Six men moved through the jungle steam without a word as it lubricated every crevice and dripped from every protrusion. Fat sweat beads clung to their faces and oozed through camouflage paint. The men no longer noticed their rotting feet or wrinkled hands or their own wet stench. They had been out here too long, and those were the least of their worries.
The jungle had eventually contracted about them, working them through like intestines, slowly drawing out their humanity in languid peristalses. All the orders they received before the patrol slowly expired in the depths of their quicksand minds. The only mission now was survival, except for the one man who held on to his focus like a wet bar of soap.
Staff Sergeant Rommel raised a flattened hand and the team stopped. The stooped, pack-laden figures looked to their leader. Rommel circled his hand in the air and the men came together. Only when all six of them were in a tight cluster did he dare to whisper, and his voice came like a breeze through leaves. “Stodghill, any contact?”
“No.”
“When was the last time we heard from the rear?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Try again next comm window.”
Stodghill grunted in acknowledgement and squeezed the handset. No shit.
“Hey, Map Bitch,” said Rommel, “where are we right now?”
The hollow cheeks and bony forehead gathered together in response to the nickname. Nevertheless, the man pulled out a worn map and a compass. “Well,” he said, gesturing to the map, “we’re just this side of shit creek and headed straight up your ass.” His eyes blazed with challenge.
Rommel knew the man’s volatility, and expertly doused it with a splash of nonchalance. “Does that mean we’ve crossed into
“Sure, why not.”
Rommel nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes. Gents, as you know, command won’t even acknowledge our presence from here on out. Let’s keep it cool and we’ll be at our objective in no time. Good to go?”
X-ray stares were the only response.
“Great,” agreed Rommel with himself. “Let’s move.”
The men moved on their earthen treadmill, haunted by the ghosts that flitted in the shade. But even the specters of their deepest fear couldn’t stop them. Nothing could anymore because all they knew was to keep moving. All they knew was to walk, and with each footstep their brains pulsed with decaying thoughts.
Garza was tired of being tail end Charlie. He didn’t like turning around and walking backwards. He didn’t like that he always had to flip-flop between Ellis’ ass and the voracious, everlasting jungle. The turning spun his mind, and his mind spun his thoughts. “I don’t mind the hiking so much,” he thought, “it’s just all this walking around.”
Ellis’ thoughts could not be heard. He kept them tuned to a whisper, even in his own head. He was second to last in their patrol. He was second to last, and that was all he did besides watch Rommel who was in front of him.
“The mission,” thought Rommel. “What was it again? Observation? Raid? Doesn’t matter. Have to stick to it.” Then, Rommel thought about the mission some more.
Rommel’s constant reminders annoyed Stodghill. It was not difficult: radio checks went in one-hour windows twice a day. He would glance back at Rommel with irritation now and then, but really, deep down inside, he didn’t care. He much preferred to reminisce about the old days on the farm.
“Mom used to make some good fried chicken,” he thought. “Crispy skin, with some collard greens, mashed potatoes. Yams. Boy, I can almost smell it.” Then he’d look up and imagine that the Map Bitch was a giant fried chicken, walking on severed legs and steaming.
Meanwhile the Map Bitch steamed. “My name is fucking Roberts. Roberto. Big fucking Bob. And you’re all my bitches. That’s right because I have the map. Gee, I hope I’m going the right way. Hope I don’t get lost. Whoops! Too late!” He grinded his teeth and leered at Zeppo who was on point.
Zeppo was a hawk. He walked lighter than everyone else, eyes wide and darting from crevice to crevice. His walk was fueled by fear, and the fear made him strong. He didn’t care about anything but his own ass, and this gave him a superhuman boost to his perception. “Don’t get shot, don’t set off a trap. I am a ninja. I am one with my kung fu.” He led the team on through the bush.
The sun streaked across the sky many times leaving daylong trails in the men’s eyes. The leaves flew by, the plants ran, and the bugs darted faster than the blink of an eye. They should have found their objective long ago. They should have found anything long ago. Instead, the sky grew light and dark in a wicked strobe. Then one day Rommel’s fist shot into the air and the sun stopped overhead. The team took cover, sneaking curious glances towards their patrol leader.
Stodghill crouched low with a finger in one ear and the handset to the other. He was grimacing with the effort to hear. He motioned to Rommel who approached eagerly. Stodghill whispered when they were side by side.
“I think I’m getting someone but I can’t quite make it out. It’s too faint.”
“Lemme hear it,” said Rommel. He snatched the handset and pressed it close. It sounded like a mixture of white noise and a record playing backwards. He keyed the handset. “Any station, any station, this is Hawkeye One, over.”
The eerie molasses voice was the only reply.
“Any station, any station, this is Hawkeye One, over.”
The radio squelched and went completely silent. Rommel tried to start up the noise again by glaring at the handset. When that didn’t work, he smacked it against his palm.
“Fuckin’…” He smacked it some more and put it to his ear. “Piece of sh-“
Rommel was cut off by the voice from the handset. It was loud enough for the both of them to hear. It was cool, clean, and confident like a car salesman.
“Hello? Hello? Can you guys hear me?” asked the Handset.
“Please use proper radio etiquette,” demanded Rommel. “What is your call sign, over?”
“Call sign? Are you losing it Ray? This is Satan, of course.”
“Satan?” Rommel looked up at Stodghill who shrugged. “We are not familiar with that call sign, over.”
Sharp, deep laughter came from the handset. “No, no, no. This is the Devil. The Prince of Darkness. You know, the big red guy with horns and a pitchfork?”
“You mean to tell me that you are the Devil.”
“Yes.”
“Who lives in hell?”
“Most of the time.”
“I don’t know how you know my name, but you need to quit polluting our fuckin’ airwaves, bozo.”
The handset sighed. “Ok, look, I’ll prove it. There’s a large detachment of baddies moving your way right now. I’m just not very good with secrets, you understand, and I sort of gave them your coordinates. But anyhow, they’re pissed off and plan to kill you all. Go ahead. Look West.”
Rommel looked west, and in the distance, through the trees, he could see a large flock of birds bursting from beneath the canopy.
“Oh yes,” said the handset, “they don’t just fly like that for their health, do they?”
“No. They don’t.”
“So, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Gather up your men, and we’ll see if we can’t get you out of here alive.”
Rommel circled his finger in the air, and moments later the remainder of his squad was circled tightly about him. “Listen up men. A shitload of Charlies are headed this way. Also, Satan is on the radio and he wants to talk to you.”
Someone snickered. Someone cussed. The others just stared. The Handset spoke once more. “Gentlemen, so good to meet you in person. I’ve been watching you for some time. Anyhow, your buddy Ray here is right. Most of you will die before nightfall. The rest of you will be horribly tortured. As you can see this is a truly crappy situation. Now, I feel that you are finally in a position where you can fully appreciate the generosity behind my offer, so I’m willing to work with you today. If you act now, you can have your lives back. In fact, if you act within the next hour, I’ll throw in free passage back to base, transportation back to the states, and a lifetime of fame and fortune. And all of this after you’ve completely decimated the approaching enemy force. Now you’re probably thinking, ‘sounds good, but what will it cost me?’ My friends, it will cost you nary a dime. In fact, all I ask for is a tiny and seldom used thing you like to refer to as your soul. Now hold on a second, these are friend prices here because I like you guys so much. Don’t let this offer pass you by. I’ll give you some time to think it over.”
Silence.
“This can’t be serious. Good fucking joke Rommel, but nobody’s laughing,” said Roberts with a sneer.
“It’s not a joke,” replied Rommel.
“Bullshit. Stodghill, I know you don’t believe this crap.”
Stodghill shrugged and looked into the trees.
Roberts glared at the remaining members in hope of some support.
Zeppo was still on the alert and had heard hardly a word.
Garza piped up. “I don’t know, Roberts. I think he’s full of shit but he might be telling the truth.”
Ellis coughed into his fist and was otherwise silent.
The handset came to life again. “So! Gentlemen, have we decided yet?”
“Hey, uh, Satan?” asked Rommel.
“Yes?”
“I hate to burst your bubble, but we really have to get ready, so we’re gonna have to go ahead and cut you off.”
“But I already told you, I’ll make it so you don’t have to worry about anything.”
“We really appreciate the offer and all, but that’s a big negative. Take ‘er easy Satan.”
“But-”
“No.”
“Very well. I know your hearts. Just think it and it shall be done. But for those of you who refuse I shall reserve the greatest torments of Hell, daily flaying the flesh from your screaming, writhing bodies until-”
“Ok thanks, bye.” Rommel yanked the cord from the radio and it fell silent. “Well gents, we’re fucked. We’ve been compromised and those bastards are tracking us. This is probably going to be our last stand, so make it a good one. Let’s fortify the area.”
And that’s what they did. In two hours they had dug a series of skirmish holes and laid out a matrix of claymores. They hid their packs and lay in the long shallow holes. The sun glued itself to the blue poster board behind it. The sweat on their faces discontinued to drip, and the flies hung stationary in the air. They waited.
Time passed, and finally, Zeppo saw the barrel of an AK-47 slide through the leaves. It was connected to a pair of hands, then arms, then a black pajama clad body. Soon they could all see the enemy soldier creeping directly towards them. He was alone.
Rommel took aim. The front sight post settled into a locked
position and aligned perfectly with the man’s chest. Rommel’s
finger slid over the trigger and curled backwards almost of its own
volition. He exhaled slowly, allowing his breath to rush forever
in his ears. The breath stopped, coating him and his rifle in a
blanket of silence. The jungle froze.
BANG!
The enemy soldier crumpled like a soda can. Zeppo whispered over to Rommel, “Nice.”
Rommel smirked and nodded.
The shouting and gunfire started all at once. From somewhere behind the dead man came an engulfing barrage of lead. Everywhere around the team, bushes and trees began to splinter, crack, and explode. Somewhere amidst all the noise a wave of frenzied voices screamed. Garza nearly soiled his pants.
“Holy Christ it was Satan!” cried Roberts. “That asshole!”
The men gritted their teeth as the enemy finally appeared, trickles of them running through the trees. The squad opened fire. Soon the trickle became a flow, and the flow became a tide, so they hit the claymores. One clack and a string of explosives vaporized the nearest enemy, three-hole punched the near, and wounded the far. Confused and bewildered, the enemy scattered into self-proclaimed seek and destroy teams.
“Fall back,” ordered Rommel, “we’ll let them come at us.”
“Fuck that!” challenged Roberts. “Attack them now while they’re confused! Come on you bastards, let’s do it!”
No one moved. Garza thought it might be a good idea, but said nothing.
“Fine then pussies!” screamed Roberts. “I’ll do this by myself. All you ever did was drag me down anyways! Now who’s the Map Bitch?”
Roberts sprung through the trees and hurtled the bushes before Rommel could say anything. The men watched him run screaming towards the enemy. He killed one. He killed another. He was on top of a group of three when he suddenly jerked backwards and down, leaving the tree behind him coated in glistening red.
“Let’s go,” growled Rommel. The men followed this time and fell back to a secondary position, readying their rifles once more.
“Staff Sergeant,” said Garza, “maybe we oughtta think about that deal.”
“No need, Garza. There’s nothing that a few well trained men can’t accomplish with well coordinated tactics.”
“W-what do you think Stodghill?”
“Huh? Shit, whatever. This is hell. Dyin’ seems like a good way out to me.”
“I think I’m gonna do it,” said Garza, “I’m gonna take the deal.”
Ellis looked over at him for a moment then returned his gaze toward the enemy.
Zeppo began to shout, “Well, either way, I have my ass covered. I just prayed to every God in the book. I ain’t goin’ to hell, it’s just a question of which heaven.” He garnished the statement with a grin before ripping off a few shots. Another group of enemy was charging their way, but Ellis showed them how to fly with a well-placed shot from his grenade launcher. Like ants, the enemy came back with replacements, each time a little more coordinated. It wasn’t long before murderous machine gun fire had them pinned. Rommel observed a tertiary position that they could fall back to, and calculated the movement it would require.
“Listen up,” said the patrol leader, “we’re going to fall back to those dirt mounds to our left. Garza, Zeppo, and Stodghill, you three will rush to the position while we provide cover. Move on my command. Ready? Fire!” All five of them popped up, firing furiously into the bushes. For a moment, the enemy fire died down, and Rommel gave the command. As Zeppo, Garza, and Stodghill sprinted to the next position, Rommel and Ellis continued to fire. Once set, the first three opened fire, and Rommel made the dash with Ellis.
They were not fast enough.
After the first rush, a machine gun position had trained itself on the open ground, and pounded the area just as the two men entered it. Rommel was shredded instantly, and Ellis went down with a cry just as he reached cover.
“Ellis! You hit?” shouted Garza.
After patting himself down, Ellis replied, “No. I’m fine.”
The four remaining men held fast. They fired endlessly into that jungle. Stodghill took a round through the shoulder and one through the ear. Garza thought about running away, but didn’t. Zeppo conserved his ammo with well-aimed shots, picking men off with well-honed reflexes. All the while, the enemy closed. They were many and unstoppable. They kept coming with greater desperation. Stodghill unfolded his entrenching tool. The men braced themselves like children at the beach, shivering before a monstrous, foaming wave. When it hit, they fought hand to hand.
#
Outside the jungle, the battle was like listening to popcorn. The
kernels popped slowly at first but grew quickly into a deafening
staccato rush. Over time, the noise died down. The last few
kernels exploded and gave way to only a murmur of voices sliced by
screams. The shooting stopped because the killing was face to
face, all cutting edges and blunt objects, smashed skulls and open
sternums. It was personal, animalistic, and merciless. But even
this slowed and the screams became fewer. At last there was
nothing, and the jungle swallowed the noise whole. The birds came,
attracted by a new source of nutrition. They squawked and circled
and dove. The wind blew and the leaves rustled. But not all in
the jungle was still.
Somewhere, a ghostly noise pierced the sounds of nature’s digestion. It rose and echoed until one could recognize it as whistling. The happy, cheerful noise grew, and the birds cocked their heads to listen.
Through the bushes a figure pushed by, leisurely and unafraid. A severed head swung with up-rolled eyes, its black hair clenched in a bloody fist. A sleek black rifle was slung comfortably over a shoulder.
Ellis took a moment to laugh before resuming his song, and walked comfortably through the jungle. The leaves swallowed him and he was gone.
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