by James Hunter
His hand wrapped around my fist and tangles of jungle growth entwined themselves about my wrist and fingers like mini serpents, working to pry my hand open and free the stone.
I gripped the gem until my knuckles turned white, clamped down until the edges of the emerald cut into my skin and warm blood ran down my wrist.
The thought of him getting the stone and then murdering Greg and Rat was too much to bear. Not on my watch. Fuck that jazz.
Hate boiled in me, churning inside, a hate so strong it was almost blinding. I fed all of that anger, sadness, terrible regret, and loss into the stone. Another beam of jade-power shot through his wooden hand and up into his arm—the limb flew apart at the seams, exploding into lawn mulch. Green fire splashed over his torso and face, turning him into a living bonfire. He staggered back, tottered for a moment, and crashed to the floor with a boom that shook the ground beneath me.
The vine loosened around my throat and I tumbled onto my ass, now weak, exhausted, and spent. My body shook with jittery adrenaline, my chest labored to pull in some much needed oxygen. I looked on the fallen titan, feeling disconnected from the whole scene. I’d done it. I’d beaten that prick, despite all the odds stacked against me. How about that? If I’d had the energy for it, I would’ve pumped my fist and done a victory jig while yelling obscenities into the air.
Which is precisely when that giant son of a bitch pushed himself back upright, despite the fact that he was burning like the sun at high noon.
There was a terrible knowledge in his good eye, the knowledge of his own impending death. He was confused about what had happened, that much was obvious, but it was also clear that he knew his moments were numbered and ticking down by the second as the green fire ran over his body. His doom was inevitable, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The damage was already too extensive for anything else. But there was something else burning in his eye as well. Revenge. He was going to die, true, but not before he crushed me to meat-paste and danced a spirited victory jig of his own right on my bones. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop him.
I slipped the stone into my pocket and used the wall behind my back to worm my way upright. If I was gonna meet my end, at least I could meet it on my feet. A flash of movement caught my eye, something moving just behind and to the right of the Tree King.
Rat scampered fully into view as the Tree King took a ponderous step forward, throwing his body around the creature’s good leg. That crazy son of a bitch. I never would’ve thought he had it in him. Rat was no hero, and he certainly wasn’t the guy to take one for the team. Not by his own choice anyways. The creature glanced down, a look of sheer annoyance passing over his inhuman face. It was the same look someone might spare for an actual rat.
“What the hell are you doing, asshole?” I yelled at him. “Get outta here, idiot—I’m saving your ass here.”
Rat just shook his head and gripped the monstrous leg tighter. Fear wormed across his face before hardening into resolve. “My mom!” he shouted. “Tell my mom I’m sorry.” I could barely hear the words over the clamor of the music, but I did hear them. Time seemed to grind to a halt, everything moved in slow motion. The Tree King reached down to pull Rat free with one of his burning hands, but it was already too late for that. Rat had a smoke grenade clamped tightly in one fist, the pin missing and the spoon depressed. The little guy must’ve grabbed it from the stockpile of weapons and munitions.
There was a pop, followed by a flare of light, and then a thick white fog belched out, along with a gout of flame. Though the grenade was meant for marking purposes or concealing troop movements, every solider knew it could be used as an incendiary device. The shit inside those smoke canisters was white phosphorus, aka Willie Pete, and that shit was worse than Napalm. Napalm burned, and burned hot, but Willie Pete burned at damn near 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit, stuck to the skin like shit to a blanket, and couldn’t be put out—not even with water. Stuff burned right down to the bone.
The flame spread up over Rat, racing up his arm and over his cammies, clinging to his exposed skin and biting down. He let out a scream, a tortured sound, which only lasted for a moment. The Willie Pete quickly consumed the oxygen around him, so his cry became only a wordless portrait. The fire didn’t stop with Rat. It spread up the Tree King’s leg, branching off to join with the bright green flame, a river flowing into the ocean to become one. The Willie Pete burned through the Tree King’s lower extremities, and he toppled once more, his legs now charred stumps.
The music died away at last, fading as the Tree King thrashed and groaned on the floor, the life finally draining out of him. I tore my eyes away from Rat’s burning body, unable to watch for a second longer, and glanced at the stage. The band was filing through a shimmering portal, which let out on some city that didn’t belong anywhere I’d ever seen. One of the sirens offered me a wink, then blew me a kiss as though to say Au revoir before the doorway snapped shut around her. The band vanished as completely as though they’d never been here at all.
I needed to move. Rat had paid an incredible price to give me a shot, and I couldn’t waste it, not even if my body refused to cooperate with me. I pushed myself away from the wall, stumbling into a lurching run as I made for the exit. I rounded the corner and saw Greg standing a few feet up the passageway, just as a gigantic explosion ripped through the air, filling my head with ringing and my eyes with white pinpricks. The ordinance against the far wall must’ve finally gone up. My damn knees gave out and my eyes slid shut as a rush of hot wind washed over me.
NINE:
Recruitment
I woke up a couple of times after that, though my moments of awareness came as brief flashes—half remembered images that seemed to be indistinct and dim around the edges. In one, Rat looked at me as the fire raced up over his face, clinging to his skin like a sheen of oil, his cammies melting away into globs of fabric. I remembered him trying to scream for a few moments, an agonized thing that lasted forever. Over those images, I could hear Rat’s voice in my head: I never told anyone this, but getting burned alive, that’s my worst fear … I don’t wanna die—who the fuck wants to die, y’dig?—but getting burned up? That has to be the hands down worst way to go out.
I remembered the whirl of helicopter blades and the shouts of soldiers as I was loaded up into a Chinook and airlifted away.
I remembered seeing a medic bent over Greg’s body while another worked away above me.
I even remembered offering a delirious account to some higher ups, telling them about the music and the Leshy King. But it was all confused in my mind, just bits and pieces, like a fragmented quilt of memory.
When I woke up for real, it was in a hospital, a nice hospital—not one of those shitty medic tents they had in Nam. This was an actual building with walls and real beds and nurses. I found out not long after that it was Walter Reed Army Hospital in DC. That meant they thought something was seriously wrong with me—only guys with substantial injuries got a pass to Walter Wonderful.
Although, truth be told, I didn’t feel like I was in that bad of shape. First thing I did was check my body over, making sure all the important pieces were still there and intact. I was in a hospital gown, my legs tucked up under a thin white blanket, bandages running over my arms and face while IV tubing protruded from my arm and twisted away to a saline bag. But as far as I could tell, I wasn’t missing anything.
A shitload of scrapes and gashes, some ligature marks around my neck from that damned vine, and a bunch of minor burns, but that seemed to be it. For the first time in my life, I felt like I’d actually managed to catch a lucky break. I tried not to think too much on that though, because it invariably caused me to think about the guys who hadn’t gotten off so light: Wrangle—dead by my own hand—and poor Rat, right at the top of that list.
Since I’d officially come to, countless doctors and nurses had come and gone, taking blood, scribbling notes, and asking questions. For weeks that bullshit went on. I’d given
my after-action report a dozen times over to officers from various branches and ranks, and not a one of them believed me. I knew because I’d also been evaluated by half a dozen shrinks, a couple from the military and several from the civilian sector.
I found out that Greg had made it too, and, apparently, in better shape than me. He was being kept somewhere else, though, and from what I could gather, he wasn’t talking at all—not about any of it. As tight-lipped as a frozen clam. Maybe he really didn’t remember, though I wouldn’t put money on it. Likely, he was just keeping his pie-hole shut because he was smarter than me and he knew just how ridiculous the truth actually was. Greg was a lifer; the Marine Corps was his future, so telling anyone about what had transpired down in that temple was akin to committing professional suicide. I just didn’t have two shits to give, though. Besides, someone needed to know the truth, someone deserved to know about Rat.
A gentle rap, rap, rap came from the door, which promptly swung open to admit a tall well-built guy in an immaculate suit. He stood maybe 6′4″ and had wavy brown hair, styled up in a 1920s do, which oddly reminded me of the otherworldly male musicians from the temple. His suit was light tweed—matching pants and dinner jacket with a waistcoat underneath and a spotless button up. He wore wingtips and stood with the air of a man who was better than everyone else and knew it. I’d never seen this guy before, but I knew he wasn’t with the military brass, which meant either a doctor or another shrink.
“Mr. Lazarus?” he asked, though it didn’t really seem to be a question. His eyes flashed over me, measuring me up to size, a small smile playing at his lips.
“Listen, guy,” I said, “I don’t want to be insulting, but I’m done talking to doctors and shrinks, especially if you’re just here to interrogate me about what happened down in the jungle. Everything I’ve got to say is already in a bajillion different reports, so just move along and get to reading. Put down that the ‘patient was uncooperative.’ I’ve been hearing that phrase a lot lately. Seems like the go-to sentence.”
The man shut the door behind him, ignoring me completely, and moved over to my bedside. He pulled out one of those rolly, backless doctor’s seats and carefully sat.
“Mr. Lazarus,” he said again, extending a hand, which I looked at for a moment, but made absolutely no move to take. He shrugged his broad shoulders, let his hand drop, then cast me a wide smile. “My name is James Sullivan. I’m not a doctor nor am I a shrink, but I am genuinely interested in hearing your story. I’ve already read the reports, of course, but I really would like to hear it from your own lips.”
I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms across my chest. My patience for this bullshit had just officially run its course. “Fine, asswad,” I said, “I’ll tell you, just like I told everybody else. There was a temple down there in a jungle. A temple with some kinda evil tree spirit and a bunch of magic hotties who could sing music that turned people friggin’ crazy. Evil, murderous, shoot-your-friends crazy. Me and a few guys went in, shit got hairy, and I burned the whole place down.”
“With fire that came out of your hands, isn’t that right?” he asked, which made me want to punch him in the teeth.
“Yeah, asshole. With fire that came right outta my hands. Now if you’re here to commit me or something, just get it over with already.”
“Oh no, Mr. Lazarus,” the man said, holding up one hand. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all. In fact, the organization I work for is very interested in hearing your story more fully. I think we might just be able to help you make sense of all this.” There was a flare of light and a wave of heat. A ball of flame, about the size of a baseball, floated above his outstretched hand, spinning slowly, lazily for a moment, before vanishing in a flash, leaving only a faint afterimage behind. “Like I said, my name is James Sullivan, and we have a great many things to discuss, you and I.”
Books, Mailing List, and Reviews
If you enjoyed reading about Yancy and want to stay in the loop about the latest book releases, awesomesauce promotional deals, and upcoming book giveaways be sure to subscribe to my email list: https://jamesahunter.wordpress.com/contact-me/ Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
Word-of-mouth and book reviews are crazy helpful for the success of any writer. If you really enjoyed reading about Yancy, please consider leaving a short review—just a couple of lines about your overall reading experience. You can click below to leave a review at Amazon, and thank you in advance. www.amazon.com/dp/B01066TLC0
If you want to connect even more, please stop by and like my Facebook Fan Page: https://www.facebook.com/WriterJamesAHunter
About the Author
Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.
Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.
Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.
Dedication
For all the men and women who have ever served in the United States military. Thank you for your service, your sacrifice, and your loss. And this especially goes out to the knuckleheads from CLB-13: Collins, Hoyt, Bement, Castro, Wheeler, Holdman, Dixon, all the troops (you know who you are) and the cats over in Motor-T. Semper Fidelis.
—Sergeant James Hunter, United States Marine Corps, 2015
Special Thanks
I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and daughter, Lucy. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this book either, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Lazarus, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good: Megan Meyers (aka Teal.Canary), Bob “Gunslinger” Singer, Dan “the invisible man” Goodale, Nell Justice, Jen “Ivana” Wadsworth, and Scott Hoerner. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals this book wouldn’t be what it is without you all. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain; she is timely, professional, and absolutely awesome, if you need editorial help go to her: www.acloserlookediting.com
—James A. Hunter, June 2015
Copyright
Flashback: Siren Song is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by James A. Hunter
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.
[email protected]