by JC Braswell
“Dude, you can’t be thinking of leaving Garcia behind. He’s one of us,” Donovan said, seemingly beside himself at Simmons’s suggestion.
“If you want to see some more of that Vietnamese snatch, you’re going to have to follow my lead.”
Williams remained quiet. The irony of the situation was not lost upon him. McEvoy’s head was displayed on a stake while Simmons talked of mutilating the prisoner. If they left Garcia behind, they would be no better than the Viet Cong they hunted.
“Well, he does have a point,” Harris said.
“What I’m suggesting we do is for the greater good, unless”—Simmons shifted his focus back to the unsuspecting VC prisoner—“you let me have a minute alone with the gook. Maybe I’ll get him talking, have him show us the way out, give us enough time to save Garcia’s ass. You should consider yourself lucky enough that I’ll bring you along.”
“You talking mad, boy. You can’t be leaving—” Jackson said.
“Shut up, nigger. Or am I the only one who seems to be aware that McEvoy’s head is on a stick?” Simmons glared at Jackson, capturing in his simple gaze all the evils that transformed the Texan to his current state.
“That’s once, fool. You call me that one more time and see what happens to you.” Jackson narrowed his eyes, pumping his right hand into a fist.
“We can do this all day long,” Simmons retaliated, squaring himself up to meet Jackson’s approach.
“Enough, Simmons. You’re borderline insubordinate. When we—” Williams struggled to breathe. His lungs tightened inside his chest as his ribs felt like they contracted around his organs.
“When we what? Get out of here? You gonna write me a demerit?”
“I’m going to only give you one warning.” Williams wobbled back to the right. “I’m commanding officer right now.”
“Bullshit. Even if I was insubordinate, how do you intend to punish me? Think the boys are going to have your back after I save them? Donnie? Nah. Harris? Nah. All you have is Jackson. You jackass officers always coming in here and telling us enlisted what to do. Way I see it I’m relieving you of your duties. And don’t think I forgot about you pulling a gun on me. As a matter of fact, I’m going to need that.”
Simmons’s eyes widened with an unnatural blackness as his sausage-like fingers wrapped around Williams’s wrist. Williams tried to fight, but the fever had him. The Texan pried the sidearm from his fingers and laughed. The others remained still, save Jackson, who stopped two feet from Simmons’s position.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Jackson said.
“What you gonna do? Want to go down the same route as Garcia?”
“Don’t.” Williams shook Jackson off, who in turn nodded, but kept his face taut.
“That’s what I thought?” Simmons’s leather face formed a grin. He then turned to face the VC, his stride deliberate, his forehead protruding.
“Simmons.” Williams leaned forward, bracing himself against another tree. The ground shook underneath. Simmons picked up his pace, purpose with each stride. It wouldn’t end well.
“Jackson, stop him,” Williams fell to one knee, the world below welcoming him with a thud.
“Don’t do it, Jackson.” Harris backed up Simmons’s threat.
Jackson stood in the Texan’s way, but Simmons pushed him aside, kicking Garcia’s limp body along the way.
“Donovan, do something,” Williams begged. It was too late.
Simmons straddled the hapless VC, landing a haymaker that would’ve made sawdust out of plywood. The VC’s jaw cracked with whip-like force as Simmons’s fist slammed against his face. The VC barely whimpered, collapsing from the brunt of the punch. The jackal tasted blood; now he would feed.
“Stop.” Williams righted himself, his body tingling with fever, his vision plagued by ghosts of Vietnamese people—specters watching the platoon’s fall. “Simmons, stop.”
“Don’t do it, LT. He’ll kill you, too,” Donovan pleaded, holding fast to his rifle. “We should just…we should just let him have his way. Sorry.”
“We can’t do this. This isn’t us.” Williams willed himself toward Simmons, past the specters, past the vision of the shadow girl from before. The saturated ground caused his feet to sink with each step.
“The hell he can’t.” Harris finally grew a set, but didn’t dare to stop Williams as the lieutenant walked past. “He’s going get an answer out of him.”
“Simmons, no.” Jackson wrapped his mastodon arms around Simmons from behind, but there was no stopping a man fueled by pure animalistic rage. Simmons threw his hips back and flipped Jackson over his body. Jackson’s slammed against a protruding root, causing his back to arch up in obvious pain.
“You’re going to tell us everything, boy.” Simmons swung his fist in a circular motion, hammering the VC’s chest with a solid right hook. “Or I’m going to string you up like you did my buddy. We clear?”
The VC responded, spitting blood into Simmons’s face, laughing. Trapped between the soil and jackal’s weight, the VC dared to challenge the psycho.
“So we’re going play that game. I can play games just like you. Remember Anuska?”
Crack.
Williams took another step, his right leg dipping as he applied weight, the world canting to his right followed by an unnatural gust of cold air. Then, as if the violent display summoned it, a sliver of orange flashed out of the corner of his eye.
“Remember Jones?”
Crack.
“Come on, LT. He’s gonna kill you,” Harris called as Williams struggled forward, his vision wavering, seeing two Simmonses, not one, followed by another flash of orange. It was there, stalking, hunting, satisfied with the platoon’s plight.
“Remember McEvoy? My boy over there that you decided to make a human pincushion like my momma used while sewing.”
Crack.
Simmons’s attack sounded like backyard fireworks snapping, cutting through bone, flesh, and pulp. Yet the VC showed nothing, not even giving Simmons the satisfaction he wanted.
“I’m gonna hit you so hard that you shit out your one good ear.” Simmons leaned back, sucking in another mouthful of oxygen, and lowered his fist again, this time throwing his entire weight into the blow.
Williams’s stomach turned as the temperature continued to plummet. Weakness took him, pulling him back to the ground where he ate a mouthful of dirt. Struggling back to his feet, planting one foot down, then another, he caught a glimpse of the VC’s battered face.
His nose smashed in, his right socked cracked, bone exposed over his eye, and his jaw bulged in an unnatural way. The VC looked neither human nor animal, but like some freakish monster out of Frankenstein.
“You going tell us where we going go, or I’ll pull every last one of your teeth out of you?” The buzz saw refused to relent.
“Simmons, please don’t do it.” Williams mustered enough strength for one final step but collapsed face first, too exhausted to fight what was destined for them—a lost crew drawn to a jungle refusing to release its grip.
The specters faded.
The chanting stopped.
The beast vanished like a ghost.
“Left,” the VC muttered.
“What?” Simmons stopped hammering the pulpous mass of the VC’s face. “What you say?”
“Left,” was all the VC could muster. His soured face slumped to one side. His right eye held a shallow pool of blood.
“I think he said ‘left.’” Harris pivoted on his heels, facing the small grove where the VC directed. Harris smiled with satisfaction. “I’ll be damned. Looks like a small clearing.”
Williams lifted his head from the mud and focused as best he could. The VC told the truth. The beginnings of the trail forked to the left, hidden under a low cover of brush. He couldn’t see much further, but the trail existed.
“It couldn’t be,” Williams said. “I was just there.”
“It sure is.” Harris leaned down besid
e Simmons and patted his hero on the back. “Hell yeah, Simmons. Looks like we’re going home.”
“You think?” Simmons looked over Harris as if he should receive a reward for revealing what Williams could not. His face glistened with trails of sweat. His dirty-blond hair curled underneath his dark-green bandana. “I told you he’d tell us. Just needed a little prodding. That’s how you handle these animals.”
“Got to admit, I didn’t think he’d spill the beans,” Donovan said with the makings of a smile. He lingered behind, glancing over at Williams, obviously torn between his loyalties to the two.
Jackson lumbered back to his feet, his rifle drawn towards Simmons. He wanted his revenge. Williams squashed it, mouthing, No. Jackson reluctantly lowered his weapon from the unsuspecting Simmons, then grabbed his lower back. They would only have once chance to retaliate.
“They’ll always spill the beans. Just gotta get them in the right mood. Ain’t that right, boy?” The VC groaned as Simmons pressed his knees down into his ribs. There wasn’t a single hint of pity for the VC who languished below. They were now a band of jackals, scavengers surviving against all costs.
“What are you going to do?” Williams wheezed, feeling a second wind. His fever came in waves, but they grew shorter and with more strength. He’d have to move before the next hit. “You going to shoot him, Simmons?”
“Oh, that wouldn’t be so smart. Gotta make sure our boy is telling the truth. What do you say, Chris?” Simmons’s head bobbed, arrogance blended well with disdain.
“No.” Williams tried to stand up only for his knees to buckle again. Jackson wrapped his arms under Williams’s shoulder and hoisted him up. “So, I guess this is the changing of the guard then.”
“You can say that.” Simmons reveled in Williams’s condition.
“Harris?” Williams said. “You with him?”
“Yeah, LT.” Harris looked at the floor, keeping his eyes tucked away.
“I’ll have that helmet back.” Williams snatched his helmet off of Harris’s head. “You’re going to follow a madman, you know. You’re too young to make this—”
“Save it, Chris. Boy doesn’t want to hear any of your whining. Nobody does.” Simmons lifted his leg off of the VC. “As I see it, I was able to do something you failed to do, and because of that, we’re going home. That includes Garcia…if he can catch up.”
“I’m not leaving him,” Williams said.
“We can’t afford to wait for the weak. It’s natural selection.”
“This ain’t Lord of the Flies. This is the United States Army, and we have come to do a job,” Williams refused to back down. “There’s protocol.”
“The hell with protocol and the hell with Lord of the Flies. In case you didn’t notice, the army left us out here to rot. They left us out here to murder. And that’s exactly what we gonna do. Our first victim.” Simmons locked on to the VC, his chest still heaving. “I think it’s safe to say I accept my new commission.”
The ogre reached out and ripped Williams’s insignia off of his jacket. Williams wanted to resist, but he couldn’t. Not now.
“What do you intend to do, Simmons?” Jackson asked.
“What I intend to do is lead us out of here, boy.” Simmons accentuated the last word.
“You’re delusional,” Williams said. “You could be leading us to our death.”
“Well then, that wouldn’t change much from our current plan, would it now…Captain? Ain’t that right, Jackson?” Simmons laughed. “All right now. Make sure to fill up before we leave.”
“We all need to take salt tabs.” Even through his illness, the unnatural chill dissipated. Even if Simmons assumed control of the group, he would do everything in his power to make sure the lot of them survived long enough to give them a chance. “We’ll all wither away from dehydration if we don’t take the salt.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Chris. I give orders around here.”
“We should be listening to Williams,” Jackson said.
“Well I don’t give a shit what you have to say. Got it, nigger?”
“Say it again.”
“No, Jackson. You can’t.” Williams hated telling Jackson to back off. Jackson would sacrifice himself to take down Simmons, but in doing so, their two biggest guns would fall. One of them would die, the other too winded to continue. Thankfully, Jackson was smart enough to recognize it as well, choosing discretion instead. Simmons held all the cards for now. They just needed to play Williams’s hand right.
“Donnie, you take the VC. Tie his hands a little tighter. I want to see purple as he leads us,” Simmons barked as he reloaded his M-16, slinging McEvoy’s extra rucksack around his shoulder.
“Why me?” Donovan asked.
“’Cause you’re the only one that I trust besides Harris, and Harris is afraid of him. So that’s all on you.”
“Damn it,” Donovan relented.
“We should bury McEvoy, at least what’s left of him,” Williams said.
“I got no time to bury anything except the gook. You hear me, Chris?” Simmons’s breath smelled like stale chewing tobacco and dirt.
“Whatever you left back there in that village, you need to take it back. I’m asking you, brother. Don’t let that blood on your hands bleed into your skin and make you mad.” Williams’s last-ditch effort sounded short, but he would try.
“No, that ain’t gonna happen.” Simmons’s lips smacked together as he devoured another pinch of betel nut. “Jackson, you carry the others. We move.”
“What you want to do, Cap?” Jackson whispered from behind.
“You’re going to carry Garcia.” Williams pulled his arm from around Jackson’s neck, taking on the full burden of his own weight. Jackson couldn’t carry them both. “You’re going to be able to help him, right?”
“I’ll do what I can.” Jackson removed his helmet and wiped down his shaven head.
Williams hobbled over to Garcia. The damp fatigues rubbed against his gash, chafing his skin, peeling scabs that would never heal. He thought about bandaging it up again, but conceded his fate. There was no use in trying to prevent the inevitable.
“Two minutes and we move out. Hopefully we find us some gooks to slaughter on the way. Just like old times, boys.” Simmons howled, tilting his head up like a wolf.
“It’s about time,” Harris said.
Donovan forced the VC up by the twine securing his hands, contorting the prisoner’s shoulders and arms. The VC grimaced slightly. His battered face resembled a withered jack-o’-lantern left out until Thanksgiving.
They had stooped to the VC’s level. Any hope of forgiveness faded with Simmons’s actions. But Williams didn’t feel remorse towards the VC, or even the slightest hint of regret for the VC’s condition. It was ambivalence—cold, hard ambivalence. They were all damned anyway, so what did it matter?
Suddenly, Garcia’s eyes sprang open as if he was experiencing a revelation. “‘But the Lord laughs at the wicked, for He knows their day is coming,’” Garcia mumbled; a dry smirk crossed his chapped lips as his eyes fluttered open.
“What the— ” Jackson stopped in his tracks.
“Fever has him. Just get him up,” Williams said.
“Psalm thirty seven, thirteen,” Garcia said. Foam gathered at the corner of his mouth.
“Take it easy, bro. Just take it easy.”
“All right, y’all. Let’s get a move on.” Simmons pointed his machete into the unknown. “Trail’s this way. Looks like it leads a little deeper into the jungle before lightening up. Things may get a little dim out there, but we’ve been through worse. Ain’t that right, Williams?” Simmons barked like a dog.
“Right,” Williams said. He had half the mind to shoot him right there.
“And let me reiterate what I said before. You fall behind, you get left behind. Got it? Donovan, bring that fucker up here. Let’s get out of this hellhole.”
“Hell yeah.” Harris galloped forward to join his idol.
“You ready, Captain?”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” Williams squeezed his holster for what reassurance he could muster. He had already lost one family; he would not lose another.
TWENTY THREE
After a few hours, Harris and Donovan’s elation at the prospects of escape were drowned by reality. No more singing. No more laughter. They were lost, following a lunatic into his labyrinth of horrors as they hacked away at the primitive growth. Each swing of the machete unveiled more jungle, more unknown, leaving the only trace of the footpath’s existence a couple miles behind.
Simmons plodded forward with the empathy of a drill sergeant, stopping only to slap the VC across his face, cursing him for their predicament. Each time Simmons received a simple, “Left,” as a response. Simmons was in too deep. He had to listen.
The sky eventually surrendered to the burnt oranges and reds of dusk. With the exception of Garcia, Williams had suffered the most during the last hour. The terrible combination of sweat and fiction rubbed his inner thighs raw. The infection coursed through his bloodstream, turning his world into a blur. His nose ran with green-yellow mucous, but it took every bit of effort to summon a mouthful of spit. He only had one purpose—to stay on his feet.
He thought back to My Lai and the girl who reached out for him, the girl he couldn’t muster enough courage to help. Her haunting cries overwhelmed the heavy panting from the others. There was a reason they were suffering. Charlie Company were killers—all of them—and this was their penance. And all the while, whether a figment of his imagination or real, he felt the other presence following their route.
“What, what the hell was that?” Harris stumbled to a stop, his reaction delayed from noticeable dehydration. The rest of them joined Harris, slumping forward, gasping for air, a temporary reprieve from their forced march. Donovan threw the dazed VC down and collapsed beside him.
“What was what?” Simmons, dressed down to his tank top, cleaved a plant in half before addressing his disciple.
“Over there. I heard something over there.” Harris gagged. Yellow tones washed over his face. “Oh God, I feel like I’m going to lose my stomach again. Throat burns.”