Blackbone

by George Simpson

  Outside, in its place, the nightform drifted away from the hut. It re-formed as the black wildcat and ran a short distance away then turned to crouch in the open as Vinge came charging out of the shower hut, his right hand scrabbling for his sidearm, his left awkwardly bent, trying to pull the glass out of his back. He was screaming curses. The gun came out and he looked wildly for the German—

  Then he saw the cat.

  The cat rose and crept toward him, emitting a low, throaty growl. It bared its fangs and hissed loudly and its steady pace became a lope.

  Vinge stumbled backward, no longer cursing, letting out a long sustained yell as he pumped shots into the night. When the gun was empty, he looked for the body—

  And saw nothing.

  Something cold rushed up around his ears, a chill breeze out of nowhere. It made him instantly lightheaded. He spun around and beat at the air, but saw only blackness. A sob caught in his throat. He shut his eyes and wished for it to go away. In the midst of his terror, he heard whistles and the hissing of arc lamps going on, the creak of the gate, running feet....

  Vinge opened his eyes and looked around. He was alone except for the MPs charging down the slope toward him.

  Chapter 13

  The Germans hurried from their huts, pulling on trousers and shoes and buttoning shirts. Swept by searchlights and responding to harsh cries of “Schnell! Schnell!” they formed up in the yard in front of the huts and stood for roll call, all 231 of them, surrounded by MPs with automatic weapons.

  A short distance away, Vinge stooped over a box while Borden worked on his back, picking bits of glass out of his flesh with a pair of tweezers, soaking the minor wounds with alcohol. Vinge bore it stoically, his eyes glued vengefully to the Germans standing before him.

  Hopkins paced back and forth a short distance away, rolling a cigarette through his fingers and drawing on it frequently, giving the Germans a baleful gaze while he plotted reprisals.

  Steuben emerged from the shower hut behind Gilman. They came forward grimly. Cosco finished calling the roll and reported to Gilman, “All present and accounted for, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Hopkins glared at Bruckner and gave Churchill a particularly hateful look. The dog sat on its haunches at the end of a leash that Bruckner held tightly in his fist—it panted at Hopkins and licked its lips.

  “Major Steuben,” said Gilman, “will you please explain the situation to your men?”

  Steuben turned. With his men still at attention, he spoke to them in German, nodding in Vinge’s direction. “Sergeant Vinge reports that in a routine inspection of the shower hut he was attacked by a concealed prisoner. This prisoner threw an unidentified weapon at him. It missed him but shattered the washbasin mirror. The attacker then fled. Vinge pursued but was unable to apprehend him.”

  The Germans muttered among themselves as Borden translated Steuben’s words for Gilman. Satisfied, Gilman hunkered down with Vinge.

  “Sergeant, are you sure it was a German?”

  “Dead sure, sir.”

  “Could you recognize him?”

  Vinge hesitated, “f only got a glimpse, sir, but... yeah, I think I could pick him out.”

  Kirst stood at attention in the third rank along with everyone else, watching Borden tape gauze to Vinge’s back. Lulled by the blackness clouding his mind, he had no recollection of the evening’s adventure. He remembered going to sleep at lights-out but nothing else until Gebhard forcibly wakened him to stumble outside with the others.

  Vinge shrugged into a jacket provided by another MP then began trudging down the front rank of prisoners, gazing into faces. Gilman, Steuben, and Hopkins formed a little parade behind him.

  As Vinge rounded the end of the first rank and started along the second, the imp opened a little window inside Kirst’s mind and gave him a fuzzy replay of the night’s events. Kirst stood stiffly staring into space, seeing not the men in front of him and the sweeping searchlights but the interior of the shower hut from a point of view almost at floor level. He saw the mirror, the darkness, the man at the back urinal—Vinge taking a piss. He saw Vinge come forward, stop at the mirror, examine his face in its reflection. Then Vinge froze, turned suddenly, fear in his eyes—

  Fear rising inside Kirst, heart pounding, dreading what he would see, what the imp would make him feel—

  The mirror exploded. Glass embedded in Vinge’s back. His scream. His look directly at—

  The little head movie ended. Vinge was at the end of the second rank now, and Kirst’s nerves went on edge. He knew he hadn’t been out of bed tonight. He knew he hadn’t been back to the shower hut. The imp had gone.... But why did it want him to see what had happened? His leg quivered. He felt his knees threaten to buckle as anxiety overwhelmed him.

  Vinge came down the third rank. Gebhard was four men ahead of Kirst and was turning to stare at him.

  Go screw yourself, Gebhard—it wasn’t me!

  The blackness danced inside Kirst’s head, devouring his anxiety, which mounted as Vinge drew closer.

  Vinge knew the face he was looking for—no doubt in his mind. He glanced at each pair of stiff, staring eyes. He reached Gebhard and passed him by, and the man after him, and after that, and another and then—

  He stopped in front of Kirst.

  The imp buzzed. Blood pounded in Kirst’s ears. Fire burned his brain.

  Vinge was very still for just a moment, then his hands lashed out, grabbed Kirst, and lifted him off the ground. “Sonofabitch!” he screamed in Kirst’s face.

  Gilman and Hopkins Restrained him.

  Then Steuben was nose-to-nose with Kirst, staring intently and angrily at him. Kirst glanced around. The prisoners were turning to see who Vinge had nailed. Vinge shook Hopkins off, pointed a finger at Kirst, and announced, “That’s him! That’s the one I saw!”

  “Did you do it, Kirst?” said Steuben.

  “Do what, Major?” Kirst surprised himself: inside he was going insane with terror, and the imp was wildly feeding off it but still controlling his voice, making it come out calm, innocent.

  “Did you attack the American sergeant?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Were you in the shower hut tonight?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you leave Hut Seven?”

  “Only for roll call, Major.”

  Steuben looked around. “Is that right, Eckmann? Gebhard?” Gebhard looked away and refused to answer. Eckmann reported that Kirst had been the first one asleep in their room and, as far as he knew, hadn’t left the hut. He was corroborated by Schliebert, another prisoner from the same room. Steuben relayed all this to Gilman.

  Vinge reddened and took another step forward. Gilman grabbed him. “You only got a glimpse, Sergeant,” he said. “Let’s be sure. You want to look a little more?”

  “No, I don’t want to look! Sir, that’s him! I’m positive.”

  Gilman hesitated, uncertain what to do. Hopkins moved up. “Let me handle this, sir,” he said. “You don’t know these people and their bullshit tricks, Major. He’s not going to tell you he did it. You gotta make him want to tell. Let me just turn the screws a little bit, take him outside and teach him a little American history—”

  Kirst felt the imp stop its excited movements briefly, reacting to Hopkins. It moved his head slightly, focused his eyes on Hopkins, boring into him.

  “No,” said Gilman. “He stays inside.”

  “Sir—” Hopkins protested.

  “Put a detail together and get that glass cleaned up.”

  “Why not make the Germans do it?”

  “Because they might use the pieces to slit American throats, Hopkins. And somehow I don’t think they’d start with mine.”

  Hopkins glanced around, aware that he wasn’t among friends. “They’re prisoners,” he snapped. “They have to be reminded who’s boss.”

  “And who is?”

  Hopkins backed down with a thin smile. “Can’t understand you
, Major—sympathizing with the krauts after the way they chewed you up in France...”

  “Get moving, Captain.”

  Hopkins motioned several MPs to follow him to the shower hut.

  Gilman turned back to Steuben. Indicating Kirst and Vinge, he said, “I’m not inclined to call either of these men a liar, but somebody broke that mirror. I don’t think Vinge did it—he’d have to be a contortionist to end up with glass in his back, also devious and pathologically vengeful. On the other hand, it didn’t look to me as if anyone threw anything at that mirror. It looks as if it exploded off the wall. How I haven’t a clue. The fact remains that Kirst—”

  He frowned, unsure how to finish the thought. Kirst has been consistently weird since his arrival? Gilman detected the same unease in Steuben. Both men glanced at Kirst and saw only a stony-faced officer standing at attention.

  Then Gilman noticed that nearly everybody—all the prisoners—were looking at Kirst—if not looking at him, at least thinking about him, or so it seemed.

  “Well... something has to be done,” Gilman said. “So I’m withdrawing privileges for all prisoners until this matter is settled through further investigation. The shower hut is off limits.” Gilman flashed Kirst a look. “For everybody. I’m sure you can explain why, Major.”

  Steuben nodded.

  “You may dismiss your men.”

  Gilman hiked up the hill, listening to Steuben’s voice ringing across the compound in German.

  German. Hopkins had struck a nerve. Gilman wondered how he could escape the fact that these Germans entrusted to his care were soldiers of the same army that had butchered his command in France? Confusion. Guilt. If only he had used some tact. Couldn’t he have simply agreed with the general then ignored his orders and risked the consequences? No, he had felt compelled to argue logic, when he should have played the game. He failed his men. And now here he was charged with the well-being of the enemy.

  Why should you care if Hopkins wants to torture Germans? You know why. Because now they are your command.

  Back in the barracks hut up in the MP compound, Vinge fended off questions from his buddies. He cashed in a poker debt with Chilton, settling for a half-bottle of bourbon, which he downed in twenty minutes. Then he stripped down and hit the sack, lying on his belly and closing his eyes to escape the curious looks of the men around him. He felt foolish, not so much about the glass in his back or even the kraut escaping punishment...

  But that goddamned black wildcat. Where the hell had that come from? Scared shit out of him, and that made him mad.

  Cosco squatted down by the bunk, lit a cigarette, and passed it to him. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Gilman sent me to find out if you want to go on the sick list.”

  “No,” growled Vinge. “Thanks anyway, sir.”

  “You’re on patrol tomorrow night, too. I can switch you with someone else, put you on the gate or something.”

  Vinge inhaled deeply and thought about the wildcat. He hadn’t told anyone that part of the story, not Gilman, not the guys, not Borden.... Tomorrow night on patrol, he could steal some time and hunt for it. Probably came over the fence, down off Blackbone Mountain. If it liked what it saw, it would be back, and Vinge could be waiting. For once in his life, he wouldn’t run from any damned four-legged beast. Okay, so it had claws and speed and cunning.... But Vinge had a .45 strapped to his waist. His lip curled in a smile.

  “I’ll take the patrol,” he told Cosco.

  Behind him, someone applauded.

  In Hut 7 it was 0300 before the prisoners settled down and got back to sleep. There was a lot of grousing about Kirst and the order placing the showers off limits, but nobody really knew what to make of it. In Kirst’s room, they were sullen and suspicious. They lay in their bunks glancing at each other, glancing at Kirst—he had gone right back to sleep.

  Gebhard replayed events in his mind. Eckmann had reported correctly: Kirst had been the first to close his eyes after lights-out but, once they were all asleep, who would have known if Kirst had taken a midnight stroll? Didn’t make sense, though—all the noise from the shower hut—the crash of glass breaking, which some of the men heard, followed by a volley of gunshots, then whistles, then the camp being rousted—all within a couple of minutes. No time for Kirst to be in the shower hut, throw something at the mirror, and get all the way back to Hut 7 and into his bunk before...

  Gebhard frowned. It made no sense. Nothing about Kirst made any sense. He looked around at Eckmann, Schliebert, Mueller, all still awake, puzzled.

  Gebhard shrugged deeper under the covers. At least now he wasn’t alone. Now they were all wondering about Kirst.

  The djinn flooded Kirst’s body with a soothing darkness, sated from its night’s activities and pleased because it had stumbled on what it most needed in the near future—a potential new host. A wealth of repressed fear and anxiety bubbling beneath the surface, this new body would offer much greater sustaining power for the djinn. Its unstable emotional fabric would give the djinn a stronger energy base from which it could launch out and feed on others. Kirst was growing weaker emotionally. Soon he would be just a shell, a walking husk, depleted of all fear, left to wander the camp like some demented soul who has lost his god.

  The djinn chuckled soundlessly. Lost his god, most assuredly. When the true god of all men is fear.

  Fear in the host was devoured to fan the spark of life. And the terror of victims like Sergeant Vinge and Corporal Strann was food for growth.

  Much opportunity for growth in this camp, despite the unpassable walls. The djinn sucked in on itself and curled up in Kirst’s beating heart. Much opportunity... and only beginning to take shape. Fear on the rise. Anger, confusion, ultimately panic... as it was in Ur-Tawaq... and cities before that... it would be that way here... only this time it would be different... the djinn would get out... pass through the walls inside the host, then leave the host and find another more wide- ranging host. ...

  The one outside... the one with the so-well-concealed fears... concealed to all but the djinn... nothing escapes the djinn....

  Soundless laughter thundered in Kirst’s brain. But he was no longer terrified by it. Fear was becoming a hard tune to play—the more he produced, the more the imp wanted. He was distantly conscious of having not much more to give.

  Smoke and mist. The smell of death on the cold morning air. Scorched earth and jagged tree stumps. Bits of shrapnel covered with gleaming dew. Craters rimmed with mounds of dirt and exposed roots. Shattered weapons and human limbs. Crushed and pulpy corpses stiffened into grotesque statues of flesh and bone. Rivers of blood spilling off rocks, down the sloping meadow, seeping into the ground...

  French soil. Foreign ground. American soldiers splayed about the hill like clumps of seaweed on a beach. Dozens more blown to bits and scattered over the ground...

  Window Hill.

  Gilman’s boots squashing in the crimson mud, stopping to examine the men of his battalion, the men he had fought with, joked with, counseled in their fear and helped through the war...

  Gilman moves on, drawn to the faces but afraid to look because, in the end, each face he looks into is his own....

  Toeing over a corpse, the head—severed between the jaws—rolls off and stops against a rock. Teeth bite into burnt earth. Shock-filled eyes stare back at Gilman. His own eyes, his own bulging blue eyes stare back at him asking why—why?

  Gilman sat bolt upright on his cot, his head pounding, blood pumping furiously in his veins, sweat pouring off his brow. He blinked away salty wetness.

  Where are the men? Where are the men?

  He could feel the boots on his feet and the cold ground beneath them, then gradually the past began to fade and he saw where he was....

  The darkened room in the commandant’s private quarters, Blackbone Military Detention Facility. His own tiny room with its single window overlooking the prison compound, the lone cot and heavy oak schoolteacher’s desk, the wardrobe with the full-len
gth mirror, the yellow- enameled dresser, the portraits of President Roosevelt and Ike, the dresser caddy with his tie clasps and collar stays...

  Gilman shut his eyes and tried to hold on to the dream, trying to remember those other Gilmans staring back at him on the French battlefield at Window Hill.

  The dream was nearly all he had brought back from France. Certainly he had left the better part of himself on that bloody, mist-shrouded hill.

  Gilman fell against the blankets, rubbing his face in the wool. Then he rolled off the cot and stood up, his body clammy with sweat. The floor was cold. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He tried to shake the dream by thinking of something eke and ended up trading one trauma for another.

  Nona.

  They were supposed to have married when the war ended. But when he returned from France, his spirit broken, she was there to meet him in New York at Grand Central Station. Standing on the platform as he came off the train, she told him it was foolish to wait any longer. Now that he was home, they should marry immediately.

  She gave him an aching, sympathetic smile and told him she shared his pain. He had written to her about Window Hill, had poured it all out to her in his letters. And her solution was written in that smile: “I’m going to reward you for failing, for being weak and proving you are only human. I am going to marry you for it.”

  He refused. She played the wounded woman. He told her she was posturing. He said that he was no longer the man she had loved, that he would never be that man again. She couldn’t believe he had changed so much: he still looked the same, just a bit tired and gaunt. He told her the war had scarred him forever, but the scars were inside, not worn on his chest where she could be proud of them.

  She followed him out of the station, protesting that she wanted to be helpful and understanding. He rejected her help and told her that by destroying their romance, he was doing her a service. He didn’t deserve happiness. He had sacrificed it on the battlefield.