Death of the Planet of the Apes

by Andrew E. C. Gaska

  Just as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

  Rowark came over the radio again. “Son of a—”

  The sky ruptured with light. Explosions rocked the shivering fighter craft. Bursts of fire ballooned as shells detonated around them.

  They were under attack.

  * * *

  “Can’t get clear,” Tagliante said. Zigging when he should have zagged, he just wasn’t fast enough. A cannon shell sheared off his port wing. As the crippled P-40 began to spin, another shell crashed through its cockpit.

  Rowark was next as an exploding shell clipped his rudder.

  “I’m out, Taylor!” the radio blared. “See you downside!”

  Then there was static.

  Unable to see anything in the soup of clouds, Taylor could only guess that Rowark had gone into the drink. At that moment he had his own problems. Something slammed into his P-40, throwing him into a spin. Taylor squinted and gritted his teeth, ready for the blast.

  It didn’t come. Instead, his engine began to sputter. Pressing his face against the canopy, he couldn’t see what had happened, but he could guess—he had taken an engine hit. Somehow, the 20mm shell had been a dud. Lodged in the turbocharger, it had failed to detonate.

  “Lucky, lucky…” Taylor muttered.

  The shock had taken its toll on the motor, however—she sputtered and stalled.

  Killed the turbine, he realized. Amid a rapid array of explosions, Taylor spiraled downward. If he could get her to a lower altitude, though, he knew he could restart his P-40’s engine without the wrecked turbocharger. The question was, at that speed could he restart her and pull up before he smashed into the ocean?

  “Let’s find out,” he mumbled aloud. He cranked the electric starter, but it wasn’t having any of it.

  Dead, he reckoned.

  So was he, if he didn’t move fast. Running out of airspace, Taylor threw the P-40 into an even steeper dive. Increasing rotation speed, he spun her around, windmilling the propeller. In the infernal fog, he couldn’t gauge how much altitude he still had as the ocean rushed up to greet him.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he begged the plane, “don’t let a guy down.”

  With that, she sprung to life.

  Taylor yanked hard. Muscles strained and metal ground. Angry painted eyes glared and white triangle teeth gnashed. Flaps deployed and the air itself defied them.

  Timid, begrudgingly, the plane pulled up. No longer careening head-first into the ocean, she skimmed it instead. One of her landing gear doors popped open and snapped loose, a victim of friction. He pulled up a bit, lest the aircraft caught the waves again and somersaulted into oblivion.

  High above, muffled explosions and murky flashes of light peppered the clouds. Down below, the sea air was thick with salt and brine. Taylor flew his fighter through the foggy gloom. Mimicking his P-40’s painted shark face, he cracked a toothy grin—he’d made it. All he had to do was get close to an Allied ship or base, and ditch. One way or another, though, he was out of the fight.

  He sighed in relief.

  Up ahead, dark shapes threw strange shadows across the sky.

  There was something in the water.

  “Oh, shi—”

  The Warhawk barreled through a wall of machine-gun fire. Burning metal jackets tore through the fuselage. Shrapnel chewed the spent engine. Unable to see anything clearly in the relentless haze, Taylor pulled up and over a massive shape—a Japanese destroyer. Her gun crews had been blanketing the sky with shells, and they had just punched his ticket.

  Finally giving up, the engine sighed and burst into flames.

  Smoke filled the cockpit. Groping through it, the coughing pilot grabbed his survival pack. Hitting the flaps and banking hard, he stalled, threw open the canopy, and tumbled out. Flak found the undetonated shell lodged in his engine casing. The P-40 Warhawk blossomed into an expanding plume of orange-red, muted by the gray haze that hugged the sea.

  Fiery debris danced across the waves.

  * * *

  Taylor broke the surface, gasping for air. His right arm was limp, pain sizzled through his shoulder—he had dislocated it when he hit the water. Squirming, starting to go under again, he twisted and pulled. With a pop, the arm went back into its socket. He screamed beneath the waves, and brine filled his lungs.

  Stubbornly he pushed himself to the surface again. Wet salt stung his eyes, seared his throat, and burned his nostrils. Sputtering and treading water, he watched as the waves extinguished the last flaming bits of his aircraft. Aside from a floating wing here and a propeller blade there, the remnants of the P-40 Warhawk were swallowed by the swell.

  With one eye open, he waited.

  * * *

  Voices barked in Japanese. Piercing the fog, they echoed over the rolling waves.

  Blood burned in his temples.

  His labored breath rang in his ears.

  The voices moved off, getting further away. As the ocean calmed, Taylor inflated his emergency raft. Pulling himself into it, he scanned the sky for a break in the mist. Wet as they were, he still had his pocket maps. All he needed was a star to figure out where the hell he was, and which direction was land.

  All he wanted now was to go home.

  Favoring his sore shoulder, Taylor reached for his paddle. He never noticed the drifting Japanese patrol boat that had been deployed to look for him. Never saw the rifle butt that smashed into the side of his head.

  He did get to see stars.

  * * *

  It was the screaming that roused him.

  George Taylor awoke with a start. He sat up in haste, pushing through a thick wall of humidity. Immediately he regretted it. His head throbbing, a torrent of nausea overtook him. As he bit back bile, a foul stench of feces and rotting meat invaded his nostrils. Insistent, the bile returned, and this time he let it.

  When he was done his sore lips and dry throat told him that he was dehydrated. His head wound was tender, the blood caked in his scalp. The Japanese soldier who had struck him had hit hard. Taylor had no idea how long he had been out.

  In a small dirty hut with six other men, the young pilot had been stripped to his skivvies. His arms were tied behind his back and his legs bound together. The other prisoners of war were in the same condition or worse. The pungent smell of rot that filled the hut came from a man sitting in the far corner—from the necrotic remains of his arm, to be exact. Catatonic, the rotting man stared into the void.

  Although Taylor couldn’t see well enough to be sure, he believed all the men were American. Then he recognized one of them.

  “Eddie,” he whispered.

  The other pilot was bruised and battered, with one eye swollen shut. He was unconscious.

  Outside, the screams continued. There was a small gap at the base of the wall, between the hut’s posts—just enough to let a bit of light into the murk of the stifling sweatbox. Lowering himself awkwardly to the floor, he pressed his face against the opening and squinted as his eyes adjusted to daylight.

  A pair of legs greeted him.

  A soldier stood guard with his back to the hut, his attention fixed on the commotion. Judging from the buildings, beach, and trees, the POWs were being held in a village on a Pacific island. Outside, a troop of Japanese soldiers had rounded up the local women and children. They were all of Asian descent.

  Chinese? Taylor considered briefly.

  The soldiers were upon them. As some of the local men rushed to the families’ aid, they were shot dead. Taylor shut his eyes, but the sounds remained. Tortured pleas mixed with sick laughter, screams of pain met with a gurgling of blood or the report of a rifle.

  He struggled against the ropes that held him.

  The Japanese sentry noticed.

  A boot to the face, and Taylor was out again.

  * * *

  Taylor and Rowark were marched outside. It had been days—he had lost track of how many. Weeks, maybe.

  The POWs had been given little food, and what
they had received was usually fouled. Most of them had died from their wounds, until only the two pilots and the still-catatonic rotting man remained in the hut.

  A pit had been dug on the beach, and eight men Taylor didn’t know had been lowered into it before it was filled with wet sand. Buried to their chests, the men were immobilized. The two pilots were led to the edge of the pit, spaced about three feet apart, and made to stand there. Leaning toward Rowark, Taylor spoke out the side of his mouth.

  “Any idea—”

  “No,” Rowark breathed. Neither knew who the other prisoners were. Taylor only knew that they were important somehow—and that they weren’t American. He and Rowark were forced to kneel. Guards came from behind, dragging the rotting man up beside them. Still in a stupor, he wavered on his knees but kept his balance.

  The officer in charge approached them, leaning down to meet Rowark’s gaze. Like the rest of the captors, he wore khaki shorts and a cap. On one side of his belt was a holstered Type 94 Nambu pistol. On the other was a Type 94 shin guntõ—a Japanese officer’s sword—in a metal scabbard suspended from two brass mounts. Stabbing his finger toward the buried men, the officer shouted at the three Americans in Japanese.

  Neither pilot had any idea what was going on.

  When Rowark failed to reply, the officer turned his attention to the buried men and gave an order. As the soldiers spit on them, the men pleaded in some Asian dialect. The officer called his troops to attention, their rifles unslung and their bayonets at the ready.

  On his order, they charged. As the trapped men were butchered, Rowark shut his eyes. This time, Taylor couldn’t.

  When the screaming became muffled whimpers, the officer produced a submachine gun, spraying the pit with bullets and ending the carnage. After a moment’s pause, he leaned in again—focused on Taylor.

  This time, he whispered instead of yelling.

  Taylor struggled to grasp the words. It was a threat, that much he knew.

  “I…” he started, “I don’t understand—”

  “Don’t say anything,” Rowark warned.

  The officer drew his blade. The soldiers pushed the rotting man forward. There were flies coming off of his diseased arm—the insects buzzed all around.

  One swift stroke, and the rotting man’s head rolled across the sand.

  “You son of a—” Rowark tried to stand. The soldiers were on him, kicking him back down.

  Taylor stared at the sands as they soaked up the blood, leaving only a damp red stain.

  The swordsman approached.

  Taylor was next.

  The officer shouted at Eddie again. He had recognized Rowark as the most senior Allied officer they had captured. They had gotten whatever it was they wanted from the buried men and then used them to threaten the second lieutenant. Whatever else they were after, they thought Rowark had it. Taylor and the rotting man were just fodder to get him to break.

  The soldiers pushed Taylor forward. He straightened his shoulders. Raised his chin.

  “Taylor, George,” he said. “Second Lieutenant, United States Army Air Force. Service number 0109047818—”

  The officer raised his sword, but Taylor refused to close his eyes. The shin guntõ blade gleamed.

  From the village, there was a shout, also in Japanese. Another officer and his entourage stormed up the beach toward them. The new arrival tore into the embarrassed swordsman. The other soldiers saluted and quickly got in line with the commander. Shamed, the officer surrendered his sidearm, but kept the shin guntõ.

  Rowark and Taylor were hauled back to the hut. Just before they reached it, Taylor saw the disgraced officer fall on his own sword. He didn’t know what it meant, and he didn’t care.

  They were alive.

  * * *

  It was night, and the new commander had fed them. Their arms had been untied and the food had been clean. Their dog tags had been returned, and they had even been given a smoke each. For prisoners of war, they were being treated well.

  “What d’ you suppose, Eddie?” Taylor exhaled.

  “I don’t know what to think.” Rowark took a last drag on his cigarette. “Prisoner exchange?”

  That crooked grin stole across George’s face again. “You mean they’re releasing us.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Eddie snapped. “I was just thinking out loud.” Angry, he flicked the spent cigarette against the wall. “They also give you a last meal and a cigarette before they shoot you,” he suggested. “Remember that!”

  The door to the hut swung wide, revealing four soldiers. While they were armed, their weapons weren’t drawn.

  A good sign, Taylor thought. They gestured outside. Suspicious, Rowark and Taylor followed. The moon was full. The two Americans were led down a torchlit path and into the village. All was quiet.

  Listening to the waves gently crash against the shore, George savored the night breeze. The pilots were taken to two small huts. Side by side with their doors open wide, they could see that each held a large tub of water. The soldiers motioned each of them inside.

  They’re letting us bathe?

  Glancing at each other, the two grimy men shrugged and entered their respective huts, each with two soldiers following behind. Inside Taylor’s hut, one of the Japanese pointed to a pipe. Taylor stretched out his arm, allowing the soldier to shackle him to it.

  Insurance, Taylor rationalized. So I don’t skip out on the bath.

  As the door closed, one of the Japanese men spoke for the first time, surprising Taylor with broken English.

  “Water cure,” he said.

  “Wha—”

  Sucker-punched, he doubled over. One man grabbed him from behind, pushing him down to the floor. Grasping at Taylor’s hair, the soldier yanked the pilot’s head back. The other pulled a soaked towel from the tub and smothered their prisoner with it. He heard the clank of a bucket, and the soldiers drenched the towel again and again.

  Pinned with the material pulled tight over his face, Taylor felt his chest seize up. He couldn’t breathe. The towel was suffocating. His ears ringing, he could hear Eddie fighting his guards in the next hut.

  Red crept over his eyes, and he knew he was passing out. As he started to go limp, the soldiers tore the towel away and released him. Taylor heaved and gasped. Tried to get up, leaning against the water-filled tub.

  He managed to get one deep draw of air.

  Before he could manage a second breath, Taylor’s head was shoved underwater. The nightmare was far from over.

  CHAPTER 6

  HOME BITTER HOME

  “Water!” Taylor exclaimed. And not a mirage.

  While he had been fighting the pig-thing, Nova had been foraging for something they could eat. What she had found was more watering hole than oasis, but it gave him what he needed most.

  Hope.

  As he scrambled off the horse, however, Taylor was cautious. He, Dodge, and Landon had camped nearby on their Forbidden Zone trek. He himself had scouted the surrounding foothills and found nothing. How could they have been this close to water and passed it by?

  “The trees…” He let the words trail off. Taylor studied the landscape with intent. While there were more dried tufts of stale green here, the foliage closest to the hole was dead.

  Poisoned?

  Regardless, they had no choice. He knelt over the murky pool, cupping the water to his mouth and taking a tentative sip.

  Fresh. He smiled. Must be fed from an underground spring.

  He nodded. Nova and the horse joined him for a drink.

  * * *

  Tokyo, Japan

  1946

  “I’ll drink to that!” Rowark cheered.

  Taylor and Rowark clinked glasses and tossed back another round of bourbon—neat. It was 1946, and the two pilots had been liberated. The Solomon Islands were taken by Allied forces, and the two pilots had been among the survivors. The Hiroshima bomb had been dropped, and Japan was occupied. The war was over.

  The two men sa
t in a small bar in the Õmori district, tying one on for the last time before they shipped back home. Nearly two years together in hell had created a bond between them that was greater than brotherhood. They were going back to their respective homes in different parts of the country, but neither of them could fathom the idea of life without the other at his side.

  So, they got shit-faced.

  It was late, nearly midnight. The bar was open past curfew only because the two pilots refused to leave. The Japanese staff did little to discourage them. No one wanted to anger Americans, especially drunk ones.

  Rowark looked dissatisfied with their latest drink.

  “Garbage,” he spouted, knocking over the empty snifter in disgust. “Barkeep!” he growled. “You’re holding out on us. I asked for Crow, not this watered-down crap.” Uncomfortable with where this looked to be going, the bartender backed away slowly, but Rowark grabbed the man by the collar and snapped him back. “Where’s the good stuff?”

  The bartender turned and looked to Taylor.

  “Want no trouble,” he murmured.

  “Eddie,” Taylor interjected, “leave the man alone. We’re in Japan, remember? They don’t have it here.”

  Rowark sobered for a second and seemed to realize for the first time exactly where he was. Letting the bartender go, he dusted him off and adjusted the man’s apron. As he did, trucks could be heard arriving outside.

  “Sorry, pal,” he mumbled. “Forgot myself for a second.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of yen and tucked it in the Japanese man’s shirt pocket. Then he turned toward the bar’s front window.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like closing time after all.”

  Three U.S. Army trucks had pulled up outside. Taylor’s first thought was that Rowark was right—the MPs were here to close the bar, and probably take them to the dry tank for the night. Only the GIs who poured off the truck weren’t MPs, and weren’t headed for the bar. Instead, they lined up across the street. Outside Nakamura Hospital.

  “Something’s up,” Taylor surmised.

  An officer appeared, addressing the men. With a blow of a whistle they charged the hospital, leaving only a lonely private to stand watch outside.