by JC Braswell
Simmons cursed.
Its mouth poked the base of his neck.
Donovan snagged Williams’s forearm. His body jerked forward as they pulled him from the cursed river. With his shoulder planted into the ground, Williams immediately turned to see the angular shadow of the reptile hover over him.
His gun clicked. No bullets fired.
Suddenly, the snake exploded into a cloud of water, splashing back down into the river, leaving no trace of its existence behind. No blood. No skin. Nothing.
“What in the Sam Hill just happened?” Simmons shouted.
Williams panted, his body frozen from the chill.
“What was that?” Harris said.
“Who the hell knows,” Donovan said.
“That wasn’t a snake,” Jackson answered. “I’ve seen some damn snakes in my time, and I’m sure as hell that wasn’t a snake. They don’t just disappear.”
“Then what was it?” Harris said.
“Leviathan.” Williams looked down at his fingertips.
TWENTY
Williams sat in silence, furthest from the fire. Cold. Everything felt cold. But he didn’t care. Its image remained etched in memory as a solitary picture. The faceless glare, its bite that did not swallow, and the way it ended—exploding into nothingness, a ghost in its own right. The deeper they traveled, the more secrets the jungle revealed.
As much as he tried to make sense of the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t reconcile with what he’d witnessed. Williams wished he could write everything down: the initial assault on My Lai; how they were shot down over a jungle that wasn’t supposed to exist; the way Anuska and the others were murdered; the tiger that tracked them; the snake that disappeared into nothingness; and the VC they held prisoner. If he could only memorialize everything, then at least the outside world would understand their struggles, the way they survived, and their final hours.
The others gathered around the dwindling flames, all too tired to stoke the heat. Soldiers who dared to light a fire in the jungle often found themselves at end of a rifle before having their teeth blown down their throats. But what did it matter? Hypothermia would claim another victim if they remained in wet clothing. The specially designed army clothes were quick to dry, but only if there was ample heat.
Each man held a somber look about him: helmet removed, boots unlaced, hope for survival drained as they watched their numbers cut in half. Williams had failed them, just like he’d failed Anuska and McEvoy.
“I’m down to two magazines,” Donovan sighed as he fastened the precious ammo to his belt.
“Four here,” Simmons answered.
“Me too,” Jackson followed, his voice delirious with fatigue, mirroring the others. They were words no waylaid soldier wanted to hear. They were down to their final rounds.
“Save your ammo,” Williams said, sliding the spoon into his last can of rations. His mouthful of peaches tasted of thick sugar as he passed it on to Jackson. “Keep your knife close. We all learned how to use them, right?”
“What’s it matter anyway?” Harris sat cross-legged, rocking on his bottom as he squeezed his heels together. He’d degenerated the fastest, mumbling to himself at times. “It’s like, what’s that saying, running uphill on a two-sided mountain.”
“What are you talking about? That ain’t an expression,” Donovan said, studying Harris with a disapproving frown.
“Oh,” Harris stopped rocking. His head drooped down.
The only other one who didn’t enjoy the campfire’s warmth was the VC, who sat a few feet behind Jackson, his arms bound behind his back. His eyes flickered in the flames with a soulless gaze that cursed the group. He shivered and occasionally spoke in a soft tongue Williams couldn’t understand, waiting like a coyote for the sick to fall. He’d run as soon as he had the chance.
“How’s Garcia?” Jackson asked.
“Still quiet, sleeping.” Williams grabbed Garcia’s arm to see if his body still held heat. The medic’s chest rose a little then fell. His face remained wet, his black hair sculpted to his head. His cheeks felt cold and rubbery, the consistency of a corpse, but he still held on to life like a true soldier, the fighter his father raised.
Williams remembered Garcia’s stories about always wanting to be a healer, helping the fallen, bandaging them with a prayer. Now it was Williams’s time to be the healer. At least if Garcia died, he would do so peacefully in his sleep.
“Sorry, bud,” Williams whispered and squeezed Garcia’s arm in an effort to reassure his friend. “Real sorry this happened to you.”
“Didn’t think his injury was that bad.” Jackson asked once more. “He didn’t look all that bad this morning, but I guess we should’ve seen it. That’s who he is. Hates letting people know when he’s upset.”
“I’m sure he has his reasons for hiding it from us. We all do.” Williams feigned ignorance, thinking of his own failing condition. “You’ll just have to ask him when he wakes up.” Williams glared at the VC. “Hope you’re happy.” The VC did nothing.
“If he wakes up,” Harris said, back to rocking.
“Whatever the case, that damn bullet wound looks like rawhide and spaghetti,” Jackson tossed his empty can aside. “He deserves better.”
“Rawhide and spaghetti?” Simmons snarled in disapproval. “Where do you get off saying Garcia looks like that? Dumbass got himself shot and he didn’t tell us how bad it was.”
He told some of us. Williams reserved his thought to himself. The last thing he needed was another verbal sparring match.
“That ain’t the point.” Jackson didn’t back down.
“The point is you saying stupid shit like that,” Simmons shook his head as he held his hands to the fire. “You wonder why I think you have the IQ of one of them silverbacks.”
“Jive-ass turkey.”
“Not tonight, guys. We need the rest. Tomorrow is another long day.” Williams knew he was fighting a losing battle.
“Save it, Chris.” Simmons rounded his mouth into a faux expression of shock. “I’m sorry. Did I just say that? I meant Lieutenant. Where are my military manners?”
“Watch it, cowboy,” Jackson snarled.
“Blow it out your rear. You know as well as I do that it’s another long day into nothingness,” Simmons said, growing bolder with his statements. The flames danced across Simmons’s visage, the orange and yellow hues painting the rugged lines of his face a darker shade of black. “We ain’t going to find nothing.”
Williams glared across the fire at Simmons, tightening his swollen fingers into fists. He wanted to smack the prick right across his slack jaw.
“Ah, shit. Dad damn it. Just a waste,” Donovan broke the tension, displeasure on his face as he fingered his small baggie of waterlogged pot. Donovan had made the amateur mistake of keeping it in his sack and not tucked underneath his helmet. The river had taken its toll in more ways than one. “The hell with it. I’m just going to take a clump of it and, oh, there we go. Jackpot. In the middle we’ve got a little dry spot.” Donovan’s frown disappeared.
“You really gonna try and light that stuff up, man?” Jackson asked.
“What else do we have to lose? Not like we’re hiding. I say if I’m going to go out tonight”—Donovan rubbed his hand across the M-16 as if it were a dog—“I might as well go out with a smile on my face. Know what I’m saying?” His mouth stretched wide, smiling like the Joker from Batman.
“I’m in.” Simmons removed his canteen from the fire and swirled it around. “What about you, junior?” Simmons pushed on Harris a few times, snapping the youngster from his stupor.
“Yeah, sure, sure.” Harris, who still seemed lost in his own world, nodded.
Donovan plucked cigarette papers from his helmet—at least he’d kept those dry—and spread out the marijuana across the paper. The eternal freshman proclaimed himself master of rolling a joint. It was only a matter of time until he recited some bullshit poetry he claimed to have learned in English class
.
“Hey Cap, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”
“Another question, Jackson?”
“Yeah, but you might think I’m crazy.”
“After what we’ve all been through, I don’t think anything’s crazy.”
“Ok, then. So here’s what I got. What do you think that was that attacked you? I mean, really?” Jackson slid both hands behind his neck and eyed up Donovan, who licked the rolling paper and sealed the joint.
“A snake? What else would it be?”
“Jackson has a point. Wasn’t even a carcass. Wouldn’t it have floated?” Donovan added.
“I don’t know.” Williams’s thought about the attack. Jackson was right. He never saw the scales of the serpent. “It was dark. Couldn’t see much. It’s probably being nibbled on by catfish now. Damn shame. Could’ve used its meat,” Williams said, knowing the falseness in his statement.
“Whatever the case, that was real brave of you to save Garcia like that,” Jackson said.
“He would’ve done the same for any of us.” Williams studied Garcia.
“Hey,” Donovan cawed, nudging Jackson’s boot with his own. “Where’s my love?”
“And you too, brother. You too. Didn’t mean to misrepresent.”
“He ain’t your brother,” Simmons shoved more betel nut into his mouth.
Jackson puckered his lips and allowed Simmons’s words to roll off of him.
“I didn’t do anything special.” Williams leaned back, hugging McEvoy’s rucksack with his right arm. Somewhere within the pouch Garcia had stashed the Tylenol and his half-assed med kit. Garcia looked out for him, he only wished he could return the favor.
“Sure you would.” Simmons answered.
“Think what you want. I’m not lying.” Williams rifled through the bag’s contents.
“Man, do my balls ever itch.” Donovan, shedding all semblances of his supposed gentleman-like nature, reached down and dug his hand into his crotch. Relief washed over his lips, highlighted by a sigh, as he scratched away.
“Looks like one of us happened to catch the good old rot. Long night ahead for someone. What do you say there, old boy?” Simmons slapped Donovan on his knee with a sophomoric smile.
“Not crotch rot. Something entirely different.” Donovan adjusted his hand around his groin. “Honestly, think it was that broad in Hanoi. Nothing but swindlers.” Donovan nodded to the VC. “But boy, do I love them women. Treat us all nice for five dollars. Poor girls have to put up with these slant-eyed men of theirs. Wonder why we don’t just airlift the lot of them back home.”
“How about after we get rid of their STDs. Chlamydia.” Simmons bellowed out a laugh. “Faggots. I’m sure them fine ladies back at your college were just a little cleaner. Coochies like silk. Look at it this way, at least it wasn’t a razor blade.”
“That ain’t true, man,” Jackson half-laughed. “They don’t put razor blades up there.”
“Know from personal experience, Jackson?” Simmons asked, ever the opportunist to throw a barb Jackson’s way.
“Shoot. I screwed more strawberry shortcakes than both y’all. At least I got the clean ones. And when I did, they appreciated what I was packing. They like the dark meat in these parts. Know what I’m saying, Donnie boy?” Jackson poked back at Simmons. The duel continued.
Donovan laughed like a hyena as Simmons’s smile flipped to a frown, deep lines cut across his forehead, displaying his displeasure. The temperamental bastard hated being one-upped by Jackson.
“Oh, come on, Texas. Lighten up, old boy,” Jackson openly mocked Simmons.
“I ain’t your old boy.” Simmons glared at Jackson through his Cro-Magnon brow. Jackson had gotten to him.
Williams caught Harris peeking down at his own crotch, a sheepish look on the boy’s face as if to hide something, but Harris never traveled to Hanoi with Alpha. Harris slowly started scratching the side of his thigh, making his way down towards his crotch. The mere mention of the disease seemed to rattle something inside the kid, playing with his nerves. Nerves took their toll on the green troops.
“Yeah, boy. Screw Hanoi. Dirty-ass caveman huts, backwards country. At least I left a little something with her.” Donovan humped the air. At least someone remained in good spirits.
“Don’t tell me you left a little baby Donovan behind for all them to remember you by?” Jackson said.
The hint of a smile crept across Williams’s face. This is what they needed, a bit of levity to bring them past the pain. They would never understand back home. War burrowed itself within you, made morbid things funny, helped serious people learn to relax, and turned the most pious of people into sinners. Maybe that’s why Williams came. Not for an escape, but to change himself, to change his memories of that night.
“Little baby Donnie?” Harris asked. His head popped up like a Vietnamese farmer in a rice field. “Are you telling me we could have kids here? I thought they stuck wire hangers up there to get rid of them? My mom would kill me.”
“Relax, kid. You ain’t gonna be having any little Harris boys or girls.” Jackson closed his eyes and smiled, tilting his head up to the midnight ceiling. “No sir. Hell, if you do, at least you know your legacy will live on.”
“Well shit.” Harris shook his head.
“Bingo.” Donovan’s face lit up like one of the old jackpot machines in Vegas. He wrestled the joint into a packed cylinder. His medication was ready. “Well, boys. Let’s make sure we take ourselves out on a high note. Get it? I said high note.”
Donovan, always the stuntman, leaned forward on all fours and stuck his face into the fire. Flames licked the old paper until a trail of smoke shot out of Donovan’s nostrils.
“You’re a crazy bastard,” Jackson said.
“Not as crazy as Williams over there.” Donovan sucked in as much as his lungs could hold, the joint crackling as the ember flashed a brilliant orange. He then blew out a steady stream of smoke that drifted into the flames. It amazed Williams how calm Donovan acted in the roughest of times. “There we go. Nice and easy. Yeah, nice and easy.” Donovan passed the joint over to Jackson, who readily accepted it.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Jackson,” Williams said.
“I did a lot more when I was young. Don’t make it a habit.” Jackson sucked in with all his might, coughing slightly as he held in the smoke. “But I figure if this is gonna be our last night together—”
“Why do you say that? Our last night together?” Williams perked up.
“I’m just saying…” Jackson’s mouth erupted with a geyser of smoke as he exhaled. He coughed again and lunged for his canteen. “If we’re gonna die tomorrow, I want to have one smoke with these fine gents. Even him over there.” He pointed to Simmons. “That hillbilly.”
“Sure.” Simmons squinted.
Jackson handed off the joint to Harris, who hastily displayed his amateur prowess in taking a long drag, nearly hacking out a lung in the process.
“Hot damn, I could listen to some John Denver.” Simmons folded his hands together and glanced up at the stars. “Have me a bottle of Jack.”
“John Denver? You really listen to that folksy stuff? I thought you just stuck with Hank?” Jackson prodded.
“Unlike you, I’m the cultured sort.” Simmons pantomimed with his hands in the air as if he were instructing a class. “I like to reach out of my…demographics and experience the world for all that it is worth.”
“Two-fifty?” Jenkins laughed. The joint’s mind-altering properties were already affecting the big man.
Williams turned away, guilt in his mind as he buried a laugh. Simmons’s attempt at sounding sophisticated fell flat.
“What do you like, LT?” Harris asked.
“Johnny Cash,” Williams said as succinctly as possible. He found himself dragged into a conversation he wished he could only observe. There was a certain peace in watching other people talk—to pull his mind away from the events at the River Styx.
“Oh yeah
? Is that so?”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Williams responded.
“What’s your song?” Simmons crossed his leg over his knee, lying back without a care in the world. It was the same world that wanted to take him.
“Kind of like ‘Ring of Fire’.”
“I knew he was going to say that.” Harris took another drag and giggled. “I knew it. I knew it.”
Donovan began to sing in a low voice, attempting his best Johnny Cash impression. His baritone was a bit too high.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Harris pointed at Donovan, his eyes red and glazed with the drug.
Donovan continued singing Cash’s song, drumming his hands along his knees.
Williams chuckled at Donovan’s impromptu concert, kicking McEvoy’s rucksack over by mistake. He reached over to reposition the sack but noticed a slip of paper laying on the ground beside it.
Donovan put his heart into the words as only as a pothead could do. Jackson and Harris egged him on, clapping, the sound hands slapping against hands ascending to the heavens, swirling with the firefly-like bits of fire.
Williams reached for the object, revealing a small stack of pictures. He didn’t recall McEvoy having a camera.
Simmons joined in with Donovan.
Why didn’t I see these before? William thought. McEvoy’s last days were likely memorialized in these pictures. If anything, if they found their way out of the jungle, he wanted to make sure his family got them. But as he inspected them, he realized there was something more insidious than Williams could have realized.
McEvoy straddled a Vietnamese girl on a bed made of sticks, the walls of a straw hut in the background. Her rag of a dress covered her slender figure. Williams’s heart twisted. His mind reeled back. She couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
Williams’s fingers trembled, sliding the first picture behind the others. The next one was even more disturbing. She was on all fours and stripped of her clothes, tiny snow cone breasts pointing down, her skin tight running down her side, exposing her ribs. Her face was frozen in a tan, lifeless expression that knew only fear as McEvoy thrust his manhood in her.