by John Walters
After she vanished, Chuck shook his head in disbelief. Here I am believing in ghosts. I have one hell of an imagination. And yet... He stared for a long time in the direction he thought Vietnam must be. Then he shook his head again.
Rescue mission, he thought. I need a ticket. Two streets down, one to the left, one to the right. Straight ahead past the hooker; wow, she's a good lookin' one; these Thai gals are just like little dollies, so small and sweet; wait, no...I can't get distracted; after all, this is a rescue mission. Gotta help Paul. Gotta get a ticket.
He knew Bangkok well, and was able to navigate the human rivers to a local discount ticket office, stopping on the way at a stall that sold his favorite batter-fried bananas. Returning to the hotel at a fast pace, oblivious to his surroundings as he listened to his own incessant internal soliloquy, he stopped, as if suddenly waking up. An uneasy presence in his mind, like a tickle that wouldn't go away, caused him to cross the street and enter a luxury hotel. Uncomfortably aware of his inappropriate attire, he slipped past reception to the bar. There, at a corner table, sat three men, seeming deep in conversation. In the dim light he squinted to see who they were. Two he didn't recognize, but one he knew too well: Finwinkle.
The next available seat was on a morning flight to Calcutta. He checked out of the hotel and spent the night at the airport. The wolf pack was all around him, watching and waiting. His tranquility was gone. Everyone that walked by was a potential threat. Shadows were everywhere. He had to keep reminding himself about his rescue mission.
On the plane he fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of his childhood, sitting at his desk near the heater, rain drumming on the nearby window, eagerly studying for an exam. The rain stopped and he gathered his books and went outside. A gang of bullies confronted him; one knocked his books into the mud, and the others began to push him from one to the other. The sky darkened. The boys eyes became red-tinged. One of them said, "There's a full moon tonight, Chuckie-boy," and their teeth began to lengthen and sharpen.
He woke to the stewardess leaning over him, asking him to fasten his seat belt.
He took a taxi to Howrah Train Station through the streets teeming with cars and buses and bicycles and hand-held rickshaws and pedestrians and beggars and cows. He stood for what seemed like forever in one of the interminable queues and bought a second-class ticket, and then shoved his way through the tightly-packed crowd to the proper platform. As the train pulled in, he tipped a red-clad coolie to dive into one of the windows and save him a seat.
Finally he sat down on the hard bare wooden bench surrounded by the usual sea of dark faces staring at him, sighed with relief, and closed his eyes. As soon as he did, though, he sensed the wolf pack closing in. At first they looked like men, but then they sprouted hair and grew fangs.
With a whistle and ear-piercing squeals and a shudder the train pulled out. It quickly picked up speed; there was nowhere to run. Closer and closer they came, stalking him. I'm the prey, he thought. They'll rip me to pieces. Sweat and tears mingled on his face. He had somehow thought that if he lost the image of the shattered woman that he would never be so terrified again; obviously he had been wrong. I'm just a goddamned coward, he thought, and I'm a trapped goddamned coward. Closer and closer, closer and closer, fangs bared and ready to tear open his throat. He clenched his fists; he could hardly breathe. Waiting waiting waiting for the inevitable...
"Townsend, open your eyes." It was Finwinkle. "So, it's a small world, isn't it? You ran out on us."
"Leave me to rot in peace, man."
"If that's all you were planning to do I'd be happy to oblige. But I have a feeling you have something different in mind. There are plenty of good places to rot in California, so why should you come all the way here? No, let's not play games. You're on your way to them. And you know what I want you to do? Just keep going. But remember one thing: you're still working for us. Once in, forever in. You fuck with us we'll rip you to pieces. We'll throw you in a dungeon so deep and dark you'll never see the light of day again; mold'll grow on your tongue and your eyeballs and every other damn place. You're ours, got that?"
"Yours, yeah."
"I have men on this train watching you. I'll always be watching you. If you cooperate you'll get a reward. If you don't...well, that'll be that. Are we clear?"
"Okay, yeah, I get it."
"Good." Abruptly Finwinkle was gone and only the dark sea of staring faces remained. Who were enemies and who merely curious? It was impossible to tell. A nauseating surge of fear boiled like lava in his stomach.
I can't lead them to Jason and Jasmine, he thought. I can't betray them like I betrayed Paul. I'll take them off on a wild goose chase to somewhere like the Himalayas or the Hindu Kush or somewhere like that. Yeah, that's it. I'll take them far away so they'll never find them. Oh shit, but... If I do that, I fail in my rescue mission. I'm supposed to tell them about Paul so they can help him. There's only one thing to do: I'll have to pull a fast one, give Finwinkle the slip somehow. I'll have to veer off course and get 'em off my tail and then go to Goa.
When he closed his eyes he saw the wolves with red-tinged eyes sitting on their haunches and licking their chops, so most of the time he watched the passing scenery, though his mind didn't really register what he saw. Somewhere in the middle of the journey, as the train was pulling out of a small station, he opened a door, jumped to the platform, and hid behind the vendors and beggars until he was sure that no one had followed him off; then he crossed the tracks and hopped on the next train going in the opposite direction.
* * *
Jimmy Thornberg was on a bus going over the Khyber Pass when the signal stopped. He waited for it to resume, and when it didn’t his first reaction was to panic. But the place in the message had clearly been Goa and the time had clearly been Christmas. He still had a week and he was determined to press onward.
Deep snow and gleaming ice covered the hills and crags on either side of the narrow highway that wound upward and then downward from Afghanistan to Pakistan. Mist clinging to the valleys impaired visibility. The driver sped with impunity over the bumpy slippery road. The roof of the bus, overloaded with heavy baggage, swayed back and forth and creaked ominously at the turns. The interior was packed with men carrying rifles, knives at their belts, their chests crisscrossed with bandoliers full of bullets; with women veiled in black, only their eyes showing; with screaming babies; with goats bleating and dropping stinking black nuggets onto the floor.
In the distance, shadows pursued him; no, not him personally, but he understood that there was opposition to what was happening in Goa. It was a puzzle, a mystery, an enigma; but whatever it was, his course was set, and he had decided to travel day and night so he would get there on time.
He thought of Mildred Winters, alone at Bright’s Senior Citizens Home. He hoped that it hadn’t frightened her when the signal stopped. He wished he could communicate with her, but the distance was far too great. They’d lost touch with each other even before he’d reached New York; her voice in his mind had gradually faded until it had become only the faint hint of an idea and even that had vanished. But he remembered her; he knew she was there sitting in her room and her thoughts were on him and where he was and what he was doing. He wondered if this type of communication was always thus bound by distance or if somehow in a way he didn’t understand the distance could be transcended. He thought of her and she thought of him, and the mutual awareness made it seem that if he could just poke through some kind of thin membrane, their contact could again become alive and vibrant. Maybe if he could focus all his attention… But no.
Frustrated and feeling lonely, he watched the bleak landscape. The bus topped a ridge and the mist cleared. The winter sun hung low on the horizon like a rusty coin. Night descended quickly, like a demon covering the land with its black cloak; the bus’s headlights seemed puny and inadequate.
At that moment of darkness, without moon or stars, Jimmy’s loneliness was almost more than he could b
ear, a weight that pressed on him and made him feel small and vulnerable.
In Peshawar he went straight to the train station and bought a ticket to Rawalpindi, the old city next to Islamabad, the capitol, where he’d have to go to the Indian Embassy to get his visa. He was wandering down a narrow dirt path looking for a cheap restaurant when a rifle butt smacked him on the side of the head and a knife was held to his throat. Half-conscious, he felt hands digging through his pockets; then he was thrown to the cold ground and he heard the footsteps of the thieves running away.
When he came to his senses and searched his pockets he realized that his passport and money were gone, but he still had the train ticket.
Slowly he staggered back to the station. He’d have to go on to Islamabad to get his passport replaced at the American Embassy. Afterwards he didn’t know what he’d eat or where he’d sleep or how he’d get to Goa on time.
The right side of his head was swelling and too painful to touch. As the train steamed through the arid countryside every click of the rails and every blast of the whistle was like a nail being driven into his skull. “Shit,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve fallen into hell and I can’t climb out.” He thought of Mildred again and that thin membrane, and wished he could somehow poke through.
* * *
Webber Clark was having another nightmare. Members of a rival gang had surrounded him and closed him off in a dead-end alley. Each had a razor or a knife and they moved in slowly, confident because of their numbers. Their eyes became red-tinged and their blades turned into long needles. He was unable to move. The liquid with which they injected him stung like fire, and as he sank to the ground the rats began to move in to finish him off.
He awakened panting, his tee-shirt sweat-soaked. He’d never gotten used to the rats. When he was young he would hear them scurrying along the floor in the darkness under the couch on which he slept. Later, when he was older, seeing a rat was the one thing that would cause fear to grip his heart like a claw; and since rats were everywhere he was almost always reminded of his mortality. Rats were the demons who came out of the darkness to gnaw your body when you died. His prevalent terror was that they’d start on him too early, when he was still alive.
When the signal had stopped the nightmares had increased. Sometimes he imagined that the four walls of his cell were his only protection from the eternal chaos outside and from the demon rats waiting in the shadows. He dreaded the moment they’d call him and put the chains on his wrists and ankles and lead him to the chamber and inject him with the poison and he would be helpless as the rats approached with their red-tinged eyes and chisel-sharp teeth.
He stifled the scream that rose in his throat like vomit; instead, he spit into the stinking lidless toilet. If only Randy were here, he thought. He’s probably under a palm tree fucking one of them women.
He lay down again and tried not to think of the rats. He tried to picture Goa and the white sand beaches and cool fresh coconut drinks and naked sunbathing women. That’s more like it, he thought. At least my friend Randy made it.
“Webber! Hey, Web! You there?”
“Who the fuck… Randy? Is that you?”
“That’s right, buddy.”
“You in Goa, man? How the hell you manage to talk to me from there?”
“Actually, I’m not quite that far yet.”
“They didn’t catch you again, did they?”
“No, no. I’m still free. I’m in a thicket on the far side of the hills behind the prison.”
“You stupid-ass motherfucker. What you doing there?”
“I was on my way, Web, I swear to God. I had some money stashed that they didn’t find, and I picked it up and I’d started driving towards Canada. I was going to cross the border and get a flight from there to be on the safe side. Well… Shit, I couldn’t do it. The farther away I got, the more wrong it felt. I just couldn’t leave you behind to face those needles alone.”
“What can you do about it? Bust me out?”
“I wish I could. No. I’m just a weak white piece of shit like you said and I wouldn’t know how to start. But there’s one thing I can do: I can stay with you. I’m not going to leave you alone. I have a camouflage tent and lots of canned food that’s ready to eat so I don’t have to light a fire. I’m staying right here with you, right up until the end.”
“But what about Goa? What about the signal?”
“Fuck Goa and fuck the signal. This is more important. I can’t leave a friend to die alone.”
“I want you to get the hell out of here. You broke parole and if they catch you your ass is gonna be right back in here with me but you won’t have a choice about it.”
“I’m not moving.”
“You’re stupider than I thought. Fuck you. I’m not talkin’ to you until you’re gone.”
“How are you going to talk to me if I’m gone?”
“Don’t confuse me, man. The thought of you in Goa was the only good thought I had. Get out of here. I’m shutting up.”
Randy didn’t answer. After awhile Webber thought, I told him off, that stupid son-of-a-bitch. What a crazy thing to do.
Time passed; Webber wasn’t sure how long because he didn’t have a watch, and within the cell hours blended together like a bland overcooked soup.
Then he heard the rats gnawing on the walls. The icy claw gripped his heart and death seemed to be a dark-robed phantom just outside the door. “Randy? Randy? You still there?”
No answer.
“Shit. Randy, I’m sorry. I never told anyone I’m sorry in my life. Talk to me.”
“I’m here. Web, I told you I wouldn’t leave and I won’t, whether you want me here or not.”
“All right, all right. Thanks.”
“Now how about your last meal? What are you going to ask for?”
“I don’t think I could eat then.”
“Come on, of course you can. We’re together and we’ll strengthen each other. Let’s be alive as long as we’re alive, okay? You should order a nice fancy meal with all the trimmings.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, man. Well, let me think about it. You got any ideas?”
Over the next two days Webber wondered if Randy ever slept, because he was always there whenever he called, whether he was awakening after a nightmare or pacing the floors worrying about the soon-coming execution. As he ate his last meal Randy insisted on a running commentary as he swallowed each bite. As the guards put the irons on his ankles and wrists and marched him down the hall, Randy started telling him about the first time he got laid, and it was so ridiculous that Webber started chuckling and the guards thought he’d gone nuts. As they strapped him to the table Randy said, “Open up your mind and let me in, Web. I want to feel what you feel. We’ll do this together.”
“No, man. No. That’s going too far.”
“Together to the end.”
“I’m scared.”
The needles pierced his flesh and everyone else left. Webber felt Randy beside him as if his head was a room and they both fit snugly. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “It hurts, Randy,” he whispered.
“I know. Think of Goa. Picture it. Think of those women on the beaches.”
“I sure wish I had a chance to go there. When I’m gone you’re gonna go, right?”
“Sure. I’m going to go.”
“And don’t get caught. Promise me you won’t get caught.”
“I promise.”
“All right. Ahhh… Thanks, friend. Thanks for being here.”
Then the pain was everything, surging like a white-hot river that had overflowed its banks, stabbing like countless knives, bursting forth like a volcano, searing like a solar flare, ripping flesh like a swarm of sharks, nauseating like a bellyful of worms. And Webber’s consciousness became less and less substantial, like a dissipating mist, as if he were drifting off to sleep. His mind seemed to turn in upon itself like the vanishing point on a television that’s been turned off, that gets smaller and
smaller and abruptly winks out. “Web?” Randy lost the connection and his thoughts drifted with nothing to cling to. “Web?” He tried to stretch his awareness as far as it would go but he couldn’t find Webber anywhere.
For a full night and most of the following day Randy stayed in the tent, not moving, not eating. They probably think that nobody gives a damn about Webber, he thought. They’ve probably already forgotten all about him.
In the evening near sunset he pulled the entrance flaps aside and stood in the cool breeze and watched the colors splash across the sky. There’s a lot of living left to do, he thought. I owe it to Web and me. I’m out of here.