The sergeant said that it beat him.
“Well,” the captain said, “I figger if the boy here was in combat, that’d be ’bout Bronze-Star stupid.”
That, allowed the sergeant, was pretty goddamn stupid.
“’Course here in ’Frisco”—the captain gave Mingolla a final dusting—“it don’t get you diddley-shit.”
The MPs were piling off Baylor, who lay on his side, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Blood thick as gravy filmed over his cheeks.
“Panama,” said Mingolla dully. Maybe it was an option. He saw how it would be…a night beach, palm shadows a lacework on the white sand.
“What say?” asked the captain.
“He wanted to go to Panama,” said Mingolla.
“Don’t we all,” said the captain.
One of the MPs rolled Baylor onto his stomach and handcuffed him; another manacled his feet. Then they rolled him back over. Yellow dirt had mired with the blood on his cheeks and forehead, fitting him with a blotchy mask. His eyes snapped open in the middle of that mask, widening when he felt the restraints. He started to hump up and down, trying to bounce his way to freedom. He kept on humping for almost a minute; then he went rigid and—his gone eyes fixed on the molten disc of the sun—he let out a roar. That was the only word for it. It wasn’t a scream or a shout, but a devil’s exultant roar, so loud and full of fury, it seemed to be generating all the blazing light and heat dance. Listening to it had a seductive effect, and Mingolla began to get behind it, to feel it in his body like a good rock ‘n’ roll tune, to sympathize with its life-hating exuberance.
“Whoo-ee!” said the captain, marveling. “They gon’ have to build a whole new zoo for that boy.”
After giving his statement, letting a Corpsman check his head, Mingolla caught the ferry to meet Debora on the east bank. He sat in the stern, gazing out at the unfinished bridge, this time unable to derive from it any sense of hope or magic. Panama kept cropping up in his thoughts. Now that Baylor was gone, was it really an option? He knew he should try to figure things out, plan what to do, but he couldn’t stop seeing Baylor’s bloody, demented face. He’d seen worse, Christ yes, a whole lot worse. Guys reduced to spare parts, so little of them left that they didn’t need a shiny silver coffin, just a black metal can the size of a cookie jar. Guys scorched and one-eyed and bloody, clawing blindly at the air like creatures out of a monster movie. But the idea of Baylor trapped forever in some raw, red place inside his brain, in the heart of that raw, red noise he’d made, maybe that idea was worse than anything Mingolla had seen. He didn’t want to die; he rejected the prospect with the impassioned stubbornness a child displays when confronted with a hard truth. Yet he would rather die than endure madness. Compared to what Baylor had in store, death and Panama seemed to offer the same peaceful sweetness.
Someone sat down beside Mingolla: a kid who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. A new kid with a new haircut, new boots, new fatigues. Even his face looked new, freshly broken from the mold. Shiny, pudgy cheeks; clear skin; bright, unused blue eyes. He was eager to talk. He asked Mingolla about his home, his family, and said, Oh, wow, it must be great living in New York, wow. But he appeared to have some other reason for initiating the conversation, something he was leading up to, and finally he spat it out.
“You know the Sammy that went animal back there?” he said. “I seen him pitted last night. Little place in the jungle west of the base. Guy name Chaco owns it. Man, it was fuckin’ incredible!”
Mingolla had only heard of the pits third- and fourth-hand, but what he had heard was bad, and it was hard to believe that this kid with his air of home-boy innocence could be an aficionado of something so vile. And, despite what he had just witnessed, it was even harder to believe that Baylor could have been a participant.
The kid didn’t need prompting. “It was pretty early on,” he said. “There’d been a coupla bouts, nothin’ special, and then this guy walks in lookin’ real twitchy. I knew he was Sammy by the way he’s starin’ at the pit, y’know, like it’s somethin’ he’s been wishin’ for. And this guy with me, friend of mine, he gives me a poke and says, ‘Holy shit! That’s the Black Knight, man! I seen him fight over in Reunion awhile back. Put your money on him,’ he says. ‘The fucker’s an ace!’”
Their last R&R had been in Reunion. Mingolla tried to frame a question but couldn’t think of one whose answer would have any meaning.
“Well,” said the kid, “I ain’t been down long, but I’d even heard ’bout the Knight. So I went over and kinda hung out near him, thinkin’ maybe I can get a line on how he’s feelin’, y’know, ’cause you don’t wanna just bet the guy’s rep. Pretty soon Chaco comes over and asks the Knight if he wants some action. The Knight says, ‘Yeah, but I wanna fight an animal. Somethin’ fierce, man. I wanna fight somethin’ fierce.’ Chaco says he’s got some monkeys and shit, and the Knight says he hears Chaco’s got a jaguar. Chaco he hems and haws, says, ‘Maybe so, maybe not, but it don’t matter ’cause a jaguar’s too strong for Sammy.’ And then the Knight tells Chaco who he is. Lemme tell ya, Chaco’s whole fuckin’ attitude changed. He could see how the bettin’ was gonna go for somethin’ like the Black Knight versus a jaguar. And he says, ‘Yes sir, Mister Black Knight, sir! Anything you want!’ And he makes the announcement. Man, the place goes nuts. People wavin’ money, screamin’ odds, drinkin’ fast so’s they can get ripped in time for the main event, and the Knight’s just standin’ there, smilin’, like he’s feedin’ off the confusion. Then Chaco lets the jaguar in through the tunnel and into the pit. It ain’t a full-growed jaguar, half-growed maybe, but that’s all you figure even the Knight can handle.”
The kid paused for breath; his eyes seemed to have grown brighter. “Anyway, the jaguar’s sneakin’ ’round and ’round, keepin’ close to the pit wall, snarlin’ and spittin’, and the Knight’s watchin’ him from up above, checkin’ his moves, y’know. And everybody starts chantin’, ‘Sam-mee, Sam-mee, Sam-mee,’ and after the chant builds up loud the Knight pulls three ampules outta his pocket. I mean, shit, man! Three! I ain’t never been ’round Sammy when he’s done more’n two. Three gets you clear into the fuckin’ sky! So when the Knight holds up these three ampules, the crowd’s tuned to burn, howlin’ like they’s playin’ Sammy themselves. But the Knight, man, he keeps his cool. He is so cool! He just holds up the ampules and lets ’em take the shine, soakin’ up the noise and energy, gettin’ strong off the crowd’s juice. Chaco waves everybody quiet and gives the speech, y’know, ’bout how in the heart of every man there’s a warrior-soul waitin’ to be loosed and shit. I tell ya, man, I always thought that speech was crap before, but the Knight’s makin’ me buy it a hunnerd percent. He is so goddamn cool! He takes off his shirt and shoes, and he ties this piece of black silk ’round his arm. Then he pops the ampules, one after another, real quick, and breathes it all in. I can see it hittin’, catchin’ fire in his eyes. Pumpin’ him up. And soon as he’s popped the last one, he jumps into the pit. He don’t use the tunnel, man! He jumps! Twenty-five feet down to the sand, and lands in a crouch.”
Three other soldiers were leaning in, listening, and the kid was now addressing all of them, playing to his audience. He was so excited that he could barely keep his speech coherent, and Mingolla realized with disgust that he, too, was excited by the image of Baylor crouched on the sand. Baylor, who had cried after the assault. Baylor, who had been so afraid of snipers that he had once pissed in his pants rather than walk from his gun to the latrine.
Baylor, the Black Knight.
“The jaguar’s screechin’ and snarlin’ and slashin’ at the air,” the kid went on. “Tryin’ to put fear into the Knight. ’Cause the jaguar knows in his mind the Knight’s big trouble. This ain’t some jerk like Chaco, this is Sammy. The Knight moves to the center of the pit, still in a crouch.” Here the kid pitched his voice low and dramatic. “Nothin’ happens for a coupla minutes, ’cept it’s tense. Nobody’s hardly breathin’. The jaguar spri
ngs a coupla times, but the Knight dances off to the side and makes him miss, and there ain’t no damage either way. Whenever the jaguar springs, the crowd sighs and squeals, not just ’cause they’s scared of seein’ the Knight tore up, but also ’cause they can see how fast he is. Silky fast, man! Unreal. He looks ’bout as fast as the jaguar. He keeps on dancin’ away, and no matter how the jaguar twists and turns, no matter if he comes at him along the sand, he can’t get his claws into the Knight. And then, man…oh, it was so smooth! Then the jaguar springs again, and this time ‘stead of dancin’ away, the Knight drops onto his back, does this half-roll onto his shoulders, and when the jaguar passes over him, he kicks up with both feet. Kicks up hard! And smashes his heels into the jaguar’s side. The jaguar slams into the pit wall and comes down screamin’, snappin’ at his ribs. They was busted, man. Pokin’ out the skin like tent posts.”
The kid wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and flicked his eyes toward Mingolla and the other soldiers to see if they were into the story. “We was shoutin’, man,” he said. “Poundin’ the top of the pit wall. It was so loud, the guy I’m with is yellin’ in my ear and I can’t hear nothin’. Now maybe it’s the noise, maybe it’s his ribs, whatever…the jaguar goes berserk. Makin’ these scuttlin’ lunges at the Knight, tryin’ to get close ’fore he springs so the Knight can’t pull that same trick. He’s snarlin’ like a goddamn chainsaw! The Knight keeps leapin’ and spinnin’ away. But then he slips, man, grabs the air for balance, and the jaguar’s on him, clawin’ at his chest. For a second they’re like waltzin’ together. Then the Knight pries loose the paw that’s hooked him, pushes the jaguar’s head back and smashes his fist into the jaguar’s eye. The jaguar flops onto the sand, and the Knight scoots to the other side of the pit. He’s checkin’ the scratches on his chest, which is bleedin’ wicked. Meantime, the jaguar gets to his feet, and he’s fucked up worse than ever. His one eye’s fulla blood, and his hindquarters is all loosey-goosey. Like if this was boxin’, they’d call in the doctor. The jaguar figures he’s had enough of this crap, and he starts tryin’ to jump outta the pit. This one time he jumps right up to where I’m leanin’ over the edge. Comes so close I can smell his breath, I can see myself reflected in his good eye. He’s clawin’ for a grip, wantin’ to haul hisself up into the crowd. People are freakin’, thinkin’ he might be gonna make it. But ’fore he gets the chance, the Knight catches him by the tail and slings him against the wall. Just like you’d beat a goddamn rug, that’s how he’s dealin’ with the jaguar. And the jaguar’s a real mess, now. He’s quiverin’. Blood’s pourin’ outta his mouth, his fangs is all red. The Knight starts makin’ these little feints, wavin’ his arms, growlin’. He’s toyin’ with the jaguar. People don’t believe what they’re seein’, man. Sammy’s kickin’ a jaguar’s ass so bad he’s got room to toy with it. If the place was nuts before, now it’s a fuckin’ zoo. Fights in the crowd, guys singin’ the Marine Hymn. Some beaner squint’s takin’ off her clothes. The jaguar tries to scuttle up close to the Knight again, but he’s too fucked up. He can’t keep it together. And the Knight, he’s still growlin’ and feintin’. A guy behind me is booin’, claimin’ the Knight’s defamin’ the purity of the sport by playin’ with the jaguar. But hell, man, I can see he’s just timin’ the jaguar, waitin’ for the right moment, the right move.”
Staring off downriver, the kid wore a wistful expression: he might have been thinking about his girlfriend. “We all knew it was comin’,” he said. “Everybody got real quiet. So quiet you could hear the Knight’s feet scrapin’ on the sand. You could feel it in the air, and you knew the jaguar was savin’ up for one big effort. Then the Knight slips again, ’cept he’s fakin’. I could see that, but the jaguar couldn’t. When the Knight reels sideways, the jaguar springs. I thought the Knight was gonna drop down like he did the first time, but he springs, too. Feetfirst. And he catches the jaguar under the jaw. You could hear bone splinterin’, and the jaguar falls in a heap. He struggles to get up, but no way! He’s whinin’, and he craps all over the sand. The Knight walks up behind him, takes his head in both hands and gives it a twist. Crack!”
As if identifying with the jaguar’s fate, the kid closed his eyes and sighed. “Everybody’d been quiet ’til they heard that crack, then all hell broke loose. People chantin’, ‘Sam-mee, Sam-mee,’ and people shovin’, tryin’ to get close to the pit wall so they can watch the Knight take the heart. He reaches into the jaguar’s mouth and snaps off one of the fangs and tosses it to somebody. Then Chaco comes in through the tunnel and hands him the knife. Right when he’s ’bout to cut, somebody knocks me over and by the time I’m back on my feet, he’s already took the heart and tasted it. He’s just standin’ there with the jaguar’s blood on his mouth and his own blood runnin’ down his chest. He looks kinda confused, y’know. Like now the fight’s over and he don’t know what to do. But then he starts roarin’. He sounds the same as the jaguar did ’fore it got hurt. Crazy fierce. Ready to get it on with the whole goddamn world. Man, I lost it! I was right with that roar. Maybe I was roarin’ with him, maybe everybody was. That’s what it felt like, man. Like bein’ in the middle of this roar that’s comin’ outta every throat in the universe.” The kid engaged Mingolla with a sober look. “Lotsa people go ’round sayin’ the pits are evil, and maybe they are. I don’t know. How you s’posed to tell ’bout what’s evil and what’s not down here? They say you can go to the pits a thousand times and not see nothin’ like the jaguar and the Black Knight. I don’t know ’bout that, either. But I’m goin’ back just in case I get lucky. ’Cause what I saw last night, if it was evil, man, it was so fuckin’ evil it was beautiful, too.”
3
Debora was waiting at the pier, carrying a picnic basket and wearing a blue dress with a high neckline and a full skirt: a schoolgirl dress. Mingolla homed in on her. The way she had her hair, falling about her shoulders in thick dark curls, made him think of smoke turned solid, and her face seemed the map of a beautiful country with black lakes and dusky plains, a country in which he could hide. They walked along the river past the town and came to a spot where ceiba trees with massy crowns of slick green leaves and whitish bark and roots like alligator tails grew close to the shore, and there they ate and talked and listened to the water gulping against the clay bank, to the birds, to the faint noises from the airbase that at this distance sounded part of nature. Sunlight dazzled the water, and whenever wind riffled the surface, it seemed to be spreading the dazzles into a crawling crust of diamonds. Mingolla imagined that they had taken a secret path, rounded a corner on the world and reached some eternally peaceful land. The illusion of peace was so profound that he began to see hope in it. Perhaps, he thought, something was being offered here. Some new magic. Maybe there would be a sign. Signs were everywhere if you knew how to read them. He glanced around. Thick white trunks rising into greenery, dark leafy avenues leading off between them…nothing there, but what about those weeds growing at the edge of the bank? They cast precise fleur-de-lis shadows on the clay, shadows that didn’t have much in common with the ragged configurations of the weeds themselves. Possibly a sign, though not a clear one. He lifted his gaze to the reeds growing in the shallows. Yellow reeds with jointed stalks bent akimbo, some with clumps of insect eggs like seed pearls hanging from loose fibers, and others dappled by patches of algae. That’s how they looked one moment. Then Mingolla’s vision rippled, as if the whole of reality had shivered, and the reeds were transformed into rudimentary shapes: yellow sticks poking up from flat blue. On the far side of the river, the jungle was a simple smear of Crayola green; a speedboat passing was a red slash unzippering the blue. It seemed that the rippling had jostled all the elements of the landscape a fraction out of kilter, revealing every object as characterless as a building block. Mingolla gave his head a shake. Nothing changed. He rubbed his brow. No effect. Terrified, he squeezed his eyes shut. He felt like the only meaningful piece in a nonsensical puzzle, vulnerable by virtue of his uniquen
ess. His breath came rapidly, his left hand fluttered.
“David? Don’t you want to hear it?” Debora sounded peeved.
“Hear what?” He kept his eyes closed.
“About my dream. Weren’t you listening?”
He peeked at her. Everything was back to normal. She was sitting with her knees tucked under her, all her features in sharp focus. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was thinking.”
“You looked frightened.”
“Frightened?” He put on a bewildered face. “Naw, just had a thought is all.”
“It couldn’t have been pleasant.”
He shrugged off the comment and sat up smartly to prove his attentiveness. “So tell me ’bout the dream.”
“All right,” she said doubtfully. The breeze drifted fine strands of hair across her face, and she brushed them back. “You were in a room the color of blood, with red chairs and a red table. Even the paintings on the wall were done in shades of red, and…” She broke off, peering at him. “Do you want to hear this? You have that look again.”
“Sure,” he said. But he was afraid. How could she have known about the red room? She must have had a vision of it, and…Then he realized that she might not have been talking about the room itself. He’d told her about the assault, hadn’t he? And if she had guerrilla contacts, she would know that the emergency lights were switched on during an assault. That had to be it! She was trying to frighten him into deserting again, psyching him the way Christians played upon the fears of sinners with images of fiery rivers and torture. It infuriated him. Who the hell was she to tell him what was right or wise? Whatever he did, it was going to be his decision.
“There were three doors in the room,” she went on. “You wanted to leave the room, but you couldn’t tell which of the doors was safe to use. You tried the first door, and it turned out to be a facade. The knob of the second door turned easily, but the door itself was stuck. Rather than forcing it, you went to the third door. The knob of this door was made of glass and cut your hand. After that you just walked back and forth, unsure what to do.” She waited for a reaction, and when he gave none, she said, “Do you understand?”
The Best of Lucius Shepard Page 18