Scarecrow Gods

by Weston Ochse

  SCARECROW GODS

  Weston Ochse

  First Digital Edition

  November 2011

  Published by:

  Darkside Digital

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  www.darkfuse.com

  Scarecrow Gods © 2011 by Weston Ochse

  Cover Artwork © 2011 by Mike Bohatch

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Yvonne.

  Your heart and beauty inspire me.

  Acknowledgements

  With love and thanks to my family for supporting me in this solitary passion.

  Thanks for the very special help I received from Dr. Jefferey Katts, Doug Clegg, Tom Piccirilli, Brian Keene, Joe, Brian Knight, Nick Paraskevas, Ed Lee, Nanci Kalanta, Ray Garton, Mike Arnzen, Joe Nassise, Adam Niswander, and F. Paul Wilson.

  To Paul and Shannon, thank you for your encouragement and friendship.

  To Bob Strauss, thanks for championing the life of Maxom Phinxs.

  Thanks to H for Keeping the God.

  Thanks to Shane for believing in me.

  Thanks to my wife, Yvonne, for absolutely everything.

  Thanks to Ishmael Reed for allowing me to be a “Cowboy in the Boat of Ra.”

  Finally, allow me to express my love for the Cabal. You know who you are.

  PROLOGUE

  SUMMER—1972

  The Highlands of Vietnam

  Sunlight dappled the greenery of the jungle’s edge, each spot of darkness a bullet hole that could be. Pin-pricks of never-was pierced the canopy like peep holes to the heavens allowing Infinity to gaze down, sole spectator to the mad events that were about to transpire. Winks of green-light reflections flashed from beads of moisture and sweat dripping from muddy foreheads crinkled in anticipation.

  Maxom Phinxs sucked air through clenched teeth, each breath matched by his old friend Bernie and the other six members of the team, all of them breathing in unison, their collective heartbeat counting cadence as they lay waiting in ambush.

  The team had been forged long ago in the crucible of Fort Bragg, tempered in the hate called Vietnam and battle-proven in twilights of screams and flowing lead. Star-spangled passion shot through their veins. Red, white and blue murder shone from their eyes.

  They had never lost a battle.

  Some whispered that they never would.

  It was hard to believe that these martial creations had once been boys who’d fired invisible death from finger guns. No matter the enemy, no matter the battle, they’d always been sure, they’d always been successful. They’d always managed to survive.

  The Special Forces Team crouched and waited for the Viet Cong patrol to slink along the trail at the jungle’s edge. Maxom and Bernie exchanged quick grins as they heard stealthy movement creep within their kill-zone.

  They’d never lost a battle.

  Some whispered that they never would.

  It was all up to Infinity.

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday—June 8th—The Present

  Ooltewah, Tennessee

  “Maggot Man, Maggot Man,

  He has no feet, He has no hands.

  Maggot Man, Maggot Man,

  He has no hair, He has no tan.”

  Stones rained down upon the flat tin roof of a tired and beaten home. Black tar oozed from between its weathered slat boards, each held bent and twisted to the skeletal foundation by rusty iron nails. Weeds and small saplings grew thick where a lawn had once been. An old Ford truck squatted, the same color as the twin gravel tracks it sat upon. Chunks of the concrete porch were missing as if a great beast had passed by hungry and mean.

  Like midsummer’s fairies, six giggling boys chanted and danced their hate through the tall milkweeds and shadowy pools at the kudzu-draped forest edge. Louder and louder they cried, attempting to transform words into weapons. They traded decibels for velocity in their efforts to bring down their dedicated monster.

  When the grating sound of the home’s front door intruded upon their gay nastiness, the boys merged and became a single dread beast. But instead of attacking, they turned and fled, puffs of dust from the little-used road screening their laughter, covering their tracks, hiding their contempt.

  Their sentiments lingered in the air like clouds of gnats on a Southern summer’s eve.

  “Maggot Man, Maggot Man,

  He has no feet, He has no hands.

  Maggot Man, Maggot Man,

  He has no hair, He has no tan.”

  * * *

  Maxom Phinxs stood behind the screen door watching the boys scamper home to their own full-bodied lives. He scratched the side of his smooth hairless scalp with the bony nub of his left arm, turned and lurched back into his private dark. The windows had been covered long ago with black garbage bags to not only protect his skin from the painful light, but to also protect him from the many versions of the cross that had made him.

  Oblivious to the screams of his mother cowering in a corner of the living room, on his first day back from the VA Rehabilitation Center, he’d allowed the devastation of his body to finally send him reeling over the edge of sanity. Fueled with the desperation of a phobic rage, he’d careened through the old home shattering each and every window, concentrating his violence upon the crosspieces that created the baleful symbol until he fell sweaty, bloody and crazed in a heap amidst the shattered glass and sobs of his confused mother.

  The glass and frames had since been replaced, but the plastic bags remained, changed seasonally by a younger man from the church over in Ooltewah. The result of his self-imposed eclipse was a dark and dusky interior seemingly difficult to navigate. Maxom’s eyes had long since conformed to his particular darkness, however. He knew the complicated maze like Perseus with a map. Only a long blacklight high on a soot-covered wall illuminated the room in its own strange blue glow.

  Maxom stepped stiffly around the dozens of thigh-high stacks of record albums and precariously balanced books and lifted the lid on the old, oak console combination record player, 8-track tape player and radio. With his remaining hand, he lowered the needle onto the black vinyl circle that was already in place. The scratchy intro came to life in the old-fashioned mono speakers embedded in the front of the fabric-covered console. Carole King’s Beautiful filled the room with its high images of happy promises and self-realization. Maxom grinned, appreciating the irony of his daily joke.

  “You’ve got to get up every morning

  with a smile on your face and show the world

  all the love in your heart

  then people gonna treat you better

  you’re gonna find, yes you will

  that you’re beautiful as you feel.”

  He picked his way over to the long low sofa that squatted against the wall beneath the light, turned, and fell heavily upon the old, worn cushions. He hummed along to the rich scratchy words and gazed at the sparkling motes from the small plume of dust that erupted from the impact. They danced in the blacklight’s gleam like miniature disco balls in concert with the lament.

  His therapist had recommended Carol King, promising that the woman’s lyrical philosophy could help relieve his depression. She’d recommended this song in particular, insisting that starting the day on a high note was critical. Like always, he followed her advice, but felt like a POW again, bombarded by propaganda.

  How was some white-bread city woman supposed to know his mind? To know what it felt like for a dog to gnaw on your foot? Or the revulsion of watching a maggot pop free from your s
kin?

  Still, of all the therapists he’d had, she’d been the only one who’d seemed to care. He wasn’t sure if it was her youth or her ambition or her damn good looks. All he knew was that she was the only one sent by the VA that he’d listened to and it was by her recommendation that he’d been allowed to finally leave the institution.

  Maxom reached down and undid the straps on his prosthetics—first his right leg, then the left. As they came away, he placed them upon the cushions beside him. With a strong long-fingered hand, he massaged the stumps, kneading the bristle-bone that ended just below each knee. He loved the new integrated ankle joints the hospital had finally given him. They made his movements almost real, less plodding. If he could just practice more, he wouldn’t look so much like a stork. Between his days in the house and his nights on the job, however, there was little chance, or need for that matter, to wear them.

  He’d strapped on his new prosthetics in a frantic rush after the children’s attack awoke him from his daytime slumber. He’d hoped it was, indeed, only children. He’d had problems in the past and wasn’t eager to renew them. It was the giggles and the high-pitched whining of the adolescent boys, however, that had kept him from grabbing the shotgun like he’d done so many times before. Still, he’d hurried to the door, remembering the men in white sheets who found his existence anathema. The scorching and smoky residue of their violent confluence was still evident in several places he’d yet to repair—permanent memories of KKK philosophies.

  He reached across the long wooden coffee table before him. From between unstable stacks of paper and hardback novels, he plucked a container of talcum powder. Sprinkling each nub, he massaged the white dust into his skin, the talcum already relieving some of the chafing he’d caused by forgetting to slide on the flexible, cloth-covered rubber caps he’d neglected in his earlier rush. Satisfied he’d done all he could, he reattached each prosthetic with his single hand, stood and headed for the bedroom.

  Piles of dirty clothes littered much of the floor. There had been a woman who’d come out to clean for a while, but like always, even when they were paid, serving the Maggot Man was just too much. Pretty soon he’d need to find another cleaner. His clothes were getting spare and the house smelled rank. Maxom wasn’t the type to sweep, vacuum or wash. After all, who did he have to impress? Just by walking, he’d provided several mediocre doctors with excellent articles to propel stagnant careers forward.

  Maxom pulled the chain on the overhead bulb and a single blacklight cast the mess of his bedroom with the same eerie glow as the living room. It wasn’t that his skin couldn’t take the light. It was just that the scar tissue was so tender. He’d seen a dozen experts and learned even a graft was impossible. The white phosphorous had burned too deep and too long. Every time he even so much as glanced at his skin he remembered the burning that water couldn’t quench.

  He removed his robes with a twist of the waist tie revealing a body that was a tormented mosaic of white and orange on a black canvas. He was too thin, as the nurses always said, his ribs showing like harsh ridges under stretched skin. Careful of the humidity and the inherent slipperyness of the vinyl floor, Maxom stepped into the cramped bathroom. He leaned against the sink for support and ran cool water into the black lacquered basin. Sitting on the shag-covered toilet seat, he began to gently sponge his skin with a thick black washcloth.

  The whiteness had the slick gleam of old scar tissue. Speckles of rejuvenated orange skin were like random patches sewn against the patchwork. In several places, his original black could still be seen. The largest of these was a butterfly-shaped patch on his chest where the flack jacket had protected him from much of the burning.

  They’d been pinned down by a platoon of Victor Charlie. Not a big deal, really. His team knew how to handle themselves, each member on his second or third tour. Bernie and Smith anchored the ends of their squad creating a deadly interlocking field of fire. Cordite filled the stagnant air with a smoky haze. Pieces of elephant grass and bamboo fell to the ground like confetti.

  Lt. Moriarty had sent him around on the flank. Maxom still remembered crawling on his elbows and knees through the mud and human excrement the Vietnamese used to fertilize the rice paddy. He never saw the grenades arching though the air. He only barely heard the screams of warning from his team right before the world evaporated into a billowing cloud of impossible light.

  His crazed flight from the pain had fanned the flames over the rest of his body. Even his dive into the thick filthy water of the irrigation ditch did nothing to stop the brilliant blue burning. He remembered watching as the raw power of the chemical caused his left arm to bubble into nothingness, pieces of a hand that had once thrown a ninety mile-an-hour fastball rising to the surface of the water without him, poisoned and annihilated by the white phosphorus. He’d thrashed in the ditch, screaming and dying, begging God, his fallen friends and the farmers who stood calmly watching, to kill him. Put out the fire. Put him out of his misery. Anything.

  All the months he’d lain in the hospital at Clark Air Force Base, Philippines, each doctor had all but promised him that he’d die. They never came out and said it. They didn’t have to. He recognized the look. It was that same clinical look Sammy had had right before they shoved the M-80 up the cat’s ass back behind the farm when he was ten that long-ago summer. The tiny explosive had blown with a huge pop, the cat flipping into the air in a dozen perfect somersaults until it landed back first in the creek. Maxom remembered the smiles that he and Sammy and Bubba had exchanged as they squatted and watched the bloody mewling mass sink, bright red blood and shit escaping from the huge hole. They’d laughed. It was funny, then. Now the doctors and nurses, even other patients, crouched over him with Sammy Eyes, each hoping to be the first to see him die.

  Maxom was too ugly to be loved, too ravaged to be part of any sentimental passion. Even the most sympathetic, God-fearing nurse couldn’t bear to look at him. Most stared in shock at the effects of what chemical munitions, jungle rot and the ravages of feral dogs had wrought on the delicateness of the human anatomy. There had even been a pool of money set aside. He’d overheard that betting among the nurses was exceptionally fierce. From amidst his bandages, immobile as a three-thousand year-old mummy, he’d watched intently, wondering if someone would accidentally forget some complex ministration or inject an air bubble into his IV, resulting in a sad inadvertent win.

  But he’d outlived all of their predictions and beaten the odds. When he’d finally been released, he’d been presented with the 3472 dollars by the grim staff, more than a few smoldering at his recovery.

  Never before had someone suffered such pain and burns and survived they’d said. They didn’t need to tell him that. Never before had someone survived the burning of white phosphorus over so much of their body. They didn’t need to tell him that, either. The toxic shock alone should have killed him. He’d understood it all. What those who he’d seen along the way all failed to comprehend was that the living was sometimes worse than the dying.

  Maxom grabbed a well-used cotton towel and began to pat his skin dry. Humming the strains of Carole King, he allowed himself to be transported to her pleasant place. From the edge of the sink, he pulled a bottle of lotion and began to work it into his skin. As his hand moved across his face and over his skull, memories of a thick afro were echoed in the cellular memories of his fingers. His hair had once been fondled by many women, sometimes even grabbed by clenched fists as he pumped his love, sometimes picked into a tall fine bush that was the envy of his block.

  Never again.

  Now, he was as hairless as a baby, and, when in certain moods, enjoyed the looks of fear he generated when someone new saw his face—a gleaming splotchy-white, eyebrowless, lashless face that always answered disgust with a happy, Carol King smile.

  * * *

  Chattanooga, Tennessee

  Near Chicamauga Reservoir on the Tennessee River, a small boy sped over the long grass of his back yard, dandelions and
weeds whipping aside as his tanned legs tore through their sun-seeking blooms, shattering the occasional seed pod in a splash of white cotton. He was late for dinner and knew his mom was going to be mad. If she found out he and the boys had been over at the Maggot Man’s place, she’d ground him for sure. He leapt over his skateboard by the back door and burst breathlessly into the kitchen. His mom turned from the sink, a challenge in her eyes.

  “Danny. Where in God’s name have you been? Your father’s been calling you for the last half-hour.”

  “With the guys, mom. Down at the lake doing stuff.”

  He wasn’t really lying. They’d spent the whole day in the water celebrating their freedom from a half-year’s imprisonment. School was out and the summer wouldn’t wait. Then a few hours ago they’d become bored and, as a group, decided to exact a little retribution on the evil man who lived in the hollow.

  “Listen. You were supposed to stay around home. You know how your father gets.” She slapped a towel down on the counter. “I’ve told you a hundred times, ‘Let us know where you are’.”

  “But, Mom,” he said, frustration entering his voice.

  “Don’t But Mom me, Daniel. You know better. I don’t need this shit right now. None of us do.” Her response was rapid-fire quick, anger punctuating each word.

  Danny dropped his gaze to the triangular black and white pattern of the linoleum floor. I don’t need this shit right now either, Mom, he thought to himself. He used to pad carefully across the surface of the floor, wary of stepping on a crack, breaking his mother’s back, yet…

  He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her know that the reason he hadn’t answered her was because he’d gone to the Maggot Man’s house. He was getting back at the man for what he’d done, getting back at him for the crime the law wouldn’t touch him for. Even if they were just kids, maybe, just maybe, they could make the monster pay.