Blackbone

by George Simpson

  They continued discussing submarine technology until Gebhard tired of it. He passed the soap to Kirst, and he lathered up, too. Gebhard rolled his head back and let water run into his mouth and overflow his lips. He gargled and spat. The water got warmer and he sighed gratefully.

  “Feel that?” he said. “Takes forever, but the heat comes. Usually when you’re about through.” He reached for the soap. “Nothing like this on the U-boats, eh, Kirst? The purest luxury on earth.” He soaped up a second time. “So, Kirst, how did they get you? The plane bombed your boat and you went into the water? What’s the rest of it? How were you rescued?”

  Kirst rolled his head under the spray. He almost blacked out as the thing rushed up inside him and slammed the mental doors it had opened earlier. He stood there like a department-store mannequin, the spray running into his open eyes and mouth and down his body. When he returned to reality only seconds later, Gebhard was repeating his question.

  Kirst searched for the answer but could find neither words nor thoughts. His mind kept hitting a black wall. His frustration mounted as Gebhard studied him oddly. He wanted to answer the question, wanted desperately to regain control of himself and scream out the truth, but he couldn’t. Something must have shown on his face because Gebhard was looking at him oddly, but then he realized it was pure curiosity—Gebhard had asked him something, and Kirst hadn’t answered.

  I have to answer! he screamed at the black wall.

  His arm rose. His hand gripped the valve and shut off the spray then stretched out toward Gebhard, motioning for the soap. Gebhard gave it to him. Kirst had no idea what he was doing or why. His legs propelled him out of the shower area and over to the long sink. The mirror was fogged, but he turned the tap and ran water and began to lather his face with soap.

  A shave!

  The thing inside had rooted around in his mind for the next obvious thing Kirst would do after a shower, and it had come up with a shave. Fascinated and detached, he watched his hand spread soap over his stubble. Then it reached for a razor attached to a wall hook by a length of chain. His fingers opened the blade and ran it across the strop beneath the mirror.

  The razor was motionless in his hand as his eyes locked on the cloudy mirror.

  Everything was still for a moment, then the blackness tingled mischievously inside him and he grew aware of an urge, a pressing desire to bring that razor up to his bared throat. He fought it but the urge was stronger. The tingle ran down his hand holding the razor. The blackness pulsed in his head, mocking him with insane, thunderous laughter. His fear mounted. The blackness reached out and devoured it hungrily. But that didn’t sate it. It wanted more. Kirst trembled inside as his hand was forced to the mirror surface to wipe away a clear space so that he could see to shave. To shave, he screamed inside. His hand holding the razor was forced up.

  Gebhard switched off his shower and reached for his towel. He was humming to himself.

  Kirst’s palm wiped the glass in broad strokes. His eyes were shut. The razor was at his throat. The blackness boiled inside him, hysterically happy, feeding off his terror.

  His eyes flew open and he saw his reflection, and it must have been the one thing it hadn’t counted on, because the horror that shot through Kirst at what he saw was not devoured. It too was shocked at this single moment of lost control. Because where Kirst’s face should have been were a pair of deep feral eyes, monstrous snarling jaws, sallow mottled skin, and reptilian scales. It was like no animal Kirst had ever seen. It flung him backward, recoiling in anger, ripping through him in an uncontrollable rage. It whipped him around and, through his eyes, stared at Gebhard—poor surprised Gebhard, who stood confused with the towel to his body—and then it made Kirst snatch up his gear—his clothing and towel —and run away from the mirror, out the door, and down the steps, making him dash naked across the compound.

  Gebhard missed seeing the image in the mirror. He saw only Kirst bolting from the hut and assumed that he ran because he couldn’t explain to a submariner how he had survived two days and nights in the freezing Atlantic. Why? Gebhard asked himself. Because he had something to hide?

  The djinn laughed inside Kirst, a soundless laugh that sent blackness rippling through Kirst’s body. He stopped and flung himself against a tree and sobbed in front of the prisoners lounging outside the rec hut. They stared at him. He tried to get dressed but fumbled with his shorts, suddenly panicked about his nakedness.

  The djinn bellowed dark laughter into his ears and rushed to his loins.

  Kirst felt a warmth build in his crotch. He looked down and saw his penis thicken and lengthen until it stood out from his body in a stiff purple arch—massive, threatening, bigger than he had ever seen it in his life. He groaned and prayed that it wouldn’t burst, and he cursed the dark tenant that filled it.

  The men at the rec hut spotted his giant erection. They pointed and laughed.

  The djinn let Kirst struggle with his shorts. He stumbled about, trying to get them up over his knees then over that massive aching bone. He fell against the tree and choked out a sob, despair wracking his throat—

  And filling the djinn with pleasurable sustenance.

  Gradually, the djinn withdrew, and Kirst’s erection subsided. He dressed hurriedly, ignoring the men at the rec hut. When he looked up, weak and wanting nothing more than a bed to lie on and warm covers to pull over his body, he saw two MPs marching toward him. They were grinning.

  Kirst sat in Loats’ posing chair again, limp and disinterested as the sergeant adjusted his flash and loaded the Speed Graphic. Loats was chuckling with the two MPs. Kirst knew they were joking about his cock. He heard words like horse and stallion and knew exactly what they were saying. Well, the hell with them. He fought to keep himself calm, not wanting to alert the imp in his gut. He could feel it curled up there like a little black ball, sated from feeding off his terror. But he knew that it slept with one eye open and, if he so much as blurted a word about its existence, it would roar through his body like an enraged lion. He had no desire to test it.

  “Okay, Herr Leutnant Horse-cock,” Loats said, “let’s see if you can look pretty this time.”

  The ball stirred in his stomach and started to spread. But the flash went off before the djinn could emerge from its slumbering torpor. The explosion of light so terrified the djinn that it slammed Kirst’s body backward violently. He flew from the chair and skidded across the floor.

  Loats and the two MPs stared at him in amazement.

  Kirst was conscious of furious blackness boiling inside his head, obscuring his vision. Through a whipping dark cloud, he glimpsed the three Americans bending over him, conversing, worried. His eyelids fluttered and he felt himself losing consciousness and, as he slipped into limbo, he was aware of the imp’s rage and helplessness, and the image of the fence around the compound loomed in his mind, the fence and a sensation of freedom and a vicious anger that he wouldn’t stay awake because—

  It forced his eyes open.

  Because he had to stay awake. He was needed. The imp needed him to express his needs—its needs—it had to stay outside the fence—why outside the fence?—awake—stay awake so you can tell them—tell them what?—tell them you need—you need a doctor!—their doctor!—the one with the—

  Kirst got an image of eyeglasses.

  Borden, you want Borden? The American doctor? Why?

  Awake—stay awake—

  But Kirst slipped into unconsciousness, for one brief second feeling true happiness at the imp’s displeasure.

  Chapter 11

  “What about the picture?” Gilman said. “Did you get it?”

  Loats shook his head. “Didn’t come out. The negative is a blur. When the flash went off, he flew right the hell out of that chair, sir. Banged his head on the floor, out like a light.”

  Gilman grunted and looked down at Kirst, lying unconscious on a cot in Borden’s dispensary. Borden finished examining him and rose, puzzled.

  “No sign of conc
ussion. No bruise, bump, no blood. I don’t see any reason why he should be unconscious.”

  “He’s faking.” Hopkins stepped forward, hands on his hips, glaring at Kirst.

  “Thank you, Dr. Hopkins,” said Gilman. “Send us a bill for the consultation.”

  “Well, sir, that’s my opinion. Back in the third grade, I knew a guy used to faint—just pass right out—whenever it looked like he’d have to do something he didn’t like. Eyes would roll back up in his head, knees would buckle—always managed to land on something soft, though.”

  “Your head,” muttered Borden.

  “I heard that.”

  Gilman stepped between them. “This isn’t helping. Borden, what’s your recommendation?”

  Borden glanced at Kirst then at his watch. “Getting close to evening mess, Major. I say let him sleep it off. Well check him when he wakes and, if nothing’s wrong, send him back inside.”

  Hopkins was horrified. “You mean keep him here—in our hospital?”

  “Spare us the moral outrage,” said Gilman. “Sergeant Loats, can we live without a picture?”

  Loats scratched his chin. “I don’t know, sir. What if he escapes and we can’t show anybody what he looks like?”

  “That’s why he’s not staying here.” Gilman looked down at Kirst. “If he’s sucking us into a game, then he’d better find other players. Major Borden, have him sent back to camp and placed on sick call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hopkins, have you done anything about moving that fence yet?”

  “Uh, no, sir—haven’t received the materials from supply”

  “Why don’t you give them a nudge?”

  Hopkins glared once more at Kirst then left. Borden followed Gilman to the door. “You’re the commandant, sir, but medically speaking, I think we ought to keep this man under observation. He might have an aggravated condition that we don’t know about.”

  Gilman nodded. “We’ve all got aggravated conditions, Borden—some medical, some psychological If he knows what it is and it bothers him enough, he’ll say something about it.”

  “That’s a kind of cold-blooded way to look at it. Suppose he’s got a tumor or a growth or something, and he’s just not aware of it.”

  “He’s not going to tell us the truth. He’s not obliged to. He’s a prisoner of war. The only way he can continue fighting in this camp is to lie, disrupt and confound us, the enemy. If he’s hurting, let him convince his own people first. Send him back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Borden opened the door. Gilman hunched his jacket tighter and marched out into the cold. Borden closed the door and paused to light a cigarette, reflecting on the exigencies of command. If he were in Gilman’s shoes, would he behave the same way? Probably. The greater good. When you’re dealing with the enemy, assume deceit until proved otherwise. Drawing deeply on the cigarette, Borden strolled back to the ward and stopped at the first bed.

  Kirst was sitting up on the cot, watching him.

  “So, Gebhard, what were you pulling in the shower, eh?” Snickers ran round the rec hut as Dortmunder fixed Gebhard with a prissy grin. “Now we learn the truth, eh? Secrets of submarine life.”

  Open guffaws.

  Dortmunder was Luftwaffe, though how anyone so huge and brawny could ever have squeezed himself into the cockpit of a fighter was a subject of bored speculation among many of his comrades. He sat at a card table with his ever-present crony, Hoffman, another pilot—short and wiry. They were the camp needlers, and they kept their sanity by picking on everyone’s Achilles heel.

  Gebhard ignored them and stayed where he was, stretched out on one of the two ratty sofas. Hut 10 was the prisoners’ day room, their recreation center, as large as a barracks hut but without the dividing partitions. It was a long single room supplied with card tables, busted- down chairs, a windup phonograph, and a stack of 78s that dated from the early 1930s. There were Spanish- language magazines, children’s books, and even some tattered restaurant menus to read—all courtesy of Hopkins and his perverse sense of humor. Mostly it was a place for the prisoners to hang out, smoke, chat, play cards, and trade lies.

  “I saw a cock that big once,” said Hoffman, “on a bull in a French pasture. We cut it off and had it stuffed. I had it with me when I was shot down. An American officer took it. God knows what he did with it.”

  Dortmunder snorted. “What’s Kirst going to do with his? There isn’t an asshole in this camp big enough for that.”

  Hoffman grinned. “Yes, there is. Hopkins.”

  Gebhard tuned them out, staring at the ceiling with his hands tucked behind his head, filled with anger—not so much at Dortmunder and Hoffman because their behavior was normal, but very much at Kirst. Running out of the shower hut exposing himself, he had set everyone to speculating: Had he and Gebhard been engaged in a little meat-flashing? Embarrassing to Kirst but more so to Gebhard. And why? Why run out there with his maypole waving? To deliberately cast Gebhard in a bad light?

  Gebhard ruminated on that and saw a pattern emerging. Frightened by Gebhard’s questioning his miraculous rescue at sea, Kirst flees to the compound, displays himself, and is conveniently picked up by the MPs and escorted out the gate. What for?

  Cause and effect. Gebhard reached a simple conclusion: Kirst was not what he appeared to be.

  Laughter trailed off around him and he looked at what everybody else was looking at: Kirst—standing motionless in the doorway with nothing to indicate life other than his eyes, which fixed on Gebhard liquidly—and sent a chill up his spine.

  Borden sat at the staff table, picking at his evening meal. Blish tore into a steak, Cosco carefully arranged peas on the edge of his plate before tackling his meat, and Gilman ate efficiently. Hopkins was trying to convince Gilman of the merits of rousting prisoners at odd hours. Gilman listened but kept shaking his head.

  Borden kept seeing Kirst sitting up on the cot in the dispensary, eyeing him like an amoeba under a microscope. There was something about the man that gave Borden the willies. He searched his mind, sure that he had seen that look before, in another war....

  “Major, I have been dealing with these krauts a long time,” Hopkins insisted, “and I know all their tricks. Take this new guy, Kirst.”

  “What about him?”

  “An actor. A performer, a phony-baloney. I’ll give you hundred-to-one odds this is just the beginning with him. He’s going to pull every gag in the book until we don’t know what he’ll try next, then all of a sudden—wham!”

  “Wham?”

  Hopkins made a burrowing gesture. “Right through the gate and out of sight. And what will we be able to say about him? Not one single consistent thing, that’s what.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing, sir. You don’t have to do a thing. Just let me get him alone for a little bit and I’ll find out what he’s up to. Use a little muscle, that’s all. Not much, just enough to make him squirm.”

  Gilman put down his fork and glared at Hopkins. “What were you in your previous life, Hopkins? The Grand Inquisitor?”

  Hopkins shrugged.

  “I told you before—we’re not going to torture those men. If they start trouble, we’ll stop it. But we’re not going to provoke them. Do you understand?”

  Hopkins grudgingly nodded. Gilman picked up his fork and resumed eating. Borden thought of Kirst, lying like a sack of potatoes up against one of the huts after a little of Hopkins’ treatment... eyes open and staring, half dead.

  And then he remembered where he had seen that look before. On the face of a German soldier whom he had just bayoneted, lying spread-eagled over the edge of a trench on the last day of the Great War. No hatred in his eyes, only a dull surprise.

  On the cot this afternoon, Kirst had given him that dull surprised look, but only in the position of his features, slack-jawed and pained. The eyes. The eyes had flashed something else: cold, calculated something...

  Something what?

>   Then Borden realized why he couldn’t eat, and what he had seen in Kirst’s eyes.

  Cold, calculated hunger.

  During the prisoners’ evening mess, Kirst sat surrounded by Naval, Luftwaffe, and Army officers downing lentil soup and bread. In response to their questions, the djinn had him painting a picture of war-ravaged Germany vainly trying to stave off the inevitable. As they listened to him, they grew increasingly depressed, which delighted the djinn as it fed on their emotions. Kirst was conscious only of being a conduit—out went the words, in came the emotions, which in turn assaulted him and supplied the djinn with added sustenance.

  He still knew it only as a blackness that now and then obscured his vision, that raised dark walls in his mind, that flooded throughout his system and could settle anywhere and everywhere—now as a tight, weighted ball in the pit of his stomach—now as a churning fire—now as a freezing numbness—now as an aching hunger. He called it the “imp” when he could barely tolerate it. At other times it had other names—foul, disgusting names that hardly came close to describing what he felt about it. But mostly he felt only helplessness, and a slow drain on his emotions that he knew in the end would leave him a desiccated husk. Now, while it was active, he had an overriding sense that it was no longer the tenant in his body, but that he was. Rolf Kirst was trapped inside a body no longer his own, and all he wanted now was to be out and gone. Leave it behind, leave it to the imp.

  Kirst tried to eat his soup, but there was something in it the imp didn’t like, so it would only let him munch on bread. In their mutual silence, he screamed at it that he had to have food, that if he didn’t eat he would die. Then what would happen to you? he asked the imp. It never answered.

  Gebhard now dominated the conversation and was bombarding Kirst with technical questions about the U-boats, trying to trip him up. The djinn fed on Gebhard’s suspicions and mocked him by pouring answers through Kirst’s lips as if by rote. Torpedo range variations, characteristics of the magnetic exploder, advantages of electric drive...