The Scrubs

by Simon Janus

  The thing moaned when it struck the bottom. Hearing the dead man speak surprised the hell out of Straley. He lost his footing, tumbled into the ditch and didn’t stop until he crashed into the body. Straley stared at the Caprice Man. He tried to ignore his condition, but couldn’t. The man’s chest rose and fell between shallow, awkward breaths. Blood leaked freely from his seemingly skinless body. Straley couldn’t understand how the son of bitch was still alive.

  The Caprice Man stirred and looked up. His thousand-yard stare locked onto Straley while his mouth opened and closed, the words never managing to pass those terrible lips. Straley sat transfixed by the ruined man’s fight to survive. He jolted when the Caprice Man jerked out an arm in his direction in a plea that needed no translation. Straley shook his head. Disgust fueled his decision.

  The Caprice Man’s arm wavered before his strength left him and it hit the dirt. His fingers clawed the ground in an attempt to reach Straley. Then he dug with his legs and gained traction. Straley backed away, scrabbling on his butt, and the broken man gave up. He looked at Straley through bloodshot eyes and croaked, “Help me.”

  Straley shook his head again.

  There was no helping this guy. If Straley tried to save him, he screwed himself. It wasn’t an option. If he took the Caprice Man to the ER, the cops would take him down. Why the hell he was even thinking about hospitals? This guy was fucked. He was dissolving. No doctor on earth could save him. There was no point. This guy had minutes at most. He couldn’t save the Caprice Man if he tried.

  The Caprice Man repeated his plea.

  The sound of the Chevy grew louder in Straley’s head. The idling V8 missed a beat and then recovered. Who was to say the engine wouldn’t cut out all together? He jumped to his feet and clambered up the ditch.

  A spurt of energy fed the Caprice Man’s dying body and he lunged. He caught one of Straley’s heels and Straley slid back down into the ditch. The Caprice Man slapped a raw and bloody hand on Straley’s wrist.

  “Help me,” he demanded.

  “I was going to get help,” Straley lied. His gaze fell from the old man’s battered face to the hand clamped to his wrist. Partially clotted, jellified blood leaked between the man’s fingers and ran down Straley’s wrist. Shit. The son of bitch touched me.

  “Help me,” the man repeated.

  “I’m trying,” Straley said, his words nearly strangled by disgust.

  The Caprice Man’s gaze bore deep into him. His eyes held the wisdom of the streets and they saw through Straley’s bullshit.

  Straley couldn’t stop the lies. “I’ll get help. Hang in there.”

  The Caprice Man’s strength deserted him, and his hold on Straley withered to that of an infant’s. Straley shook off the man’s grasp and groped his way back up the bank before the man could regain strength.

  Straley stopped at the top and stared down at the figure slumped below. “I’ll send help.”

  The Caprice Man shifted.

  Straley snatched up the duffel and ran over to the rumbling Caprice. He stopped when he reached the car. There was no way he was sitting in the thing with all that gore splattered everywhere. He tugged free the checkered shirt tied around his waist and wiped the steering wheel, seat and windshield as best he could. The shirt moved the gore around instead of cleaning it off.

  He was wasting precious minutes. The road remained quiet. It needed to stay that way. He couldn’t be found here, not under any circumstance and certainly not like this. He had to go, and now. The cleanup job was far from perfect, but it was passable. He bottled his disgust, used the shirt for a seat cover and slid behind the wheel. When he threw it in drive and hit the gas, the engine faltered. He thought it was going to die, as the Caprice Man surely would, but the Chevy began to roll and then rapidly picked up speed. Straley tried to put the man’s ruined face out of his mind.

  DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS

  The following story is from the book, Dragged into Darkness, available from Amazon Kindle.

  Acceptable Losses

  The landing craft bobbed clumsily on the waves. The damned things were so unstable when they didn’t have a full accompaniment of men to act as ballast. Captain James Clelland’s six-man team was no substitute. The ride back would be better. The boat would be full.

  They were half a mile out and Clelland could see the carnage on the beach. He didn’t want to look at it or think about it. There would be plenty of time for that when they arrived. There would be sights and sounds that would eat through his soul for a lifetime. He leaned on the side of the boat and stared into the sky, ignoring the flotilla of boats approaching the beach in a fan formation.

  Puffy white clouds passed gracefully across the sky. He was astounded by how similar the clouds were to those back in England. Somehow he expected them to be different, at least exotic. Clouds from the North Pacific should have been different. He didn’t know how or why, but they should have been. Floating on the wrong side of the sky maybe, he thought. He could have watched the clouds all day but the stink was invading his nose. The beach was close.

  “Right, kit-up everyone,” Clelland ordered.

  “Make way for the Lord Mayor’s Bucket Boys,” Sergeant Williams announced in a mock pompous and officious voice.

  Clelland hated the term that had attached itself to his men like a limpet mine. It had started in the mess hall after their second or third mission. The problem was the phrase was too apt. The real Lord Mayor’s Bucket Boys picked up horseshit after the annual procession. His Bucket Boys picked up something different after the battles were waged. The stench of what they handled was no less disgusting, and most couldn’t stomach the work. Turnover was high. His men always had a choice, of sorts. He didn’t. He was Oracle’s right-hand man. He was the only man perfect for the job.

  Clelland tied a handkerchief around his head, over his nose and mouth. Others did likewise. The Lord Mayor’s latest Bucket Boy pulled on a gas mask. After a couple of trips, the mask wouldn’t be necessary. The stench would offend, but not disgust. A handkerchief, scented maybe, was all that was needed for a Bucket Boy.

  Clelland tapped the private with the gas mask on the shoulder. “Take off the mask,” he told him.

  Confused eyes stared back from behind the mask.

  “Take off the mask, soldier. That’s an order.”

  The private did as he was told. “Sir, the stink?”

  “Harris, it’s in your best interests to keep the mask off. You’ll throw up.”

  “But if I have the mask…”

  Clelland raised a hand to silence the lad. Hysteria was creeping into the private’s voice. “You’ll vomit. If the stench doesn’t do it, the sight will. So, it’s better to vomit with the mask off than on. Then you won’t have to breathe in the stench of your own spew. So, keep the mask off.”

  Williams, not wise-cracking for once, nodded. The Australian knew better than most. He’d been with Clelland since the discovery. “Puke now. Mask later.”

  Clelland pulled out a scented rag and pressed it into the private’s hand. “Use it when you’re done.”

  Harris couldn’t speak. Fear, anguish, whatever it was Clelland saw in those innocent eyes strangled the private’s vocal chords. In a month’s time, those eyes would be hollow and darkness would be the only thing lurking behind them. Nothing would ever disturb the private again. Clelland knew. He stared into those same eyes in the mirror every time he shaved.

  The sapphire blue ocean changed to blood red. Pink caps that should have been white rode the tops of the red waves as they crashed onto the decimated bodies of fallen soldiers.

  “Brace yourselves boys,” the helmsman warned.

  Clelland’s team grasped handholds and waited for impact. The boat ground to a halt on the beach. The bow door dropped, digging into bloodstained sand and crushing dead bodies. No one rushed off the boat, ready for action. There were no Japs to take on. No one left to kill. Clelland’s men took their shovels and trudged onto the beach ignor
ing what they trod on. As Clelland disembarked, he patted the vomiting Harris on the back.

  The place was different but the story was the same. The Japs had won at the expense of the British. They’d been particularly ruthless on this occasion. Besides the bullet-riddled and grenade-ravaged corpses, he recognized the hallmarks of ritual decapitation and disembowelment. The battle over, they’d set about the wounded with their samurai swords.

  Blood from hundreds saturated the beach. Clelland hadn’t realized until he became a Bucket Boy that blood had an odor. It wasn’t unpleasant, just overpowering, suffocating, like being trapped in a room filled with stale air.

  The soldiers had been dead some time. Twelve to fourteen hours, by Clelland’s estimates. The blazing sun had had a chance to cook the flesh. What should have been pink had blanched and turned beige. Instead of just the usual stench of shit and rotting flesh, a human barbecue was in progress.

  Clelland blew his whistle. Soldiers disembarking the four other landing crafts turned to their commanding officer. All of them were close enough to shout to. “Right, gentlemen. The routine is the same as it always is. Take the dog tags, leave the weapons, no souvenirs and…” Clelland’s voice faltered, losing power. “Let’s get these boys back on the boat.”

  “Poor bastards,” Williams said.

  “I doubt they envy us, sergeant,” Clelland remarked. “They don’t have to do this.”

  The Australian mulled the thought over and nodded. “I reckon we’re gonna have to come back for a second go.”

  “Then we’ll come back, sergeant.” Clelland was sharp with Williams. He knew he was wrong to snap at the Australian. The man was only making small talk. And God knew they needed something to take their minds off their jobs. He’d make it up to him, a beer in the mess hall tonight. Another to go along with all the others he owed. “Are you finished there, Harris?”

  The private ran a hand across his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, let’s get stuck in.”

  Clelland didn’t have to get stuck in. He had rank. He could have overseen the operation without getting his feet wet like a good officer. But he was compelled to be involved. No man should have to do this and setting himself apart from his men didn’t sit well in his stomach. Better he got in the thick of it. His complicitus actions had caused this. If he’d been half the man he should have been, then maybe they wouldn’t be here.

  They snagged dog tags, placing the ID plates in the satchels over their shoulders. They shoveled up chunks of men and dropped the pieces into wheelbarrows, then emptied the barrows into the landing crafts.

  They were about half an hour in when Williams let loose with the jokes—right on time. He had a never-ending stream of them. Mainly bawdy stuff Clelland had heard in the not-so-classy music halls. He couldn’t remember how many ops they’d been on together but he knew he’d never heard a joke repeated. His gags weren’t just blue. He launched into scathing attacks on the crew and the British in general. It was all taken in good jest. The men forgot they were shoveling human slops as they attacked Williams and Australia. After the bullets, personal attacks strafed the battlefield.

  “Alright there, Harris?” Williams called out.

  The masked private nodded, his filter hose flapping.

  “Harris, you look like a fucking monkey with that thing on,” Williams said.

  “Yeah, one wiv an elephant’s trunk,” another soldier chipped in.

  “You’re right, mate. A fucking monkey with an elephant’s trunk.” Williams started a chorus of laughter. “You want to lose that thing, Harris.”

  Clelland knew it was the wrong time to pick on the private. Williams’ ribbing would have consequences. But some situations were best resolved between the men and not their senior officer.

  Harris blew. He tore off his gas mask and threw it. It struck the side of a landing craft and splashed in the surf. A wave carried it back to shore. The private stared daggers at Williams.

  The Australian and the men froze, waiting for Harris’ next move. He breathed heavily, as if he was building enough oxygen in his lungs to give Williams the tongue lashing of his life.

  But he didn’t.

  He sang.

  Harris possessed an astounding choral voice. He sang a hymn. Clelland didn’t know which one, not being much of a church man. But it was beautiful.

  The men remained silent. Williams nodded his approval to the private and got back to work. The other men followed his lead.

  Harris’ voice soared and could be heard across the beach. The men joined in with the private when he came to a hymn they all knew, adding to the heartwarming sound.

  Clelland was amazed at man’s ability to cope. He couldn’t believe that beauty could exist in such a place. Why was it when man was at his absolute worst, it inspired others to create their absolute best? Clelland didn’t know the answer to his question. He wasn’t one of those men whose enlightenment raised them above the situation.

  As soon as Harris sang, Clelland knew the private would survive his time on the HMS Vulture. Some hadn’t, but he would. He had his singing, like Williams had his corrosive humor. All his men had their outlet, something to put between them and the horror.

  Except him. He had an officer’s burden that came with command. He could never distance himself from the job. Oracle made sure of that. He was just a cog in the machine; integral to the monstrous acts committed in the name of war. If he was granted an outlet, it would be to take Oracle’s life.

  Williams was right. They had needed more boats. The landing crafts made two runs each to clear the beach. By the time his men returned to the landing crafts not a scrap of soldier remained. But they couldn’t do anything with the tainted sand. Clelland didn’t like to think how long it would be before the crimson tide washed the crimson beach clean.

  His men looked like savages, ancient warriors returning from a successful raid. Their khaki uniforms were as red as the gore that doused the inside of the boat. It was as if they’d bathed in blood. Clelland knew his soul had. It was drenched with the stuff.

  Reaching the HMS Vulture, Clelland’s men stripped off, tossing their clothes overboard. No one wanted to bring their part of the mission back to the ship with them. Hoisted aboard, they turned hoses on themselves and let the day’s toil run into the bilge.

  HMS Vulture was a converted salvage ship, kitted out with armor plating and 50mm cannons. The last of the landing crafts filled with Britain’s fallen was raised into the air. It swayed above the open cargo hatch that was large enough to hold what fifty landing crafts had to offer. The bow was tilted and the landing craft’s contents spilled into the hold. The suspended boat was rocked to make sure nothing remained.

  Lieutenant Rodgers threw Clelland a towel. The young officer was Navy and ran the ship with a small detachment of sailors. But the Army had authority. It was their operation.

  “Is that the last one?” Clelland asked, nodding at the dangling boat.

  “Yes, sir. The other boats are moored on the starboard side.”

  Damned mariner-speak, Clelland thought. He had to remind himself which side was starboard. No more port left was the mnemonic. So, port was left, which made starboard right.

  “We’ll slop out the boats in the morning,” Rodgers continued.

  Clelland shook his head. “I want those boats slopped out tonight. I don’t want their stench to contend with in the morning.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll make arrangements.” Rodgers turned to leave, then stopped. “Will you be talking to Oracle tonight?”

  Williams, Harris and several others waited for Clelland’s answer.

  “Yes. Is Oracle eating?”

  Rodgers nodded.

  Clelland didn’t need to ask. He knew Oracle was eating, because the son of a bitch wasn’t screaming his name. The bastard didn’t complain as long as it was fed. Some aide to Allied forces.

  “I’ll speak to our guest after I’ve had a drink. I think these men deserve one.”
<
br />   “At least one,” Williams chipped in. “Today’s been a bastard.”

  ***

  The Vulture’s chugging engine reverberated off the hull, sounding like a beating heart. The ship was on a new course with another rendezvous with synchronized slaughter the day after tomorrow. Would Oracle have anything for him that might save some lives?

  Entering the cargo hold, it was as dark as the night sky on deck. Feeble lighting came from a daisy chain of bulbs suspended by their own wiring. Oracle preferred the dark and Clelland was more than happy not to see his guest.

  British forces had pulled off a few coups during the war. One had been the capture of the German’s cipher generator, Enigma. The other had been Clelland’s battalion discovering Oracle in Papua New Guinea. No one knew about Oracle, not even the Yanks. Oracle’s information was shared with the Allies but the source was unknown. Oracle was too significant to share.

  Clelland had been a corporal when they found Oracle a year ago, but because he was the only one who understood what Oracle said, he was elevated to captain and given the unholy task of working with it.

  The hold stank. Oracle stank. Even though they slopped out the hold on a regular basis. The creature’s filth clung to the ship and its natural odor didn’t help either. Its perfume was rancid at best. It wasn’t the best way to make friends and influence people, but luckily for Oracle, its talents lay elsewhere. People were willing forgive a lot of things if you had something to offer.

  Oracle sensed Clelland’s presence before he opened the cargo hold door. Clelland felt it traipsing through his mind in spiked boots. After tonight’s encounter, he would have a headache that would last their journey to the next island.