by JC Braswell
For a second, he thought he saw the tiny sparks of red and orange, the heat, and the screams. The knife was with him the day they lost Hackett.
Jackson and Donovan cursed above as the thwack of the machete bit into another vine. Another body cut loose and hit the ground. It was all the same in the end, another Vietnam night, another American gone. Williams closed his eyes, debating whether it was appropriate to recite a final prayer. He decided to focus back on his therapy.
“Anuska tried to pretend it didn’t happen, but he was shaken. Nothing was sacred anymore. Never in a million years would we imagine a kid killing one of us. We’re hanging on, though. Jackson isn’t cynical yet, Donovan holds on to humor, and Garcia embraces his beliefs. The rest of us, shit, we want you dead, gone, and we don’t even know you. All we see is that kid in your eyes. The same brainwashed murderer. I guess that’s what led to My Lai. Everybody has their breaking point. It was a powder keg waiting to happen.”
The VC tilted his chin up, his eyes blinked. He was listening.
“I’m trying real hard to come to terms with everything. It all keeps replaying in my mind. It’s not their fault that they were involved with some backwards conflict between two groups of savages. Savages, that’s the word. Learned this theory in college that environments you grow up in influence how you think. You take these kids and put them in an inferno like Vietnam, add a little testosterone, and what do you get? Savages. They say war is fought by the poor for the benefit of the rich. I don’t believe that for a second. The rich may start a war, but it’s us savages who set the rules, really make it into war as we know it.”
Williams picked up a river pebble and side-armed it across the river. It skipped three times before clattering along the opposite bank. He sat for a minute in the quiet, listening as the others did the best they could do by Anuska and the others.
“You know what separates us from animals? It’s this crazy idea we have souls. It’s only when we forget when become these animals, these savages. We get the sickness. It’s up to the individual to decide.”
Williams finished his confession. It wouldn’t hold any water, but in his mind it helped. He was already at the edge of the cliff. Why not say a few words before jumping off.
“Maybe that serves as apology to the good people who you represent. But I just can’t shake this anger when I remember you killed my friends. Even if it was retribution, if your family was there at My Lai, those boys you killed were still my brothers. Guys like Anuska had families. Jones did too. I remember Jones talking about this old Mustang he wanted to fix up. He smiled while talking about its red paint and chrome fixings.” Williams stabbed the soil with his knife and pulled back. “Jones lost himself awhile ago to this land, to your war. Became one of those savages I was talking about. Then there was Brewer. That big corn-fed bastard wanted to get involved with all things politics. You see, even a big dumpster like him had morals. He wanted to do the right thing for everybody. You took him, too. I can’t let you take any more of my men.”
Williams flipped his knife around and cut through the rope that bound the VC’s hands. The VC didn’t move; instead he rubbed his chafed wrists. Williams then planted the knife next to the VC’s legs.
“I gave you one chance before. Maybe I wanted to give you a chance that those people didn’t have. Hell if I know, but you still had that one chance. Then you decide to desecrate my brothers. I’d say about now I’m all out of forgiveness. But it doesn’t matter. I look into your eyes and I don’t see anything. So—”
Williams removed his gun, balancing its weight in his hand.
“If you don’t tell me how many of those bastards are waiting for us, I’m going to plant a bullet in your head. Got me?”
He chambered his weapon and pressed it against the Viet Cong’s temple. He felt nothing, his lips forming a grim smile as he looked into the face of his devil.
“If this is what it takes to save my brothers, I’ll do it. You have a knife. I have a gun. I figure that makes us even,” he said. His trigger finger fidgeted. “I’m not about to become some damned animal. Now tell me, who is hunting us?”
“Spirits,” surprisingly, the VC answered in English. “Spirits.”
“Don’t go pulling that nonsense on me.” Williams’s words did not match his instinct.
“Con hổ.”
“What?”
The Viet Cong simply smiled.
THIRTEEN
They suffered through their midnight march for two hours, hugging the river’s path, the last thirty minutes spent negotiating a plateau. Williams took count of his crew, each face reflecting back a series of emotions, but they all looked drained, likely still haunted by the images they witnessed.
Williams anchored himself against a tree, hoping the world would right itself. His lungs felt like they were encased in iron, unable to expand. There was no point in going any further, not in his condition.
Jackson’s lumbering form summited next, grumbling as he tossed the prisoner to the ground. The behemoth collapsed opposite the VC. The rest of the group finished their climb, all extolling the virtues of being lost as they crumpled beside Jackson.
“Unbelievable.” Garcia’s nostrils flared as planted his hands on his knees. “He really said ‘spirits’?”
“And something else I can’t remember. Like what McEvoy said. Some gibberish, but at least he said something,” Williams answered.
“Let me get this straight, not only are we fighting against the Viet Cong, but now we have to fight some spirits? Jesus, it’s like the whole damned jungle is against us.” Harris plopped on the ground.
“Don’t get so melodramatic. Ain’t nothing else out there but the DC,” Simmons said.
“It doesn’t matter.” Williams couldn’t help but look back the trail they followed. The tiger was still there, somewhere hidden in the brush. “Only spirits out here are going to be us if we don’t stick together.”
“We better get us some sleep soon.” Donovan sucked in wind, his helmet toppling at his side. “Shit if I can do that tomorrow with no shuteye. Back’s about to explode.”
“Tell me about it,” McEvoy said.
“Don’t tell me you boys are getting jelly in your spines,” Simmons said, his pride refusing to show any sign of weakness as he stood up tall, apparently unaffected by the march.
“I still say you’re batshit crazy for giving him a weapon. He could’ve sliced your throat.” Jackson’s chest expanded as he took another lungful of air. “I’m telling you, you’re crazy, Cap.” Jackson scooted the rucksack underneath his head and hugged it like a pillow. Even a giant needed to rest.
“We got the answer we needed, didn’t we?” Williams’s legs surrendered to gravity as he slid down the rough bark until his tail met the soft earth below. He felt like he was going to melt into the dirt. He would puke if he closed his eyes. The infection rooted itself in his bloodstream, slowly poisoning him.
“Do you think they’re playing with us?” McEvoy wiped the fog from his glasses. His face was pale. Death herself could’ve taken him.
“Why would they? Look at us. Worn out, ragged, pose no danger. We’re a sideshow at this point. They’ll let the jungle handle us. That’s why the VC didn’t run. He’s just watching and waiting for us to die.”
“Guess that whole piñata display with Anuska was just a dig at me then?” Garcia asked.
“I don’t think these people have a sense of humor.” Williams was surprised that Garcia, out of all of them, questioned him.
“Hate to see what they do with us,” Donovan said.
“Stop talking like that.” Williams glared at Donovan.
“So what’s the plan now, LT?” Simmons moved his arms in a repetitive semicircle manner like he was making a snow angel in the leaves. “We just going to sit here and wait for the jungle to take us? Or do you think we’ll just die from boredom and exhaustion?”
“Quiet, Simmons,” Garcia said.
“We keep going.” He didn
’t want to let them know that they might be stalked by a tiger, which would only cause more panic in the group.
“I guess there’s only one answer right now,” Donovan said, resting back on his elbows.
“What’s that?” Harris asked.
“We’re screwed.” Donovan could summon a smile even in the direst of situations, thrusting his hips in the air. “We’re completely and totally screwed. No chance at all.”
“Please don’t say that,” Harris’s voice cracked.
“Donovan, seriously? Why do you have to go on and say something stupid like that?” Jackson nudged Donovan’s thigh. “You’re gonna scare the kid.”
“’Cause it’s true. He’s right.” McEvoy smacked the back of his neck, smashing some insect guts into his skin. “Look at us. Nobody wants to say it, but we’re lost. No map. A useless compass. Not much food. Lost. And don’t get me started on these bugs.” McEvoy slapped the back of his head again, this time catching the bug and causing it to pop like a balloon. McEvoy gagged as he looked at his palm before wiping it across his thigh.
“They sure seem to like you,” Simmons said. “Must have some of that sweet boy blood.”
“Why do you have to start when I’m worrying over here? And I don’t have any sweet boy blood.”
“Enough. No more talk of death,” Williams said, tossing one of the river pebbles he kept in his pocket at McEvoy. “No more talk of anything. We take a short sleep and get going.”
“If you say so, boss.” McEvoy squirmed as the rock plunked him on the shoulder.
“What I wouldn’t give to listen to a little Doors right now. Just fade away with it all.” Donovan looked up at the stars. “Seems appropriate to die while listening to some good music
“How’s the injury?” Garcia dropped to one knee and went to untie Williams’s makeshift compression bandage. “I’m not sure how many we of these left. Maybe one.”
“Shouldn’t I ask how your shoulder is doing?”
“No need to worry about something small like that,” Garcia responded. “I’m not the one with a rotting leg.”
“Since you put it so gently.”
“You said it yourself. Might as well be honest. We’re just a sideshow.”
“Touché.” Williams knew there was reason to be concerned. He could smell the infection from three feet away: rotting eggs. Based on Garcia’s tempered reaction, it could only be getting worse.
“Hey, what about the radio? We’re on higher ground. Might be worth giving it another shot.” Harris, with his naïve youthfulness, held on to a simple hope.
“Go for it. Not like it’s going to hurt,” Williams answered, drifting back to the memories in his mind. Seagulls cawed from around Annapolis harbor, the zip of a fishing line pulled as a fish splashed on the surface. It was only a pipedream.
“It ain’t even turning on,” McEvoy said. He clicked the switch a few times, relying on a miracle that would not happen.
“Oh, come on,” Harris whined. He slapped the radio a few times—the old magic trick never quite worked out for anyone with experience in electronics.
“Relax, guys. That things as useless as both of you.” Donovan said, drumming his fingers along the ground to the beat of whatever Doors song played in his head.
“Wait. Think I got something.” McEvoy’s words called their attention. The radio whined as McEvoy adjusted the knob until a muffled song broke through the static.
“What’s that?” Jackson asked, leaning in as if he could listen better.
“I don’t…I don’t know.” McEvoy honed in on the signal until a distinct muffled chant emerged. The small troupe stared at each other, a mixture of confusion and disbelief as the unknown words captivated them.
“It can’t be,” Donovan said.
“Maybe some local station?” Harris asked.
The chanting grew more distinct with little melody to the deliberate words.
“A local station…out here? No damned way.” Williams said, noticing the VC perking his head up with a glaze covering his face. It was as if the chanting signaled the VC to wake.
“These people have some weird tastes,” Jackson said.
The troupe gathered closer, exchanging glances between each other and the radio. The lights flickered with the strength of the foreign words, the dials shifting back and forth.
“You recognize any of this?” Williams looked at McEvoy.
“I…no. It’s…too old. An older dialect.” McEvoy shrugged.
The chanting intensified, the chorus of foreign words almost shouting. The treetops around them rustled as a stiff breeze suddenly rolled across their makeshift camp. Williams looked back at their VC prisoner, who remained silent, transfixed by the radio’s signal.
“This ain’t right. None of this is right.” Harris withdrew from the contraption.
“Hold on to yourself,” Donovan said. “Nothing we can do.”
Louder. Faster. The radio shuddered with the strength of the signal.
“Turn if off. Turn it off,” Garcia demanded.
The VC’s lips started to move, almost in unison with the chanting, but he did not make a sound.
“I’m trying.” McEvoy twisted the dials, but the radio refused to obey.
Its housing crackled then sparked, causing McEvoy’s arm to snap back. The sharp smell of burnt rubber and metal poured out of the case. Then, with a pop and brilliant flash, the radio went silent, its light fading to black. The VC then dropped his head in concert with the chanting as it came to an abrupt halt.
“Jesus,” McEvoy said, blowing on his finger.
“El Diablo,” Garcia muttered in a voice low enough for only Williams to hear.
“What?” Williams asked. Garcia responded with a blank stare.
“McEvoy, you pulling a fast one on us?” Donovan tossed a nut over to them. It ricocheted off of his helmet and fell between Harris’s toothpick legs.
“Why do you need to be an ass?” Harris scowled.
“It’s…it’s broke,” McEvoy said, studying the contraption. “It just died.”
“No, it didn’t just die. Some weird ass shit just happened with it,” Jackson said. “Maybe our friend over there is right. Maybe it is the spirits.”
“Whatever it was, that’s enough excitement for one night. There’s probably a good explanation for it.” Between Garcia’s reaction and the VC, Williams didn’t know what to think. But he knew it needed to do something to keep them steady or else he’d lose them all.
“Ain’t no explanation for that,” Garcia muttered then went to inspect Williams’s leg.
“I’m with Garcia,” Jackson said.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s probably the Viet Cong playing games with us, but we still need to rest. Get as much shuteye as you can. Morning will be here soon enough. I’ll take first watch over our main man over there.” Williams nodded at the VC. “Harris and McEvoy, you two will follow.”
“What if they sneak up on us? What if we’re the piñatas next?” Harris buried his head in his hands.
“First things first. I’m not going to pass out. Second, take a look. We’ve got the high ground, at least with respect to the river.”
“What about the trees?” Harris pointed up. “What if they climb through the trees and surprise us?”
“Oh, our friend will warn us about that.” Williams blindly motioned in the direction of their prisoner, who sat in the middle of the small band.
“How do you figure?” Simmons questioned. “He wants us dead.”
“Because we’ve got a mutual understanding.”
“An understanding with a VC? That’s like having an understanding with an ex-girlfriend. Shit, I would soon rather rely on that box of junk that Heckle and Jeckle were playing with.”
Harris crunched his face into a frown, almost taken back by Simmons’s swipe.
“Trust me, he understands,” Williams said. “Now we all need to get some sleep.”
“Well, whatever you do, plea
se don’t pull that crazy shit again with that knife and all. I don’t need to be finding myself dead or anything.” Jackson wrestled with his rucksack, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Not going to pull a crazy stunt anymore. Promise.” Williams closed his eyes and breathed in the baby-blue landscape that once again clouded his mind. Annapolis’ seagulls cawed in the background.
“Chris, you sure you’re ok?” Garcia asked. Williams had forgotten about Garcia working on his leg, too consumed with home. Garcia pressed around his wound, causing a small eruption of clear plasma.
“You want to the truth or the Disney story?” Williams opened one eye.
“Just give it to me.”
“Feel pretty good. Tired, but good.” Williams lied as the rest of them found what comfort they could before attempting to sleep.
“Then I’ll stay up with you,” Garcia said, fastening the last of the fresh bandages around Williams’s leg. Garcia could notice a bullshitter. “No fighting, either.”
“You’re staying up for another reason. That spooked you.” Williams blinked, forcing his the seagulls’ caws to fade.
“Yeah, it did.” Garcia plopped on his behind next to Williams then took a sip from his canteen. “It really did.”
“We’ll find a way out. Promise.”
FOURTEEN
The morning sun washed over his face, temporarily blinding Williams. He thought himself back at base camp for a moment, but the truth of their grim situation settled in just as fast.
“Morning, Cap.” Jackson yawned as he greeted him. His giant form crossed Williams’s blurred field of vision. Somehow they’d made it through the night. Williams had given them fifty-fifty odds.
“Any more surprises? Chanting?” Williams asked. Everything hurt, from the dull ache of his neck to the constant pang in his thigh. He thirsted like never before, feeling like sandpaper coated the back of his throat.
“Nothing.” Garcia fastened his rucksack flap. The others were already preparing for their impending march. “Nothing at all.”