Bravado's House of Blues

by John A. Pitts

  “Oh, man,” Peeps said. “Which one of us is gonna buy it tonight? Huh, Preach?”

  He reached over and lightly touched Ike’s arm, fingers trembling. Ike never took his eyes off the night.

  Stick glowed yellow and red, sick with fear and anger. Peeps glow muted to grays. Gray like the dirty parking lot snow that remained long after the first Spring rains—the gray of ashes and death.

  “Just be prepared to send up the flares, Peeps, or we’re all in the shitter,” Ike said into the night.

  “Damn!” Peeps said as he moved to the boxes of flares.

  “What’s going on?” Stick asked, cupping the handset.

  “Just get through to HQ and tell ’em that Preach feels a shit storm coming,” Peeps said.

  Stick spoke into the headset. Peeps returned to the front of the bunker, arms loaded with two small crates of ammunition and a flare gun. He plunked the wooden boxes down by Preacher. The flare gun broke open with a click. He inserted a cartridge into the breach and snapped it shut. Ike still watched the night, but lay his rifle atop the sandbags, aiming into the blackness that oozed from the jungle.

  “Get Stick up here before you send that thing up,” Ike said. “We’ll need every gun we got.”

  A couple of seconds later, Stick stood at Ike’s right, working his helmet straps as he talked.

  “HQ gave me shit. Recon says we’re in for a calm night. Something about a VC holiday and all.”

  “Stupid fucks,” Peeps said.

  “Okay,” Ike began. “Who’s in the next bunker?”

  “Johnson, Davis, and O’Connell are east in thirteen. Not sure who’s in eleven,” Peeps said.

  “Williamson, and some new meat,” Stick said.

  New meat, Ike thought. Stick’s skinny ass only had twenty or so days in country.

  “Okay, we’ve gotta warn both sides,” Ike said. “Stick get on the horn. See if Johnson has noticed anything strange. Tell ’em I said to get ready.”

  “Okay.”

  For the next several minutes, urgent mumbling filled the festering night.

  “Johnson is passing the word along. Said if Preach is worried, then the shit must be coming down.” Stick looked at Peeps.

  “Okay, now Williamson,” Ike said.

  Several more minutes passed. “Damn,” Stick muttered. “I ain’t getting anything from Williamson.”

  “Then it’s already started,” Ike said, straightening

  The two men watched him, waiting for his lead. He could feel it.

  “I’m going over to Williamson’s bunker,” he said finally. “You give me a couple of minutes. If I don’t signal you, send up a couple of flares and shoot anything that moves out there.”

  “Okay, Preach,” Peeps replied, hugging the gun to his chest.

  “Stick, you get back on the horn and tell the base commander that Williamson is out of communication and that he should drag his sorry ass out of bed and into a bunker.”

  “Preach?”

  “Yeah, Peeps.”

  “I’ll pray for you.”

  “Thanks, man. Pray for all of us, but keep your eyes on that tree line.”

  Ike glanced around the bunker, taking in the half-eaten ration back by Stick’s bedroll. Poor kid, he thought. Won’t be finishing that meal. Look out for them, he prayed.

  He patted Peeps on the shoulder before he climbed out the back of the bunker. He glanced back one time. Stick spoke urgently into the phone. Peeps stared into the blackness, searching the night for boogey men.

  Ike cradled his rifle, minimizing his profile by duck walking across the open ground, keeping to the scrub and any other cover he could discern in the night. He barely breathed as he made his way across the open. The tarp that would have normally covered the back entrance of Williamson’s bunker shuddered in the hot, moist breeze. Ike paused, cocking his head to listen, to sniff the air. He took one step forward, then another—finally slipping to his belly to crawl the final distance. Four feet from the bunker he began to hear wet smacking sounds. A vision rose unbidden of someone slobbering across a watermelon rind, spitting seeds into the summer dirt. The wind shifted, bringing Ike the iron-heavy smell of fresh blood.

  The hackles on his neck rose. He shouldered his rifle and pulled his shotgun from its harness. He snapped the flashlight into its rig on the underside of the barrel and peered with one eye into the bunker. Waves of red agony exploded out, as a shriek ripped through the night.

  He switched eyes, garnering a cyclopean view of the bunker’s interior. A black form moved inside, an evil that glowed with a tainted light and fed noisily. Ike dropped into the bunker, landing on his haunches, and brought his shotgun up to bear. He placed his left hand on the ground to steady himself and pulled it away sticky. He flipped on the light, playing it across the pulpy mass that had once been a boy from Kentucky. Ike remembered him from his arrival just three days ago. He hadn’t even learned the boy’s name.

  He pivoted about, placing one knee to the ground. There, across the bunker, lay Williamson. On his chest sat a creature beyond Ike’s most vivid nightmares. Six spindly legs radiated out from the elongated middle. Black coarse hairs covered the entire body. The face like that of a leech, flat with a circular mouth ringed with razor teeth, turned toward Ike.

  “My holy God in Heaven,” Ike mumbled. Those eyes—black pinpricks in pus-yellow pools—shone with intelligence. That killing face knew Ike, called to him in the way a mesmer calls the snake. The segmented demon held Williamson down with five of its legs while it used its sixth to casually pick through his exposed entrails. A scream burst forth from Williamson, piercing the honey-thick air between Ike and the eating thing. The creature swiveled its head around and thrust its face against the boy’s, muffling the shriek with the wet sound of chewing.

  “Sorry, Williamson,” Ike said as the night erupted with his twelve-gauge.

  While some of the first round hit the dying Williamson, the brunt of the blast took off the beast’s dipping claw, sending the jointed limb spinning into the shadows that consumed the bunker’s interior. The beast turned towards Ike, oblivious to the ichor pulsing from the stump. It blinked at him, running a long tongue over its many fangs, slurping the blood from its hairy face. Ike chambered another round and the creature moved, bouncing up from the mangled boy to the bunker’s top support beam and back down to land on the table. Ike caught it with the second blast as it leapt from the stained wooden surface. The blast shredded the black, furry chest, flinging the beast against the sandbagged outer wall. Ike kicked through the scattered debris, placing the barrel against the chittering face. The third shot sprayed the wall with blackness. He slumped back, struggling to remain calm, but the thing moved, grasping toward him, faceless and bleeding. He scampered backwards, but the thing lunged forward, talons lancing into Ike’s leg with a wet crunch. Ike glanced around, spying a fallen rifle with the bayonet attached. He scooped it up, twisted around and brought it down, point first. The bayonet bit deep into the creature’s abdomen, pinning it to the collapsed wooden table. He kicked free of the writhing beast, breathing in deep ragged gasps. His leg flared with agony.

  The burp of an M-60 brought his attention back into focus. He moved to the front of the bunker, peering out as the first flare arced into the black night and erupted into a falling blossom of white burning phosphorous. The entire field between the tree line and the razor wire boiled with VC. They moved in silence—tracers criss-crossed the field, men shouted, but some unknown force deadened the noise. Flares erupted up and down the line as more bunkers entered the firefight.

  “Oh my God,” he heard Peeps’ muffled cry as the next flare flew skyward.

  Williamson screamed into consciousness. Blood spewed from his ruined mouth and bubbled out of his abdomen as the muscles contorted in a final release. Ike yanked a blanket from a nearby bedroll and covered the terror-contorted expression that froze on Williamson’s dead face. He inserted three new shells into his shotgun. The black monster kicked
and wriggled on the broken table, five limbs beating a hollow cadence of horror. Ike panned the light across the entire bunker, looking for the other man. Back by the radio lay the shell of the third man. Several jumbled items shone through the jagged cavity that ate through the abdomen. Ike turned away, no one left to save.

  He limped to the bunker’s front, pulling his rifle from his shoulder, and took aim into the night. He spied men in the razor wire, sappers clearing a path for their friends. He opened fire into the nearest group, sending short three-round bursts into the black shrouded figures. He rocked back as the first claymore blew, clearing wide swathes through the wire. Men charged through the breaches, funneling up and down the line, but avoided the bunker he now occupied. He didn’t blame them. He could feel the evil emanating from the creature, filling the air with a stench like a slaughterhouse on a hot day.

  Ike took advantage of the enemies’ reluctance to approach the bunker. He dropped each clip into a pile at his feet as he emptied them, one by one into the approaching horde. Once he’d worked through the clips he carried, he paused to salvage ammo from the bunker’s fallen occupants.

  Ike felt the oppressive presence lift when the demon finally stopped kicking. Like a temple bell calling the faithful to worship, the final death of the demon tolled through the night, signaling to the massed army. The bulk of the horde moved, breaking against the bunkers. Bayonets replaced bullets as man grappled with man. Ike blasted the first two figures that dove into his bunker.

  The third man in fired his weapon, skittering bullets across the sandbags behind Ike’s head. He lunged at Ike, clubbing forward with his rifle. Ike deflected the blow with his shotgun, but staggered back from the force. The shadowy figure lunged forward, bayonet flashing. Ike fired one quick round into him as they came together with a grunt. Ike deflected the rifle with his shotgun, stopping the bayonet from piercing his chest.

  The two men danced around the shattered bunker, kicking about the items that had once had meaning. Ike shot the man once more before the bayonet flashed forward, striking flesh twice.

  The first blow sliced along Ike’s chest, cutting through his fatigues and skittering across his ribs. The second blow sliced deep into his left thigh. Ike twisted his body on the second blow, bringing his gun around to knock the rifle from the hands of his assailant. Ike fell to the ground, gasping in pain. Despite his many wounds, the assailant reached down, picked up a broken table leg, and loomed over Ike. He brought the club down, and Ike rolled out of the way, kicking out to catch the figure in the leg. His attacker’s knee collapsed with a satisfying pop. No noise escaped the lips of the man as he fell. Ike leveraged himself up, picking up his shotgun from the ground and fired into the writhing figure.

  The sharp crack of gunfire to the south brought his attention around. He limped over to the rear of the bunker and looked out on Hell. The clarity of sound had returned, he realized, filling the night with the voices of the manic combatants. The enemy ran wild through the perimeter, shooting anything that moved. The main barracks on this side of the compound burned out of control. The ground shuddered when the supply depot blew. Ike picked up his rifle, fished around the shattered bunker for more ammo, filling his pockets with spare clips. He sat on the edge of a shattered crate, pulled the first aid supplies out of his kit, and bandaged his more serious wounds. The harsh chemical light of the flares began to fade, swamping the bunker in shadows once again. He muttered a quick prayer and climbed out of the death pit. The light of gunfire sparked throughout the encroaching darkness. Ike watched, thankfully, as someone, Peeps or Stick, continued to fill the night with gunfire. He limped across the open space, pausing occasionally to shoot at looming shadows. He slowly covered the thirty feet between the bunkers, falling several times as the wound in his leg taxed his strength.

  Other demons flashed amongst the embattled, slashing and rending anyone—friend or foe—that came into reach. He emptied his remaining clips into two of the writhing beasts, shrieking into the night as their black blood covered the ground. A third he clubbed to death with his rifle, smashing and smashing the creature, crying out to God, wailing his madness into the night.

  The noise of battle faded as he stumbled into his bunker, covered with gore. Stick stood over Peeps, firing into the bodies of the fallen VC. The dead stacked in mounds across the front and left of the bunker. Stick ran out of ammo and began rooting around for more. Ike stumbled forward, reaching out for the young man.

  “Stick,” he called, receiving no acknowledgment. “Stick, can you hear me man?” Ike asked, reaching for him. Stick twisted out of his reach, eyes flashing with madness. Ike moved forward, into the boiling torrent of colors that roiled forth—violent shades of purple and yellow, the color of bruises and fear.

  Stick swung his gun around, attempting to club Ike with the butt. Ike ducked, then leaned into the boy, carrying them both to the ground.

  “Stick! Brian! Snap out of it, man.” Ike wrestled with him, eventually subduing the youth with sheer body weight. Stick lay panting under the much larger Ike.

  “Stick, it’s okay man. It’s me, Preacher.”

  Stick looked up into Ike’s face, recognition dawning on him.

  “Oh, Jesus, Preach,” Stick began. “They just kept coming and coming. I think they got Peeps.”

  Ike didn’t even look.

  “We’ve got to get outta here,” Ike said, rolling off the boy. “I need a medic, and this place stinks.”

  “What are they, Preach?” Stick asked, grabbing Ike by the sleeve. “They just wouldn’t stop. Even when we shot them, some of them would get up again. Some had six legs, some had eyes that glowed like fire. They ain’t human. What are they?”

  “Only God knows tonight, boy.” He squeezed Stick’s shoulder. “Let’s figure it out in the light of day, what do you say?”

  “Okay, yeah sure,” Stick said. He wrapped his arms around his drawn up knees and began rocking back and forth.

  “How much ammo you got left?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he answered.

  “Come on,” Ike said, shaking Stick by the shoulder. “Do you have any ammo left?”

  “I guess I’m out,” Stick said, glancing around.

  Ike knew the signs of shock. Knew that he’d have to move the boy now before he collapsed. He looked out the front of the bunker and saw that the combat had swirled west along the camp’s perimeter.

  “Okay, we’ve got to see if we can make it to Johnson’s bunker,” he said, holding a hand out to Stick. “I think I still see some fire coming from there.”

  “Hey, there’s one flare left,” Stick offered, holding up the bloodied cartridge.

  “Okay, Stick. I’ll take that. You get your bayonet ready. It could be some work getting to Johnson’s place.”

  The two men crawled out the back of the bunker. Sporadic gunfire echoed into the night, failing to cover the wailing of the wounded.

  Ike leaned on Stick as the two men made their way to the next bunker. Suddenly, a mortar shell screamed out of the night, slamming into Johnson’s bunker. Nothing in the bunker survived the blast. The two men moved onward, heading for the next bunker in line. Bunker after bunker lay in ruin, decimated by fire or shattered by bullets. Finally, after the sixth bunker, they decided to turn back.

  “Still up for this hike?” Ike asked the flagging Stick.

  “Sure . . . man,” Stick gasped. “Sunday stroll.”

  “Let’s head in toward the compound.”

  “Whatever . . . you say . . . Preach.”

  Darkest part of the night, Ike thought. I wonder if we’ll live to see the dawn.

  An explosion ripped the ground behind them, sending them sprawling into the dirt. Ike rolled over, looking for Stick. He lay twisted some feet away, unmoving.

  “Damn it,” Ike breathed. He crawled toward Stick, desperate to find the boy alive. “Come on, Stick, we got to get outta here, man.” The distance closed slowly.

  The overwhelming reek of gasoline assail
ed Ike out of the darkness. He stared into the night, tantalized by the feeble light of nearby fires. Out of the darkness, a beast arose. The wet sound of its passage sent shivers along Ike’s spine. The huge undulating creature oozed along the ground, flowing across the dead and dying like a tide of diseased mucus, adding them to its increasing mass. Purple and green light pulsed from somewhere deep inside the translucent muck. Ike grunted as the palpitations emanating from the foul thing battered into him in sickening waves. The gelatinous mass moved slowly toward Stick. Ike crawled closer, desperate to reach the boy first.

  The beast matched Ike’s progress inch for bloody inch. What hole had this creature spawned from? He could see the faces of the dead that floated in the writhing bloat.

  Ike reached Stick, crawled on top of him, and rolled away, hugging the unconscious form with his remaining strength. They rolled, turn after turn, until Ike lost track of up and down. The days of childhood games came to mind, rolling down grassy knolls in a joyous freedom of youth. He blacked out, moving in and out of consciousness as he rolled. His momentum slowed, and they came to an abrupt stop. They had stopped against a jeep. Ike pushed himself up to his knees, and heaved out his remaining rations against the side of the abandoned vehicle. He grabbed the edge of the door and climbed up the side, glancing once over his shoulder to see the beast change course to intercept them.

  “Up you go,” he said to Stick as he pushed him into a seated position against the tire. “We’ve got to get in the jeep.”

  “Wha—” Stick moaned, regaining consciousness.

  “About time you joined me,” Ike said, pushing at him. “We gotta get in this jeep and get the Hell outta here.”

  “Okay,” Stick said, shaking his head. He scrubbed his hands over his face before pulling himself up the side of the vehicle.

  Ike grabbed the frame, feeling the cold of the metal beneath his hands.

  “Can you drive?” Ike asked as they crawled into the jeep.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good, because I’m not feeling so good.”