Supers Box Set

by Kristofer Bartol

  As the platoon walks away, something within the village explodes—something largely obscured by present flame; a mighty explosion—a plume of dirt and smoke and burnt debris, still burning; and this hot flotsam drifts back to earth, like firework embers and ticker tape, to fall among the trees, transforming palms into candlesticks; and the fires above soon embrace their mothers below, consolidating into a single hellish monolith—a tsunami standing still, of fire forever cresting, and curling toward the jungle shore.

  The platoon stands for a spell along a farm’s old fence—a complex composite of thatched and woven sticks, interlaced of such meager materiel that construction must have demanded its handyman dedicate a fortnight, and yet its destruction may only take a minute.

  They continue down the road, leaving the fire to determine its own future. Within the hour, pointman Pvt. Sullivan notices an oblong object wrapped in tarp, lying on the roadside; Army combat boots protruding from the end of the black wrapping. He moves ahead to inspect, presuming it to be a fallen brother-in-arms, but Candyman lays his hand on Sullivan’s shoulder, ordering him to wait; the captain suggests the body may be a booby-trap, or could be no body at all—only boots and explosives.

  Sgt. Zagorac queries as to, how then, they determine whether or not the tarp is a trap. Candyman counters, suggesting they need not know; their mission is otherwise. If there is no safe means of checking the body, then they do not. But Pvt. Page is not satisfied; he interjects, insisting on recognizing their fallen comrade. Candyman calls him a fool, in the plainest of terms. Page argues the contrary and calls his father a coward—the third of the captain’s six great distastes.

  Candyman spews a storm of obscenities, but Pvt. Page merely turns his back and walks toward the tarp. Candyman orders him to desist, but his son continues down the road. Candyman repeats himself, barking the order; resorting to his given name—Michael—with the caveat, “What would your mother think, if you got hurt?”

  Pvt. Page halts his walk, only a few feet from the tarp. He stares beyond the trees, dour; lost in thought. Candyman’s next comments go unheard. Page turns and treads back to the platoon huddle, bypassing his father as if he were not there; ignoring even that which is spoken directly into his ear. The Candyman turns his tone again towards parentage, but Pvt. Page focuses only on Pvt. Hudson: the radio-pack transceiver he so steadily carries; the handset he so freely relinquishes; the antenna he so dutifully raises.

  To an engineer, through the wire, Pvt. Page informs of a potential dead friendly, needing pickup, and advises precaution. The engineer confirms their location. Candyman tells him he did the right thing.

  The private erupts. Candyman takes a step back; Greene, Hudson, Zagorac, Radiation Brother, and the other infantrymen turn to find alternative occupation, i.e. “Oh, look—a small bird.”

  "Whether or not," the private begins, "this body is rigged to detonate a deuce of dynamite, or collapse a black hole, or drop some Wile E. Coyote anvil, he was one of us. And if none of y'all wanna respect that, then fine, but I will; and it doesn't matter—dad, it doesn't matter what happens—because I will be fine. I will not get hurt; I cannot get hurt. Out of everybody here, except maybe for Ajax, if something did menace that tarp, I am the only person capable of a risk-free look. Yet you wanna suggest that my mother would be worried by my putting myself in a situation where I'll be okay?”

  “If you so desperately want a look, have a look, but that’s not how I’d think your mother would see it.”

  “Oh, so apparently you don't know anything about your wife, because that's how my childhood was in its totality. You weren't around—so you wouldn't know—but she sheltered me, 'to keep me safe,' cos she knew how often your brazen adventures put you on the brink of death, and she didn't want to risk losing the both of us—so while you were out in the tropics, playing gladiator, I couldn't even play outside with my friends. Hell, I didn't have friends! What am I talking about! ‘Friends start altercations,’ she said, citing some dozen psych studies, ‘and roughhouse, and dare each other to jump off railroad bridges.’ So instead of playing with the neighborhood kids, I read books, or sometimes I went to the cinema. Mom didn't even let me use the stove. I literally had no reason, until the draft, to realize my uncanny immunity to injury. If I had ever been given the luxury as a kid to develop a threshold for pain, maybe I'd be a little more rational about how certain consequences would affect myself and others—but I didn't, and now I will never value a risk, nor will I ever even understand it.

  “Certainly, with my unique trait, I may also never learn the fallout of a risk, as I will never feel pain. Do you know what it's like going through life, terrified of the slightest of injuries, only to learn two deeply-conscious decades later that you're invulnerable to injury? Meaning, your lifetime of anxiety and worry were for naught? And you could've erased those fears at any moment if only you had not been coddled and not been brainwashed to see all metal objects as 'sharp' and every elevation over eight inches as 'high'? It is liberating to no longer see the world as a pandora's box of poisoned blades, all spring-loaded and rabid! I feel reborn!

  "Meanwhile, you've never known a world without risk; you've thrived on risk and danger like a foal feeds on her mother's teat. You've religiously disobeyed your commanders in favor of the most brazen and straightforward operations; you've famously decried cowards, speaking with all the vigor of Teddy Roosevelt and none of the courtesy; you've generously poured the vast majority of your parental energies toward your brotherhood of arms—to Greene, to Miller, to Ajax Madison. I cannot fathom why, then—in this particular moment, on this particular day—you have decided to ignore your biology, to deny me my usefulness, and to abandon what is most assuredly a dead American soldier and nothing more."

  Candyman blinks. "I just," he pauses, "I don't want to see anybody else get hurt—no less needlessly."

  "I can't get hurt, dad; what’s so hard to underst-"

  "But what if—this time—you do?"

  Page hesitates. His brow crinkles, "Huh?"

  "What if it was a fluke, last time? Or before that? What if they're conditional? What if it depends on your adrenaline? Or what you ate? Or the weather?”

  “The weather? Really?”

  “How do you know it’s not?"

  Page rubs his foot in the dirt. "I don't, dad. I don't know that. But you've never let not-knowing keep you from doing what you thought was right; that's what your instincts are for—and you’ve followed yours your whole life. Despite all the shit you’ve been through, you're still alive; and that says a lot about your biology. So if I’ve inherited anything from you, genetically, who’s to say those killer instincts aren’t among them?"

  Candyman stares at the ground beside his son. “You’re, uh,” he pauses, “you’re probably right.”

  "Yeah—I know."

  Candyman grumbles. His glass eyes squints, and he smirks, "So you're a killer now, huh?"

  Pvt. Page pulls and plunges the bolt on his rifle—sounding a distinct clack—and he smiles.

  Candyman lowers his brow and motions ahead, up the jungle path. The platoon marches on, and by high noon they're upon the riverfront. Docked along the reeds rest three riverine patrol boats—the shallow-bottomed fiberglass murk-crawlers; their tugboat bodies jungle-green and reminiscent shapewise of the heraldic shield of Edward, the Black Prince of Woodstock.

  A sulking squadron of Army grunts sits idly beside their boats. They pick their teeth, jaw tobacco, and spit into the air. One spots the platoon nearing and comes to his feet. He saunters toward, to make acquaintance, and he points to the distant plume of black smoke—set against the overcast sky—asking, “That you fellas?”

  Candyman replies curt, “Ye—ep.”

  The grunt nods his head, and he spits a brown squirt into the dirt.

  The captain asks, "You guys lose anyone?"

  "Hm?"

  "Two, three clicks back. Seemed like one of ours was wrapped in plastic on the roadside."

&nbs
p; "Oh," the grunt mews, "yeah, that's ol' Petey Stebes. Shot rang outta nowhere an' pecked him in th' gills. We all hightailed it outta there right quick, I'll tell you what."

  "And you left him there?"

  "Hot zone, man."

  "Then who bagged him?"

  "Uyhh," the grunt hems, "oh, nah, you know what, we did go back an' bag him."

  "And then you left him there."

  "Uhh—yih, that's about right."

  Candyman stares through the grunt.

  The grunt's eyes, half-lidded, beam back.

  The Candyman inhales. "Does your C.O. know about Pete Stebes?"

  "Nope."

  "Not yet?"

  "Far as I know."

  "You got the keys to those three PBRs?"

  "Sure do."

  "Tell ya what: lose the keys, grab Mister Stebes, report back to base, and we'll forget about this whole interaction—how does that sound?"

  "Lose the keys?"

  "Drop 'em in the dirt."

  "And report back t- Oh, I smell what yer steppin' in, sir. That's real clever," the grunt nods. He pulls three keyrings from his pocket and tosses them into a bush. "Almost like we was never here," he smiles.

  Candyman looks to the bush, then to the grunt, vexed, "Grab your shit and roll-out."

  "Aye-aye, sir," he smirks.

  The grunt waves his men off their feet and their squadron shuffles the dusty trail, deeper into the jungle. Candyman retrieves the keyrings from the brambles and turns to his men: "Mount up."

  The PBRs bob gently in the coursing brownwater river; their broad hulls drawn just below the surface, and riveted like narrow flatirons. Three tied-off tires on either side of each boat buffer the bobbing hulls against the docks. A sunken M45 turret rides the bow, steeling its menacing four-barrel gaze on the far embankments. The cabin body—flaking green paint; rusted, scuffed and pockmarked—holds aloft the transmitters of radar and radio. Whatever deck remains belongs to the ammo crates.

  Two-dozen men board and drift downriver, charting the mountainous channel. Karst limestone rises around them like upturned molars, hairy with jungle rot and vegetation. Dark blue waters course through marshy farmland and these ravenous fangs of earth; these sudden pointed hills, like fingers extruding cloth, muddling the horizon behind infinite rows of identical jagged spires of limestone white-grey and dark tropical greens.

  The river snakes through active fishing villages, fostered by its waters alone; unconnected by roads, as the riparian hovel could not harbor terrestrial travel. Navigating the rivers around them are the merchant junks, mooring outside the ports among the sharp rocky fins of breaching gaian whales, with their fore and aft sails—red and ribbed—like the long-caudal fins of the Mekong betta, rippling sunrays; flowing like bedsheets of silk taffeta.

  Short merchant barges, roofed in blue tin, loiter on the coasts of the wide channel, and the patrol boat triplet rumbles past—unnerving the populace aboard, alert and wary—to pass under an ancient stone bridge. Thatchwork sampans carve meager wakes with swarthing yulohs; aboard stand the bare-chested fishermen, and the women who shuck the scales. The other female villagers, rowing their singlet canoes, collect flowers from fruit-bearing trees, and they harvest the vegetables of the marshes—conical hats atop their heads, and seedy eyes prying underneath.

  The river thins, and the wake of the lead boat rocks a merchant barge to tip. Four generations of women fall into the murk and scramble to the shore, clinging to reeds and coughing-up brownwater; their eyes now dark of odium.

  The populous presence thins as their downriver journey continues into the night. Still waters run deep, though the placid surface ripples of wildlife ahead, and the passage of their convoy proves to disrupt the serenity behind them.

  Sunset casts its orange glow upon white clouds and blue sky, buffeted still by karst spires. The dueling colors play reflective in the river ahead, only for the convoy's wake to shatter this liquid mirror, subscribing the land to seven more years of bad luck.

  The orange sun fades to twilight blue hues, bathed in mist. An eerie aura arrives with the haze, and night comes on its coattails, filling the sky with stars and the jungle with eyes. The ink of black night persists until a pale sliver cracks the veil for a crescent glow, bathing the mountains bright against the sky—black silhouetted on black—and in the morning mist the sun arrives, hidden; diffused in a soft, egalitarian light that pervades every crevice; absorbing the purple mountains majesty and drowning the dark in droplets of light, overpowering the ignorance and fear of the night—and the sun crests the horizon beyond the karst, rising orange over the jungle spires; indistinguishable through the morning haze, yet clear in the shattered mirror, depicting an orange column trapped and burning beneath the river; glowing intense, infernal red like bottled flame; like a rocket engaged, burning and yearning to break its ethereal binds.

  As the intensity of orange burns away, ascending the sky and growing fatigued, the sun glows its new pale yellow, vanishing again into the mist—a low-held cloud cover; a fog that shrouds the marshy farmlands, swarthy jungle, and terran teeth—karst mountains rising above and disappearing beneath the fog, as if the spines of dragonskin; of a fiendish leviathan that lurks beyond in misty exotica.

  The solitudinous quiet of the blue haze—the unsettling serenity—prompts the men for watchfulness. Anxiety and fear grow like mold spores in their chests and throats, weighing heavy like pneumonia, and as silently oppressive.

  Spires of limestone emerge in the river—in ever-larger clusters—until spread thick like a forest of waterborne pylons, and etched on the windward face of the largest limestone accumulation—this miniature mountain central to the coursing river—is a missive in archaic Chamic glyphs, comparable more to astrological runes (or Bengali Sanskrit, or Pondicherrian Telugu) than to legible literature, and so it goes observed, and unheeded.

  The clouds above begin to break, and the cold winds drive low to wave aft the American flag of each vessel. The river’s course weaves now, narrowing with greater intensity, and the boats slow to navigate, cautious; routing the riverbends with eyes wary for the underbrush. The gunners swivel their gazes to the inside of every turn. A soldier kneels on the bow of the lead boat and draws a wooden recurve bow with snarling arrow—its tip twine-wrapped in oil-soaked rags and lit ablaze—aiming into the jungle with leering, prying eyes.

  Anxiety melts into impotence as the creaking trees yield no matter. The soldiers’ nerves recall normalcy at the end of the hour, and their bodies ease—leaning against mounted guns; sitting cross-legged to peel oranges. Cruising the murky waters, glistening with sunlight, and the treeline finally crackles—the snapping of branches; the snapping of nerves—and one soldier—flushed now with adrenaline and cortisol—lifts his cradled LMG and unloads a long spurt overboard, into the thicket; his ammo belt hanging free and climbing into the gun with every release; its discharged casings flying up, hot and errant—until he’s forced to stop.

  The decision is made to pull-over and wind-down. The three PBRs moor in an alluvial pool, off the main course of the rollicking river. As Pvt. Hudson lifts his radio-pack transceiver, to carry it off the vessel, the receiver crackles to life with an urgent message: The Candyman and Radiation Brother have been reassigned to a manhunt mission that supersedes all previous orders.

  Radiation Brother steps to the transceiver and asks for details.

  “Target is of the utmost value to General Abrams," the radio reports. "Wanted for court-martial regarding the massacre at An Khê market."

  "Shit," Radiation Brother says. "Who's the guy?"

  "Pharos of the Marvelous Six."

  Candyman looks to Radiation Brother, to share his disturbance. The rest of the platoon murmurs to one another in throaty whispers.

  "Can't say I'm not surprised," the radio comments, "given his temperamental mood, as I've heard. Rebels need causes, or else they get all wired and keyed—like in that movie."

  "Sure," Candyman replies, "he's a re
al James Dean. Now, you say they want him captured—not killed?"

  "Want him alive to stand trial. Say whatever you have to say to get him to come in; use force only as a last resort. Abrams wants to make a show of his trial as a means of repentance for the people of South Vietnam, and for the protestors back home."

  "Protestors?" Radiation Brother chuckles. "How long have we been away?"

  "It all bubbled over a few days ago," the radio continues, "after the death of Miss Bliss."

  Candyman gasps. Radiation Brother grabs the receiver, asking for clarification.

  "No, you heard right—Miss Bliss is dead. Apparently her fire-eyed fuck-buddy took the whole thing hard and went on a rampage, killing some two-dozen civvie gooks, I heard. Now he's rogue in Cambodia, and you two are the closest Supers to his location."

  Radiation Brother rubs his forehead and smoothes his puffed hairdo. Candyman squints and grits his teeth, asking, "We're the closest? What about the rest of the Marvelous Six?"

  "Well, their overwatch fella is crippled, and his girl won't leave his side. And they won't send Boy Cumulus on account of him letting Pharos get away in the marketplace."

  Candyman curses Boy Cumulus under his breath. Radiation Brother rolls his eyes with his palm out. "Alright, okay, so… He's somewhere in Cambodia, and that's all we have to go on."

  The radio pauses. "Correct."

  "And you want us to take him in, captured."

  "Correct."

  "Like—do we bait him with snickerdoodles? How are we to convince him to come in?"

  "Not clear on the answer to that one. I relay the directives, not make them."

  "He's gonna try and kill us."

  "Uh-huh."

  "And then we'll have to kill him."

  "You cannot."