to run amok among them, brazen and careless. He takes advantage of their disbelief, sprinting upon their battlements; unclasping two grenades, and unpinning one, tossing it, and jumping—while unpinning the other—before the artillery cannon; plunging the second grenade down the cannon’s barrel and diving away.

  The artillery device explodes—metallic, delayed roar, like a slain beast; hurling iron shards, erupting in flame.

  Candyman, on one knee, looks back to his platoon with star-spangled eyes.

  Page and his compatriots receive his gaze like a warm bath, imbuing them with courage and vigor, and they sprint—all but flag-waving—off the line, with berserkers’ eyes and the Sioux’s warcry; cheering, like Pickett’s brigade, storming across the land with bayonets raised.

  Candyman scorns the slopes that turn their backs, punishing them with copper hellfire. He spurs his men with slogans and certainty; and, to his son, he panders.

  “Give it to ‘em!” “Take no prisoners!” “Remember the Alamo!”

  Page grows hot behind the ears, pushing his body to its limits; subsisting on adrenaline.

  “Faster, Mikey! Reload!” Always behind him, with restless instruction. “On your feet!”

  Page fumes, nostrils flaring. His breath escapes him.

  “Lay it on ‘em!” the Ca
ndyman barks. “Move!”

  Page fires until his rifle runs dry. He drops the old magazine and pulls forth another.

  “Come on! Hustle!”

  Straining under command, he fumbles, dropping the mag in the exchange.

  “Goddamnit!” Candyman lurches down, swiping the mag from the mud. He takes Mike’s rifle and, as he shoves the new mag in with a click, Mike relinquishes his rifle altogether, unholsters his pistol, and marches away from his father, firing with frenzied precision upon the gooks.

  Candyman glares ahead; his brow both furrowed and raised; his jowls both tense and taut.

  The blitzkrieg refuses to wane, and tired tan bodies hit the dirt. Few remain to stand; an inevitable cesspool of rot, the coward’s bed awaits—the only shelter to be found from the streaking fade of Death’s warm cloak.

  The outpost falls, and the platoon reconvenes in the jungle. Radiation Brother shepherds his flock from the eastern marshes—the breathless Sgt. Greene and his privates Price, Sullivan, Dyer, Hudson, Bender, Zagorac, and Miller. Injuries are wrapped and mended. Candyman says, only, “Good job.”

  Northward beckons—the continuity of the trail.

  An aura envelops of voiceless groans.

  Through the dark and winding wet; the greens and browns of Vietnam. The vines and ferns; the snakes and voles. The mist, the smoke; the quiet eyes that speak no fear but hide it well enough.

  Again, the thumps—relentless rain, and dazed; bombardment all the same. Thunder above and thunder below.

  Dirt in the air; blood in the dirt; fire in the blood; fire in the air.

  Pace quickens. Enemy unseen. Sprinting. Whistling. Flinching.

  Candyman loses sight of his son. There’s as much worry as disappointment.

  Radiation Brother backpedals the forest, hollering Mike’s name. The ruptive sounds of battle grow distant.