When Can I Stop Running?

by John Podlaski

  Just then, George spotted a single vertical gravestone in the near distance and wordlessly pointed it out to us. A strange red pulsing glow emanated from it; a single entity standing alone, not sharing the warmth with its neighbors. Dropping to our knees, we continued watching in silence, hoping for some sort of sign that would unlock the baffling mystery before us.

  None of us dared to venture any closer, afraid that some alien or paranormal force might be residing there. Paranoia took over. We continuously looked around, especially behind us, to ensure that nothing was sneaking up on us. We kept watching, but the stone’s appearance remained unchanged. Was it bleeding? Was there a puddle of blood at the base of the stone? Imaginations began to soar and told us that it was far worse than anything we imagined. We pleaded with each other to agree to leave.

  Suddenly, the headstone stopped bleeding! The four of us looked at one another in amazement. John looked at his glow-in-the-dark watch – a token from his Boy Scout days. Sure enough, it was midnight! Was it safe for us to go and check out the grave now? Nobody wanted to find out. Nobody cared. It was time to head back to the others. As we turned to make our way back, not one of the group notice that when the gravestone stopped “bleeding”, it was at the exact moment that Klee’s Bowling Alley on Six Mile Road had also turned off its red neon lights for the night. What was the chance that a reflection shone on only one single headstone sitting almost an eighth of a mile away? Needless to say, none of the masterminds in our group made that connection...

  Hyped up and anxious to get back to our friends, we retraced our steps, still debating the details of the mystery. We were halfway through the dark stand of trees when a bright beam of light suddenly pointed directly at us. We froze, our feet rooted to the ground. A deep, guttural voice called out, summoning us to come to him. Not venturing to even sneak a peek behind us, we almost tripped over each other, attempting to get away. Running as if our lives depended on it, we continued in the direction of the fence line and our waiting friends. A bobbing beam of light behind us indicated that whatever it was, was still chasing us. Our minds were only able to focus on one thing – escaping this evil place.

  Once we were close enough, we screamed out to our friends, warning them to run. They took off without question or a moment’s hesitation. No teamwork existed this time when it came to scaling the fence. Every “man” for themselves. Pure fear drove us, and surges of adrenaline helped us to leap onto the upper rail and cross over without any help.

  George was the first to get over, and once his feet hit the ground, he launched himself after the girls. I was next, and Jimmy followed a second or two later, both of us running after the retreating group. Paul was last to mount the fence and took a moment to dislodge the blankets from atop the spears, tossing them to the ground. Unbeknownst to him, one of the top fence spears snagged his pant leg as he leaped over, causing his body to slam into the other side of the fence. Paul hung precariously for a second before the spear ripped through his pants, tearing the material from his thigh to the ankle. He fell to the ground in a heap, knocking the wind out of himself for the second time in less than an hour. Not seeing any evidence of the pursuer or his beam of light, Paul laid there panting, taking a moment to catch his breath.

  Meanwhile, the seven of us huddled on Gloria’s porch; George, Jimmy, and I – extremely animated in our descriptions – relayed all that we saw or imagined. The girls watched us, eyes wide, mouths agape, listening intently and thankful they didn’t go with us. We wondered aloud about Paul, hoping that he didn’t get caught – or something worse. Sure, we were worried about him, but none of us could summon the courage to go back to look for him.

  A slow moving shadow on the street caught our eye. We all held our breath and watched without speaking. Suddenly, the shadow walked into the glow of an overhead street light two houses down. A second later, Paul materialized out of the dark. He was disheveled, bent over, limping badly, the full length of his left ripped pant leg was blotched with blood, and he wasn’t smiling. None of us laughed. We sat perfectly still, most of us wondering if a ghoul had captured him, or if he had somehow become possessed. Paul shuffled toward the porch and tossed both blankets to Gloria. Not knowing what to expect, we remained poised and ready to run if Paul snarled at us. He finally spoke and said sharply, “Thanks for all your help back there. You guys left me to the wolves!”

  None of us could respond. ‘Shit, he’s a werewolf now!’ I thought, inching my way off the cement slab.

  “Are you okay?” his girlfriend asked.

  Paul finally dropped onto the ground, drawing his knees up and wrapping them with both arms. “I’ll be okay. Just a bit of bad luck.”

  We gathered around, hanging on to every word, listening to Paul intently as his woeful tale unfolded. Grateful that he wasn’t caught, bitten, or possessed, we began to relax in his presence. Although we all felt really bad about what had happened to him – and felt guilty about leaving him in the lurch – we couldn’t help but feel relieved that we had survived our night of terror.

  It was fear that made our self-preservation instincts kick in; once again, running was our first – and best – response to that fear.

  SEVEN – LISTENING POST (2200 HOURS)

  Polack’s eyes suddenly flashed open, unmoving, looking straight up, momentarily unsure of his whereabouts. The hand that suddenly clamped over his mouth had startled him and brought his brain back to the real world. His body stiffened, adrenaline now coursing through it, preparing to fight off this attacker and defend himself.

  He felt something fuzzy rubbing against the left side of his face, then hot, rapid breathing in his ear before hearing a single whispered word: “Gooks.” Polack recognized LG’s voice and realized that the bristling sensation on his face was LG’s Afro brushing against him. “Stay down and don’t move,” the whisper commanded. Polack turned his head slightly to face LG, their noses only an inch apart, then acknowledged that he understood with a single nod. Seeing this, LG slowly slid his left hand away from Polack’s mouth and let it drop to his partner’s chest. He felt his partner’s chest rise and drop with every deep breath, the rapid heartbeat matching his own.

  LG was sprawled along the ground, his head propped up against Polack’s shoulder, the radio handset wedged tightly between Polack’s left shoulder and LG’s right ear.

  It was 2245 hours when LG first heard the movement in the jungle on the other side of the trail they had used earlier. It started out with the sound of footsteps occasionally stepping on dried branches, loud crackling noises carrying through the night. As the group moved closer, LG heard machetes cutting through the thick vegetation, followed by harsh protests in Vietnamese. LG was confident that the group was heading directly toward their position. Right before waking Polack, LG had keyed the handset and whispered, “Lima Papa 1,” then broke squelch twice in rapid succession to indicate they had detected movement.

  A barely-audible voice responded to LG’s raised alarm, “Roger, Lima Papa 1, be advised there are no friendlies near your poz. Thunder 3, standing by.”

  Polack and LG listened intently to the action coming from their right, both blind to the actual presence, only sure they were hearing an enemy force of unknown size. They tried to burrow deeper into the slight depression they were in, and fought every impulse to run back to the firebase.

  Now, fully awake, Polack realized that all of the jungle sounds had ceased. In itself, this was a sure sign that invaders were moving within their realm. The birds and insects, like both men in the LP, stayed perfectly still, quiet and out of sight, waiting until the threat had subsided.

  Instead of crossing over the trail and continuing their march toward LG and Polack, the point man turned east on the trail, the rest of the column numbly following in his footsteps. The two hidden men prepared to take a deep breath and exhale in relief, when to their horror, the column stopped to drop in place for a break. Less than twenty feet away, the two Americans gnashed their teeth and silently m
outhed, ‘Oh, shit!’ They also discovered that they were still holding their breath, both reluctant to exhale in the event that the enemy would hear them. Any sound or movement at all would inevitably expose their hiding place. The first order of business was to control their labored breathing and get a grip.

  The enemy soldiers squatted on the trail and began talking among themselves in whispered tones. Several of them lit cigarettes; glowing ends flickered through the darkness like mosquito chasers the kids used back home. The scent of marijuana also permeated the air, another sign that this group was overly confident and unafraid of those in the firebase only 500 meters away.

  Polack and LG were stunned at the blatant disregard for silence and stealth this close to the firebase. Both hoped that the bunker guards on the firebase didn’t suspect something to their front and begin shooting or firing mortars in their direction. That would surely be the end of the LP.

  While Polack and LG were pondering their immediate future, two enemy soldiers ventured away from the trail and into the brush on the LP’s side of the path – one to their front and the other behind them. LG and Polack stiffened, both sucking in their breath again. The movement of the soldier to their front finally stopped about fifteen feet away. They both clearly heard him urinating, his stream forceful, steady, and splashing against the foliage. After what seemed like two full minutes, the spattering of liquid slowed and then finally stopped several seconds later. All at once, LG gripped Polack’s arm in a panic and whispered slowly into his ear, “The Claymores.”

  ‘Fuck’ was the only word coming to mind when they remembered the layout, then realized that the one closest to the trail was at the highest risk of discovery. Of course, in this darkness, it was impossible to see the mine or the wire leading away into the thick brush. Only stepping on it or tripping over the wire would expose it. Polack was already holding the firing mechanism for that particular mine; the safety was off, and he prepared to squeeze the handle in the event that the enemy soldier discovered it. Blowing the mine would vaporize him and a portion of his comrades on the trail. Retaliation would be immediate; the surviving enemy soldiers would then spray lead in every direction. The odds of surviving such an onslaught would be nil.

  Both waited and prayed that their luck would hold out while the enemy soldier moved back through the foliage toward his companions. They couldn’t see him, but could hear his movements. He was extremely noisy, “probably wearing clown shoes”, and extremely close. When no alarm sounded, both LP’s almost whistled, exhaling the breath they’d been holding in.

  ‘How long are they going to hang around? I hope they can’t hear my heartbeat or hear my breathing... I am so fucking scared!’

  The sound of the man moving behind them was just as alarming. He seemed to be moving as if he were searching for something. The enemy soldier continued until he was even with their position and then stopped just ten feet away from Polack and LG. Upon stopping, he kicked at the foliage and stomped on the ground a few times. A long drawn out note announced his passing of gas followed quickly by a deluge of diarrhea that hit the earth in a splat. He was loud, and grunted continually. The smell was worse than the stench of a week-old, dead, bloated body. His fellow soldiers must have been chiding him about the noise and odor; several called out in urgent sing-song tones. He responded right away with a snide remark of his own; it must have been funny because those nearby guffawed. A sharp command from further up the trail interrupted the laughter and quickly silenced the group.

  The LP’s had been enjoying the light breeze blowing steadily from the west; it triggered cold chills when passing over their sweat-drenched bodies and was a blessed relief from the tropical heat. Now, however, now they both cursed that wind. The smell of his waste wafted through their position; the two men pinched their noses closed so they wouldn’t retch. Once finished with his business, the soldier pulled up his trousers and returned to his group without covering his excrement, thus leaving the Americans a gift to cherish for the rest of the night.

  At 2315 hours, the sound of snapping fingers and a gruff command caused a commotion out on the trail. The enemy soldiers stopped their chattering, gathered up their gear and within a minute, set out in an easterly direction along the hard-packed path, right toward Rock’s ambush position some distance away.

  ‘Oh my God... oh my God... they’re finally gone!’

  “We got to let Rock know they’re comin’ his way,” LG whispered into Polack’s ear. Polack placed his forefinger over his lips to silence his partner. They waited an extra ten minutes before risking movement, sitting up, or speaking.

  The radio frequency had remained silent since LG first informed the CP of their situation almost a half-hour earlier. True to protocol, Thunder 3 had postponed the hourly sit-reps, and everyone on that channel stood by, anxious for an update.

  “How many do you think were out there?” LG asked in a barely audible whisper.

  Polack bent close to LG’s ear, “I’d guess at least twenty.”

  “Yeah, I’m hip to that. Did you see anything?”

  “Come on, G, did YOU?”

  “Well, I had to ask.”

  “I do think they might be carrying something heavy because when they stopped, I heard a couple of them grunt and drop something big to the ground.”

  “You thinking mortars?”

  “Yeah, big ones, G!”

  “I’d bet they broke bush just inside the jungle and were scoping out the south side of the firebase.”

  “If that’s what you think, better pass that info on to the CP. I wasn’t awake until just before they broke out onto the trail.”

  “Okay, that’s what I’ll call in.”

  “You want me to do it so you can crash for a while? I was supposed to start my watch a half hour ago.”

  “Are you fuckin’ crazy?” LG sputtered. “There is no fuckin’ way I’m gonna lay back down until the jungle creatures start singin’ again.”

  “I hear ya’,” Polack agreed. “Call it in and I’ll keep listening for them to return.”

  LG covered himself with his poncho liner and lay on the ground. Whispering continued back and forth for the next fifteen minutes as LG filled in the CP with all of their theories. Polack heard absolutely nothing of the conversation taking place, which pleased him. When LG finished with his report to the CP, he requested permission for both of them to return to the firebase since such a large group of enemy soldiers was in the area. Permission was denied.

  At the midnight hour, Thunder 3 began a new round of sit-rep requests. Polack keyed the handset once in response; back to business as usual.

  Almost two clicks east of the LP’s position, Rock prepared his squad for the possibility of fighting a force twice as large as theirs. The location of their ambush site was a good choice and well-suited for taking on a much bigger force. Mechanicals (trip-wire activated Claymore mines) covered both avenues of approach on the same trail, and a third, set up across the road on a small pathway, would catch any enemy soldiers retreating in that direction. Large fallen tree trunks ran across the length of their ambush site affording each squad member some protection. The squad also beefed up their defenses by setting up manually activated mines between themselves and the road. The anxious men remained on one hundred percent alert.

  Back at the LP, the jungle sounds soon revved up and were almost back to normal. With LG sound asleep, Polack soon felt safe enough to again revisit his past.

  EIGHT – GHOST STORIES

  I’ll always remember those times when a group of us went to visit a fellow classmate, Carmen. Her mother often told us stories about spirits and people coming back to life; this was way before we’d ever heard of zombies. Unbeknownst to us at the time, her culture celebrated death and spirits, and her kin worshiped their ancestors. To us teens, we thought ‘Mama Devilme’ was a voodoo priestess or something, but dared not to ask or get on her bad side – none of us wanted her to curse us for life. To us, everything she told us was plausi
ble and made sense! After all, who could make up stories like this?

  Carmen’s great-grandparents originally came from Haiti and settled in Louisiana; most of her relatives also lived there. When the families visited, much of their conversations revolved around Voodoo and messages from Baron Samedi or other spirit Barons who ruled the dead. Years later, the 1973 James Bond movie “Live and Let Die” popularized a villain who took on the role of this Baron to scare the locals. That culture held the Barons in high regard, and evenings on Carmen’s porch were our first introduction to Haitian mythology.

  We’d all get together at Carmen’s house at least weekly during the summer months before our junior year in high school, listening intently to her mom’s tales. The sun had set and the heat of the day had dissipated. Sometimes a breeze washed over the group, giving us a chill that sent goosebumps up and down our arms and legs or made neck hairs stand on end. She spoke slowly, in almost a whispering tone; the attention to detail created clear pictures in our heads, making it easy for us to follow along. Carmen’s mother spoke reverently of the spirits and sometimes warned us of things not to do. She appeared fearless and sometimes seemed to lapse into a trance. We were in awe, but felt safe and protected in her presence.

  For the life of me, I can’t recall any of the stories Mama Devilme told, but I remember being on high alert while walking home. Her tales continued to play out in our heads; both the quiet darkness and fear forced our imaginations into overdrive. Every parked car, tree, and bush served as possible hiding places for demons, spirits and ghosts, so we made a point of scrutinizing them when passing.

  The girls in our group lived nearby and split away from us guys within the first two blocks. We then had to cross over the expressway bridge and walk an additional several blocks to get to our homes.