No Man's Land

by S. T. Underdahl

  Dad lifts a hand to wave. “Brian!” he calls steadily. “We lost you for a bit, buddy. Everything okay?”

  Brian nods. “Just waiting on you two,” he says.

  As we close the distance between us, I study him warily. Nothing about my brother looks unusual.

  “Doin’ okay, kiddo?” Dad asks, reaching out a hand to pat Brian’s knee before dropping down onto the fallen tree beside him.

  “No deer yet,” Brian complains, as if that’s the only thing on his mind. “You see anything?”

  “Found a pretty good bedding spot. Want to check it out?”

  “Time’s a wastin’,” Brian agrees. He stands up and grabs his gun. “I’m having a little trouble with the recoil on this thing,” he says to Dad, who takes the gun from him and begins to examine it.

  My mouth is hanging open; I can’t believe it. Really? Are we really going to act like nothing crazy just happened here?!

  “Wait a minute,” I sputter, grabbing Brian by the sleeve of his camo coat. “What about … you were going to take a shot at Dad!” I accuse.

  Brian stares at me, his expression blank.

  “Don’t act like it didn’t happen! We heard shooting, and then suddenly you got it in your head that Dad was … I don’t know … the Taliban … and you pulled me down behind those rocks … ” I point, accusing.

  Brian reaches up and wipes his hand over his face; for the first time, I notice his forehead is beaded with sweat despite the cool morning air. “Look, bro, I was just messing with you. I mean, obviously, right? I didn’t expect you to take me seriously.”

  I stare at him, disbelieving. I know what I saw, and it was real.

  Dad laughs. “Well, you scared the hell out of the kid,” he tells Brian. “You should have seen his face when he came running up to me. I thought for sure he’d seen Sasquatch.”

  They chuckle together at my expense, but I notice Brian won’t meet my eyes.

  After that, there’s nothing to do but go on. We fall back into a loose formation with Dad leading the way, then Brian, and finally me; at this point, I’m not going to take my eyes off of anyone.

  We cross a small stream, and half a mile later Dad suddenly stops in his tracks. Over there, he mouths silently. My eyes follow his signal and I see it standing in a sunny clearing that’s visible through some trees on our left: an enormous buck. I have no idea why it hasn’t sensed our approach, but now it simply stands there, its proud rack of pronged horns spanning at least four feet on either side of its head.

  “Nice,” Dad whispers.

  An instant later, the world explodes.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Why can’t you look me in the eeeyyyye …” my Tranquil Beast ringtone blasts from the pocket of my jacket, where I stowed my phone. The buck alerts, its regal head pivoting smoothly toward us.

  “What the … dammit, Dov !” Dad explodes.

  Before he can finish flipping out at me, another kind of explosion comes from Brian’s gun. Ker-BLAM ! Dad and I turn in time to see the buck, set to bolt, freeze in mid-air, its head disintegrating in a foamy blur of blood and bone.

  “You motherfucker!” Brian shouts. Click! Click! Click! He continues firing even though the chamber of his rifle is empty. “Goddamn raghead son-of-a-bitch!”

  “Okay!” Dad hollers, grabbing the barrel of Brian’s gun and pushing it to the ground. “You got him.”

  In the aftermath, the air is silent—aside from the pounding of my heart and a high-pitched ringing in my ears. “Guess we won’t be mounting this one,” Dad observes. He gives Brian a sideways look. Despite the fact that my heart is pounding, part of me is relieved; if this doesn’t prove to Dad that something isn’t right with Brian, I don’t know what will convince him.

  Brian doesn’t respond; his gun is hanging loosely at his side now. “Motherfucking abi-dabis,” he mutters under his breath. I shake my head in disbelief; the old Brian was the least racist person I knew.

  Dad and I lock eyes, and for the first time in my life I see uncertainty, maybe even fear, in my father’s face. Then it’s gone, leaving me to wonder if it was only my imagination. “Well, let’s get to it,” Dad commands, pushing forward through the grass toward the clearing where the dead buck lies.

  I follow behind as we head toward the downed animal, fumbling for the pocket on my jacket until I finally manage to pull my phone free. Under Missed Calls, I see Ali’s name and number listed twice; once from a few minutes ago, and a second time from earlier, around when I’d stepped outside the cabin this morning to relieve myself. Rats; it would be nice to talk to a sane person right about now.

  In the clearing, the dark musk of blood and sudden fear hang heavily in the air, clogging my throat and making me feel sick. “What a mess,” Dad mutters, standing over the corpse. I hang back, not wanting to get too close. Still, it’s impossible not to see the buck’s warm brown eye burst from the security of its socket, hanging by a few ragged strands of tissue.

  I can’t do much more than stare, dry-mouthed, as Dad sets to work with his hunting knife, cutting out the buck’s windpipe and working his way down toward the entrails. After a moment, Brian seems to come to his senses, and steps forward to help, bracing and maneuvering the carcass to make things easier for Dad. Together they roll the deer over to let the blood drain; the coppery odor in the air grows heavier as they work. I’m grateful they don’t seem to expect anything from me; eventually I wander off, pretending I have to pee, when in fact I’m just trying keep from puking. With my back turned to the scene, I stare up at the sky and notice that Brian was right; the sky does look surreally blue, the trees vivid and sharp-edged against it.

  I stay away as long as I can, and when I return, they’re nearly finished. I try not to look at the still-steaming pile of entrails, but in the periphery of my vision I can sense the deer’s discombobulated eyeball staring at me accusingly from the middle of it all.

  “Dov, you’ll have to help me carry this monster back to the shack,” Dad informs me. He’s breathing hard from the exertion of field-dressing the large animal. “Brian’s not going to be able to help much, and we’ll need to hurry. Skinning is easier while the carcass is still warm.”

  I nod, dreading the prospect of touching any part of the decimated buck. When I take hold, however, my first thought is of how much coarser the hide is than I expected. While I’m thinking about this, my nostrils are suddenly filled with the rich, primal tang of a wild beast whose only encounter with humans ended in terror, pain, and death. I’ll never forget that smell, I remember Brian saying. I couldn’t get that smell out of my head for days.

  The trek back to camp under the weight of the buck seems endless, and by the time we arrive my shoulders are aching. Brian is carrying the backpacks and rifles; he seems happy and energized by the kill, and I’m happy that he seems to be back with us in the present.

  At the shack, the hollow cavity of the deer is rinsed with water and dried thoroughly with an old towel Dad got from the Suburban. Brian and Dad tie a rope to the buck’s hind feet and throw it over a tree branch, which makes it possible for them to hoist the carcass to a hanging position for efficient skinning. I feign interest for a few minutes until I figure it’s safe to wander off and call Ali.

  It takes a while to find a spot where I have a bar or two of cell phone service, but finally I wedge myself up into an old tree and pick up a signal.

  “Hey,” Ali answers. I take a deep breath; it’s an overwhelming relief to hear his familiar voice. “How’s life on the wild side?” he asks.

  “Remember when your mom took us to see Deliverance during that film festival at the university?”

  “Yeah … ?”

  “It’s been kinda like that.”

  I glance back toward the hunting shack and see Brian beginning to work on skinning the buck; the knife in his hand is already smeared with blood. Even from the tree, I can see my brother’s face: he’s crying. A line from the movie comes into my mind: Night has fallen. And the
re’s nothin’ we can do about it.

  “Well, if anyone shows up with a banjo, get the hell out of there,” Ali advises.

  We finish our conversation and hang up. I think about calling Miranda; I could use one of her dark angels right about now. I’m scrolling for her number when I see Dad on the near side of the shack. “Dov?” he calls, looking for me. There’s no choice but to snap the phone shut and climb out of the tree.

  I catch up with him on the other side of the shack. “What’s up?” I ask. I halfway expect him to snap at me for disappearing, but he doesn’t.

  “Uh, I’ve been thinking,” Dad says, his eyes somewhere off in the distance. “Maybe we should head back home a little early.”

  “Seriously?”

  Dad glances back toward the shack. “Well, I don’t think your brother’s doing as well as either of us thought he would,” he explains.

  You got that right.

  “I, uh, I can see his ribs are hurting him, and that shoulder too,” he continues. “He’s not complaining or anything, but I think he’s pretty uncomfortable.”

  Brian had evidenced no signs of pain that I’d noticed, but then again, I’d been pretty distracted by his craziness. “Sure, if you think we should go. Although I’m kind of bummed that we have to leave early,” I add in a sad voice.

  Dad turns and looks at me closely; I prepare myself for the forthcoming lecture on being a smart-ass, but it doesn’t come. “Listen, Dov,” he says instead. “I’ve been thinking … maybe it would be better to keep some of the things that went on out here just between the three of us. Don’t mention it to your mother, is what I’m saying.”

  Even if Dad wants to keep his head in the sand, I’ve been counting on the fact that once Mom hears the story of Brian being catapulted back to imaginary Afghanistan, she’ll see the importance of getting him some help. “But don’t you think … ”

  “You know how your mother overreacts,” Dad interrupts. “She’d blow this thing up into something bigger than it needs to be. Your brother just needs more time. It’s like that for every soldier. You’ll see.”

  The look on my face must be doubtful, but Dad reads it differently.

  “Don’t be so upset about leaving, Dov,” he reassures me. “There’s always next year. To be honest, I didn’t think you’d enjoy hunting so much. I don’t know why I never thought to bring you along before.”

  Not replying is the best response I can manage.

  Brian doesn’t argue when Dad proposes heading home. He mutters something about needing to spend some time with Victoria anyway, then helps load up the Suburban. I notice he even carries his own duffel out to the truck; when I think of the pistol buried deep down inside it, I decide not to argue. Dad wraps what’s left of the buck loosely in a plastic sheet and tosses it up on the roof rack, tying the whole thing down with twine.

  A half hour later we pull back onto the highway toward home. I open my phone to text, but discover the battery has run out of charge. I’ll have to wait until we get back.

  Fortunately, a day spent walking for miles in the crisp, fresh air has tired me out, and before I know it I fall asleep, my head resting against a rolled sleeping bag. When I awake to Dad and Brian arguing in the front, I open my eyes only a slit.

  “I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” Dad snaps. “I’m just saying, sometimes it’s hard for me to understand where your head is at these days.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” Brian retorts. “Unless you’ve been over there, you can’t understand how it gets in your blood. Sometimes I feel like … ” He trails off, thinking before he finishes. “Like a part of me got left over there. Like I’m not whole anymore.”

  Dad’s shaking his head, frustrated. “It’s going to kill your mother if you tell her you want to go back, you know,” he fumes. “Not to mention Victoria. She’s putting together a wedding. She thinks you’re getting married, Brian. You asked her to marry you!”

  “I know.” Brian sighs. “I know. I’m just … not sure that’s such a good idea anymore. Not right now, anyway.”

  Through my eyelashes, I watch Dad’s head snap around toward Brian. “You gonna throw that away too now?” he barks. “A good girl like that? A future?”

  Brian doesn’t say anything, just slumps toward the passenger door.

  “Well, I guess we know what part of you got left in Afghanistan,” Dad snorts. “The part that used to be between your ears.”

  Though Dad talks to me like this all the time, I’ve never heard him speak to Brian this way before. I play possum until I’m sure the conversation is over for good, then yawn and stretch dramatically. From the view out the window when I sit up, I can see we’ve reached the outskirts of Longview.

  I’m glad when both my dad and Brian are silent for the rest of the drive home.

  Thirty

  (ABC News)—Sixteen U.S. soldiers were killed

  in Kunar Province after their helicopter was shot down by insurgents. This represents the worst

  one-day U.S. casualty record in the history of Operation Enduring Freedom–Afghanistan.

  After the hunting trip, things start to go downhill at full tilt. To everyone’s surprise, Dad announces that he’s taken on a load that will require him to be away for two weeks. “Maybe longer,” he tells us gruffly. “Hard to say.”

  Mom doesn’t argue, but her mouth tightens into a narrow line I’ve seen before.

  I try, a couple times, to bring up to Dad what happened on the trip, but he doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. “Dov, your brother just lived through a helluva bad experience. He just needs some time to settle things in his mind. And don’t you go making him feel like he’s some kind of nutcase,” Dad warns, giving me a hard look.

  I go away wondering how everything is always turned around on me.

  These days, Brian’s moods are swinging all over the place; sometimes he’s the familiar, upbeat Brian, and other times he’s downright nasty. He no longer makes any effort to hide his drinking; if Mom notices the bottles stacking up in the trash can before I haul it out back, she doesn’t say anything. She seems more worried by the fact that Brian and Victoria seem to be arguing all the time.

  “I don’t even know what to say to him anymore, Dov,” Victoria told me tearfully one night. I got caught in the kitchen when she came stumbling up from the basement, crying. “Nothing I do is ever right. He’s just not the same person he was before he left.”

  I wish I knew what to tell her, but I don’t. At night, I often hear Brian prowling through the house. Sometimes I hear the back door being softly unlatched, then opened and closed. I can only guess that my brother is out patrolling the neighborhood, alert for signs of insurgents, stepping carefully to avoid IEDs. It makes me sick with fear to imagine what might happen if he encounters anyone he thinks is suspicious, especially since I figure it’s a sure thing he’s carrying the pistol I saw in his duffel.

  Even when he seems calm, I know that inside, Brian is tense and wary, like a cat poised to spring. Just looking at him, I can see that his mind is always busy, and yet he accomplishes almost nothing. When he blows off his admissions testing appointment at the university, even Mom is driven to snap at him in frustration. For the most part, though, we’re all tiptoeing around him, sensing he’s a short, fraying fuse that no one wants to light.

  Besides worrying constantly about Brian, the rest of my attention is on Leo, who’s continuing his slow belly-crawl toward starvation. It’s become clear that things with him are serious. Finally, I break down and go to the local pet store, where I talk to Jared, the kid in charge of reptiles. “You could try and tempt his appetite,” Jared suggests.

  “How do I do that?” In the past, Leo’s diet was pretty simple: crickets, crickets, and more crickets.

  Jared leads me to a large bin in the back of the store, near the sinks. “These are a little pricier than crickets,” he says, reaching his hand down into the bin, “but they usually do the trick.” He shows me
his palm, on which writhe a pile of plump, blind-looking creatures. “Mealworms,” he says. “They’re loaded with fat and cholesterol so we don’t recommend them as part of a regular diet, but they usually work in emergencies.”

  I considered the squirming mass of bacon-double-wormburgers. “You think these will work, huh?”

  “Don’t they look irresistible?”

  They actually look pretty resistible to me, but I shrug and listen as Jared tells me how to keep the mealworms fresh. “Feed ’em some oatmeal and wheat germ,” he says. “Put them in a shoebox with some egg cartons and they’ll be in heaven.”

  “And if this doesn’t work?”

  Jared sighs. “Sometimes geckos just stop eating and need to be reminded to start again before they get too weak. Once that happens, they don’t have the energy to hunt down their food anymore. Your last resort would be to force-feed him, and you won’t want to wait too much longer.”

  I hope it wouldn’t come to that. I don’t relish the idea of prying open Leo’s beaky mouth to force a writhing meal worm down his throat.

  Jared’s expression is grim. “The worst-case scenario is that he’s impacted. Sometimes the system gets, uh … corked. Then not much you can do.”

  There’s no need to ask him to elaborate. I head home to begin Operation Mealworm.

  At least at school, there’s something else to think about besides the trouble at home; all our minds are on the upcoming concert. It’s hard to believe that in only a few days, we’ll be in the same room—okay, it’s a coliseum—as Poisoned Heart.

  “We should leave by five,” Ali proposes at lunch, the week before.

  “Yeah,” says Miranda. “We want to make sure we can get close to the stage.” There’s no such thing as “seating” at concerts like this; everyone stands.

  “What’s the official emo tree?” the noxious voice of Ray Sellers calls from a few tables away. None of us even glance his direction, but that doesn’t deter him.

  “Weeping willow!” Ray shouts. The idiots at his table erupt in laughter, and I can’t help but notice that a few others in the lunchroom chuckle as well.