“I just don’t—” I stammered, “I can’t understand...” In the bright lights, I’d begun to turn pale and perspire. The General had brought me outside for a cigarette. We stood in the frigid desert night, as my shaking fingers reflexively brought the burning ember to my lips. “Is this because of...” I gestured south toward the Trinity site.
“No,” Graves said, spitting tobacco into the dirt. “This was dumped on our doorstep. Nobody else knew what to do with him. And 1728 is supposed to be expanding its scientific portfolio...”
“But there’s nothing scientific about the walking dead!” My voice echoed in the desert night.
“Calm down, Dark,” the General ordered. “If you’ve got nothing to contribute, you can head back to your hotel.”
“No, no,” I shook my head, rapidly smoking the last of my cigarette. I stomped it out in the sand and quickly lit another one. “I’m sorry, it’s just the shock, that’s all.” Slowly, my journalistic instincts were returning to me. “What’s his story? If he’s not a nuclear superman, what is he?”
“As I said, Dark, we just don’t know,” the General said, looking off into the night.
“Well, where did the Army find him? How was he captured?”
“You ever hear of the island of Tori-shima?”
“Tori-shima? No.”
“No, nobody has,” the General sighed. “This was before Fat Man and Little Boy. We were pushing closer to the coast of Japan, still looking for airfields. Of course, back then, Tokyo was still the target for Little Boy. Tori-shima is only three hundred miles from the Ginza.
“The 11th Airborne parachuted in. We were expecting heavy resistance, after what the leathernecks had found on Iwo Jima. And here we were right in the Tojo’s backyard. We expected hell on earth. But the defenses we found had already been picked clean. Bunkers, antiaircraft guns, artillery. It was all there, just waiting. Ten thousand shells and a million rounds of ammunition, but no Tojos. Not a single one. The whole Goddamn island was abandoned. Or so we thought.
“The Paratroopers find signs of a firefight, empty clips, bullet holes. But no bodies. Whatever had cleared out the defenders had done it hit fast and clean. No mess. The 11th was left with nothing to do. No enemy. Someone had done their job for them. Tori-shima was taken without firing a shot.
“But who’d cleared out all the Nips? They sure as shit hadn’t retreated of their own volition. Not this close to the shores of Japan. Mutiny, perhaps? Was this a sign that the Tojo’s grip on the rank and file was beginning to slip? No, it turned out to be nothing so neat and clean. As the paratroopers pushed deeper into the island, the found what had taken care of all the Tojos.”
“That...thing?” I asked, lighting another cigarette.
The General nodded. “They found an old well, covered over with sheet steel, chained up and padlocked. On top of that, the Nips had piled boulders, big enough that it required a dozen men with block and tackle to move them. Whatever Tojos had survived the attack, had locked something big...dangerous…down in that well.
“But all the GIs found was that character,” Groves pointed back toward the workshop’s door, “cowing in the dark. Dog tags read PFC Michael Elton. They figured him for some sort of POW. Maybe from the Philippines. Bataan. He was half-crazy, rambling nonsense. Then the second they pull him out into the daylight, his flesh catches fire, like someone had put a match to him. Queerest thing. They put him out but they figure he’s dead. No pulse. Nothing. Then it’s into a body bag and back onto the medical frigate, as the 11th moves on, pushing closer into Japan.”
“But he wasn’t dead,” I said, already knowing the answer.
“No,” the General said calmly. “In the night, the frigate goes missing. Takes three days for the spotter planes to track it down, adrift in amongst the Izu’s. Can’t be reached by radio, no answer to semaphores or Morse. Rescue crew goes aboard and find a ghost ship. Not a soul aboard.”
I nodded. “Except one.”
“Exactly. Cowering down in the bilge. One bedraggled, insane PFC...”
That Nietzsche Thing Page 18
