Jack Kilborn

by Afraid (lit)

  The sheriff was sure he heard Wiley say, “I’m sorry, too, Ace,” right before the pain reached a crescendo and he passed out.

  Fran huddled close to Duncan and waited in the strange purple room for her father to come back.

  My father. Fran still couldn’t get her mind around that.

  Two minutes earlier she and Duncan had been running through the woods and were stopped by what appeared to be a swamp monster, vines and sticks hanging from its body.

  “I’m Warren,” it said. “Follow me.”

  Fran followed. She’d just seen the sheriff get shot, and much as she mistrusted the man in front of her, she had to protect Duncan. Warren Streng led them to a dead deer, pressed some sort of button, and the ground opened up.

  “Slide down. I’ll be right back.”

  Fran clutched her son and they went down the ramp on their butts, Fran using the rubber grips on the bottom of her sandals to slow their descent. When they reached bottom they were in a room illuminated by black lights. The decals on her sweatshirt and Duncan’s white shoelaces and socks glowed purple.

  Above them the hatch closed. Fran startled at the sound. They’d escaped the Red-ops, yet again, but she still felt a long way from safe.

  “Is Sheriff Streng okay?” Duncan asked.

  “I don’t know, baby.”

  “Is that guy really your dad?”

  “I think so.”

  “So he’s my grandpa?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Duncan pulled away from her, trying to stand.

  “Stay close to me, baby.”

  “I’m not a baby, Mom.”

  Fran rubbed his back, like she did when he was an infant and wouldn’t go to sleep. “You’ll always be my baby, Duncan.”

  “Can I get lights like this? They’re cool.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The seconds ticked by. Fran wondered what they would do if Warren didn’t come back. She guessed this place had more rooms. There was probably food, water, weapons. And so far the Red-ops hadn’t been able to find it. Maybe they could stay here for a while, wait for them to leave. Maybe—

  A clanging sound, coming from the corner of the room. Fran noticed that some tools on the pegboard were wobbling and a wrench had fallen on the floor.

  She stood up, forcing Duncan behind her.

  “What is it, Mom?” her son whispered.

  “I don’t know, Duncan. Someone else is in here.”

  Movement, to their right, followed by a piercing shriek. Fran flinched, putting her hands up to protect her face as something flew at her. It landed on her chest and hugged her neck.

  The monkey.

  “Mathison!” Mathison jumped from Fran to her son, giving him a hug, as well. “He must have snuck in when Grandpa opened the secret door!”

  She didn’t like Duncan calling Warren Grandpa, but she didn’t press the issue.

  Instead she walked away from the monkey and child reunion and approached the pegboard, looking for weapons. Fran selected an awl and a hammer with a straight claw.

  A clang, from the surface, echoed through the room.

  “Mom?” Duncan whispered. “There’s someone coming.”

  “Come here, Duncan. Quick.”

  Duncan stood at her side, Mathison on his shoulder. Fran held the awl in one hand, the claw hammer in the other, and waited for the person to come down the slide.

  There was a noise from above. It got louder. Closer.

  “What if it’s them?” Duncan asked.

  Fran had weapons. She would fight to the death. They wouldn’t get her son. She held her breath and raised the hammer, watching as two booted feet came down the ramp.

  Warren. And he had Sheriff Streng.

  “Fran, Duncan, I need some help.”

  Warren hit a switch on the wall that closed the above hatch, then hauled the sheriff across the floor, leaving a streak of blood. In the black light it looked like motor oil.

  “Get the door,” Warren ordered.

  Duncan opened the only door in the room, which led into a bright hallway.

  “First door on the right. Fran, grab the first-aid box.”

  Fran stepped over Streng and hurried into the room. She found herself in a large storage area, filled with ranks and files of shelves. Food, paper products, boxes of all types, and on the rear wall—racks of guns.

  “Second aisle, a white footlocker, bottom shelf.”

  Fran spied it, a metal box with a suitcase handle on it, so heavy it took both hands to carry.

  “Duncan,” Warren said, his hands on the sheriff’s bleeding leg, “get some jugs of water. Last row, second shelf. Fran, pull this suit off me. And the shotgun.”

  Warren wore a camouflage holster on his back, which housed a shotgun that nestled against his spine. Fran removed both holster and gun, then located the snaps on the swamp-monster outfit and tugged it off. Warren’s eyes met hers, and Fran was stricken by how much they looked like Duncan’s. Like her own.

  “In the box, get me a scalpel.”

  Fran opened up the footlocker and shelves folded out like a tackle box. She found a scalpel in a slot and handed it to Warren.

  “I got the water, Grandpa.”

  “Pour it on the sheriff’s leg, Duncan.”

  Warren cut away Streng’s pants. Fran glanced down, saw the gory stump where the calf used to be, and had to turn away.

  “Duncan,” she said. “Leave the room.”

  “Like hell he’s leaving the room,” Warren barked.

  “He’s a child.”

  “He’s got hands. I need those hands. Pour the water, Duncan. And keep pouring until I say quit.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I can help.”

  Duncan pulled the cap off a water container and sprinkled some out.

  “Faster, son, dump it on there.”

  Duncan upended the jug, and Fran stared, mortified, as it flushed away the blood, exposing several wormy blood vessels and two pink bones.

  “Fran, give me some clamps.”

  Fran didn’t move, paralyzed by the spectacle before her.

  “Clamps, Frannie! They look like scissors.”

  Frannie. Her mom used to call her Frannie.

  Fran found a clamp and handed it to Warren.

  “Keep pouring, Duncan. Right here, where my fingers are. Good job.”

  Warren locked the clamp around one of the slimy purple worms.

  “Another one, Fran. And give me the big silver syringe, the one with two tubes coming out the sides.”

  Fran searched the box. Warren clamped off another artery. She heard a chittering sound, saw Mathison sitting on a shelf, watching the proceedings with a worried expression.

  “I’m out of water, Grandpa.”

  “Get more.”

  “I got it,” Fran held the strange-looking syringe out to Warren. The plunger had a loop on the end, and instead of a conventional tip it boasted a valve with two plastic tubes, each ending in a catheter. He took it, rolled up his sleeve, and shoved a needle into his wrist.

  “Pull the plunger to take blood from my artery,” Warren said.

  Fran did as instructed, tugging on the loop and staring as the syringe filled with blood. Warren searched for one of the sheriff’s veins. He located one in the crook of Streng’s elbow.

  “Pour some water on my hands, Duncan. They’re too slippery.”

  Duncan complied. Warren found the vein on the third try, and Fran gently pressed the plunger without being told. Warren’s blood flowed into Streng.

  “His leg, Duncan, keep going. And more clamps, Fran. And a package of gauze. Hand over the blood tranfuser.”

  Warren pulled and pushed on the plunger, sucking and pumping faster than Fran had dared to try. Streng moaned, his head shaking.

  “There’s a glass bottle, Fran, bottom of the box, called pethidine. Find it, and fill up one of those small syringes. Duncan, see what I’m doing with this syringe? You do the same.”

  Duncan took
over the blood transfusion. Warren tied off two more blood vessels while Fran found the bottle and syringes.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Shoot him in the leg.”

  Fran squirted a few drops of liquid from the needle and plunged it into the sheriff’s thigh.

  “Good. Now I need to see if I got them all. Undo the belt, slowly. Get ready to put it back on if I say so.”

  Fran scooted closer, kneeling in the widening pool of red. It soaked into her pants, warming her cold legs.

  “Ready … go!”

  She unbuckled the belt and a small stream of blood squirted out of Streng’s stump, in time with his heartbeat. Warren pinched the artery closed and applied a clamp.

  “Hand me the transfuser, Duncan, and pour more water on him.”

  The water ran off mostly clear.

  “I think we got all the bleeders. Find the vial marked potassium, Fran, and fill another syringe. That will help clot his blood. Duncan, go to where you found the water and bring me a white plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol.”

  While Fran located the vial, Warren dabbed the wound with gauze pads, saturating one after another.

  “Good, Duncan. Pour the whole bottle on his leg.”

  “Mom uses this when I get cuts,” Duncan said. “It’s going to hurt.”

  “It would hurt more if he got an infection and died. That’s why your mom uses it on you. Now let it flow, son.”

  Duncan was right. When the liquid hit Streng’s leg his eyes popped open and he jackknifed into a sitting position, letting out a cry that made all three of them flinch. Warren gently pushed him back down and applied more gauze. Fran jabbed the second syringe into his leg and depressed the plunger.

  “Duncan, give that transfuse a few more pumps. Frannie, squirt one of those tubes of antibiotic ointment on the stump, and then we can close him up.”

  Fran reached for the ointment, then stopped herself.

  “Don’t call me Frannie,” she said.

  Warren waited.

  “Mom called me Frannie, when I was growing up. You weren’t there. You aren’t allowed to call me that.”

  “Okay. Fran, can you put on the ointment?”

  Fran squeezed the contents onto Streng’s leg, and then Warren stitched a flap of skin closed over the stump, leaving the clamps sticking out. Then he packed on gauze and bandages. She watched him work, weaving the tape through the clamps, moving quickly but efficiently. When he finished he wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up.

  “Can you pass me one of those plastic IV bags? The one that says saline on it?”

  Fran fished around for the bag, while Warren pinched the needle out of his arm. When she located it, he attached the tube to the inlet valve and placed it on a shelf above Streng.

  Warren cleared his throat. “There’s a bathroom around the corner and a kitchen with a laundry room. Both have sinks if you two want to get cleaned up. There are some extra shirts hanging next to the washing machine.”

  Fran looked at her hands, her clothes, and found herself completely saturated with blood.

  “I need you both back here pronto. We need to plan for when they get in.”

  “How can they find us?” Duncan asked. “We’re hidden.”

  “They’ll find us. They won’t stop until they do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have something they want.”

  “What?”

  Warren didn’t answer.

  “It would be nice to know,” Fran said, rage bubbling up to the surface, “why these people have been trying to kill us, and why my husband had to die.”

  Warren let out a slow breath.

  “Tell me,” she ordered.

  “No.”

  “You owe me that.”

  “I don’t owe anyone a goddamn thing.”

  “Then why the hell did you let us in? If you don’t care about anything, why didn’t you just let us die?”

  Warren stared at her for a moment and seemed to come to a decision.

  “I was reckless when I was younger. Got into a lot of trouble. Raised some hell. I met your mother right before I shipped off to Vietnam. I’m sure she was a wonderful lady, but the truth is I’d only spent a few hours total with her, so I didn’t know her too well.”

  “Stick to the story.”

  “They say war changes people. It didn’t change me. I kept on doing what I always did. I sold drugs, supplies, stolen goods. I smuggled people, too. I had the connections. Wound up being in charge of the black market for the Kontum Province.”

  Warren coughed. He bent down and grabbed the water jug, taking a long sip before he continued.

  “Anything of value went through me. Not just contraband. Information, too. I passed the important stuff on to the higher-ups—I was a criminal, not a traitor. But near the end of my tour I got something unique. Something I couldn’t give to the higher-ups.”

  Warren went to a shelf, opened an old shoe box. He reached inside and removed a blue plastic disk, big as a donut but less than an inch thick.

  “A local came to me with this. An eight-millimeter film. Said he found it in a movie camera, near a South Vietnamese village that the enemy had bombed. Told me it was worth a lot. I watched it, realized what it was, and paid him. I was already rich, but this would make me more money than I could ever use.”

  “So this is all about a stupid roll of film?” Fran couldn’t get her mind around it. “What’s on it?”

  “You don’t want to know. It’s bad. Real bad.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  Fran folded her arms. “Why not?”

  “It will put you and Duncan in danger.”

  She snorted. “How could we be in any more danger?”

  “You could. Trust me.”

  Fran tried a different tactic. “So why didn’t you sell it?”

  “I tried. After the war ended, I shipped my stuff back here. Contacted the potential buyer. I was going to buy a big mansion in Beverly Hills.” Wiley shook his head. “I was a fool. Instead of millions, he sent some men over. I wouldn’t tell them where I hid the film. They tried to make me talk. They tried hard. I got lucky, managed to get away. I knew they’d come after me again, so I disappeared.”

  “If they’re after the film, let’s give it to them,” Fran said. “Then they’ll leave us alone.”

  Warren shook his head. “They won’t leave us alone. They’ll kill us whether they get the film or not.”

  “How do you know?”

  Warren met her gaze. “Because that’s what I’d do.”

  Fran snatched the roll from him. She was tempted to throw it against the wall, as if destroying it would make all of this horror disappear. She raised it over her head, waited for Warren’s reaction.

  He did nothing.

  “Don’t you care if I destroy it?” Fran asked.

  “No. I stopped caring about things a long time ago.”

  “But isn’t it the reason you live like this?” Fran swept her hand across the room. “Underground, surrounded by traps?”

  “I live like this,” Warren said in calm, even tones, “because this is what I deserve.”

  Fran hadn’t expected that answer. She asked again, “What’s on this film, Warren?”

  “We need to get cleaned up.” Warren headed for the door. “They’ll find us soon.”

  “I want to see it.”

  “No.”

  Fran drilled her eyes into him.

  “Show me the film. You can’t just tell me half the story.”

  “Are you sure? If you watch it, you can’t unwatch it. I know.”

  “Show me.”

  “You don’t want to see it. Believe me.”

  She thrust the film into his chest. “Show me, goddammit.”

  Warren’s face seemed to sag.

  Then he said, “Okay.”

  The projector looked like a small oval suitcase with a metal snap on top. Wiley lifted it by the handle and s
et it on the hallway floor, then took off the left side of the shell, exposing the inner workings. He plugged it into the wall outlet. Then he opened up the round blue container and removed the film. Seeing it again made Wiley’s stomach clench.

  “Duncan, why don’t you go wash up in the kitchen and get a snack,” he said.

  “I want to stay here with you and Mom, Grandpa.”

  “Go on, Duncan,” Fran said. “This one is adults only.”

  Duncan sighed, then plodded down the hall and through the kitchen door.

  “I’ve only seen this three times.” Wiley spoke while threading the film through the projector’s sprockets. “The first time, back in Vietnam. Then twenty years ago, when I bought a video camera and transferred it to VHS. The last time was just a few months ago, when I made a digital copy on my computer.”

  “Why don’t we watch it on one of those other formats?”

  “Because both of those have large screens. This way, I can make the image small.”

  Wiley frowned. Even small, it still hit like a sucker punch. But at least you didn’t see as much detail.

  “Can you flick the wall switch?”

  Fran pressed it, and the overhead fluorescents winked out. Wiley turned the knob to run and aimed the square of light at a blank spot on the wall. The image was half the size of a sheet of paper.

  They watched.

  The first shot was inside a helicopter, obviously in flight. The camera jerked and jolted, making a blurry pan across the faces of five men sitting in the bay. They all wore black uniforms, their expressions no-nonsense.

  “Does this have sound?” Fran asked above the clackety-clack of the projector.

  “It’s silent.”

  “Who are these men?”

  “A secret military unit. They aren’t wearing any insignia, but you can tell they’re U.S. by their boots and weapons. Plus it’s one of our choppers. And see there?”

  Wiley pointed to a sixth man, standing by the door, looking smug.

  “He’s got major’s stripes. These are our boys, no doubt.”

  The film cut to the helicopter after it landed, the cameraman following the six others out of the bay and onto the ground. They were in a village, a poor one, surrounded by jungle. A handful of ramshackle buildings stood alongside a dirt road. Clothing hung on drying lines. Livestock roamed freely.

  There were people in the village. Vietnamese peasants. They looked at the approaching unit with curiosity, some of them openly smiling. None of them ran away.