Monday, November 19, 2007

The Night Ride

(I'm posting this one as a request. It's based on an actual event. Might want to keep the tissues nearby, unless you hate your parents...)

Things are never as they are when you’re a child. The world becomes imagination and symbiotic emotion. Maybe that’s why I wasn’t scared when we were stranded on the side of the road that night. The tire had blown and the old green Ford hobbled to the curb seeking respite from its wound. The dashboard blocked my view. I puzzled over the sudden slowing of the buildings outside which were no longer running by but walking, and then at last pausing for a breath. The great engine quieted and my Father made sounds of dissatisfaction and slid out into the night. Without a word I reached over and pulled the handle, the massive door swinging outward with a groan. I made sure I was positioned just right before making the distant leap onto the pavement. My Father was nearby now, legs like trees, muscular and imposing. His knees were right at eye-level so I reached out and poked one. I giggled. My Father made the journey down to the ground and surveyed the damage done to the tire. He shook his head. That was not good so I started to frown. He looked at me and ruffled my hair. I smiled again. I looked at him as he rose again to his full height. I thought he might bump his head into the moon.

The area was a kaleidoscope of zooming cars and streetlamps. Headlights came brighter and then flashed by into dull red eyes. It was a long road. I looked both ways and saw it stretch on into secret pirate lairs and other dimensions.

My Father had his bicycle in the back of the truck. I saw his arms like a forklift as he lifted the shimmering vehicle from the truck bed and set it on the ground. The red Diamondback, I remembered, would eventually be stolen, but tonight it would propel us into dreams.

Within moments he bent to take hold of me and shot me into the sky. I was a rocket man flying on giants’ hands. My trip ended with a soft landing on broad shoulders. My eager paws shot around the wide forehead, clinging like a koala. Before I knew it we were off, sailing on the night wind.

How alive the night breeze is when you’re a speeding bullet. The wind whipped tears from my eyes, or maybe somehow in my youth I was able to comprehend the beauty of the moment. My father was a machine, cranking and turning, puffing and pushing. He was solid and unwavering. The spokes underneath were a mesh of sparks in the yellow light, set ablaze by a mad welder. Cars came by, much slower now. They were not so fast, not compared us. I cried out in delight.

We went on forever down that road, Father and son, until at last the bicycle slowed and came to a halt at an auto shop. My heart sank as the journey came to an end. I was lowered to the ground. The bright auto shop was an island in the darkness. My Father stormed the stronghold, slipping into the thick fluorescent light. We had finally reached our goal, but it was the journey that I longed for. It was the journey that whistled through my mind and teased my imagination. He returned, rolling a brand new tire as I stood quietly next to the bicycle. I couldn’t have lifted it if I tried.

It was then that I found myself atop his shoulders again. My face lit up and my jaw dropped. Tire in one hand and handlebar in the other, my Father steamed down the road into the night once more. Superman didn’t hold a candle to this giant below, all pistons and cranks pushing swiftly forward, unaffected by the staggering load. I sailed on up high where I could see everything. He was invincible, I was sure. We slipped away like ghosts at home in the darkness.

Now I am much older. I have traveled much and seen many things. I think somewhere inside my father still rides, much like that night. That figure will never die, that invulnerable machine chugging on into forever. He churns in the back of my mind through adversity and struggle and it gives me strength. I hope that one day I can be the same man to my children as he has been to me. I hope to be a steadfast colossus to them, unhindered and ever supportive. I have traveled much and seen many things, but rare is anything as pure as a child’s love for his Dad.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Separation Anxiety

(I wrote this tale for a short story class. It's based on some ideas thrown about while I was in the Marines and tooling around Japan, though I guarantee that the gentleman in this piece had a much more adventurous time than I. It's also more intense than my previous posts, so if you're easily offended you might want to wait until next week...)

Somewhere in Tokyo, I lost myself. My body throbbed as I sprinted down the sidewalk, drunk but sobering fast. I passed Club 911, Club True, Gaspanic, and The Basement, all ablaze with neon and regurgitating party goers they couldn’t hold. I pushed someone hard and saw them whiplash in the corner of my eye, heard a string of curses fade behind. Maybe if I had gotten to the cab stand, things would have been different. Maybe if I had turned left or right, I could have stuffed the memory away and let it dissolve my insides. Instead, someone’s forearm flew at my throat. I felt a crunch and saw a flash of light, and I floated to the concrete. The sidewalk felt like shag carpeting.

Inside my head, it was like someone was spinning the radio knob. Voices smashed together and ran circles through my brain, and all I could see was the fuzzy outline of my feet bouncing as they dragged me. They took me to a massage parlor and sat me at a table in back.

Half intoxicated and half concussed, I watched as they pinned my hand to the table and shouted in Japanese. A meat cleaver appeared out of nowhere and jerked around in the air like a butterfly. One of the men, the smallest, spoke some English. His voice was gentle, almost timid.

“You see what happen?”

I watched the hand on the table. It wasn’t mine. “See what?”

“Ahh.” He cleared his throat. “You tell, or finger, no more.”

I wondered if the hand on the table would feel the chop, miss its finger and wonder what it was doing these days. The blade fluttered by.

“Yeah. I saw something.”

“Ahh.” The man nodded, or bowed. “You tell.”

“I saw some guy shoot some people.”

The man turned to his colleagues. Their conversation sounded like five men having a seizure.

“Which man did you see?”

I looked up at the faces around the table, crammed together and leaning. One of them had blood splattered down his neck. It wasn’t difficult to guess. “I don’t know. It was too dark to tell.”

He nodded. “You tell police?”

“No. No way.”

Another conversation.

“My companions say you lie.”

Somehow the blade steadied and rose over the plastic thing on the table. I looked from my fingers to the knife and back again. I felt the grips on my shoulders tighten, felt my wrist squeezed so that my hand turned purple. My first instinct was to blame Miko, and maybe even Seth, but as I stared at the hovering metal I caught a glimpse of my reflection, and I knew that it was all my fault.

Sun sparked off of the windows like a welder’s flame, and the train’s vibrations made me feel fuzzy. But then again, so did the twelve pack of Kirin that Seth brought along.

“To Daddy’s bank account.” Seth raised his can, smirking.

I scratched my eyebrow with my middle finger and inhaled. “How about to finally being on our own, you turd.”

“Good enough.”

The aluminum clinked together, and Seth sucked on his beer like he wanted it inside out. His face turned up and became all can, Greek nose, and curly hair. He was out of breath when he finished. “Oh yeah, and to the roommate that kept me from friggin failing out of college.” Seth poked at me with an extended finger and punctuated the remark with a belch.

“All I did was let you copy my homework.”

“Which I never would have done on my own.”

Outside, the landscape changed from forest to river to city and then started over.

“So, what’re we doing in Tokyo?” I asked.

Seth yanked the glossy map from his jeans. “I don’t know. After we get off at Shinjuku we could take the orange line to see the Tokyo tower.”

“Okay. And after those fifteen minutes, then what?”

“Um, look at Tokyo?” Seth scratched his chin.

“I mean tonight. What are we doing tonight?”

“Oh, dude, Roppongi. You remember Todd, from Renaissance? He says it’s insane. He says they love Americans there, in every sense of the word.”

“We’ll have to thank Todd when we get back.”

Seth’s can crunched between his palms, and he picked up another. “Eff yeah. Can’t wait.”

“I’ll bet you can’t, you alcoholic.”

“Beer is good for you, they proved it.”

“Guess I’d better have another then.”

When I first saw Miko at Gaspanic, I was staring through the flames over my drink. As lights flashed and noise drowned out sound, I saw her dancing between the flickering blue wisps, swaying and whipping herself to the music. I swallowed the fiery concoction and traced mental lines over her boots and fishnet stockings, her laced top and slick waterfall hair. When the alcohol finally crushed my inhibition, I made my way to the dance floor.

Her English was bad, but I couldn’t hear her over the music anyways, so I cut the crap and pulled her in. I think there was something in her skin, maybe a hallucinogenic or military-grade pheromone secreted through her pores, or maybe that last drink just hit me in the face like a flying brick, but when I touched her, our surroundings melted together and I could feel the sound. The beat was pounded out by my heart and sent rushing through arteries as we slid over each other in perfect sync. The crowd was a dark, fleshy bubble around us. We drew close and kissed, all lips and hands, pressed together by writhing bodies and overwhelming impulse. I lost all sense of time, and might have let the sun rise there if it weren’t for Miko. At some point she grabbed my hand and cocked her head towards the door. It was still night when she pulled me outside, and our breath crystallized in the fluorescent air.

She introduced herself. I told her that she had me at making out, but she didn’t get the joke. I took a moment to feel awkward before she spoke again. It was getting late, she said, and we should go to a better club. The best one around. I just nodded, so she smiled and led me down the street.

I forked another mouthful of potato salad and leaned back in the lawn chair. Uncle Ray cannonballed into the pool. An enormous banner congratulating me clung to the side of our house, flapping in the wind and loosening its already tenuous grip. It was one of those lazy days, where the breeze was warm and the buzz of insects floated through the sunlight.

“So, what are you planning to do with your Art History degree?” My dad asked this from the lawn chair beside, staring straight forward through dark sunglasses and sipping on fancy imported beer.

It reminded me of the time I was a freshman in high school and tried out for the football team. When I came home, I told him I’d made third string. “Well, I hope you’re not planning to make a career out of it,” he said. I’d been getting that kind of shit as long as I could remember. I concentrated on my paper plate and shrugged.

“Because, you know, we always have a place at the firm. If you ever wanted to get your CPA-”

“I know Dad.” My teeth grit through potato chunks.

I watched as Uncle Ray pulled himself from the pool, tugging at his vacuumed trunks. He wobbled back to the barbecue to check the meat, flame rising, blades flashing in his hands.

“I’m just saying.” He sipped his beer. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” He handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?”

He shrugged.

Two plane tickets slid into my palm. “Japan?”

“Might do you some good. See the world.”

In other words, take some time, relax, and when you’ve finally got your head on straight and a real life in mind, come back and we’ll talk.

I looked across the pool and saw my mother talking to Dan, the bachelor from across the street. She was smiling too much and constantly touching his forearm. I hadn’t seen her like that with Dad in years, but now, I didn’t care. I’d take their money and run like a fucking bank robber. They didn’t own me anymore. I was no longer part of their family.

Seth gaped as the cab pulled to a stop. It was like Times Square with all the letters rendered in splatter paint. I handed the driver some Yen and stepped onto the curb, cranking my neck to soak in the buildings, lights, and monstrous screens displaying Kodak cameras. Welcome to Roppongi, the High Touch Town. I was eyeing the exterior of a gentlemen’s club when two soft arms wrapped around one of mine.

“You want massagi?”

I looked down at the small Japanese woman on my arm. She was young and cute. “Excuse me?”

“I say massagi. You want massagi?” She freed a hand and made a yanking motion. It wasn’t hard to guess what she was offering.

“Come on, she love you long time!” Seth laughed and clapped his hands.

“No. Thanks. I’m fine,” I said.

“No, you like. I like you.” She began to pull me to a dark green doorway. I had to pry her off and reassert myself.

“I appreciate the thought, but no thanks. Okay?”

She stormed off. I looked over and saw another young woman on Seth’s arm. “You want massagi?”

He wasn’t as polite.

We started off down the sidewalk, overwhelmed by the cultural car wreck. Here, it wasn’t just Japanese, it was Russians and Brazilians, Brits and Americans. It wasn’t just Asian cuisine, it was French pastries, Hard Rock CafĂ© and Freshness Burger. And the flow of cars in the street was nearly as dense as the flow of people. I turned to Seth.

“What do we do if we get split up?”

He grinned. “I’ll meet you at the hotel in the morning.”

“Sounds good. I’ll look for you in the bushes out front.”

“Shut your trap. Let’s do this.”

We walked the strip, noting the locations of the nicer looking clubs. Only when we passed an alley did I see the flames. I tapped Seth’s shoulder and pointed.

We slipped down the dark walkway and found ourselves staring at Club Quest. The red and yellow marquee was on fire. A series of gas lines had been rigged around the words, and flames spurted out to curl up into the night. The stainless steel doors glowed orange in response, and the combined effect made the club look like a walk-in barbecue. We rushed inside.

When the doors swung open, Seth just shook his head and pretended to wipe a tear. The club was packed, mostly with women, and apparently they had forgotten much of their clothing. One of them was getting frisky on the bar counter, and I had to tilt my head to follow her motion.

Suddenly, I was staring into a fat palm. The bouncer had oozed from his dark corner to intercept us. “No Americans,” he said. He had metal teeth, and part of his ear was missing.

“No Americans?” asked Seth. “Are you serious?”

“No Americans!”

We looked at each other for a moment, and decided that this would not be a wise confrontation. There was nothing left to do but nod, and find another club.

I grew excited when I saw the burning marquee once more. Miko pulled me through the steel doors, and the bouncer stepped aside when she spoke in Japanese. I winked at the big man and strutted by. I couldn’t wait to rub it in Seth’s face in the morning, especially after ditching me for an unattractive American girl. It was like going to a sushi restaurant and ordering a hamburger. Still, I couldn’t blame him. At least he knew what he was getting.

We waded into the swarm of dancers and emerged at the bar. Miko ordered drinks and excused herself to the bathroom, so I made myself comfortable. The walls were covered in green tapestries, the bar all oak and brass. The VIP area was in back, and men sat at low, circular tables, wearing sunglasses and smoking. A fog machine spat roiling balls that exploded into mist, and turned the dancers into silhouettes against flashing rainbow beams. The drinks came, and I took a sip of mine. I was sure Miko had ordered paint thinner.

When she didn’t show up again, I searched the crowd for her, holding the small umbrella to the side as I finished off her drink. I thought I saw Miko standing near one of the rear tables, bending down to kiss a man on the cheek. When I stood it felt like the club had been set adrift on the Pacific Ocean, and I had to focus on the horizon to keep from getting sick. The music pushed in on my head with every beat, and as I stepped through the dancers I was nudged and elbowed. I spun about, looking for an adversary, but all I found were more shadows.

Then the strobe started. Intense flashes lit up the partygoers, and I realized that something was wrong. They jerked about me, oblivious, heads lax and rolling on bouncing bodies, their arms raised into the fog. One guy slipped something into his mouth, and a girl ripped open his buttons and licked up his chest before he fed her a pill. I thought I saw another girl bleeding from her nose before she spun out of sight. I tried to keep moving, but was stopped by a firm grip on my genitalia. A young woman slid into view and wedged in close. She had rhinestones glued to her face, heavy eyeliner and pig tails.

“Let’s party,” she shouted, demanding more than asking. During the brief flashes, I could see her pin-point pupils and orange contacts. I looked over and could no longer see Miko, so I slipped behind some people, and shrank away from my aggressor. Twenty feet from the tables, I stopped. The scene was clear now and Miko was not there, but the men were and they were not happy. Through the waving arms, between flashes, the men screamed, acting out a silent film accompanied by harsh techno. They stood, pointing, mouths wide. One man swiped the table and it flipped, spraying white dots into the air. The other man reached into his coat.

I had never seen a real Mac-10 before. I had seen them in movies and toy stores, and knew that the guns were both automatic, and severely inaccurate. At that range, the latter was unimportant.

The flashing light slowed time, and with every pulse, the image changed. The gun pointed. The man raised his arms. The muzzle flashed, and the expended shells hovered above the weapon hot and waiting. A spray of blood jutted from the man’s chest like a frozen fountain, his face clenched. Then the man was gone, and the gun turned towards the crowd. I remember the grimace on this man’s face, the speckles of blood that stretched across his neck and down his suit, the dark glasses that covered his eyes, and that moment when the weapon was pointed at me. The man had spotted in me in the crowd. I was the only one not dancing, the only gaijin gawking at the spectacle. I wondered if the bullets were real, if this distant show could affect a neutral observer. Still the music pounded on; no one else had missed a beat. My legs carried me backwards. My shoulder smacked into the heavy swinging door and I breathed the chilly night air. My feet hurled me around the corner and down the street, never stopping, never stopping for anything.

My eyes focused on the cleaver, poised like a guillotine’s blade. I felt like it hung there all night, just looking beautiful in the lamp light, glinting at its corners and almost glowing along the edge. My face reflected back in the polished metal, a dripping hourglass. I watched the men watch me, and wondered if they wondered why I wasn’t scared. Or maybe they thought that I just didn’t get what was about to happen, which was the correct answer. Because they waited for my eyes to go wide. They waited because they knew it was the exact moment when I realized that this wasn’t a movie, wasn’t a TV show or dumb story, and it was that moment that the big, beautiful blade disappeared. I heard the impact of metal on wood, and my head dropped to see what had happened. The man yanked the blade from the table top, and my pinky flopped to the side. There was little blood, and there was no pain.

“You see what happen?” the small man asked.

But the truth was, I hadn’t. All I could do was stare at my pinky, and wonder how it had gotten there, alone and dying. And I hated my pinky for betraying me, but hoped more than anything that the doctors would be able to sew it back on if I ever got out of there. I wondered what my mom would think of the scar. I wondered if my dad would be ashamed. For some reason, I remembered the time I tried out for the football team, and realized that it was I who quit.

The small man said something, but it might as well have been a muted trombone. I felt my face cool and my tongue swell, and I watched as the yellow grins began to sway and stretch, and dissolve into black and white. The table top rushed up to meet my face, and my thoughts spun away.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Casualty Report

(This is one of my first attempts at...horror, maybe? I think I was aiming for creepiness rather than horror, but either way, this classic has two elements I love to write about - zombies, and the military. It was only a matter of time before I combined them.)

I didn’t know if it was the smell of old rubber and damp earth, but I felt queasy that night. Everyone was swimming in a pool of sickly blue light oozing from the fluorescent bulbs overhead. It seemed surreal to me that in such a haze lay the brain center of our battalion. The men in command buzzed like bees, exchanging ideas, marking their maps, receiving and sending messages. I sat there and watched, and when another message had gone through the machine of officers and radio operators, I took it, logged it, and stored it in my journal. I was glad I was in here. A GP tent beat sleeping on the ground, especially on a soggy night like this.

The rain fluctuated, sometimes a soft tickle on the roof, sometimes a slapping torrent. This was where chaos became order, and order back into chaos. The sounds could tell you that when the squawking radios, murmuring officers, and beating rain experimented with all combinations of each other and sometimes, eerily, slipped into mutual silence.

I couldn’t tell you how I ended up at this table. It seemed only weeks ago I was in Alpha Company, hiking with the rest of them, sharing the dirt and pain, sharing the everlasting trudges through mountains and valleys, accosted by the elements and my own run-down gear prodding the softer spots of my body. Maybe it was luck or someone senior decided I had what it took, but I found myself here drinking coffee in the Combat Operations Center. Sometimes I felt bad knowing what my friends were going through out there tonight, but then I realized that it could have been me and I’d reach for a hot cup of Joe instead. The Operations Chief handed me another message.

“Position report: Alpha Company moved to Grid 881 763.”

I logged it in and looked up front towards the map boards. Whole companies were closing in on the enemy, and all they were to us were colored pins marking their position. It was easy to detach yourself from the bloodshed when all you did was move pins on a board. From what I could see from my rickety field table, the red pin was now about a half inch nearer to it’s second objective. I took a sip from my Styrofoam cup, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.

The radio broke the hum with shouting. “Snowstorm, snowstorm, snowstorm! Alpha Company receiving incoming mortar fire, request Artillery on Grid 886 764.”

The hum spiked into excited shouting and movement increased. In the distance I could hear the rumble of thunder; or maybe my old company was closer than I thought. Either way, the commotion eventually died down and another message was passed to me.

“Situation Report: Alpha Company sustained zero casualties, suppressed enemy fire with artillery. Closing in on Battalion Objective Two.”

Instead of sighing with relief I shook my pen for ink when I logged in the message. I crammed it on top of all the other messages. I closed the journal and rubbed my forehead. I rested my face on my palm and allowed my eyelids to press for an eagerly desired moment of unconsciousness. Everything began to melt away and I existed for a moment only in supposition. The radio jolted me back to reality.

“Titan One, this is Alpha, we have contact!”

The radio blurted out fire requests, the sounds of combat flickering in the background as it came to life. A few moments later the little yellow messages came, flowing like water through a pipeline of hands. They dropped onto my desk one after the other. I stacked them neatly and began logging them in.

“Name: PFC Hodges, L.G. SS#: 543245768. Wound(s): Gunshot right arm, concussion. Status: Standing by for medevac.”

“Name: LCpl Reynold, H.R. SS#: 443672323. Wound(s): Shrapnel, chest, abdomen, upper thighs. Status: Standing by for medevac.”

And then one that caught my attention.

“Name: LCpl Steward, J.M. SS# 656448987. Wound(s): Gunshot, head. Status: Deceased.

I remembered the time when Steward and I fought just for kicks when we were drunk. We sat down icing our wounds with cold beer bottles afterwards, laughing about the pain we had dealt each other. And the time in Okinawa when we stole some hats from a couple of wanna-be cowboys and galloped through the streets to the bewilderment of the locals.

Now he was just another leaflet in my logbook. I stamped the message, filed it, and started on the next. I took a sip of coffee.

My journal began to bulge with the little yellow papers and they were still coming strong, but despite the heavy casualties it still sounded as if we were gaining ground. I never had any doubt that my boys would overcome. They were a tough bunch of bastards.

The situation reports were encouraging: “Enemy suppressed, advancing on their position.”

Or, “Enemy position destroyed, estimated twenty casualties.”

Inside I smiled. Somehow I felt part of this, maybe like a father feels when his son scores the winning goal in a soccer match. I felt sorry for Alpha Company, but even sorrier for the enemy. But then a message left prickles up my neck as the radio spit it out like rancid milk.

“Flash, Flash, Flash, unknown gas attack on Alpha’s position! I say again, unknown gas attack on Alpha’s position!”

Everyone in the tent went scrambling, donning and clearing their gas masks in a frightened fumble. Before long those with me gave a muffled shout, “Gas, Gas, Gas!” Everything warped through the lenses of my mask. Their voices became softer and robotic through their voicemitters, and the sound of my own breath rushed loudly with each inhalation. I rubbed at the irritating elastic now pressing into the back of my skull, but finding that it provided no relief, I re-donned my Kevlar helmet.

The officers mumbled phrases of dismay as the radio operator tried to reestablish contact with Alpha Company.

“Alpha, Alpha this is Titan 1, how do you copy, over.”

Only the rain could be heard between the radio operator’s repetitions. We could only wait. The moments slithered by like cold spaghetti. Finally we received an enigmatic message from our scout snipers.

“Titan One, this is Hawkeye, over.”

“Hawkeye, this is Titan One.”

“We’ve spotted Alpha Company, break. They have received extensive casualties, break. The remnants are heading your direction, over.

“Roger that.”

“Hawkeye out.”

The officers shook their heads and swore, looking like deep-sea creatures stuck in an eddy. I tried readjusting my mask without breaking the seal but it provided no relief as the edges dug into my face. The radio operator continued his search for contact with Alpha to no avail. We received another report from the snipers.

“Titan One this is Hawkeye, over.”

“Hawkeye this is Titan One, send it.”

“Alpha company not responding, break. They are scattered and approaching your perimeter, over.”

“Roger that.”

“Hawkeye out.” The officers rested their hands on their tables, hunched over and staring.

The rain stopped. The officers became quiet. The radios beeped. My breath was harsh in my ears.

Somewhere far outside, one of our men shouted a challenge. He repeated himself. He repeated himself again. There was no reply.

The sharp reports of M16’s accentuated by the occasional grenade penetrated the walls of the tent and reverberated in my mask. Everyone scrambled for their weapons. Most of the officers had pistols. I was glad to have my rifle.

“They’re not going down!” Cried someone in the distance.

“Holy Christ!” Shouted someone else.

I knocked over my coffee as I carried my weapon outside. The yellow leaflets eagerly soaked it up.

I pushed my way through the entry flaps and found myself in a kaleidoscope of

darkness. Weak moonlight snuck through the spaces in between the camouflage netting that covered our tent, covering me in ghostly speckles. The rain had turned into an irritating mist, which came from all directions. I wiped my lenses, only helping to distort my vision further. I chambered a round as I cautiously crept through one of the holes in the netting. The sounds of combat were in full throttle now, overpowering my senses. I made my way to one of our secondary positions. Should our attackers make it through our primary defense, we would be the last thing between them and our Combat Operations Center.

My cover consisted only of a muddy dirt mound, which I sunk into as I lay just behind it, my rifle pointing into the blackness just over the top. I wiped my lenses again, streaking a tiny bit of sludge across them. I cursed to myself and waited as my uniform began to soak through with icy water. I began to shiver.

Slowly, the violence began to subside. The shots came fewer and farther between until at last there were no more. The queasiness grew in the pit of my stomach and worked itself up to my throat where it lodged in a hard lump. It was quiet again. On my left and right I could see the silhouettes of one or two of the officers watching intently. They only moved to wipe their masks.

I thought it was the condensation on my lenses warping the shadows before me, but something told me different. There was movement between the trees. I could hear the footsteps squishing in the mud before I could actually make anything out. The Kevlar helmet was the first thing to emerge from the darkness. A beam of moonlight highlighted the top in a downward silver crescent. It was one of ours. The figured approached awkwardly, dragging itself through the swampy area as it approached. The entrenching tool in its hand rattled metallically as it slapped against its side with each step. Then others like it began to emerge on its flanks. I desperately looked to my sides for some sort of command from the officers, but they were just as dumbfounded as I. I wiped my lenses again.

The figure before me slowly took form as it drew near. It wore our uniform, it had our gear, but it only gurgled and limped forward. Its face was a black hole beneath the helmet. In a fit of frustration and fear I ripped off my mask and squinted at the shadow.

The air was very crisp, and my face chilled quickly after being in the sweaty confines of the rubber mask. The moon caught the nametape of the thing for a brief moment. All remaining warmth left my body as I read it aloud.

“Steward.”

No. This was wrong. We were fighting our own.

“Steward, that you?” I cried desperately.

My voice was swallowed whole by the night, suffocated by grotesque silence.

The thing only gurgled.

“Reply or I’m going to open fire!” I challenged, anger overcoming the fear.

It rattled nearer.

I took aim at center mass and squeezed the trigger. The report left my ears fuzzy and squealing. Even my own breath sounded distant.

The thing lurched backwards but continued on. I scrunched my face and took another shot. It stumbled. I fired again. The officers snapped out of their daze and joined in. I fired rapidly now, finally putting the thing on it’s back. I looked to my sides. The enemy was almost on top of some of the officers’ positions. I turned back to the front. The thing was on its feet again, closer now. I recoiled in horror. Suddenly, I heard a shriek to my left. One of the things stood on one of the mounds and awkwardly hacked at the shadows. There was a faint crunch and a gurgle. I stood, taking a few steps back.

My mind refused to acknowledge when a sudden strobe of lightening caught their faces, melted and rotten. I dry heaved. I flicked my weapon to burst, spraying into the enemy as I backed away. It was only seconds before my weapon gagged on an empty magazine. The useless rifle hit the mud with a splat and I stumbled back into the tent. It was empty in here now, radios still beeping. The occasional scream or burst of fire rent the silence outside. I moved numbly to the radios, bumping into field tables along the way. I picked up a handset. My voice quivered as I struggled to stand in the liquid blue light.

“Longbow, Longbow, this is Titan One, over.”

“Titan 1 this is Longbow, send it.”

“Fire for effect on my position, over.”

“Say again your last?”

“Fire for effect my position!”

“By whose authorization?”

“Mine.”

“Who’re you?”

“The last one.”

“Roger that. Eight guns firing HE for effect on your position.” The radio went silent for a moment. “Shot, over.”

“Shot, out.”

I shakily lowered myself and sat cross-legged on the dirty rubber floor. I took off my helmet and laid it beside me. There were no more shots being fired outside. The screams had lost their way into the night. Many dry hands began to rake against the sides of the tent. I could hear their gurgling and rasping. The tent began to warp and sway from the prodding. They were all around. It was then that the flaps of the doorway began to rustle. Again the radio crackled to life.

“Splash, over.”

“Splash, out.” I dropped the handset and stared as the flaps began to part.

A distant whistle began to manifest itself overhead. It grew to a deafening shriek and then cut into instant silence.

“Try to get up from this,” I thought.

A smile passed over my lips.

 

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