Desolation Game

by Greg McLean

  Mick rushes forward and slams into Stretch, tumbling him into the sandbags. Before the young digger has a chance to catch his breath, Mick pummels him with a flurry of punches. He holds back a bit – Mick may hate the guy, but he doesn’t want to truly hurt him – but there’s still some weight behind the punches.

  ‘Come on, Mick!’ Nobby cries. ‘Go easy!’

  Soon a group of men appear. Like ants to sugar, they swarm the tent and start cheering and egging on the fighters.

  Stretch rallies and starts to fight back, but they’re weak punches. Mick barely registers them. As Mick continues to land blows, the nasho’s face begins to fade and in his place Mick sees the hard, scowling face of his father. His punches start to gain force.

  It’s Sarge who breaks them apart, and it’s not until Mick shakes his daze away while in the sergeant’s grip that he notices Stretch slumped on the ground, groaning, his face a bloody mess.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ Sarge shrieks. ‘A fight’s one thing, but almost pummelling a fellow digger into the ground is another.’

  Mick’s scarred, coarse hands are covered with blood, the knuckles split.

  ‘Shit, I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry, Stretch.’

  Some of the men help the second scout to his feet, but he’s wobbly. Mick breaks free from the sergeant and storms out of the tent.

  ‘Go and see the medic about your hands,’ Atkin calls after Mick, but Mick ignores the skipper’s orders and instead heads towards the boozer.

  He’s angry with himself. This is the first time he has lost his head in here. What if the other diggers look at him differently now, lose all respect for him? Damn nasho. Why is Stretch always fucking around with him? Why does he push his buttons?

  Mick looks at the blood on his hands, a mixture of Stretch’s and his own.

  He won’t let such a thing happen again. Can’t let it. Stretch is the problem, and the only way to deal with problems is to eradicate them.

  Stretch may have started this war, but Mick aims to finish it.

  As he moves through the lines, he wipes his hands on his greens.

  The blood doesn’t come off easily.

  13

  Western Australia

  February 1968

  Steve stared out the window at the heavy stream of rain and the shadows dancing in the darkness.

  He couldn’t see them, but he’d heard them.

  Lying awake in the stuffy trailer, listening to the endless downpour, his ears had twitched at the sound of a door opening, followed by footsteps: light, like a child’s. He’d jumped out of his sleeping bag and darted to one of the grimy windows. He hadn’t seen any movement, but then they were always sly. Quick and cunning, like rats. Jungle rats.

  Out there. In the darkness.

  He waited, sweat teeming down his face and body.

  He heard the steps again. They were closer now, and there was more than one person. He crouched and continued peering over the windowsill.

  Finally he saw them: a soldier and his captive.

  But it was Mick and Chiyo.

  Mick held a rifle to Chiyo’s back and was marching her towards the front of the large shed. For a moment, she looked like a VC to Steve too – small, wet and barefoot.

  But it was Chiyo. Why would Mick be taking her captive? She was Japanese – she wasn’t a VC. Or maybe she was.

  Steve shook his head.

  No. She couldn’t be. Mick must be confused . . . or crazy.

  Steve watched them disappear into the shed.

  He grabbed his T-shirt from his bed and slipped it on, and, leaving Cindy snoring gently in her sleeping bag, he ducked outside.

  Steve wished he had his M16. He didn’t like being out here without any weapons.

  His gaze fell on the Kombi, sitting out in the rain like a dog waiting to be let in. He hadn’t taken part in the shooting yesterday, but he knew what the bag looked like, and he knew it was somewhere in the back of the van. It’d mean having to break a window, but he didn’t think Bruce or Duncan would mind, under the circumstances.

  Mick had a gun. And if Mick was the bad guy, Chiyo needed his help. So he needed a weapon.

  Steve looked around for the all-clear, then hurried over to the van. He checked the back door before he went about smashing the glass. Surprisingly, he found it unlocked. Didn’t they say the Kombi was all locked up? They must have forgotten about the back door. He eased it open and searched the various bags, but none of them contained the guns.

  Shit. Maybe Chiyo took the bag. Maybe that’s why Mick had marched her into the shed. He had found out she had stolen the arsenal. Which meant . . . she was VC? But why would she have been she sent here? To stake out an area to make a base in Australia?

  It didn’t seem to make sense – but then, nothing about the war made sense.

  If Chiyo really was part of the NLF, and had stolen the guns, that meant she planned on using them. It also meant that Mick was in trouble. A civilian was no match for a South Vietnamese rebel, even an armed civilian.

  Mick needed his help.

  But he didn’t have a gun . . . Well, it didn’t matter. He was a soldier. It was his duty to fight the enemy, to protect the innocent. He would have to go in unarmed.

  Steve hurried towards the shed. He sloshed through the mud, eyes narrow against the pounding rain. He stopped at the outside wall, held his breath and listened.

  He couldn’t hear anything from inside. He reached around and tested the door and, finding it unlocked, eased the door open a touch and peered in. The shed was empty. He entered warily. There were wet shoeprints – and footprints – on the floor, and they led to the workbench, which had been moved and now sat at an angle. A manhole had been revealed there, sealed by a round concrete cover with a ring.

  A manhole, similar to the ones dotted throughout the South Vietnamese jungle.

  He got down on all fours and pressed an ear to the slab. Still no movement, but he was sure he could detect the stench of rotting flesh. Where the hell did this lead?

  Steve’s gut tightened with nerves, and he considered turning around and leaving. But to do what? There was no phone to call the police, or anyone else. There were no guns around that he knew about. And he couldn’t involve the others. He couldn’t endanger anyone else. Besides, would they believe him that Chiyo was a VC operative and Mick needed help subduing her?

  Sweat dripped into his eyes as he considered what to do. What about Akira? Was he VC as well? Part of a covert operation? Maybe he was just Chiyo’s chaperone and he didn’t know what was going on. Even so, maybe Steve should go to his trailer and check on him – interrogate him if necessary.

  No, that would take too much time. And if Akira was innocent, disturbing him might call unwanted attention to the situation. Steve didn’t want the others knowing what was going on until it was absolutely necessary.

  He slipped a hand into the steel ring and pulled up the manhole cover. The stench of death wafted up him. All too familiar.

  He could see the top rung of a ladder and then blackness took over as it descended.

  A flashlight would have been helpful.

  He’d sometimes crawled through the tunnels in ’Nam without the benefit of a light, but at least he’d had some idea of what to expect back there under the jungle. Who knew what to expect here?

  Only one way to find out. He gripped the metal rungs of the ladder and and climbed down slowly, keeping as quiet as possible, and only stopping when his feet met with air. He lowered himself as far he could manage while keeping his grip firm on the lowest rung. When his right foot touched something solid, he let go of the ladder, fell a short distance, and landed on a bed of mud.

  Or what he hoped was mud.

  The ground squelched and as he got up and tentatively walked forward, arms out, feeling his way around, it slipped beneath his feet. He trampled on hard things as well, bulky things, and the putrid smell was too strong to ignore. There were dead bodies down here. />
  Why would there be multiple bodies, decaying into a puddled mess? Who were they and how did they end up down here?

  These weren’t questions Steve wanted to ponder on, so he busied himself with trying to get some bearings. He moved his hands along the cold, wet earth walls.

  There must be a tunnel leading off from here – he could just detect the sound of wind whistling. Maybe it led to a cave, or a room, a dungeon where Mick had thought to take Chiyo for their safety.

  He continued feeling his way along the wall, towards the whistling breeze. Finally he found the entrance to a passageway, and he stopped. The wind coming from it was gentle, and he felt a faint breeze on his face, bearing fresh air. The tunnel appeared to lead outside.

  Steve didn’t think Mick would take Chiyo outside: there would be no need to crawl through this horrid place just to go back outside, even at a distance. No, his gut told him there must be another tunnel, maybe several more, so he moved on across the face of the first passageway and soon came upon another. Bingo.

  There was no wind blowing up through this tunnel, no hint of fresh air. Instead there was a musty odour and, listening closely, he thought he could hear a sound, like something scraping against the earth. This must be the one.

  Still, wanting to be sure he understood his surroundings, Steve completed a perimeter to check for any more passageways, and found none. He pushed back towards the second opening.

  It was small, similar in size to the ones in Vietnam. Shit, it was like he never left the jungle. He got down on his hands and knees and started crawling.

  ‘Come on, get a move on,’ Mick growled. ‘I’m carryin’ all the gear, and you’re goin’ slower than a dead snail.’

  Crawling in the compact passage, Mick held the torch in one hand. Its light was trained on Chiyo’s wet, dirt-encrusted backside ahead of him. In the other he gripped his rifle, also trained on her arse. The bag with his new haul of weapons was slung over his shoulder onto his back. The ammo and guns jangled as they moved through the tunnel.

  ‘Can’t fool me,’ Mick said. ‘Tunnels like these are your second home. I know ya can crawl faster than this.’

  Chiyo was putting on a good show, keeping up her front. She hadn’t stopped blubbering since they entered the shed. But Mick knew the truth. He knew she was waiting for a moment to strike. The instant his concentration dipped, the crocodile tears would stop and she would turn on him and attack. He’d have to be alert when they reached the cave.

  He wouldn’t give her a chance.

  ‘Almost there,’ Mick said.

  ‘My knees hurt,’ Chiyo sobbed. ‘Where you taking me?’

  ‘Home.’

  Finally they arrived at the mouth of the tunnel and Chiyo crawled out and stood up. Mick was out and ready for action a moment later. He dropped the duffel bag, keeping the rifle trained at Chiyo from his hip. ‘See that strange rock formation over there? Looks like two arms about to shake hands? Walk towards it.’

  Chiyo flinched and took a few timid steps, as Mick picked up the duffel bag and followed. When they entered the bone temple, Chiyo gasped. Skulls of all sizes leered at her from shelves around their heads, and she reeled, finding sculptures of bone all around her.

  ‘Pretty, ain’t it?’ Mick laughed. ‘Okay, down on your knees.’

  Chiyo remained standing, shivering with fear.

  Mick dropped the bag of guns and ammo to the ground. They landed with a thud. He dug the barrel of the rifle into her back. ‘Down, I said.’

  Shaking, Chiyo sank to her knees, her arms folded against herself protectively.

  Mick gazed up at the temple beyond the rock arms. ‘Sarge, it’s me. I got what you wanted.’

  There was silence.

  Then: ‘Good. You have done well, Michael.’

  Mick frowned. This wasn’t Sarge, nor was it Eddie. The voice was unfamiliar. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

  ‘Hello?’ Mick said.

  ‘You must sacrifice her,’ the voice said. ‘Spill her blood and let it soak into the earth.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Mick asked.

  ‘That’s not important. Will you do as we ask?’

  Chiyo, kneeling on the ground, head bowed, began muttering something that may have been a prayer.

  Mick shouldered his rifle and reached for the sheath that was tied to his belt. He flicked up the fastener and then drew out the large hunting knife.

  ‘Yep, I can do whatever you want me to do.’

  Steve feared the tunnel would never end.

  The darkness was too all encompassing, the smell of dank earth and old death burned his nostrils and throat. He could tell the tunnel was gradually descending, but to where, he could only guess. To hell, probably.

  Just as he thought he would be crawling through the darkness until he collapsed, he detected a faint gleam of light ahead. He pressed on towards it and, as he neared the glow, he heard voices.

  It was Mick talking, but not Chiyo.

  When he reached the end of the tunnel, he stopped and peered around the lip.

  The scene lit up on the other side of the cave by flashlight didn’t make any sense. Steve’s mind was like a jumbled jigsaw. All the pieces were there in front of him, yet they didn’t seem to fit, didn’t seem to make a clear picture.

  He saw the naked form of Chiyo, slashed and dripping blood, but her size and shape was undulating, like it was going in and out of focus. In the dim glow of the flashlight, he couldn’t make out what he was seeing. The voice that sprang from the naked apparition was more a man’s.

  Steve looked around. He couldn’t see Mick anywhere, but he did notice a duffel bag on the ground and wondered if it was the one that contained the guns. It had to be.

  Then he noticed the lump on the ground. It was near a strange feature in the cave wall, where two snake-like curves of rock nearly joined. The form was vaguely human, although it was hard to tell – it was slick with blood and it looked like —

  Steve felt tears sting his eyes. Sour bile rose up in his throat.

  Oh God, he thought. It was a body. What sick mind . . . ? Never underestimate the VC. He should know that by now. But how could a girl as small as Chiyo manage to skin a man the size and strength of Mick?

  He was too late. Somehow, Chiyo had managed to overpower Mick and kill him.

  Despite the horrors of his tour, Steve had never seen a body stripped of its flesh before. He was amazed at how small a body looked without its covering. Mick’s remains looked half his size.

  ‘I will do what ya ask,’ Chiyo said, in a deep voice, reminiscent of Mick’s. ‘I’ll sacrifice more victims. I’ll give ya the blood and I’ll take the rest. I’ll gain powers never dreamed.’ She danced around, twirling, and it was then that Steve saw her face.

  Huh? He saw Chiyo’s face, distorted, then Mick’s, the two together. At first he thought Chiyo must have taken off Mick’s head and was holding it up as a trophy. But more pieces of the puzzle started fitting into place. It dawned on him how tall Chiyo was. And the way her body multiplied, flapped with the twirling motion, like someone wearing a bearskin over their back.

  ‘Winner,’ the twirling body growled. ‘Winner, winner, winner . . .’

  It certainly sounded like Mick.

  Steve looked again at the skinless body on the ground. The size of Chiyo. He’d got it wrong – Mick had killed Chiyo. He was wearing her skin.

  It was a gruesome scene, but Steve found himself relieved Chiyo hadn’t got the better of Mick, and couldn’t now turn her murderous ways on the group. The threat was neutralised.

  Still, just as Steve had witnessed in ’Nam, Mick had gone crazy in the heat of battle. What possessed him to skin her? And who was he talking to? There wasn’t anyone else in the large cavern.

  Steve left the darkness of the tunnel and stepped onto the floor of the cavern.

  ‘Mick,’ Steve said.

  Mick stopped twirling. He grabbed his rifle from off the ground and aimed it at St
eve.

  ‘It’s just me,’ Steve said, raising his hands.

  Mick stared at Steve for a long time. He looked like some mad hunter, a cave man, wearing his unusual prize. His eyes were like two black coals surrounded by a skin of blood. Chiyo’s lifeless arms dangled around Mick like she had died embracing him.

  ‘Steve?’ Mick said. ‘How the hell did you find me?’

  ‘I saw you marching Chiyo towards the shed. I followed you down into the tunnel.’

  Mick continued to stand there looking confused, gun trained on him.

  ‘How did you find out Chiyo was a gook?’ Steve asked.

  Mick flinched and shook his head – Chiyo’s mask shook also. ‘Huh?’

  ‘You captured Chiyo – the enemy. You killed her ’cause she’d stolen the guns and was going to kill us all.’

  Mick frowned, looking beyond Steve for other intruders. ‘Right. Yeah, that’s right.’ His composure was returning. ‘Are you armed?’

  Steve shook his head. ‘No, but I was going to improvise. Find a way to help, if it was needed.’

  Mick lowered the rifle, and Steve lowered his arms.

  ‘I thought at first you’d gone crazy and that Chiyo was in trouble,’ Steve said. ‘But when I discovered the guns missing, well, I put two and two together. Christ, a VC, right in our midst.’

  Mick nodded. ‘They’re everywhere now.’

  Steve started forward. ‘Do you think Akira . . . ?’

  ‘You know, this is incredibly fortunate on my part,’ Mick said. ‘I was gonna come lookin’ for you next, but you’ve saved me the trouble.’

  Steve frowned. ‘I don’t under—’

  Mick pulled out a large knife, wet with blood, tip to hilt. He shrugged off the skin and it flopped to the ground. ‘You’ve made this too easy for me.’ He dashed forwards.

  Steve didn’t have time to think about what was happening – why Mick had suddenly turned on him. He saw the look in the mechanic’s eyes, saw him running towards him with the knife held high – and he leapt backwards and bolted.

  ‘You won’t get away!’ Mick called.

  Usually Steve was a stay and fight kinda guy. Lord knows, he’d faced enough battles in ’Nam. But he was unarmed, against a man with a large knife and a bagful of weapons. And he’d seen the look in Mick’s eyes – a psychotic fire – and there was no defeating someone in that condition. He’d known men with similar looks, and those men didn’t back down until they were dead. Now he realised he had to get away and warn the others.