by JC Braswell
The first few hours were as smooth as he could have hoped, but his malaise refused to release her grip. Williams’s quad grew numb, his lungs heavy from bruised ribs. He constantly wiped away sweat that needled his eyes, blinking and batting away the flies that gathered overhead. It was only a matter of time until the others would catch on to his condition.
Then there was the occasional errant crunch of leaves or huff of breath followed by a snort. Williams felt it for the better part of the day, its presence no greater than fifty feet away from their position. Every time he was drawn to a noise or the makings of the tiger’s shadow, there was nothing except the same verdant landscape. The others didn’t seem to notice, rather keeping to whatever helped pass the time.
“Ok, can somebody else please babysit him?” Harris kicked the back of the VC’s legs, forcing him to his knees. Harris joined him on the ground, taking Williams’s stolen helmet off to allow his scalp to ventilate. “Reminds me of walking with my puppy when he was younger. Couldn’t obey a single order. Not fair that I’m the only one handling him.”
“Quit your bitching, Harris,” Donovan said. He handled the machete this part of the tour, hacking and gnawing at branches.
“Didn’t you see me carrying his sorry ass earlier?” Jackson asked.
The rest followed suit, collapsing to their knees, groaning and muttering words Williams couldn’t hear. The evening vertigo took its toll on them. Williams made sure to be the last down, feigning strength. As he arched his back up, allowing his muscles to surrender to exhaustion, he saw Simmons piercing gaze locked on him.
He didn’t bother to exchange the stare.
“Night’s coming.” Jackson looked up, his face blending in with the rich Vietnamese soil. “Maybe we should…maybe we should set up camp. Get our bearings before nightfall. Get some water. Maybe a little bit to eat.”
“That’s the first good idea I’ve heard out of your backwards mouth.” Simmons pulled a small pouch from his rucksack. “I’m all in for taking a few puffs and relaxing for the night. Y’all know, regaining our strength and such.”
Simmons didn’t show the slightest bit of anxiety, almost defying the jungle to act. The Texan had survived more than Williams had ever endured, including two snakebites that would take a normal soldier down. Williams hoped the third time was a charm.
“Jackson is right. We bed down for the night.” Williams surveyed the area, his equilibrium disoriented as his eyes darted from tree to tree, waiting for it to emerge. “Donovan, river should just be over that downed tree. Make sure we’re close enough to get us some water. Start a fire so we can boil it. We’re in short supply of iodine tabs.”
“And what do you we do after we’re out?” Harris asked.
“We’ll make it out of here before then.” Williams glanced at his wound. It was nothing more than a mangled piece of cloth, torn from thorns and other branches that nibbled at it as they marched.
“Man, I sure could use some snatch right now,” Donovan blurted out as he whipped his walking stick from side to side. They all shared a laugh for the first time in days.
Night came fast, bathing the troop in its customary evening chill.
Williams secluded himself from the others on the outskirts of their camp, allowing his mind to wander as the rest carried on. He made sure to keep one hand on his Colt, his other wrapped tightly to the point of numbness around the pommel of his knife, its leather wrappings digging deep into his calloused palm. He thought about the time when he’d seen his first soldier die—a Virginian named Al who he’d met on his ’copter ride over to base camp. Al wouldn’t last five days before being picked off.
It had hit Williams like a sledgehammer, watching a kid who once had aspirations of playing for the Orioles fall on the dirt road, his jaw missing, his teeth scattered like marbles. While the veterans bagged him and called to evacuate his body to American soil, Williams stood at the side of the road and stared at the clumped sand where he’d fallen. It was the first and last time he would show emotion when a brother fell. It was also the beginning of his resentment for them.
As Williams pondered their next move, the others, save Garcia and Jackson, took turns telling stories about their exploits, stories enhanced by the marijuana they smoked. Simmons was the loudest. His Southern drawl needled Williams.
Williams noticed the hungry flame in the VC’s eyes. He still fought back the desire to smash the VC’s nose back into his naval cavity, but something held him back. It was a realization that his last semblance of humanity might fall with such an action. Or maybe it was just the lack of proper nutrition, or even the fact that he wanted to rip off his clothes and take a shower. He rubbed his hand over his stubble, still feeling the VC’s glare upon him.
“Hey, Ching Chong,” Donovan laughed at the VC and passed the joint over to Harris. “Don’t even think of looking at us that way. We know what you’re up to, cowboy. Plotting our demise.”
“Screw that slant-eyed bastard.” Simmons spat in the VC’s direction, much to the delight of the others.
Williams saw it, behavior close to being unhinged. They wouldn’t last another day.
“Donovan, take first shift. You handle it from there.” Williams leaned back, his eyes heavy as he gave one last perimeter check.
Why aren’t you attacking?
SIXTEEN
“Jesus, what was that?” Harris cried, waking Williams from his slumber. Again something happened while he was asleep.
“Shut up, Harris. Jesus ain’t gonna help you. You’re just stoned,” Donovan replied under the shroud of Vietnam’s midnight.
“I’m serious,” Harris pleaded.
“You’re acting like a little schoolboy trying weed for the first time. Lay your ass down and get back to sleep. We’ll stick you with the dink if you don’t.”
“But…but what…” For the second time in as many days, Harris displayed genuine fear.
“McEvoy relieved me. We would’ve heard him scream if something happened. Put your man britches on and get back to sleep.”
“No, I swear. I saw something. Was loud enough to wake me up then I saw it.”
“Then what’d you see?” Williams asked, sitting up. The jungle seemed darker than usual, as if God himself draped the area in a giant blanket. Even the river sounded livelier, spitting mist into the air.
“It was a shadow. It darted through the trees over there by the river. You’ve got to believe me.”
Can’t be.
“A shadow? How the hell can you see shit out here? I can’t even see my own prick in my hand,” Donovan hollered back, agitated to the point of tossing a rock in Harris’s direction.
“Damn it, Donnie. You’ve got to listen to me.” Harris whined.
Suddenly, something shifted several feet within the brush, shuffling grass, its mass enough to move the air around him. Williams’s spine stiffened. Be it Viet Cong or the beast, it made its presence known.
“It’s there,” Harris whined again. “I know y’all heard it.”
“No shit,” Donovan’s voice trailed off as he frantically went for his weapon. “Looks like you were wrong, LT. They ain’t waiting for the jungle to take us. The damn Viet Cong are back.”
“Wake the others.” Williams grabbed Jackson’s shoulder and squeezed. Jackson grumbled in response then muttered something in his sleep. If the unknown was going to take them, he wanted the boys to be prepared. They would die together as brothers. “McEvoy.”
But the kid known as ‘Ears’ didn’t answer. Unlike the night before with Harris, Williams knew the knot in his stomach was justified. Whether it was the fetid smell of the air or the lack of the normal nightly chorus, there was something.
“McEvoy,” Williams called a little more forcefully. “Damn it, Donovan, where’d you leave him?”
A guttural growl, deep and absent mercy, resounded among the growth.
It’s here.
“Holy hell. What was that?” Harris cried. “Jesus, turn a flashli
ght on.”
“What are you? Stupid?” Simmons’s twang somewhat comforted Williams. Even though he loathed the bastard, Simmons’s hatred would rally the others. “We might as well give ourselves up if we turn that thing on. Gooks will come crawling out from around us like the dog shit they are.”
“Think McEvoy is ok?” Donovan made no effort to disguise his movements as he crawled toward Williams. “Think he ran?”
He didn’t have a clue. None of them had a clue.
“He wouldn’t have left his post. He’s too scared for that,” Garcia reminded Donovan.
“He could’ve taken off for a piss,” Jackson said.
“But then where’s the dink?” Donovan asked.
“Hopefully with McEvoy. Let’s go,” Williams ordered, ignoring the nausea. He couldn’t place what followed. It didn’t sound human or beast. It was angry, enjoying the hunt. McEvoy was out there, waiting to be rescued.
Williams stroked the Colt with his fingers and swallowed. The creature screamed again, this time higher in pitch, its torment circling up to the treetops. It reminded Williams of a mechanical reaper in a cornfield chopping away at the crop, its metal teeth whirling around, followed by the loud clunking as it tore through stalks.
“See. That. That don’t sound like a VC…” Harris cried again.
Then, as if teasing Williams, an orb pulsated into existence several yards away from camp; its last flash echoed a brilliant, almost blinding white before dissipating back into nothingness. Williams wanted to run in headfirst and suffer whatever fate he was meant to endure, but he couldn’t. Duty came first.
“Let’s go.” Fear’s assault came fast as Williams navigated the small band into the bush toward the light, his gun drawn at his side, his injured thigh crying in pain.
The others followed. His heart raced, his breathing labored. Adrenaline fueled his movements. It didn’t matter if it was VC or the beast. Williams needed to know. He would not let another die for his sin.
Stars retreated under the cover of gathering clouds. Williams’s exposed skin tingled from the ethereal chill, crisp and otherworldly in its existence. A sulfuric odor burned his tongue and the back of his throat. Then the profile emerged, followed by the flash of the morbid sight. It wasn’t the tiger, but something far worse.
“McEvoy.” Williams turned away. Two nights in a row. It can’t be.
“Chris.” Garcia followed next. “What was—” Garcia stopped short. He’d seen him. “It can’t be. Is that what—?”
“Give me your light.” Williams forced himself to turn back around.
“This ain’t right. None of this is right. They did it again,” Garcia said, surrendering his flashlight.
The red filter spread through the area just enough to reveal McEvoy’s headless torso staked to the tree. His Army jacket was shredded down the button line, exposing his bare chest and stomach.
Whoever attacked McEvoy had shown no remorse. It had carved flesh ribbons from McEvoy’s chest and abdomen. Gelatinous lengths of intestine hung from his eviscerated stomach. His neck looked like an exploded party favor, strips of jagged flash jutting from around his spine. A clear mass of tissue lay in a puddle of blood by his feet.
“Mary, mother of Jesus.” Garcia bowed his head and recited a rapid prayer as he made the sign of the cross across his chest. His lips trembled. His fingers twitched. “Not again.”
Jackson emerged from behind and immediately turned away, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he gagged.
Despite the carnage, Williams fought through the sickness of fever. A calmness took him as he hobbled over to his fallen brother. The remainder of McEvoy’s skin was pale and sticky, covered with his own fluids. His stitched nametag remained, which simply read MCEVOY in black lettering against the green backing.
Why McEvoy? Why him?
“It’s McEvoy,” Williams said.
“Cap, I ain’t so sure about this anymore,” Jackson muttered before regurgitating his beans from earlier.
Then something caught Williams’s attention, past the fear, past his questions. He looked over the gouge marks and to McEvoy’s neck.
“No dog tags.” McEvoy was like Anuska, Brewer, and Jones—devoid of his identification.
“We’re so screwed. We’re so screwed, LT,” Harris said, on the verge of cracking.
“Relax, kid,” Williams said, keeping his eyes focused on McEvoy’s neck.
“Oh, shit. Look at what they did to him. He’s got no head,” Harris pointed out the obvious.
“I said relax,” Williams emphasized, remaining patient as he studied McEvoy’s remains. There was no way a tiger could’ve done this. It has to be the Viet Cong.
“Hot damn, will you look at that.” Simmons staggered up beside Williams, irreverent in his attitude towards McEvoy’s condition. He callously flipped on his light. The unfiltered bright white washed over the red, displaying more details from the slaughter. Simmons sized McEvoy’s lifeless body up like a drying deer carcass.
“Who or what did this?” Garcia asked.
“So much for your spirits,” Simmons said. “You still think they’re waiting for us to die?”
“Whatever,” Williams dismissed him. “Where’s the VC?”
“Looks like our meal ticket just got up and left. He probably had something to do with this. Told you we should’ve killed him,” Simmons said.
“Blood trail leads from over there,” Garcia pointed to a thicket of growth.
“Never seen anything like it from there before.” Williams battled vertigo as he stood unassisted, inspecting McEvoy. His fever returned just as fast as Jackson emptied the rest of his stomach.
“Animal?” Garcia asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Look at him, LT.” Donovan accentuated his words by pointing at the corpse. A few agitated flies already nested in McEvoy’s chest. “There ain’t no way one of those gooks would have done that. They barely can fire a gun straight. Garcia is right. It’s got to something else.”
“You mentioned them before, and I hesitate to ask. What about the Dac Cong?” Garcia asked.
“Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You’ll have me pissing my pants. Tell me it’s an animal or something,” Donovan said.
“An animal?” Simmons snorted. “Unless a tribe a monkeys, and I don’t mean Jackson’s family, all helped that ain’t possible. Something dragged McEvoy up that tree and ripped out that clump of heart at his feet. Then took off his head. Garcia is right, got to be the DC. Same sons of a bitches who strung up Anuska.”
They all stared at each other in silence.
“Chris,” Garcia spoke with a hoarse tone. “Chris, something about this isn’t right. The VC…the VC…”
Williams forgot about their prisoner. None of it made sense.
“Well lookie here.” Simmons flashlight swept over the blood-painted brush. Two much smaller orbs more akin to human eyes reflected back from the thicket. “Is that our little friend. We should’ve killed that son of a bitch when we had a chance.”
“The hell he’s trying to hide.” Without another word, Donovan leapt into the foliage.
“Son of a bitch. Donovan, get your ass back with the rest of us.” Williams knew what waited for Donovan in the brush. It would be the end of the dropout. He withdrew his Colt as Donovan yelled, the sounds of struggle joining him. Seconds later, Donovan reemerged with his arms wrapped around VC in a headlock, his determined eyes reflecting in the flashlight’s beam.
“I say we shoot his ass now.” Harris hoisted his rifle to the VC’s face, more confident in his tone. “He did this.”
The VC conjured a blank stare, defiantly looking down the nozzle. He made no expression, not even a hint of disdain. A steady pulse in his neck was the only sign of life from their captive.
“Wait.” Garcia pushed the barrel down. “Look at him. Not an ounce of blood. His hands are still bound behind his back.” Garcia checked the bonds. “Still tight. This
wasn’t him.”
“Well if he didn’t do it, then he knows who did. Why else would the bastard be hiding in the brush where McEvoy is hanging? It’s pretty obvious to anyone with a half a brain,” Simmons seethed.
“Then ask him who did it,” Donovan said. “He must’ve seen everything.”
“We can’t. Our interpreter is hanging from a tree.” Williams pointed at McEvoy.
“Doesn’t matter. I say we string him upside down and take turns cracking his skull until he confesses. McEvoy didn’t deserve to die like that. He was a good ol’ boy.”
“Not sure if this is a sin that can be forgiven,” Garcia muttered.
What at first Williams thought was a tiger might have turned out to be the Viet Cong playing games with them. But it couldn’t be. He saw the beast with his own eyes. He glanced over at Jackson, who stood silently, his eyes half shut, his fingers twitching.
“The hell with him. Let’s just shoot him.” Harris kicked the VC in the knee with a deliberate boot. The VC fell face-first in McEvoy’s entrails with a muffled splash.
“No,” Garcia interjected. “We’re better than all of this.”
“Quiet, preacher boy,” Simmons growled, his tone nearly matching the tiger Williams thought he heard. “I’m tired of hearing about how we’re all better than this. Nobody is better than all of this. Not out here.”
“Why you gonna stand up for this savage when all he’s brought us is more death? McEvoy is dead. Anuska is dead. It’s time for some retribution,” Harris said, backing up his hero.
