The Argus Deceit

by Chuck Grossart

  Brody dropped Murf’s hand. The Murphy standing in front of him was no longer his little brother. He was one of them. Brody opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was sad, looking down into the face of a little boy he loved more than he loved himself. How many times had he run into the street to keep his brother from getting hit by a car? How many times had he been too late (it had happened) and watched his brother’s body disappear below the car, rolling around between the steel and the asphalt, bones snapping, and listened to Murf’s screams? How many times had he pushed Murf away just in time (that had happened, too), only to get crushed under the wheels himself? How many times had he gone home, faced his mother, endured the heartache of letting his brother die or explained how he had saved him at the last moment? And how many times had he simply not gone home at all?

  The pain in his head worsened, pulsing with a white-hotness directly behind his eyes. His teeth ached. His vision blurred.

  He had to get away from this place. As far away as he could.

  Promise me you’ll go to a place you’ve never been.

  Connie. One of the last things she’d said before she’d disappeared.

  Run there as fast as you can!

  And that was exactly what he was going to do. He turned, but Debbie Wilson was standing right in front of him.

  “Don’t you want to play the game for me, Brody?” she said. Her eyes were so bright and beautiful, and her voice was appealing, soft. Brody was taken aback, but only for a second. The other kids were gathering, too. Forming a circle around him. Blocking his path.

  Brody looked at each of them, kids he’d known for years, friends, most of them, like Rich and Gary, and others who were familiar even if he didn’t know their names.

  The other kids, even the little ones, were coming onto the field as well. They were converging on him, surrounding him. Brody was scared.

  Debbie reached out, touched his arm. Brody pulled his arm back, but she only smiled at him, her beautiful, perfect smile. “I want you to play the game for me, Brody. For me. I want to watch you.”

  Brody closed his eyes tight, trying to wish himself away from this place, maybe go to the place Connie had gone—

  Oh God, I don’t want to go!

  —but it was a bad place, a place Connie didn’t want to ever go back to again, but did. Brody couldn’t stop her, couldn’t hold on to her tightly enough to prevent her from disappearing. She wasn’t here now, which meant maybe she was gone for good and he’d never see her again.

  Brody opened his eyes. They were all there. Inching closer. Mrs. Carlisle was towering above the group near the back of the crowd. “You have to play the game,” she said.

  “You have to play the game,” Bullard said.

  “You have to play the game,” Rich said.

  “You have to play the game,” Gary said.

  “You have to play the game,” they chanted, again and again, their voices all the same. Debbie’s smile had disappeared, and her eyes were . . . lifeless. All of them stared at him with little colored orbs of glass in their heads, chanting, chanting.

  Brody tried to run, to shove his way through, but they were a solid wall of bodies, immovable, just as Murf had been. Brody shoved his shoulder into Rich, and that’s when they grabbed at him, gripped his clothes, pushed him and punched him, their bodies pressing against his.

  Brody fell to the ground, curled his body into a fetal position, and wrapped his arms around his head to protect his face. And still they chanted, “You have to play the game! You have to play the game!”

  An angry mob of kids who were supposed to be his classmates was going to kill him.

  Brody was too weak to fight back and wouldn’t have had a chance against so many even if he wasn’t so tired, so full of pain arcing from his head to the rest of his body.

  There was no escape.

  He had to do something.

  “Okay!” Brody screamed. “I’ll play! I’ll play!”

  It stopped.

  Just like that.

  Brody lay writhing on the ground, his body racked by the pain from their blows, but the pulsing heat in his skull was gone. He opened his eyes and saw his schoolmates walking away, going back to where they were when he’d first . . . appeared? The chanting had stopped.

  He sat up and continued to watch them spread out across the playground. The little kids went back to the playground right by the school building, and the bigger kids formed their teams again.

  “I want to play, Brody.”

  Murphy, still standing by his side.

  Brody had to run. He stood, looked across the field to the chain-link fence at the far end. He was weak, and he was hurt, but he had to try. He looked down at Murf (or whatever was supposed to look like his little brother) and said, “Okay, Murf. You can play.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. You’re on Bullard’s team, okay?”

  “Cool!” Murf said as he turned and ran toward the group of kids on the other team. For a split second, things were normal again. The kid was his brother. And stay out of the road, kid.

  Brody took off running, as fast as he could.

  “Hey, Quail? What are you doing?” Lance’s voice. He was the fast one. Brody didn’t have to look behind to know that they would be running after him. And they were. He could hear their feet, a muted thunder, across the grassy field. Lance would catch him.

  Brody kept his eyes locked on the fence, closer and closer, as the sounds behind him grew louder.

  “Quail! Get back here!” Lance again, so close.

  Fifteen feet. Ten.

  He could feel Lance right behind him, could hear him breathing.

  Five feet. Three. Brody leapt, grabbed the chain link, and kicked with his feet, climbing. He felt Lance grab at his shirt, fingers scratching his back. Brody climbed the six-foot fence and threw himself over the top. He tumbled to the ground, rolling in the grass. All he wanted to do was stay down and close his eyes.

  He heard the clang of the fence. They were all there, slamming against the fence, shaking the chain-link panels. “You have to play the game!” the kids screamed. Brody stood, turned to run away, and stared into an endless void, so black and empty. In the shape of a man.

  The shadow man was here again, and right in front of him.

  He remembered the last time, how it had stopped chasing him and pointed down the street. He hadn’t been afraid of it then. Brody took a step back, careful not to get too close to the fence, where little-kid hands were sticking through, grasping for his body. The crowd of kids were all saying the same thing, a symphony of emotionless voices. “He doesn’t belong here . . .”

  Brody stared at the shadow man and could see a person where the open hole had been. It was a man, dressed all in black, his face hidden behind a helmet and visor. Brody could see his own reflection in the faceplate, and the wall of kids behind him, a couple of them starting to climb the fence. “He has to leave,” they said. “He doesn’t belong here.”

  The man reached out a hand.

  Brody was still afraid of the shadow man but felt like he wanted to help in some way. Brody reached out to take his hand when he heard something change behind him.

  “She doesn’t belong here! She has to leave!”

  She?

  Brody felt her hand on his arm, pulling. Connie!

  “No, Brody! It’s a trick!” Connie yelled, pulling him out of the way just as the shadow man leapt at both of them. Brody felt the gloved hands brush against his back as Connie dragged him away. “Run! Come on, Brody, run!”

  He kept up with her as they ran along the length of the fence, the kids on the other side running with them, screaming at Connie to leave this place, chanting that she didn’t belong here. Brody’s legs were like lead, and the pain in his head had returned. He could barely walk, much less run, and he fell.

  He looked up at Connie—

  He was lying in a street, the asphalt freezing cold. A woman was standi
ng before him, dressed in coveralls and work boots. Connie.

  He was in a darkened hallway, an older woman standing in front of him, wearing a flowered dress. Connie.

  He was in an intersection, a teenage girl reaching for him. Connie.

  He was in the grass, the kids pounding against the chain link just a few feet away. He felt the blood gush from his nose and run down his lip and into his mouth as he saw a bright flash of stars, and his skull felt like it split open. He opened his mouth to scream, then felt Connie’s hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Brody, it’s okay, oh God, please don’t go!”

  Darkness then.

  Cold and numbing.

  The pain was gone.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  Chapter 24

  BRODY26

  Garland Trail, Nebraska

  Tuesday, November 12, 1968

  Brody was in the bar, with two dollar bills clutched in his (right) hand and his field jacket draped over the back of his chair.

  Jimmy, the bartender, was wiping the bar with a rag. Smiling at him.

  Brody knew what was going to happen from this point on. He’d pay for his drinks, which he never really remembered having in the first place, then walk outside into a chilly night. He’d walk home (in the direction of home, anyway), but he wouldn’t make it there.

  He never did.

  There would be three goons out there waiting for him; one black, two white. They’d follow him, then approach and confront him.

  “G’night, Brody,” the bartender said.

  Brody stared back at him, wondering how this would play out when he didn’t leave. “You know, Jimmy my man, I think I’ll have one more for the road,” Brody said, stuffing the dollar bills back into his pocket.

  Jimmy paused, only for a moment, but long enough for Brody to notice. Then he said, “Are you sure?”

  “My money not good enough for you, Jimmy?” Brody asked, hoping the bartender would buy his fake smile. His senses were heightened, as if he were walking point again, watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary along the trail: trip wires, movement in the brush to either side, noises from the trees above.

  Jimmy laughed (genuinely enough), and said, “Of course it is. You usually have your three doubles on the rocks, and that’s all. A good bartender notices his customers’ habits, you know?”

  Brody leaned back in his chair, then slapped the bar with his palm. “How ’bout one more, Jimmy.”

  “Sure. Another double?”

  “Nope. I’m feeling like a beer this time.”

  The bartender grabbed a bottle from under the bar, popped the top, and handed it to Brody. “Want a glass?”

  “Are you kidding?” Brody said. He took a swig, then said, “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

  “Shoot, kid,” Jimmy said, leaning against the bar with the rag still in his hand.

  “You were in Korea, right?”

  “You bet. First of the Seventh Marines.”

  “Part of the Chosin Few, huh?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Pretty bad, wasn’t it.”

  Jimmy nodded, then sighed. “Proud to have been there, but not something I like to talk about to too many people. Especially these days, know what I mean? Why are you asking, kid?”

  “Do you ever have flashbacks? I don’t know, dreams that you’re still there?” Brody asked.

  “It never goes away, Brody,” Jimmy said. “It’s always there. You just have to learn how to deal with it.” He glanced at Brody’s pinned-up left sleeve. “Are you having any trouble, kid?”

  Brody took a long pull on the bottle. This wasn’t going exactly as he’d expected. The 1/7 Marines were at Chosin Reservoir, and the battles against the Chinese were bloody and brutal enough that he wasn’t surprised Jimmy wouldn’t want to talk about his experiences there. Brody wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did.

  “I might be,” Brody finally said.

  Jimmy nodded slightly. He grabbed another bottle of beer from under the bar, opened it, and held it toward Brody. “To those who know, Brody.”

  They clinked bottles and each took a drink. A toast from one warrior to another. Jimmy put his bottle down, then said, “There aren’t any answers in this stuff, though. It’ll dull it for a while, but like I said, it’s always there. If you want to talk sometime, then we’ll talk. I don’t know what you went through, but I can guess it wasn’t exactly nice. Right?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t very nice.” This seemed all very real to Brody. He almost expected Jimmy to stumble as soon as Brody changed the sequence of things (assuming there really was a sequence). He had been back in Vietnam (flashback?), but the fight wasn’t his, nor was the name on his uniform.

  J O H N S O N

  Not Q U A I L.

  Maybe this was all connected somehow. He’d read about other vets who had gone off the deep end after returning home. Seeing things. Hearing things. Going crazy. Slowly. Could the shadow man and the girl all be part of his imagination? If so, he was going to need to see someone. A professional. Talking it over with a bartender was probably better than nothing, but there was only so much an old vet offering drinks could do to help.

  Brody wanted to go home. Get some sleep. He dug the bills from his pocket and put them on the bar, then reached for his wallet to get a couple more to cover the beer.

  “On the house, kid,” Jimmy said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. But just this once,” he added with a smile. “I gotta make a living, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Brody replied. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  “Take care, kid. See you tomorrow.”

  Brody was slipping on his field jacket when he saw Jimmy’s eyes glaze over. Brody turned, and he saw her, across the room.

  Connie.

  All at once, the second he saw the girl, the sliver of certainty he’d been holding on to, the hope that everything was fine and he was only having some sort of flashback problem (which wasn’t fine exactly, but he might be able to fix it), disappeared.

  He turned back to Jimmy, who was reaching under the bar again. “She doesn’t belong here,” Jimmy said, his voice different from just before.

  “Brody, we need to get out of here,” Connie said. “Now.” She was standing by the door, and Brody noticed the bar had grown deathly silent, with every patron staring right at Connie. One by one, they all said the same thing: “She doesn’t belong here.”

  Brody’s senses were screaming. There was danger here. Behind him.

  He turned and saw the shotgun in Jimmy’s hands. He was aiming it at Connie.

  Brody struck at the barrel with his right hand just as it fired, the boom incredibly loud in the confined space. Jesus Christ, he’s trying to kill her! He looked back quickly to where Connie had been standing and saw a number of people on the floor. The shotgun blast had taken out at least five people and injured about as many more who were standing in place, buckshot wounds peppering their faces and arms. But they didn’t seem to feel their injuries. Brody glimpsed a flash of red hair among the heap of bodies. Connie, her eyes wide with shock, had dived out of the way of the blast and was getting to her feet. “Goddammit, Brody! Move!”

  He would, but not before he took care of the immediate threat. He vaulted on top of the bar, grabbed the shotgun by the barrel (warm to the touch after the blast), and tried to wrestle it away from Jimmy. Who wasn’t really Jimmy.

  “She—doesn’t—belong—here!” Jimmy grunted as he pulled the gun back, dragging Brody across the bar with it. Brody slid off the bar, to the other side now, and tried to keep the barrel away from his body in case Jimmy—

  Boom!

  The shelves behind the bar exploded in a shower of wood and glass, and Brody’s ears hummed. At first he thought he’d been shot, as the back of his head erupted in a fiery burst of pain that nearly took the breath from his lungs. But no, he was still able to move and fight. He kicked at Jimmy’s knees, and the man buckled o
ver, dropping the shotgun. Brody reached for the weapon, then decided he needed to get away from this place more than he needed to get in a wrestling match over a shotgun with a hulking ex-Marine.

  The others would be moving, too. At Connie. At him. He wasn’t sure why he felt they would be coming after them, but somehow he just knew. Brody ran around the bar right as he saw Connie run out the door. Two of the patrons were walking toward her.

  “She doesn’t belong here.”

  Brody shouldered past them, hoping he’d done enough damage to Jimmy’s knees to keep him on the floor and away from the shotgun. If he hadn’t, the pain in the back of his head would probably get much, much worse. Like where did my head go worse.

  Once outside, grateful he hadn’t heard another boom from the shotgun, Brody saw Connie running down the street. He sprinted to follow. She was heading to the same spot they’d been . . . yesterday? Today?

  We need to find a boundary, she’d said then, whenever then was. He remembered running into an alley with her, then seeing

  a black canvas of nothingness, where other buildings and houses should be

  the boundary. Where Connie went when she disappeared.

  He remembered all of it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the three goons standing together on the sidewalk across the street. “Hey, cracker!” the black guy called. “She don’t belong here, fool!” Brody didn’t slow his pace, even though he really wanted to stop and confront the three of them.

  who walked away

  who pretended to have a gun

  who pulled a gun

  who he managed to ward off

  who kicked his ass

  who shot him

  who he killed

  “Not tonight, asshole!” Brody yelled over his shoulder. Some type of game was being played here, and he was a big part of it. He wasn’t going to play anymore.

  Connie darted into the same alley as before. Brody followed. This time she stopped halfway down the alley, then turned to face him.

  “Are you okay?” Brody asked, trying to see if any of the buckshot had hit her.

  “I’m fine,” Connie replied, breathing heavily. “But barely. If you hadn’t grabbed for the gun, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”