by Tom Abrahams
Womack slammed the butt of the tranquilizer rifle into the trunk of a tree. “Fig bat futher mucker,” he said through his teeth. “He got away.”
“He’s not gonna get far,” said Wilco. “You hit him twice.”
“It didn’t do anything,” said Womack. “Nothing.”
“Who was that dude?” asked Wolf. “The one he carried off?”
Womack shook his head and inspected the damage he’d inflicted to the butt of his rifle. “No idea. Could be anybody.”
“Should we follow?” asked Ferg. “That guy is going to be dead if we don’t.”
“He’s dead anyhow,” said Wolf.
“There’s a Navstar tracker embedded in that dart stuck in his chest,” said Womack. “If I touch base with that spook Smith, he could probably send us new coordinates to plot on a map.”
“That’s if he doesn’t pull out the dart,” said Wilco.
“True,” said Womack. “But it’s something. Let’s get back to the truck. I’ll get Smith on a secure frequency. Then we’ll find it and bring it home. Next time, open fire with everything but the grenade launcher. You can hurt it without killing it.”
***
Brett’s vision was fading. His energy was sapped. Still, he pushed forward, deeper into the brush and toward the mountains. He’d reversed his path and was heading northwest along the familiar path he’d traveled for twelve years.
You should have killed them, chided the voice. She wouldn’t leave him alone. One by one, you should have laid waste to them. They could have killed you.
Brett knew better. The leader was armed with a weapon too small to carry bullets. And the others would have fired from a distance if they’d wanted him dead. Those men, whoever they were, wanted him alive. It was a suspicion that bore true when the leader had zapped him with a pair of darts.
Brett lumbered through the grass, slipping in the occasional puddle as he pushed through the heaviness in his chest and the overwhelming desire to sleep. He resisted the urge, tightened his grip on the man’s collar, and put one calloused foot after the other, trying to make sense of what had happened.
He’d heard their truck and smelled its exhaust before he saw them approaching from the north. They were military trained, but Brett doubted they were Marines. They were too casual. They lacked real discipline. And the leader smelled like a distillery. Amidst the sweat and smell of lamb, Brett had inhaled the distinct odor of alcohol. It was old. Maybe a couple of days. But it was there. The men weren’t active duty, but they knew him by name. Trevor Brett.
He hadn’t heard that name outside of his dreams in years.
Trevor Brett. Trevor Brett.
It sent a jolt of electricity coursing through him when he thought about it. Somebody remembered his name. Somebody knew who he was and that he was alive.
Trevor Brett.
Who are they?
Brett had travelled fifteen kilometers before he was too exhausted to continue. There was a thickness in his arms and legs he’d not felt as long as he could remember. He found a thick crop of vetiver and stopped moving. He let go of his captive’s hair and dropped him to the ground. The man, thankfully, had been silent since Brett had choked him unconscious in the moments after the five armed men had tried to trap him.
Brett squatted in the brush, working to keep his lids open. His chest heaved in short bursts as he sucked in shallow breaths through his nose. He was on the verge of passing out when the voice kept him awake.
They’re not finished with you, she said. Turning you into this thing you’ve become, this beautiful, invincible predator, is just the beginning now that they’ve found you.
Brett was panting as he dropped on his back and stared up at the thick clouds building in the pale sky above him. He could still smell the latent scent of alcohol on that leader’s breath.
If they catch you, the voice said, they might not kill you. They might lock you up. They might study you. Anyone who could do to you what they did to you is capable of anything. They are the monsters, Trevor. They are the savages.
Her voice dipped to a whisper. They are the ones responsible… Trevor Brett’s eyes closed and he drifted to sleep.
***
It was nearly dark when the faint throb in the side of Jimmy Linh’s head morphed into a thick pounding that threatened to blind him if he opened his eyes too quickly. Slowly he adjusted to the dusk, but kept his eyes narrow to avoid the throb that accompanied opening them wide. He was unsure if he was alive or dead until the pain soaked through.
His back ached and there was a sharp current running from his right hip to his ankle. His wounded shoulder thumped with anger at every heartbeat. There were so many sensations it was hard for Linh to distinguish one injury from the next.
Once he’d wrapped his mind around the pain, he started taking in his surroundings. He was on his side, staring at shades of green and brown. An odd-looking beetle with a zebra neck and ladybug wings scurried into and out of his field of vision.
I am on the jungle floor. It is almost nighttime. I am injured.
How did I get here?
Linh pressed his jaw tight, trying to jog his memory. Nothing at first. A blank. He slowly inhaled through his nose. The smell of rot was pungent. It swam deep into his nostrils. It was more than rot, really. It was death.
Linh’s eyes sprang open with recognition, and a sharp blast of pain radiated inside his head. He tried moving and couldn’t at first. At least he thought he couldn’t. Something was on top of him. He tried scrambling, scurrying out from underneath the weight keeping his legs pressed to the ground. He managed to twist his aching body, inducing an electric jolt in his neck that made him bite the side of his tongue in agony.
He swallowed past the newly added pain and saw what had bound him to the earth. It was the White Ghost—a limp, seemingly dead White Ghost.
Linh fought hard against the discomfort in his neck and back and shoulder and managed to free himself from the beast. He scrambled to his feet and leaned his weight against the thick round trunk of a tall jelutong tree. The sun had set, but there was dull ambient light peeking through the canopy above. The chorus of insects was getting louder. Linh smacked his thick tongue against his dry lips. He was suddenly parched, maybe dehydrated.
His eyes darted from tree to tree in search of something familiar. His ears hunted for the wash of the Da River. Nothing. He was lost. His satchel was gone. At least the beast was dead, somehow.
It is dead, isn’t it?
Linh slid his hand down the tree for balance as he shrank to a squat at the base of the trunk. The ghost was feet from him. Its white skin seemed iridescent against the low light of the last of the day on the jungle floor. The ghost was on its stomach, its legs and arms splayed and its head turned awkwardly to one side. The tip of its tongue protruded from its swollen sucker lips.
Linh leaned in closer to the beast to look at the veins that strained against its skin. They were thick and dark. They traced a circulatory map across the beast’s neck and cheeks and shoulders. By the second, it seemed, it was more difficult for Linh to see. The sun was evaporating more quickly now.
Linh knew he should stand and start running as far away from the ghost as he could. He needed to find a road or a village or the river. But Linh the curious reporter had to know if the beast was dead. He couldn’t just go.
So Linh inched closer still, letting go of the tree and crab walking on his feet at first. Still too far away, he lowered himself onto his elbows and extended his aching neck toward the top of the creature’s head.
His face was close enough that he could see his breath in the ghost’s matted hair. The odor was something between cradle cap and a neglected tube washroom. Linh stretched his nose and fought his gag reflex before moving his face directly above the creature’s.
Is it breathing?
Linh turned his head so he could listen for breathing while at the same time keeping his eyes on the ghost’s back. If it was breathing, he’d know.
“What happened to you?” he whispered. “Someone did something to you.”
There were human remnants in the ghost, thought Linh. There were traces of Homo sapiens. His ears, his stringy hair, the musculature of his back and legs—all resembled a man’s more than a monster’s. The shape of his nose, the protruding forehead, the spread of his ribs did not. They were more primal.
Linh focused on the ghost’s respiration. Zeroing in on that task in the dark, he didn’t see the Ma Trang’s left hand twitch or its toes curl and flex. Instead he extended his body over the ghost even farther. He was hovering, almost, above its back. His palms were planted on the ground, his fingers sinking into the wet, fertile soil.
So close to the monster’s body, he thought he could see the blood coursing through its veins, the wide spread of its ribs, and the thick knots that traced its spine. By the time he noticed the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of its lungs, it was too late.
First it moaned.
The low, guttural noise was sudden and Linh jerked with surprise. He almost dropped onto the monster. But he pushed himself upward on his arms, away from the ghost’s back, as quickly as he could. Before he could put any distance between himself and the monster, though, its yellow eyes popped open. Its lips drew back, revealing its devilish teeth.
With a burst of energy, the beast rolled quickly onto its side and reached out, grabbing for Linh as he fell backward and hit his already aching head on the tree trunk. Dazed, Linh couldn’t focus. He instinctively reached for his head as the ghost grasped in the dark for his legs.
A sudden, sharp sting ripped across Linh’s shin before he felt a tug at his ankle. The Ma Trang had his foot in its claws. Its groan became more of a growl, and Linh kicked against the tight grip with a series of bicycle kicks that freed him for an instant.
Still disoriented, Linh pressed with his legs and inched his back up the trunk until he was standing. The monster was still on the ground, its arms flailing in the dark. Only its yellow eyes were visible now. Linh felt the blood rush from his head and he almost collapsed, but he leaned against the trunk and kept his balance.
The ghost, while awake and angry, seemed unable to move from the jungle floor. Linh took a deep breath and pushed himself from the trunk. He limped as quickly as he could away from the ghost, leaving it to howl in frustration as he made his way more deeply into the darkness.
He tried to run, but couldn’t. Between the ache in his lower back, and the new, stinging weakness in his ankle, a quick limp was the best he could muster. His heart pounded forcefully against his chest, which exacerbated his headache. His breaths were increasingly shallow and ragged as he navigated the black hole of the jungle gym surrounding him.
He repeatedly tripped and fell face-first into the piles of foliage and mud puddles that dotted his path like a minefield. Each time he struggled to regain his footing, it became more difficult. He was bloodied, filthy, and in excruciating pain, but Linh kept moving. After what must have been thirty minutes, he stopped.
He struggled to catch his breath but managed to slow his pulse by inhaling slowly through his nostrils and exhaling through pursed lips. He’d emerged from the jungle into a clearing. The grass was knee high, and the ground under his feet was spongy. He looked over one shoulder and then the other. The clouds had thinned, and the right half of the moon cast a bluish hue across the clearing. There was an intermittent breeze that rode across the top of the grasses like a wave. He spotted nothing. No people. No animals. No monster. Linh was alone.
He was lost. He was badly hurt. But he was alive.
— 26 —
Somewhere between Son La and Hòa Bình, Vietnam
April 24, 1980
Womack finished the last of his C Ration M-2 Meat Unit—Meat Chunks with Beans in Tomato Sauce—and took a swig of warm water from his canteen. He slapped a bug from his neck and flicked the remnants from his fingers. The sound of insects chirping in the jungle around them was almost deafening.
“You know, these new rations are better than the old stuff,” said Wolf. He picked spaghetti sauce from his teeth. “Better flavor.”
“You mean they have flavor.” Wilco laughed. “Those old meals, the MCIs, were worse than starving.”
“I mean mine almost tasted like actual spaghetti,” said Wolf. “What did you have, boss?”
Womack slapped another insect on his cheek. “Pork.”
“Nice,” said Wolf. “Very nice.”
“We need to start moving again,” Womack said to nobody in particular. “The longer we sit here, the farther the ghost moves from the last known coordinates.”
The men had traveled ten klicks from the truck after getting an updated set of Navstar coordinates from Smith. The spook confirmed there was satellite intelligence available. It didn’t update in real time, but gave a good indication of the ghost’s direction of movement. They drove northwest as far as the roads would take them and then hid the vehicle under a thicket of brush and rotting vegetation about fifty meters from the road. Womack marked the location on a map and tucked it in his pocket. They’d be able to find the jeep no problem once they’d accomplished the objective. Some eight hours since they’d first encountered and lost the ghost, they were exhausted and ripe. The humidity was suffocating.
Ferg looked at his watch. “It’s oh-three-thirty,” he said. “We’ve got another two hours until sunup. It’ll be slow going until then.”
Womack nodded. “Agreed,” he said. “But any progress is progress. We’ll move slow until we can see better. Then we hit it hard. If those darts had any effect, we can gain some ground.”
Ferg shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
Shine was already standing and adjusting his pack on his back. He nodded toward his leader. “Womack’s right,” he said. “We need to make up the distance now. I don’t want to be here any longer than I need to be, and once that drug wears off, that mutant Marine is going to be impossible to find.”
“Unless he wants to find us,” said Wolf.
Womack stood and slugged his pack onto his back. He checked his rifle to make sure he’d reloaded the two spent darts. “Either way, we need to be moving. We stay here, we’re wasting time and we’re sitting ducks.”
The men followed Womack’s lead and the men picked their way through the thick foliage. Each of them had an angled MX-99 with a red filter clipped to the front of their web gear to help guide them. It was slow going and it was familiar.
All of the men had served in-country during the Vietnam conflict. All of them had seen friends die or worse. Womack and Shine had more reason than most to dislike their return engagement. They had spent seven weeks in a prison camp called Portholes. It was along the southern coast of North Vietnam in a town called Bao Cao. It was not a friendly place.
Womack and Shine had occupied adjacent cells that resembled chicken coops. Cramped and barren and exposed to the elements, the cells were three feet wide, six feet high, and six feet long. The men were held in wooden leg stocks and restraints.
The two hadn’t known each other prior to their capture, but during the forty-eight days and thirteen hours they spent next to one another, Womack and Shine had become as close as brothers. When one was tortured for lack of cooperation, the other asked for the same treatment. Their captors never broke them, despite their sadistic creativity.
On day forty-nine, their captors transferred them from Portholes to another camp called Skid Row outside Hanoi. It was where unhelpful POWs were sent as punishment. En route, a Cobra gunship rocket attack killed much of their transport convoy. They survived and, over the course of two weeks, found their way back to a forward operating base. C-rats, as prepackaged meals were called during the war, were a luxury for Womack and Shine. They’d eaten far worse as they worked to survive their escape from the Vietcong.
After the war, neither man had found sustained work outside of clandestine operations. Not that they hadn’t tried. Professional baby killer didn’t look good o
n the top of a résumé, and in the months after their return, that was how many civilians chose to see them.
The country wasn’t kind, and odd jobs weren’t enough to make ends meet. Thirteen days was the longest Shine had held a job. He was a short-order cook without skill. When he lost his cool at the sound of oil popping in a fry basket, he was done.
Womack survived as a day laborer, mowing yards and picking weeds. He was paid in cash, which he quickly converted to alcohol. There was no future for either man until General Reed found Womack half-asleep on the bar of a late night joint in south Philly.
He’d offered them a chance to return to the one thing at which they excelled, where they’d be rewarded for their patriotic heroism and not ridiculed for it. It started with one job and turned into three. Then ten. They’d reluctantly accepted job after job.
Shine coped with his pain by retreating within himself and reading dime-store Westerns. A once gregarious mountain of a man had become a stoic rock who rarely spoke or smiled. None of the other team members knew Shine the way Womack did. They believed he’d always been all business.
Womack maintained his embrace of expensive female company and cheap liquor. He couldn’t relate to the post-Vietnam America. It was frivolous and without purpose. Womack was happier in a fog. The only time he didn’t drink, or didn’t drink too much, was when he was on assignment. He could cope in the surrealism of covert operations, violent engagements, and heroic extractions. Reed had been right about him.
Back in the jungle again, trudging through the muck and grime of a bog, a familiar dread soaked through his body. As much as he hated the desert, southeast Asia was worse.
Phantom bolts of pain tightened around his wrists and ankles as he moved. He could hear the sharp crack of bamboo whipping against his bare back. He could feel the infection-eating maggots working to heal his wounds.
Womack aimed his MX-99 light toward Shine and then crossed a fallen log to march alongside him. Shine glanced at his boss and pursed his lips.
