by JC Braswell
“I guess you can say that…about the dream, or nightmare, and all.”
“Can’t be as bad at this.”
“Where’s that optimism at?” Williams looked up the hill where the expected shadow filtered between the monolith trees. They must have fallen, too weak to put up a fight. Williams’s muscles tensed with urgency as he felt the beast’s spirit creep closer.
“That’s a dirty word right now. Especially with what I’ve been through.”
“Can’t think that way. We’re almost there.”
“I don’t know, Cap, I mean Chris.” Jackson’s eyes fluttered as he pulled himself closer to Williams. The smell of shit and bile accompanied him as he lumbered out from beneath the brush. “All I know is I heard my Momma somewhere out there. She calling me. I know it’s not real.”
“Hold on to her, even if it’s not real. That’s a good thing. That’s a real good thing.” Williams kept his attention fixed up the slope.
“Man.” Jackson reached down to his leg and pulled it across the mud. From the way he moved, bones had to be broken. “Gotta be honest with you. Mouth is all dry. Real cold. I’m starting to see these good-looking women with wings.”
“Beautiful?” He was losing the man he had grown close with.
“Gorgeous. Feels like we’re in Oz.” Jackson laughed before it was overwhelmed with a loud cough, ending with a gurgle. “Tell me what you were dreaming about. Must’ve been nice. I think I saw a smile, even though it’s dark. First time I seen you like that.” The big man reached across for Williams’s forearm and gave it a slight squeeze.
Williams remembered. The gunshot. Jackson had saved his life, taking a bullet in the back that was meant for him. He looked down at Jackson’s forearm. Dark liquid ran in streams along his hairline.
“Enough talk. We gotta get you bandaged up. Camp should be just over that horizon back there. Think I saw some campfires.”
“This isn’t might fight anymore. Running on empty.”
“No. I won’t let you say that. Donnie said that and you laid into him. You’ve got plenty left in the tank.” Williams scrambled for Jackson’s belt loop to help pull him forward. Jackson was heavy, almost immovable.
“No.” Jackson smiled. “You found your peace, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“Do this for that family of yours.”
“You can’t do this to me. You can’t.” Williams searched for anything that could help him move Jackson. The hopeless task came to a head as Jackson squeezed his forearm again, a speechless signal that Williams could do no more.
“He got me real good, but he got his real good, too.” Jackson pulled his hand out from underneath his chest. His dog tags was smeared with his own blood. Jackson coughed again, this time with more power. “I was hoping you’d wake up in time for me to ask you a favor.”
“Anything.” Williams grabbed Jackson’s hand, clasping the dog tags within.
Its purposeful snarl surrounded their position as if the jungle itself warned the two. Its shadow moved closer.
“No.” Williams withdrew his firearm. He had a few bullets left. “You ain’t taking him. He’s not for you, not like the others.”
“Chris,” Jackson pleaded. “I need you to deliver this message to my grandma. You can’t defend me against that thing. We know what it is, and it ain’t something we can fight. We both gonna die if you do.”
Williams lowered his gun. He heard truth in Jackson’s words. There would be no rescue for Jackson, at least in this life.
“I’m so, so sorry.” The beast shuffled closer. Williams winced at the thought that Jackson would never taste his grandmother’s warm apple pie or play with his siblings again. His crime—the crime that he was being judged for—was his own stupidity. He’d wanted to help his family, not become a criminal. Jackson never abused the villagers. He was better than that.
“In a room full of disciples, somebody needs to be the savior.” Jackson laughed then coughed again, this time spitting up some blood.
The beast’s footfalls shuffled down the slope, its dark form grunting as its solid frame bristled against the trees.
“What was that?” Williams looked at his gun, debating.
“It was never about us. It was always about you.” Jackson smiled. “Sometimes the end of journeys are just meant for one person. Doesn’t mean that the journey itself is meant for that one person, though. I found my peace.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Find my grandma. Find her and tell her that I love her. Tell her that I tried to do her good out here. Give her those tags. Then ask for some pie. You’ll love that pie. Can you do that for me?”
“Anything.”
A branch snapped behind him, maybe ten yards away, prompting the tiger to huff. Williams would not look. His focus was on Jackson. He wanted to tell Jackson’s grandmother how Jackson died. He was a hero, a valiant hero, not the criminal society made him out to be.
“Go, man. Go. I’m gonna find my own way home now. Gonna go see my grandpaps. You find your ways, too,” Jackson said, exhaling as life escaped his voice. “Learn to forgive yourself. Be human again.”
“I will, brother. And thank you.” Williams placed his hand on the top of Jackson’s head and gave it a quick rub, running his fingers down Jackson’s face, closing his eyelids. “Love you, man.”
THIRTY FOUR
Williams limped toward the sea of elephant grass front of him at the jungle’s end. Sweat poured into his eyes, burning them, distorting his vision. His lungs struggled to inhale. His leg pulsated with heat and a biting pain. Everything told him to give up, but he had stories to tell. He owed it to the boys who had saved his life. He owed it to the specter of a would-be wife who forgave him.
He was not alone in his escape.
The two golden orbs emerged at his side, watching him as he struggled forward to the jungle’s mouth. He had left everything behind him in the jungle—his men, the wickedness of his actions in Vietnam, the thoughts of the massacre, his past—all shed in the river’s water and the red clay that formed the soil. He bled, sweated, and cried for the sake of others.
Now the jungle stalked him, unwilling to surrender its grasp on the last vestiges of Charlie Company, the Death Dealers. They each had a story to tell. Whether it was born out of hope, anger, or for the love of country, they all left something back there that Vietnam coveted. The ghosts wanted their vengeance for their sins at My Lai.
Stumbling over another rough patch, he grabbed a branch with one hand while clenching his sidearm in the other. The tiger would not take him, not without a fight. The opening was ahead.
Fifty feet became thirty. Thirty became twenty. The opening became clearer. At any moment he expected the tiger’s teeth to tear into his shoulder, ending his flight.
If he could navigate through the grass and over the hill, maybe he could make it to the camp. Maybe it was his allies. Maybe he could tell the story about what happened, find peace in himself.
Twenty feet became ten, five, three, one.
He crashed to the ground, jarring his body against the ground as daggers dug into the back of his shoulder. It was upon him, his arms secured underneath the tiger’s foot. Its fur bristled against Williams’s legs as the beast growled, its heavy breath moist and reeking of spoiled meat, a foulness that triggered Williams’s gag reflex.
Williams tried to breathe in, but he could not. The beast sniffed around Williams’s neck. Its damp nose nudged Williams’s ear. The glow from its golden eyes lit up the crimson sand around him. The end was about to come.
Williams closed his eyes. He thought of her. He thought of the loving hug she gave him every time they visited each other at college. He thought of the life they would have together, starting a family, moving ahead with their careers, enjoying their free time with fishing trips and vacations. And he thought of their daughter, a girl he would soon come to know.
He missed her. He was not whole without her soft touch.
He would see Karen again.
“Go on and judge me, you bastard,” he whispered.
Then the tiger’s weight lifted off of him. A rush of oxygen filled Williams’s scorching lungs, his bruised ribs expanding to their natural state.
Williams rolled to his back, using his elbows as support. He finally captured the size of the beast. It was as big as Williams remembered from when they’d first crashed into the jungle. It stared back at him, its eyes capturing the pain of Vietnam’s children. Its muscular frame contracted as it circled around, sizing Williams up, but it did not attack.
You’re letting me live.
With a huff and a lick of its chops, the tiger’s powerful jaws snapped shut. Its frame undulated as it turned its back on Williams, sauntering into the cover of the Vietnam jungle’s night.
Williams watched the shadow slip through the trees and up the hill. Halfway up, the shadow began to morph, its powerful legs and torso slimming down to that of a young girl, the same young girl he remembered from the crash, the girl who reached out for him when he was too afraid to act. She looked back at him with the two same golden eyes, which exploded into a brilliance of light that flew out in all directions before dissipating into the shadows of the jungle.
He knew he had been judged and the journey was meant to end with him.
Then, as he sat there in awe, the usual midnight chorus of tree frogs and those godforsaken insects returned. For once, he was glad to hear them. There was stillness about the air, as if something heavy had lifted from the wilderness. The bush was no longer feral. It had returned to its natural state.
“My God.” Williams coughed. A million thoughts raced through his mind faster than his heart as he rested back, replaying the events that had just happened.
I need to move.
Although the land had pardoned him, he still needed water, food, and medical care. Without that, he would die.
The hell with it. Tossing his gun to his side where it disappeared under the blanket of grass, Williams observed the gray landscape. The faint glow of campfires dotted the horizon, beckoning Williams forward. He didn’t know if they were friend or foe, but it didn’t matter. He already had the courage. He needed to find the fight. He just wished his friends were with him.
Williams reached into his pocket for Anuska’s picture. He pulled out a handful of dog tags instead. Each represented a man who had met his fate in the jungle. Each represented a story, a man he once knew.
He did not know how, nor did he question how he’d come into possession of them all. He put them around his neck, thinking of each man in succession. He had survived for a reason, but would anyone believe his tale?
He reached in his pocket again, finding and pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment he had not read since My Lai.
Chris, with all my heart and all my being, please know that you are the light of my life. Love, Karen.
Williams tucked the parchment into his jacket pocket over his heart.
“And you will always be my light,” he said.
Williams squeezed his hand around the gun and took a step into the grass, leaving the ghosts of My Lai behind.
EPILOGUE
It was one of those early fall mornings when the local coffee bars surrounding Annapolis Harbor bustled with chatter of local politics and paper cutout ghosts began decorating waterfront windows. Tourist season was all but over, save the senior citizen population littering the docks like marching Q-tips.
The bay breeze carried with it the first hints of northerly cold, but still held enough warmth to allow a quick jaunt on a boat. He needed it more than ever, a reprieve from the humdrum of retired life. At least the boys would get out after yammering about going fishing all week.
Williams rolled up to the edge of the concrete breakwall, his mind somewhere between his last minute decision to buy those Navy football tickets and his son, Donnie’s, latest tirade about the difficulties of school. He couldn’t put too much stock in either concern as he had just switched medications for the third time in a year. Nothing stopped those damned headaches. Nothing.
“You okay, old man?” Another of his sons, Jackson, brought the wheelchair to a stop and, with a jerk, kicked on the brakes.
“Oh, yeah. Fine.” Williams already started negotiating his way out of the seat, grabbing his crutches, and swinging himself up on his one leg. His boat bobbed in its slip due to a series of manufactured waves rolling in from one of those high-priced yachts Williams could never imagine affording, not on a retired military salary.
“Sure about that? Seem like your mind is…elsewhere.”
“No, seriously, Jacks, I’m fine.” Williams balanced himself down to the edge of the dock and planted his sandal on the fiberglass starboard runner. He grunted as his crutches dug deep into his armpits.
“Need some help?” Jackson hesitated. He always did when speaking of his father’s handicap, not wanting to offend the proud old man. Though he hated being treated like a child at times, he appreciate the concern. His oldest son was always there for him. His name suited him well.
“I’m fine, just like I always am.” Williams grunted again as he secured the two crutches on the deck and swung himself on to his 22-footer. The boat wasn’t much for the posh Annapolis standard, but it was his, and it carried him where he wanted to go.
“Of course you are, pops. Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Appreciate it.” Williams surveyed his Spartan boat—his prize— and looked out at the Chesapeake’s horizon. The morning sun had risen a few hours early, still warming the temperate waters and summoning the call of the gulls from above. He didn’t need medication when he ventured out on the bay.
“Say, uh, want some coffee?” Jackson thumbed over his shoulder to the shops that lined the horseshoe-shaped harbor. He then proceeded to wipe his face clear of the glaze Williams’s had experienced so many times before.
“Up late last night?” Williams smiled.
“Guess you can say that. Met a couple friends at the Fulcrum. Couple guys who are, you know…” Jackson grimaced, the same face he made since he was a kid when he intended to hold a secret.
“What is it?” He propped his crutches against the sofa running the width of the stern and tapped on the motor.
“I know how you hate talking about it.”
“Talking about?”
“War and all. My friends, well, they’re being deployed to Afghanistan.”
“Oh?” Williams answered in a soft voice, his mind drifting along with the slow pace of the scattered autumn clouds. He swallowed through a suddenly dry mouth, his heart thumping a few beats too hard. It never ended, the fear of the baby blue sky ripping in two to reveal the nightmare of a midnight canopy and alien trees reaching up to the black heavens. It still had him. It always would.
“Dad,” Jackson said, but Williams thought he heard his son calling his name a few times prior, echoing in the dark corners of his diseased sub-conscious.
“Yeah, son.” Williams looked over at his son’s sinewy frame. He exhaled, relieved it wasn’t a vibrant dream that haunted his nights.
“You were fading for a sec,” he said, still standing on the dock.
“You don’t….you don’t think you can convince them to stay home, do you?”
“I know how you feel about that, but I can’t.” Jackson half-smiled and glanced at the concrete way where a gaggle of seniors wearing those damned oversized sunglasses meandered about, obviously confused where they were headed. He always looked down when he was ashamed.
“That’s okay.” Williams sighing, knowing what Jackson’s friends would soon face. He pulled himself to the captain’s chair, sitting down, smiling as the familiar worn cushion hugged his lower back. “Hopefully, they’ll be safe.”
“They’re good guys. Know what they’re doing.” A sudden meow broke the tension as an orange tabby darted out of the cabin and immediately brushed his head along Williams’s calf. Jackson’s left eyebrow curled up. “Thought
you got rid of him.”
“Who, little Priest here? Thought about it, but maybe he keeps potential hoodlums away from here.” Williams snagged the cat who made its home on the boat earlier in the spring. Its entire body vibrated as Williams pulled him into his lap and began to run his fingers through its fur. “As long as he doesn’t eat any of our fish what does it matter?”
“It might be good for him now, but what’s he going to do when you put the boat up for the winter?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe…maybe I’ll take him home for the season. Give him a home he never had.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you never allowed any of us get a cat when we were younger. Now all of the sudden you’re ok with them?”
“Not my fault you wanted to have three dogs. No way you boys could take care of a cat also.”
“They don’t take much care. Look at him. All you do is drop off food for him a couple times a week and he seems like he’s ok.”
“You sure about that?” Williams lifted the cat up and stared into the feline’s eyes. They were as gold as endless as Williams first remembered when he found the little fur ball scavenging behind Shamrock Lane. “I’ve always believed there are more to these little creatures besides eating, sleeping, and shitting. You know Egyptians thought cats would keep the demons away.”
“So, now we believe in Anubis?”
“Oh, no.” Williams scratched the cat’s scruff, causing the small feline’s eyes to narrow and eventually close from the short burst of ecstasy. “Now how about that coffee?”
“Black, am I right?”
“Come on. You haven’t been away at college that long.”
Jackson simply shrugged.
“Yes, black. None of that cancer-causing sweetener. Have enough…issues.” Williams grumbled as he placed the cat down on the deck. “You sure your mother is going to bring Isaac?”