A Host of Shadows

by Harry Shannon

  The horses drank their fill and clopped away to munch grass a bit further down the bank. The woman finally looked and saw her own mount moving, then looked again and jumped back at the sight of a second horse. Something seemed to fill her with terror. She stumbled through the water, sobbing, and moving faster than he would have dreamed possible, came right up the mud and ran into Case, who was just getting up off his knees.

  “Easy, lady.” Case hadn’t said a thing for nearly a week, almost didn’t recognize that croak as the sound of his own voice.

  The woman started flailing in desperation, not even bothering to scream, or maybe she was already all screamed out. She kicked and scratched, but Case wore trail gloves and long sleeves, so she couldn’t hurt him. Not until she went for his weathered face. Scratched him. Then Case wrapped her up and flung her down flat into the wet grass. He fell on top. That made her even crazier, and so Case figured he was going to have to knock her out, but then it hit him to just treat her like a scared animal. He backed away and made a show of lowering his long rifle.

  “Ain’t fixing to hurt you.”

  The young woman glared, her fine nostrils flaring. One plump breast peeked through that torn blouse like it wanted to say howdy. Case finally looked down and away. The girl shifted her clothes. He chewed his lip, drew the rifle close as a lover and lowered his voice to a whisper.

  “Gone?”

  She shook her head briskly, shrugged. I don’t know.

  Case looked around again, listening and then looked back at the woman. Whispered: “Apache?” Case figured if it were Indians, they were likely still around, and then he had indeed stepped in it.

  The woman just stared at him. She was panting for air. Case wasn’t much for being a gentleman, so he couldn’t help but notice again that she was a real looker. Her red-rimmed eyes were china blue. Finally, she answered in a voice probably gone hoarse from screaming.

  “He raped me.”

  “Who?”

  “Chato. Our hired hand.”

  “Just the one raped you?”

  “That’s not enough?” She glared. “All you men can all go to hell.”

  Case smiled, thinly. “Already been there, lady. And I only asked because of all the tracks.”

  “My husband Robert was here…before it happened. We got in an argument and rode around in a circle yelling. We were both hopping mad.”

  “He coming back, your husband? This Robert?”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She nodded, briskly. “Any minute, and he’ll kill that bastard Chato sure as rain.” She was lying.

  “Fair enough. You won’t be needing me, then.” He got up and went down to the water, drank greedily and filled his canteen. The woman moved around as if going toward her own pony. It was silent a full minute too long. Case looked up the bank. The woman was standing there, all alone, holding herself.

  “Sir, could I impose on you to stay with me a spell? Just until my nerves settle down?”

  Case washed his face and hands in the stream without answering and wondered at his fortune. He closed the canteen, went back up the bank, caught his horse and led it back. He took a bottle of whiskey from his saddle bag, wiped the top and offered her a drink. The woman refused at first, but then accepted. She drank, grimaced, shuddered but took a second pull. Case liked that about her, the toughness. He took a sip himself. The alcohol sparked in his gut.

  “My name is Jackson,” Case said. The lie came easy.

  “Muriel.” She licked her lips. “I thank you for the drink, and for your kindness.”

  Case moved a bit closer, gauged her reaction. She accepted a third shot of whiskey, and by now her features were softening. A man makes his own luck. Case smiled, spoke gently.

  “Muriel, how long has it been since he passed away?”

  Her eyes filled. “I pray you will not hurt me for being honest with you, sir. My poor husband has been dead for nigh on half a year.”

  “And this Chato, he worked for you?”

  “Two years and a bit.”

  “Well, then.” Wind made the nearby trees moan, and a burst of thunder shook the ground. The horses neighed. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

  Muriel looked away for a long moment. Thunder boomed in the foothills. “Chato tried a few times before. I always said no. He brought some Mexican boys here to help slaughter the lambs. They drank Mescal last night and well into the morning. I got scared and rode out thinking I’d go to town, stay with the preacher and his wife. They followed.”

  Case watched her talk, the way her body moved. “Go on.”

  “He raped me, sir. And did so in front of the others. I think it was only him, but I passed out after a while, so I can’t be sure. When I woke up they were gone. I was bound, but wiggled free just before you arrived.” She looked up and deep into his eyes. “Chato, he’ll be back soon for more, I can feel it. Please. Don’t let him touch me. Not again. Can you stay here, or maybe follow me into town? I can pay.”

  Case shrugged. “No offense, Muriel, but this is your trouble, and this ain’t my business.”

  She stepped back, trembling. Her eyes cut him into thin slices of jerky. “What kind of man are you?”

  “A survivor.”

  “A pig.”

  Case sighed and made as if to leave. The woman said: “No.”

  He looked at her. Muriel’s eyes glistened. “I have a good-sized ranch here, sir. And I can make it…worth your while.”

  Did she mean what she seemed to mean? Case wasn’t sure, but his belly tingled. She started to speak again. Case waved his hand for silence. He listened intently. “Someone is coming, riding hard.”

  “Please, help.” Muriel said again, even more urgently. “Stop him.”

  Hooves. A rider appeared on the ridge line, turned sideways. A big man, hunched over in the saddle. He saw the two of them down below, stared long enough to take it all in and then began to whip his horse. Lightening creased the blue-black sky at his back.

  Case weighed the distance to the trees, considered his chances. Meanwhile the rider raced down the slope, came closer and closer. Case felt his pulse quicken. He fondled the Henry, looked at the woman, then back at the approaching man.

  “Help me!”

  Case jumped back, startled. Muriel was now turning in circles, tearing at her clothes, shrieking in terror. “Help me, please! Kill him!” She glared at Case, then at the rider, back and forth.

  The approaching rider drew a gun from his waist and fired. Dust rose not two feet away from Case’s left boot. He aimed the Henry without thinking and pulled the trigger. The big gun slammed back into his shoulder BOOM. The horse kept on coming, but now there was nothing but empty leather on his back. Behind him on the ground only dust rising and a pair of worn boots pointing up.

  Muriel stopped screaming and sat down in the dirt as if stunned. Case shaded his eyes against the lowering sun to see if the rider was still moving. He wasn’t. The empty horse slowed down, cruised to the east and headed for the stream. The woman pointed at the body.

  “Is he…dead?”

  “Stay here.”

  Case walked close enough to see the gaping hole in the rider’s chest. Gore covered his head and shoulders.

  Case returned to the clearing and stared at the exhausted, nearly naked woman. He nodded. Something odd came over her. She seemed more aroused than shocked. Case read seduction in her eyes. He shook his head.

  “What kind of a woman are you?”

  “Grateful.”

  She stared, one hand toying with the shredded blouse, as if daring him to take her right then and there, with a dead man cooling not thirty feet off. Case considered that idea, decided it had merit.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  He set the Henry down against a flat rock. What the hell, right? He undid his belt buckle, feeling a bit foolish, but fully aroused despite the circumstances. He got down on one knee, reached for her breast.

  The first bullet missed hi
s heart and took him in the left shoulder. The impact knocked Case backwards into the dirt. Then he heard the sound, loud and pretty close by. Case landed on his back with his pants half off and immediately went into shock. The world got silent and slowed down some. He watched Muriel. The woman was back on her feet, screaming again, pointing his way this time. Faint, from very far away, Case heard her saying shoot him Chato he killed my husband and raped me the murdering son of a bitch kill him Chato kill him please…

  Case saw the squat Mexican now, the one called Chato, and hell, it was just some old man with silver hair. He came from the other side of the orchard, deftly riding bareback on a Palomino, aiming his long rifle right at Case’s chest. Chato wore moccasins. His brown face was tight as a fist, murderous rage dancing in those dark eyes. He was buying her whole story hook, line and sinker.

  Case coughed, swallowed blood. She’d seen him coming from over a mile away, had plenty of time to work things out. He tried to speak, to warn the old man about her, because just before Chato blew his head off, it finally hit Case what kind of woman this Muriel was.

  The kind who made her own luck.

  And the Worm Shall Feed

  Don’t mind saying we was scared shitless, but like Uncle Denny used to say, scared don’t ever help a God damned thing. Loading our asses up seemed to take forever. I had a worn book in my soggy backpack, but didn’t want to try reading by flashlight. I stood in the dark, shoulder to shoulder with the other kids.

  We’d been standing in puke and piss for over an hour, pitching back and forth to the squeal of tortured metal, when dawn finally appeared on the horizon like a long, thin strip of bloody gauze. We could see several other landing craft circling the island, rising up in the nose before slamming down hard into warm saltwater and foam. A couple of minutes later the sun slapped our wan faces. Soaked uniforms began to steam and dry.

  Red haired Eddie Boylan, a kid splattered with freckles, said jeez Louise, let’s go already; you’d think the brass wanted to give the Japs more time to aim.

  Don’t be in such a hurry to die, someone else said. Then he laughed, trying to act tough, but we could all hear the scrape of sandpaper in his young voice. Gunny yelled to let go our dicks and grab the boat.

  We turned toward the seawall and slammed into gear. Marines leaned back and gripped the metal walls. The coxswains tried to keep us in a straight line, spread out but timed to land at roughly the same time, so the Jap gunners wouldn’t have easy pickings. I shaded my eyes to catch a glimpse of the beach. They were firing. I couldn’t hear anything above the roar of the boats, but you could already see small puffs of smoke coming from the palm trees and dunes squatting maybe twenty yards above the sea wall. After a while we heard the thrumming bullets tap dance wildly along the outside of our Higgins Boat. My skin rippled and my flesh went cold. Someone wanted me dead. Me.

  The Gunny called two minutes. Sarge whistled. Listen up, ladies, this is it. Weapons high and clear of the water, keep the sand out. Spread like Tijuana pussy and stay moving or you’re dead meat instead of live maggot.

  We heard a BANG and then a WHOOSH and a big funnel of seawater shot up and gave us all a cold shower. I pushed my helmet back and peeked out again. One of the boats was flat fucking gone, and that part of the water was black with oil, red with blood and white in the wake of thrashing arms. A couple fellows sank while we stood watching. Their packs just dragged them down. Open mouths and scared eyes and seaweed and then an empty patch of stained, ice-cold ocean. I held onto the heavy BAR and prayed for the first time in my life, prayed hard to a God I didn’t put much stock in. Somebody once said there are no atheists in a foxhole.

  Lou Rosenthal said, aw damn I crapped myself. He wasn’t kidding. I doubt he was the only one. I come from rednecks, but I have been a reader all my life, yet no book in the world could have prepared me for this. Somehow death and shit always seem to go together. Ever notice that?

  It was time.

  The ramp dropped with a CLANG like the bell of some old church and boys were falling all over themselves trying to get out of the wake of maybe a dozen chattering Nambu machine guns. People kind of hopped around or flew to pieces. I got out okay and fear gave me the strength to hold my rifle up out of the ocean. We waded in like that, just sitting ducks. A lot of boys died. Most of that landing cannonballs through my memory in snapshots: Red sea, uniforms and sweat, hot sand, a helmet rolling by and Jesus, the constant screaming. A severed pair of legs, still kicking on a beach gone crimson. Blue and purple guts festooned along the sea wall. Being so scared I couldn’t spit or swallow. Keeping my head down, knowing I was a craven coward for sure. Row after row of divots in the sand above me, as the machine guns raked us. Arnie Rosenthal lying dead, eyes wide, lower face gone.

  And always poor Boylan, huddled up, shaking and crying like a little child. As if being near me was somehow a good thing.

  Sarge organized things, got us to return fire, got Baxter and Kelly to flank the nest and lob a few grenades. They’d throw them in, the Japs would throw them back, but our boys wore them down and finally one went off, probably near their ammunition. The jungle turned orange and farted dense black smoke. I couldn’t hear for a good ten seconds.

  Up, get the fuck up!

  Sarge got to his feet and ordered us to follow him. We climbed up and over the sea wall, screaming and firing. The BAR suddenly didn’t weigh much. I aimed at muzzle flashes, got high on adrenaline, felt glad to be doing something, finally fighting back. The world blew up and knocked me flat and I went deaf for a couple of minutes. I got back to my feet, shook it off. Most of the guys were ahead of me by then. I stumbled and looked to my left.

  It was sheer luck that I spotted a spider hole with a chubby Jap inside waiting to shoot at us from the rear. He saw me at the same time; our eyes met. His Nambu got tangled in sniper webbing. I raised the BAR. The younger soldier struggled to bring his sidearm out. I nailed him with the Browning, stitched him from prick to chin. Wondered how he got so fat; the Nips were supposed to be really low on food.

  I looked back at the ocean and saw that we’d lost over half our landing force and the main ship. At least five boats had gone down; the poor guys probably drowned in maybe ten feet of water. Two snarling Zeros circled high over the sinking ships. We were ashore, but badly outnumbered. The assault was over, but our war was just beginning.

  The survivors set up maybe a hundred yards from the beach, digging like crazy, made a kind of a U with the ocean at our backs. Our foxholes were shouting distance apart. The day went fast. Call signs were exchanged and some unlucky bastards posted in rabbit holes way up the sand to give the rest of us a bit of warning. Sarge ran some concertina wire for the lookouts to tug once for Japs; twice for I’m coming in fast, don’t shoot me. He told us to expect Banzai attacks. We knew all about them. Japs got bombed on rice wine and staged a suicide charge.

  We curled up that first night, exhausted and cold and spooked out of our minds. Boylan still glued himself to my shoulder patch; followed me around and dug in with me, even shared my foxhole. I bitch about it, but I’d grown fond of him. I didn’t like it much because I had no interest in dying for my brother or anything else for that matter. Fuck Mom and apple pie, too. We were set up toward the curve of the U, up near the jungle. I didn’t cotton to the idea of the ocean behind me, with nowhere to run. I don’t know why I picked that side or that particular spot, guess I figured it didn’t much matter, that they’d probably come straight on in. Wet sand is wet sand.

  The sun went down and some weird looking mosquitoes dined on our baked skin. Biggest fucking bugs I ever did see. Hungry as hell. I’d heard the Japs were eating bugs to stay alive. So now the bugs ate us. That’s the way of the world. Life eats itself and shits life out again. I swatted dozens to gory rubble and wiped them away. Ants promptly ate the remains. Everything gets used up and reused. Cold, clean and efficient.

  The silence that fell on that little island was quick as hate and thick as mud. No light
at first, just blackness and the stink of terrified men in wet uniforms. It got so quiet the sound of a guy drinking from his canteen twenty feet away seemed loud. Somebody got jumpy and fired at nothing. Sarge ordered them to knock it off and wait for his order. Eventually the stars peeked out, and then finally most of a pale, white moon. Huge moon. Lots of light. Now I could see Boylan’s face, looking over at me. He was holding the sentry wire in one hand, leaning on his rifle, lips on the barrel like a man kissing a rosary.

  Oh, man. When you figure it’s gonna happen?

  I don’t know. We’ll be ready, though. You want to catch some Zs?

  Can’t. You go first.

  I nodded and curled up around the BAR, pulled my helmet down. I didn’t really feel sleepy, but didn’t want to listen to Boylan whine. His fear felt like a virus I could catch. To my surprise, I did go under for a while. I don’t know for how long. But then I heard something high and soft, like a guitar string being tuned.

  I opened my eyes and saw Boylan looking down in horror at the wire in his hands. It was trembling, sighing, carrying the word.

  Japs.

  Soon we could hear their boots splashing in the stream to the south. They weren’t trying all that hard to be quiet, jabbering on in that odd language of theirs. The air got thick like syrup. We gulped with trepidation. Boylan and I lined up our grenades in a row along the lip of the foxhole, like we’d been taught. Firing would give away our position. Grenades killed without a muzzle flash.

  A man came hauling ass through the sand in our direction. Boylan aimed his rifle. I touched his arm and whispered that it was probably Kelly, from the forward outpost. Then I raised the BAR because probably doesn’t fucking mean definitely.

  The moonlight was bright enough. It was indeed Kelly. He got to his feet the last few yards, sprinted our way. I waved so he’d see our hole. But then he threw his arms up like a man scoring a touchdown, grunted and pitched face forward in the sand. I didn’t even hear that first shot. The jungle exploded into shrieks and gunfire as the enemy charged from every side, all at once, screaming Banzai Banzai Banzai, you die, you die Maline, you die…