by JC Braswell
“Simmons, off. I don’t want to keep repeating myself.” Williams hobbled closer to ogre, making sure to seem as unintimidating as possible. He’d seen the enraged look before, the sickness.
“Let me cut the bastard. Let me gut him for Anuska.” Simmons’s Southern twang hid any hint of compassion. “The slant-eyed motherfucker deserves it. You saw what he did to us back there.” His fingers readjusted along the machete’s hilt.
“Simmons,” Harris whined, scanning the area to make sure no other surprises crept up behind them. “Just listen to LT. We need to get back with the others. Garcia’s hurt.”
“Think about it. Let’s use our heads,” Williams spoke in a soft, controlled voice. “You’re not going to kill him, Carl. Yeah, sure, the he deserves it, but look at the toothless bastard. He’s barely past twenty, maybe nineteen. Too stupid to realize what he just did back there. And we need him.” Williams didn’t even believe his own words. Part of him wanted to trail off, let the jungle take them all.
“Why shouldn’t I kill him? The bastard took Anuska. Took Jones, too. Remember Jones? I remember Jones,” Simmons said as if Jones was a martyr, having been mowed down in the ambush. Jones was far from a saint.
“Listen to me. Yes, Jones and Anuska are dead, and Garcia’s hurt. But consider the rest of us. Our odds of survival with what little gear we have are slim to none, and I’m leaning to none. This little prick may even those odds. We can deal with punishment later. For now, we have to worry about our own. He may help us out of here.”
“Oh, I disagree. Think this kid would steer us the wrong way.” Simmons refused to pull his glare from the sniper, instead running the flat side of the machete’s blade across the sniper’s unshaven throat. The edge brushed against the carotid artery, which was pumping with the type of excitement one would feel right before death. Most were numb to it, the savagery.
“You know damned well we have no clue where we are. Our radio is broken. Our compass is broken. To put it bluntly, we’re shit out of luck. It’s either him or remain lost.” He hoped beyond hope that his words would help Simmons back away from the mental cliff.
“I don’t see it,” Simmons said. “I don’t see your point.”
“My point being…” Williams sized up the lone Viet Cong. The Vietnam native’s leathered face hid any sign of stress, instead housing an empty stare, daring death to take him. The kid fought for a cause Williams could never comprehend, a cause giving birth in a generation of lost lives. “He’s not even wearing a full uniform. Bunch of rags. We’ll give him some food, talk him into helping us.” Williams doubted his plan, but what choice did he have?
“No. I think I’d rather add another to my collection.” Simmons juggled the machete to his other hand while licking his lips.
Williams’s leg throbbed, his mind slipping further. He didn’t have any more time to waste, not with Garcia needing help.
He lunged and snatched Simmons’s wrist holding the machete and twisted left. The blade nicked the sniper’s neck in the process, drawing a sliver of blood. Simmons keeled backwards, his knee lifting from the sniper’s throat. The smaller Viet Cong sniper seized the opportunity, scampering away only to find himself at the barrel end of Harris’s gun.
“Stay still, now. Don’t do something stupid,” Harris said. “Don’t think I won’t kill another one of your dirty kind.”
Williams struggled to maintain his grip on Simmons’s wrist, hoping that he could break the blade free. His ribs pulsated. His leg shook. Simmons possessed the strength of an ox. He wouldn’t fall so easily.
“I see we’re going down this road,” Simmons responded.
“You’ve lost yourself.” Although he was of smaller stature, Williams managed to hold his ground, beating back at the ox’s strength. His grandparents had told him it was due to his strong muscles and tendons. Even back in high school where he wrestled, his coaches occasionally bumped him up in weight class because of his ability to match strength with boys older and bigger than him. He thanked his parents for it now.
“Cut it out, Simmons. You’re going to get us all killed,” Harris pleaded.
“Just this one time.” Williams bit down on his tongue. His fingers slipped around Simmons’s wrist as the two were locked in a standoff. “You’re still you. Tell yourself that. You’re still you. You let me take care of this.”
Simmons was edging closer to the mental cliff, the sickness taking his mind.
“Fine.” The Texan relinquished his grip and backed away, still focused on his superior. “So be it. You can handle him.”
“There we go. Nice and easy.” Williams dropped his gaze to the necklace dangling around Simmons’s neck. The macabre sight turned Williams’s stomach. He counted five ears shriveled in various states of decomposition hung from a thin piece of rope around Simmons’s neck. Each ear represented a dead Viet Cong soldier. A fly held fast to one, buzzing and feeding on the gray and flaking skin, laying its eggs within the deteriorated cartilage.
He wanted to understand Simmons’s grief, his pain, and his anger towards the Viet Cong. Simmons’s trophy was a common sight among the platoon. They were all young men, barely out of high school, losing themselves on a daily basis. It was their release.
Williams studied the Viet Cong sniper. His hair, black as night, grew wild and untamed. His teeth were yellow and rotten. He stared mindlessly into the rifle’s barrel, daring him to pull the trigger. Instead of a human, Williams saw an animal that had just cut down two of his men.
The gook could lead the way out, but eventually they would punish him. But who was Williams to judge? They were all sinners in the end.
EIGHT
His finger tightened but did not squeeze. Part of Williams wanted to pull the trigger, to see Anuska’s killer suffer. Anuska and his family deserved better.
“Come on. Shoot him, LT. Shoot him, Chris.” Simmons backed away, wiping his machete on his pant leg. His charcoal teeth highlighted his eager grin. “I’ve got a better idea. Shoot his kneecaps first. Make him squirm a little bit before we gut him. Hell, we could string him up in one of these trees like a piñata. Have ourselves a little fiesta.”
The Viet Cong sniper, unwavering in his calm demeanor, defiantly looked up at the Colt’s barrel. The devil taunted Williams.
“The VC deserves it.” Donovan joined the three. “Off him, LT. Chicken little bastard shooting from the trees.” Donovan placed the sole of his black leather army boot against the VC’s shoulder and pushed.
The VC didn’t resist, slumping to the ground. His lips curled into a crooked smile as Donovan applied more pressure.
“You got some balls, son. How about I cut your tongue out and feed it to the mongoose? Would you like that, you little shit?” Simmons’s blade flashed in the sun.
“Simmons.” Williams shot his infantryman a glare. “We’re not doing this again.”
“Come on, this little swamp rat killed Anuska and Jones. Hell, he was probably responsible for bringing us down to this shithole in the first place,” Simmons growled.
“I know what he did, but this is my call,” he ordered. Williams’s finger slid against warm steel. His triceps and shoulders burned from keeping the gun steady.
“You sure? Could always let us handle this. None of this will get back to HQ. Promise you that.” Simmons secured his machete and removed another blade. He twirled the smaller bowie knife—his so-called namesake from home—in his hand. “I’ll skin the bastard alive for our boys. I’ll wear him like a headdress and scare the other bastards away like Custer. Wouldn’t you like that, Tonto?”
“Simmons,” Harris said, his voice a pitch higher. Even he appeared surprised by his mentor’s attitude. “You think that’s a good idea?”
“Who cares about ideas? You think he had ideas when he was picking us off,” Simmons huffed, removing a piece of frayed cord from his sack. Williams knew the Texan’s patience waned. “I’ll just hogtie his ass.”
“Fine. Tie his hands behind his ba
ck, Simmons, but nothing else,” Williams said, keeping his gun trained on the small frame of the VC, his emotionless face. He hoped allowing Simmons to hogtie the VC would appease the Texan—at least for now. It was already bad enough that he allowed Simmons a reprieve for insubordination in front of the others.
“Pleasure.” Simmons eagerly forced the VC’s hands behind his back. Once again, the VC showed little resistance, allowing Simmons to bind his wrists together. “You like that, boy? You like being abused by an American?” Simmons said as he pulled the rope tight and wrenched him against the tree. “Why don’t you respond for once, or don’t you understand our language? I probably screwed your sister and your mother last week in that pisshole of a village. Fifty cents apiece. Too rich for your blood.” Simmons licked his fingers, rambling away. The VC didn’t budge, his lips formed in a thin line of ambivalence.
The display didn’t sit well with Williams. Then again, nothing about their current predicament seemed normal. All he could see was Anuska’s kids, the picture he found in the pocket.
“Cap.” Jackson, carrying Garcia on his back, along with the others shuffled in from behind. Garcia groaned as Jackson placed him on the ground, his chest wrapped tight with torn pieces of cloth.
“Chris, what…what are you doing?” Garcia coughed, his throat bubbling with phlegm.
“Garcia.” Williams exhaled, his shoulders rolled forward, realizing he still held fast to his gun. Garcia was alive.
“This ain’t the way, man. Killing an unarmed man. We’re better than them.”
“Are we?” Williams lowered the gun.
“Doesn’t matter. He killed one of us,” Simmons repeated, finishing the knot.
The VC’s golden stare once again dared Williams to pull the trigger.
“Simmons is making a point,” McEvoy said, joining the remaining seven. “He took one of us. We should return the favor.”
“Yeah, but he could be useful. Couldn’t he, Cap?” Jackson asked as he tended to Garcia.
“Quiet, Stonewall. Lieutenant is about to earn himself another gold star, boys. He’ll show us how to handle this situation of ours.” Simmons slid his knife back into its leather holster. Like a beta wolf ready to follow its alpha’s lead, Simmons paced, waiting for his pack leader to signal.
Williams studied the VC. The man-child secured to a tree had a history. They all had a history, a family, somewhere they called home. Williams had met men many times on his tour. Sometimes he stood clear of the natives, other times he asked questions to learn of man’s sordid nature. Each held a darker past where hatred beat back logic to the point of extinction.
“What you gonna do, LT? You gonna blow his brains out or what?” Harris asked, bouncing in his boots.
The pack grew restless.
“Guys, hate to break up the party and all, but think we should get going soon. What if there are others? They would’ve heard the gunshots, the grenade. LT, we should take care of this piece of garbage. Get a move on,” McEvoy said.
“Quiet, McEvoy.” Garcia coughed again. “Chris, don’t do this to yourself.”
Williams’s head rolled to the right, his eyebrows thick with perspiration. Donovan, Harris, and McEvoy flanked him to his left, encouraged by Simmons, who still paced, weighted footfalls crunching leaves and earth underneath.
The air grew more stagnant with each minute. Sweat dripped from Williams’s uncut bangs. The unforgiving sun flickered like a strobe light, blinding him temporarily. He had to make his decision. He had to decide the fate of another man—a man he wanted to see dead.
“We don’t need to do this.” Garcia broke Williams’s concentration. “Said it yourself. He needs to live to show us the way out of here. We’ll deal with what he did to Anuska and Jones later, after we find our way out.”
“What do you know about any of this, Garcia? Weren’t you paying attention when he cut down Anuska? He wasn’t even looking. Chickenshit sniper,” Simmons said.
“Trust me, I know. The kid shot me.” Garcia resisted. “But didn’t we do the same to them? Didn’t we?”
“An order is an order. If my order is to kill fifty more of these leeches, then you better damn well believe I’m going to do it. You think we came out here to hand them ice cream?” Simmons wouldn’t back down.
“With all due respect, LT. You have to make a decision. McEvoy’s right. This place is crawling with them. They’re probably sizing us up right now,” Donovan said. The logic gained from his one year of college finally surfaced.
“Got a better idea. Why don’t we let him make the decision for us? We’ll make him beg for us to end his life.” Simmons dug his finger into the VC’s bullet wound, probing inside with a sickening squishing noise as he separated skin from muscle. The VC winced, baring his jagged teeth, but still refused to yell out, prompting Simmons to press harder. The Texan would have his glory one way or another.
“Stop this, Chris.” Garcia’s pleas served little to unnerve Williams.
“Yeah, Cap. We need to be going. Think I heard me a sniper up in these woods,” Jackson followed up. Dissent simmered within the small band.
Their antagonizing voices muddled his thoughts as he listened inward to the steady drum of his laboring heart. The world faded around his he looked down the barrel, keeping the target on the VC’s forehead. He needed to make a decision. He needed to think fast before order became chaos.
Anuska’s two kids would never see their father again. He imagined them laughing and singing to their father on that fateful day when he was called to serve in a thankless war a half a world away. He imagined their crushed faces, blue eyes like their father’s full of tears, as Anuska boarded the plane for his detail, never to return.
Williams’s knees grew weak, his thigh muscle twitching, his ankles swelling. The VC cocked his head to the side as if realizing Williams’s predicament.
“Make the decision, Lieutenant. Don’t give him a chance to escape. He’d alert the other mongrels.” Simmons slapped the VC.
“You’re out of line, private,” Garcia said.
“Out of line? How can I be out of line when we’re in the middle of the Viet-fucking-Nam jungle,” Simmons growled.
“Back off,” Jackson said.
“Screw you and the horse you rode in on.”
“Had about enough of that, hillbilly.” Jackson stepped toward Simmons, his fists clenched, the size of two giant hams.
Simmons and Jackson were poised to strike, two raging bulls going head on. The only thing separating the two was Donovan, Harris, and a timid McEvoy. They tasted the polluted blood of the hamlet. Some embraced it. Others wanted to forget the ghosts they’d left behind.
The VC’s lips curled more in satisfaction, a hint of pink sliding against the inside of his teeth. He reveled in their discord. He knew the power the jungle held over the forlorn troops, and she wouldn’t surrender so easily.
“Please, Chris,” Garcia pleaded, his words fading as he slipped in and out of consciousness.
“He knows something.” Williams looked deeper, his vision spinning, lost in the VC’s stare. Their screams—a mother pleading for her children’s lives—were captured in the two golden voids of the VC’s gaze.
“What are you talking about?” Garcia asked.
“No. He knows. He knows what we did.” Greens and yellows faded to red.
“Chris,” Garcia’s voice echoed. Williams tried to concentrate. He heard it again, the growl in the distance. It wanted to feed. It wanted them for what they’d done.
“It’s coming for us,” Williams muttered. Then he heard her voice, calling, screaming as glass shattered with the flash of headlights.
“LT?” Donovan’s voice sounded like it was lost in a tin can.
“How do you know about her?” Williams grabbed the VC by the throat, yelling, screaming for all he was worth. “Start talking, now.”
“Holy shit, he’s lost it,” Simmons chuckled.
“You know.” Williams stepped back, releasin
g the VC then aiming. He wasn’t looking into the VC anymore; he challenged the eyes of the predator stalking him. “No.”
“Chris, no,” Garcia pleaded.
Please help me. Williams’s finger tightened.
The hammer fell.
Two bullets fired from the chamber.
NINE
Williams collapsed by the running waters, his injured leg heavy like an anchor. His fingers cramped from brandishing the machete. The memory of his fallen platoon-mates weighed on his conscience through their escape. Abandoning their corpses was no way to honor the dead. He assumed they were taken by his tiger, taken into the great unknown to be devoured.
I’m sorry. Williams pulled out the crumpled picture of Anuska’s children. He swallowed hard even with a parched throat, closing his eyes for a second as he placed the children on the ground next to him.
How did I end up here? He ran his fingers down his cheeks, his fingernails scratching his burned skin. Don’t let yourself go. Not today. Ignore what you saw.
He loosened his sullied bandage and peeled away the gauze, exposing the wound. Skin blistered and turned a deeper purple, yet he only felt a dull pain. His body’s natural endorphins masked the true nature of the wound.
They marched south for a half a day, at least as far as he could tell from angle of the sun, until the first rumbles of thunder resounded within the sky. Williams managed to navigate through the crags and outcrops of the rolling terrain replete with untamed foliage. It was as if the jungle herself came alive and refused to relinquish her grasp on the soldiers. The only bit of luck was their proximity to the stream that emptied into a river, which churned southward, providing them a natural compass.
Donovan, Jackson, and a revived Garcia sat by the water about ten yards to his left, engaged in the hopeless task of finding a fish. Williams knew better. They wouldn’t catch a damn thing worth eating in the shit-brown waters.
Williams needed to keep their spirits up after their daylong march into the unknown. Without the proper equipment they weren’t conditioned, mentally or physically, to maintain their hurried pace in the broiling midday heat. At least they still had hope. Even if it was a false reality, it kept them moving forward.
