by Russ Linton
Halfway to the city square, the orange light filled the night sky. You could no longer see the stars. I felt a heat on my skin, so intense, like sitting near the fire in winter. Hotter than the summer could ever be.
I ran toward the heat. All the work we had done. The soldiers had said it would keep the fire away, but here, there was fire, and I'd heard no bombs. No planes.
Flames whipped along the buildings, pulsing in an odd breeze. The orange glow worked down the streets quickly, almost faster than I could run. Shouts and screams came from all around, and I heard the wasted cry of a warning siren.
An explosion ripped the air, followed by laughter, and the light from the burning buildings paused where the narrow streets opened into the market. Fire spiraled skyward in a giant column and then struck down. Another shrill laugh pierced the roar of flames.
I don't know why I didn't run. People were fleeing on all sides. Those who ran by me were blackened. Many could only shuffle, their faces melted in terror, their clothes burnt from their bodies. I pressed into the heat and ran to the corner of a building. The cicadas hadn't let me sleep. They wanted me to see this.
In the market stood two of the ghosts. The one at the center was large, like an elephant. He moved his shoulders and his head moved with them. Each step he took was cautious and deliberate. Sweat poured from his body and stained his skin-tight white suit. His eyes burned hotter than the fire.
Beside him the other ghost fed the inferno with his very hands. Flames streamed from his fingers at a fine, white point and blossomed into an orange head big enough to swallow buildings. His face shone in the intense heat, featureless except white teeth and jubilant eyes. He was the source of both the fire and the laughter.
Interviewer inquires about the third ghost.
I did not see the third. Yet.
A tank, one I knew to be a Chi Nu, defender of our homeland, sat blistered and smoking on the street across from them. This would be where the column of flame had lashed out. Why they had slowed. Soldiers had tried to fight back. But you don't fight ghosts with tanks.
They stood across from the tank and spoke. I could not understand what they said. The smaller one spread his arms and fired flame from both palms high into the air. He laughed the laugh of demons and shouted a challenge to the city.
More tanks rumbled and creaked in the distance. The wind died, and the large one peered down the street where the tanks could be heard coming from.
He lifted a foot, high to his chest, and brought it to the ground like a sumo warding off spirits. But instead of driving them away, he'd called to the dead in the earth and they answered.
I watched the street split apart. It swallowed the smoking husk of the tank, and the fissure raced into the darkness. Buildings along the street crumbled. The faraway tanks fell silent. This ghost had no need of an iron club. He was the club.
The fire ghost cackled and shouted. He blasted a storefront only one building from where I crouched and the facade burst into flames. Glass dripped from the empty window. A figure ran from the doorway, a woman. I saw her hair shrivel under a cloak of flame. A joyous look overcame the fire ghost and he waved a hand. The fire became blinding white and when I could see again, she was gone. I never heard a scream.
He laughed and walked toward the building, pointing excitedly. The earth ghost at the center shook his head and kept his eyes on the streets.
Interviewer poses a question.
Many times I think back and try to understand how his intense gaze never saw me.
From out of the wind, the third ghost appeared. He was thin and covered in soot. Hands on his knees, he stood bent, taking in labored breaths. The earth ghost glared at him, impatient.
The fire ghost kept waving excitedly at the place where the woman had been. At first, I couldn't see why he was pointing. He danced up and down then froze and placed his hands in the air, a mocking look of fear on his face. He doubled over again in laughter. When he did, I saw the blackened shadow on the wall behind him. She had not completely disappeared.
For the first time, I wanted to run. Fear kept me rooted. Fear and what happened next.
The wind ghost stood upright. He vanished and then was next to the fire ghost in the same instant, his fist connecting with the grinning face. The fire ghost fell to the ground. Blood and one of his white teeth dropped to the blackened street. When he looked up, the laughter was gone. Flames from the storefront shot high into the night. He rose and the wind ghost crouched.
Then the earth shook.
The earth ghost was looking their way, tapping his foot on the ground in a measured beat. Beneath us, the earth rose and fell like the waves on the ocean. The others struggled to remain standing and I fell to my knees against the corner of the building.
The earth ghost shouted and the anger in his eyes filled his voice. He pointed to the fire ghost who spit more blood and stalked away, lighting buildings with a flick of his wrist as he went.
The earth ghost then stomped toward the wind ghost, never letting the ground beneath him rest. The wind ghost did his best to stand straight and tall.
Stabbing with his meaty finger, earth ghost shouted above the roaring flames and the cackling in the square. Spit flew into the wind ghost's face and he didn't flinch. When the reprimand was finished, the wind ghost saluted. Saluted and was gone.
Interviewer interrupts.
I could no longer see him, but the pulsing wind was back and the flames in the square rose higher and higher, devouring buildings in a hellish vortex. The front of the building where I hid burst into flames. Bricks cracked and I stumbled away. A sheet of flame cut me off from my escape and I fell. The fire was so hot the air became a weight, pressing down against my chest. Stones in the street popped and melted. I thought I heard the cicadas cry, but the roar of the fire was deafening.
Then the scorching wind stopped. Beside me, the wind ghost bent, coughing and sputtering again. He was blackened, head to toe. Fire on this side of the wall of flame had chased away all shadows. I lay there, in plain sight, unable to move.
He saw me.
It was as though he was the one who'd seen a ghost. And maybe that is what I was. My skin was reddened and flecked with ash. My clothes had swept away on the burning wind. I could smell my hair wilting in the intense heat. Everything was heat and flame and I knew I was going to die.
Then I was beneath a maple.
Not the tree at home in the garden. That one was kept trim and narrow. This one arced above and blotted out the sky.
Interviewer inquires about the location. Details.
I was on a hill. The wind was cold on my skin. Cicadas called in their steady song.
The wind ghost was there. Across the bay, the orange light of the burning city reflected off the ocean. From here, the smell wasn't of death. A fire on a hearth, that was all.
He waited, watching me and looking over his shoulder. Our eyes met and he nodded. I asked him to go and get my grandfather, and he tilted his head and gave me the most sorrowful smile. I still see it, sometimes.
Through the night, the fires spread. Gunshots and artillery roared defiantly but were quickly silenced. I watched the fire grow and could see the outlines where it expanded around the firebreaks my friends and I had built. Homes demolished to be spared the burning.
More people showed up, as suddenly as I had. Two, then three. I caught fleeting glimpses of the wind ghost as he dropped them off and tore back down the hill, bending the maple in his wake. By morning there were fifteen of us on the hill. On the coast, nothing but a black and empty shell.
***
1982. Pentagon. Joint Special Operations Command Task Force.
Brigadier General Garren Rousch reclined in his desk chair. A local station belted out big-band classics from the radio on the shelf behind him. Count Basie was enough before Rousch's time that the guys he served with in 'Nam had given him plenty of grief for his taste in music. The songs of that war screeched out of an uncomfortable, electri
c atmosphere that he'd never understood. But he'd always appreciated the simple innocence of the music of a bygone era. An era he was about to reconnect with, any second now.
A gale of air blasted his office. Behind a screen of falling papers that had once been neatly stacked on his desk, he saw him. Rousch cricked his neck and let the papers settle before turning off the radio.
There stood the legend himself, Hurricane. Average height. Thin. His skin had an almost glossy look; it clung to his face like plastic wrap, tight across his cheek bones and brow but crinkled in his jowls. His face seemed frozen in a permanent smile.
According to his service records, he'd be sixty years old in two months, so a few wrinkles weren't odd. What was odd was where the wrinkles were. He looked like an obese man that had lost a lot of weight, fast, but the same records showed he'd consistently checked in at one hundred and forty seven pounds from his first day in the service at age nineteen.
Then there was the kilt. A kilt and a tattered shirt. Rousch didn't care how much of a legend the man was, that wouldn't do. He ignored Hurricane's extended hand.
"You're out of uniform, soldier," Rousch said, as he began sorting and stacking the papers that had fallen within reach.
Hurricane gritted his teeth. "Sorry, sir. Been a while since I had this kind of meeting." He saluted and disappeared. The windowed office door slammed behind him as the air sucked out of the room. Frosted glass showered the floor. Rousch dove atop his paperwork like he was falling on a grenade.
"Motherf…"
Before the last piece of Brigadier General Rousch's stenciled name hit the floor, the door swung open.
"Reporting for duty, sir!"
Hurricane stood in the doorway at full attention. His dress uniform pressed, his insignia, nameplate, service ribbons and badges all in place. He raised an arm in salute and his shoe crunched the glass under his feet. Chagrin crossed his eyes and Rousch watched him fight off the urge to look down.
"You don't want to look. But if you did, you'd see your fly's down, soldier."
The uncomfortable look returned, but to his credit, Hurricane didn't flinch. Rousch decided he'd let him sweat it out. He gathered his papers from the floor and returned to his chair.
Once back at his desk he straightened his blazer, tugging at the sleeves to place them within one inch of his wrists as regulations required. He smoothed the lapel and sat up straight. He then set about reorganizing the papers and placing Hurricane's personnel folder back atop the stack. Only when that was done did he stare down one of the most dangerous weapons ever created.
He looked like any other soldier. His salute was picture perfect. Maintained eye contact. Despite his entrance, there was genuine respect there. Rousch needed to know exactly how much.
Rousch had been given the questionable honor of providing his input on which direction to take the Augment program. Personally, he credited men like Hurricane with ending that last great war. As far as he was concerned, he was looking at a bona fide hero.
That was a time when reducing cities to ash meant victory. Not anymore. Rousch hadn't been too bothered by Cuba like the rest of the world. Those Communists had gotten what was coming to them, trying to set up strike teams in spitting distance of the Everglades.
No, the problem was everything that came after the outrage surrounding Cuba: skulking in shadows and the covert wars nobody won. For many of these Augments, all the subterfuge had eroded their discipline—or so the program review claimed. Weapons were meant to be used on the battlefield, not wielded in back alleys. Rousch needed to assess the damage. He owed this hero a chance.
"At ease." He pointed to a chair across from him.
"Sorry, sir, had to change in the hallway there. Uniform wouldn't have made the trip." Hurricane turned away while he carefully zipped his pants. "Ever had a poly-blend melt to your thighs? I don't recommend it." He cringed as glass crackled under his feet again. His eyes dropped to the floor. "I could—"
"Have a seat."
"Yes, sir."
Rousch tapped a finger on his desk. He opened the top folder to a newspaper clipping, "Hurricane Battles Namesake", dated only two days ago. A major atmospheric event had occurred in the South China Sea. Worldwide weather bureaus had been watching the situation for days. So had a high-altitude surveillance plane. Rousch held up the clipping.
Hurricane squinted.
"You realize that hurricane would have hit Zhanjiang Harbor?"
"Oh yeah. Lots of people there."
"And a naval base."
Hurricane popped his neck. He propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and scooted closer, squinting one eye and glancing over his shoulder at the jagged hole in the door. "We at war with China, sir?"
"No," said Rousch. "But we could be one day." He set the clipping down and tapped his finger on the desk.
"Phew!" Hurricane slouched into the chair. "Can't say I fancy any more wars in or around Asia, sir. Think I've had my fill."
There was no sense in drawing this out. Rousch had a dozen other reports all from the last week, Hurricane's name prominent in each. "The United States government needs you to reel in your freelance activities."
Hurricane pursed his lips, and his eye, still squinted, twitched. "Not sure I understand, sir. Ain't that what I'm supposed to be doin'?"
Rousch started to feel like he was giving orders to the wind. "These activities aren't in the strategic interests of the United States. Take China. They don't have Augments. There's no reason to deploy you there for their benefit."
"Well, if we ain't at war, can't I keep people alive so we can kill 'em later, sir?"
"We need to let nature take its course, and right now, God has blessed the United States military—"
"HOORAH!"
"…has blessed us with the best fighting force on the planet. We tried to comfort the hippies by telling them the Augment program was done. I need you to keep out of the limelight while they believe that. The only freelancing you need to be doing should come straight from Langley."
Exuberance faded from the stretched face and his brow knitted without managing to form any wrinkles. "I can't say I like them spooks much, sir. If I can say that."
"You did and duly noted." Rousch sighed. "Hell, I don't like them either. But that's what needs to be done. Your cover is freelancing. But they call the shots. All of them. Speaking of which, they'll be in touch soon. Their normal methods."
"Yes, sir." Hurricane gave a sharp nod. He held perched on the edge of his chair and chewed his lip. That one eye seemed permanently squinted now. There was a macabre look in the grin plastered on his face. The more Rousch looked, the more he felt something wasn't quite right.
Here sat a living weapon. A man who'd gone in with a small strike force and leveled an entire city in minutes. A retiree who had figured out how to reverse the winds of a hurricane. To utterly spoil God's will. A shiver ran up his spine.
Rousch checked his fear.
No, this man was a hero. Not a broken arrow, but a soldier. He'd gotten a bit eccentric in his old age, maybe, but he would be perfectly willing to follow orders from a military man and not the shadow-loving spooks. Rousch leaned forward. "I need you to do this. For God, your country, and yourself."
Hurricane stood and saluted, slow and deliberately. His odd face scrunched in determination. "Yes, sir!"
"Dismissed."
Then he was gone. The door stayed open this time. Fragments of the glass pane had been swept neatly into a pile. Rousch breathed a sigh and picked up the phone to call base maintenance to see about a new office door.
He settled back into his work, thankful to clear his desk and move on to more mundane matters. He flicked on the radio and tried to let the blaring trumpet notes and snappy beats focus his mind. Fifteen minutes later, a newscaster interrupted a Glenn Miller classic.
"Mitch Jefferson reporting live from the 304 Causeway, where a man has been miraculously saved after a failed suicide attempt. Firefighters and local police
had unsuccessfully tried to talk the man down. With daylight disappearing, they raised a ladder and the man jumped. Here's witness Audra Coyle."
"I saw the whole thing!" came a woman's voice. "He was falling, straight toward the river. Then I felt a rush of wind and he was gone. It wasn't quite dark yet, but I could see a glowing trail running straight down the support he'd jumped off!"
Rousch propped his elbows on his desk and rested his chin against folded hands. The reporter interrupted the woman.
"Glowing?"
"Yeah, like a stove burner. Straight down the beam there. I think he caught the guy about halfway."
"Who?"
"Looked like he was in a military uniform of some kind but it was all torn up. He dropped the man off by the firetrucks and he was all hopping around, his pants smoking. While they were treating some burns, I heard him say, 'Call me Tornado or you're gonna get me in trouble'. But that was Hurricane, I'd bet on it!"
Brigadier General Rousch turned off the radio. He scribbled an entry into the folder that had been open on his desk minutes ago. He worked in silence late into the night.
***
1987. 305 Causeway.
Five years later and I don't understand why I'm here. I come every year. They've got a barrier along the pedestrian walk now, not that it would stop a determined person. Someone wanting to die, not just seeking attention—they've got the drive to make it happen.
I reach out and place a hand on the bridge support. Five years. I'm thankful every day.
When the firetruck put the ladder up, I knew I didn't want to face them. That I'd waited too long. I stepped off and suddenly realized I would hit the concrete foundation at the base of the support. All this time I'd had ideas of dying on the water. At this height, the river might as well be concrete, but with the wind rushing by and my life over, that detail mattered for that long moment.