Desolation Game

by Greg McLean

  The fire in his gut had died. There were still simmering embers, but hearing that the cops had been called had put a damper on his hunger for retribution. It was probably for the best.

  ‘Bloody silly,’ Terrance said. ‘I wasn’t planning on going out to that mine you say Mick lives at. I want to help your friends, but cripes. I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it about Mick,’ Clapper said, wiping perspiration from his ebony skin. ‘It’s not like I know the guy all that well. We’ve shared a few stories and laughs in here. But still . . .’ Clapper shook his head.

  ‘He’s like two different people,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s frightening. A change comes over him, like he slipped on some mask from a horror movie or something.’ He shuddered at the memory of Mick standing by the truck, pointing the gun at him.The darkness that had come over Mick’s face, the sadistic glee that lit his eyes like the fires of hell.

  He thought about Duncan, Jewel and the others back at the mine. Would they all still be okay? What story had Mick concocted in order to cover the truth? What was he doing now?

  ‘How long did the cops say they would be?’

  ‘Unfortunately he has to come from Wills, which is about fifty miles from here,’ Terrance said.

  ‘There’s no one closer?’

  ‘’Fraid not. Just one small police force to cover a whole bunch of tiny towns in the area. I give him another half an hour or so before he arrives.’

  ‘Shit,’ Bruce said. ‘And there’s just the one cop coming?’

  Terrance nodded. ‘Like I said, it’s only a small force.’

  Once the cop arrived, they still had to get out to the mine. And that would take at least another couple of hours – that’s if they could find it. Bruce didn’t know exactly where it was located, and the dirt track that led to the mine would be difficult to find in the darkness.

  It might be early morning before they found the place.

  And by that time, it might be too late.

  Mick waited until everyone in the group had retired to their sleeping quarters before going out to the van.

  Striding through the warm pelting rain, the air tinged with unusual humidity, he felt at home. The other diggers used to bitch and complain about the constant rain: the thick mud and sloshing through waist-deep puddles. Mick loved it. He loved the feel of the rain on his skin, he loved the way it shrouded everything, like a wet blanket – he felt comfortable in the rain. He could hide in the rain.

  At the van, he pulled out Bruce’s keys, unlocked the back door and swung it up. Searching through the supplies, he found the bag containing the guns in the back right corner nestled beneath other bags and boxes of canned goods.

  Standing under the cover of the back door, he unzipped the duffel bag and the familiar smell of metal and cobalt wafted out.

  Mick breathed in deep. He counted five guns.

  ‘Nice,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you, boys.’

  Even better, the bag also contained boxes upon boxes of ammunition. He zipped it up, closed the van, then marched back into the shed, closing the corrugated door behind him. His boots squelched as he moved about, leaving wet marks on the floor.

  He placed the duffel bag down on the workbench and then pushed the bench aside. It squealed as it scraped along the hard floor, revealing a manhole cover. Crouching down, he grabbed hold of the metal handle and pulled up the trapdoor, then dropped the bag into the hole. He heard it land on the old flesh of the putrefied corpses below, then he closed the cover and shifted the bench back.

  Mick didn’t need the guns, but they might be good backup. Most important was getting them away from Steve and the others and hiding them somewhere only he knew about.

  Working calmly, methodically, he went to the back room and grabbed his torch, a pair of gloves and the .243 rifle. He checked the gun was loaded, and then headed back outside.

  Time to close the escape route. He spent some time setting up his barbed-wire fence, spreading it across the entrance to the mine, blocking the road leading out. It wasn’t exactly the Dat, but it’d do.

  With the barbed wire up, he traipsed back through the mud and rain and stopped when he reached the trailer the Asian couple were staying in.

  It was dark and silent.

  He crouched behind an old drum and waited.

  He would have preferred to simply slip inside and cut the man’s throat and take the girl. It would be easy and quicker. But he had to play it low-key for the time being. Not usually his style, but he had orders.

  He had to first give an offering to the land.

  This was their territory – the spirits owned this place – and he knew they needed blood to maintain their power. In turn they would impart that power to him. He supposed they’d instruct him on how to proceed after that.

  But, in order for all that to happen, he needed to maintain control and minimise the risk. If he did things his way, there was a small chance of one of them waking up as he crept into the trailer, and he couldn’t risk either of them screaming and waking the others. Mick understood that sometimes discipline was required.

  So, he waited.

  He waited out in the wet, balmy night for around half an hour, and through the constant drips of water from the brim of his hat he never took his eyes off the trailer. Finally the door opened.

  He hoped it would be the female rather than the male, but he would accept either.

  He was glad to see the female step out of the trailer.

  She was wearing light-coloured tracksuit pants and a jumper, and she was holding an umbrella over her head. In her other hand was a torch. She carefully closed the door, took care on the few steps, then scurried around to the back of the trailer.

  Mick waited until she was far enough away not to hear him before following her.

  He moved with light, quick steps.

  The woman hurried towards the small tin box behind the main shed, and when she disappeared inside Mick nodded to himself. He had hoped all the beer she’d downed would make her need to go to the toilet sometime during the night. Nobody could hold that much liquid without the need to piss – especially not a slight female, such as this Vietnamese lady.

  Costume designer in Japanese films, his arse. A cover story if ever he’d heard one. She’s VC through and through.

  Mick crept up to the dunny and positioned himself against the right-side wall, shouldering the rifle.

  After a minute, the toilet door opened. Mick saw the light from the torch first, then the umbrella, and lastly the woman.

  He moved swiftly, cupping one hand around Chiyo’s mouth and an arm around her throat.

  The umbrella and torch fell to the mud.

  ‘Don’t make any sound or try to run,’ Mick said into her right ear. ‘I’ve got a gun and won’t hesitate to use it. Now, you’re gonna walk towards the front of the big shed.’

  Mick let go of her, unshouldered the rifle and poked the barrel into her back.

  Chiyo flinched.

  ‘Move!’ he barked.

  She started walking.

  ‘Wait, stop.’

  Mick’s captive did as she was told.

  ‘Take off your shoes.’

  Body quaking, the lady pulled off her sneakers. She started sobbing.

  ‘Socks too.’

  The lady wobbled as she first took off her left sock, then her right.

  Watching the Vietnamese lady pull off her shoes and socks, Mick was reminded of the village girls near the tip – those young whores who would strip and spread their legs at the prospect of a bin full of half-eaten scraps. In fact, this spy looked a little like one of those peasant girls. She had the same thin frame and frightened eyes. Yes, he remembered that girl fondly. He certainly taught her a lesson.

  ‘Good. Okay, move.’

  The VC continued walking, her steps more cautious.

  Mick smiled.

  12

  Vietnam

  December 1966

  It’s Mi
ck’s turn to choose a village girl.

  Holding the root bin, he looks at the young girls – each one familiar to him, each one’s eyes filled with a wariness. But their hunger and desperation is stronger than the fear they feel for Mick and Sarge, and they keep on appearing whenever the men come to their village armed with the clean, shiny bin filled with food scraps.

  All of the girls bear scars from their previous encounters with the two soldiers. Large knife scars, red burn marks and ugly yellow bruises are the visible reminders of the pain and suffering. There’s also one girl fewer than there was when he’d met them. A few weeks ago, Mick went too far with the machete. He was releasing his stress, as the previous four days were spent on patrol through the Nui Thi Vai Mountains, and it was a particularly tense operation, with numerous small, but fierce, encounters with the enemy.

  Still, even with the brutality Mick and his sergeant continue to inflict on them, the remaining girls push and shout at one another to be chosen.

  ‘Now, ladies, I know how much you like me, but I can only choose one.’

  The deal set up by the village elders long before Mick was brought into the fold was one bin, one girl. Mick and Sarge try to be fair and share the love, but some of the girls are prettier than the others, so they’re chosen more often. As a result, they have the most scars.

  The girls’ clipped, shrill voices cut through the hot morning air.

  ‘You,’ Mick says, grabbing one by a skinny arm.

  A troubled combination of relief and fear sweeps across the young girl’s face. The other girls scowl and spit words that Mick is sure are curses.

  He pulls the girl towards her hut with one hand, holding the bin in the other. The sound of the truck’s engine idles fifteen feet away.

  He puts the bin down on the earth floor of the girl’s house and she shuffles over to her bed.

  As she undresses, Mick takes the bayonet from his rifle. It’s dirty with grass and bloodstains. Like all grunts, he regularly and thoroughly cleans his SLR (‘Take care of your weapon, because one day it will take care of you’), but he purposely leaves the blade dirty. He likes to be reminded of past conflicts.

  Naked and sprawled on the bed, the girl glances over at Mick. When she sees the large knife, her slender eyes bug and she turns away, tears starting to fall.

  Her chest is criss-crossed with old scars, including a set of teeth marks. Mick places the tip of the bayonet against her left breast and her already quaking body shudders. He presses down on her pale flesh until blood appears and then he traces a slight red line down her body, stopping at the top of the dark tuft between her legs.

  Mick strains against his pants. He is breathing hard, his mouth is dry.

  ‘Oh, the things I could do to you,’ he mutters, ‘if only I had a couple of hours.’

  But he has to be quick. Sarge is no doubt eager for his turn, and they have to get back to the camp before anyone begins to get suspicious.

  Mick releases himself and roughly spreads the girl’s legs apart. He’s about to climb on to her when the girl mumbles something. Her wet eyes are staring at Mick’s cock and he’s sure she is talking about his stiffness.

  ‘What did you say?’ Mick growls, fire swirling inside. His fist clenches around the bayonet that is gripped in his right hand.

  The girl blinks. She speaks again, nodding at his crotch.

  He thinks he sees a fleeting smile. ‘Are you laughing at me?’ Mick says, his breathing getting faster. ‘What, you don’t think I’m man enough? That I’m big enough?’

  He drops the knife, reaches up and grabs the girl around the throat. If she was smiling, she isn’t anymore – her mouth is twisted into a grimace, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Mick thrusts with great force. She grunts, but the air isn’t able to escape past her lips. The flimsy bed shakes and the girl’s head knocks into the wall. ‘Teach you to laugh at me,’ Mick huffs.

  His hands tighten around the girl’s throat and spittle flicks onto her lips.

  Mick feels like a balloon with too much air. His body starts to tingle. The girl’s face starts to turn purple.

  He’s just about to explode when he hears Sarge cry out. ‘Mick, get the fuck out here!’

  Christ! Mick gasps at the sound of the sergeant’s voice. He unwraps his hands from around the girl’s throat and pulls away. Her face begins to regain its colour, but she lies unconscious as Mick pulls up his pants and darts outside.

  He sees Sarge standing by the truck with his rifle pointed at two men. Shit! The two young men are dressed in black. Mick’s immediate thought is that they’re VC, although neither of them appears to be armed.

  He raises his rifle and jogs over to join his sergeant.

  The two men at gunpoint are standing still, with looks of surprise on their faces. If they are Viet Cong, then they certainly weren’t expecting to find a couple of Uc Dai Lois in this tiny hamlet.

  ‘Jeez, Sarge, your timing couldn’t have been . . .’ Mick puffs. ‘What do you think? VC?’

  ‘I dunno. They’re not armed.’ He doesn’t let his eyes leave them as he answers.

  ‘Not that we can see. Maybe they’ve got grenades hidden on ’em.’

  Behind the soldiers, the older village women are shouting.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could speak nog,’ Sarge says.

  ‘Fuck it, let’s just shoot ’em. Who’s gonna know the difference? Rules of engagement: if in doubt, shoot.’

  The two Vietnamese men take a few steps away from the truck, making wild hand gestures and talking, saying something to the women but also to the Australians.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Sarge yells. ‘Stay the fuck where you are!’

  ‘They can’t understand ya,’ Mick says.

  ‘I know! But they can bloody well understand two rifles pointed at them.’

  ‘I’m telling ya, they’re Charlie,’ Mick says, finger wound around the trigger of his rifle.

  ‘And if they’re not?’

  One of the men bends down at a patch of grass.

  ‘Stop! Hey!’ Mick shouts.

  The man looks up and smiles at Mick.

  Mick squeezes the trigger four times.

  The man tumbles backwards with a look of pain and surprise. Sarge opens fire on the other man. Blood sprays out of the small Vietnamese bloke as he goes down. There are cries all over the village and the two men lie on the ground, lifeless.

  ‘I told ya – fucker was going for a gun hidden in the grass,’ Mick says after the gunfire echoes fade.

  He lowers his rifle and jogs over to the man he shot. Blood is seeping onto the dry, cracked earth. Mick crouches down to the patch of grass. He’s careful, in case it’s a trap. But there’s no trap; there’s not even a gun. Instead Mick finds a banana machete.

  ‘Well?’ Sarge calls over. He’s at the other body, checking for traps and papers.

  Mick rises, holding up the large machete.

  He hears Sarge sigh. ‘Shit. This guy’s got nothing except some cigarettes and some gardening tools. They weren’t fucking VC.’

  Mick shrugs. ‘Ah, well. No loss. Say, Sarge, can I keep this machete?’

  ‘No! Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Mick tosses the machete and it lands with a thud. He jogs over to the truck behind his sergeant. They jump in and Mick watches as the village women flock around the two bodies, some throwing themselves over the corpses.

  Mick chuckles. ‘Fucken idiots.’

  Sergeant Atkin isn’t laughing. ‘Not a word about this, right?’ His face is stern and his eyes hold a surprising amount of worry. ‘If this was ever found out . . .’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry, no one will.’

  The sergeant pulls out of the village in a cloud of dust and neither of them speaks on the short ride back to the camp.

  When Mick gets back at his tent he finds Stretch and Nobby cleaning their guns. Both are topless and the smell of oil is strong – it overpowers the other odours of sweat, beer and dirt.


  ‘Where’ve you been?’ Nobby asks.

  ‘Nowhere,’ Mick answers.

  He grabs a can of VB from the fridge, opens it and takes a long drink.

  ‘Bet ya been over to the tip,’ Stretch says, working his brush through the barrel of his M16. ‘Those old cunts wet enough for ya?’

  Mick looks over at his tent mate. ‘How’s your gut, dickhead?’

  Stretch has been oscillating between constipation and diarrhoea for the past few months. It’s a pain sleeping in the same tent as him, worse even than when they are out on patrol and they all have to stop while he ducks into the weed to shit. The stench that wafts from Stretch day and night is enough to kill a man’s sense of smell and turn him blind.

  Stretch gives him the bird. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering telling you this, but there’s a surprise waiting for you in your bed.’

  Mick frowns. ‘Surprise?’

  ‘Yeah, a letter. Came while you were away.’

  A letter? Mick racks his brain, but he can’t think who could have possibly written to him. Who even knows him, let alone knows he’s on tour? He sculls the rest of the beer, tosses the can to the floor and goes to his cot. There’s no sign of a letter. ‘Well, where is it?’

  ‘Under your pillow, so it won’t get stolen.’

  Since when does Stretch give two shits? Mick lifts his pillow.

  ‘Jesus!’ he cries.

  He takes a step back at the sight of the giant spider.

  ‘An early Christmas present for ya, Bushie.’ The big nasho laughs.

  The ugly hairy beast seeks refuge under his sheets.

  ‘Real funny,’ he says, uncovering the intruder.

  ‘Hey, at least I told ya about it,’ Stretch says. ‘I could have been a right bastard and let you find it tonight, while you were drifting off to dreamland.’

  Mick grabs the spider and flings it in Stretch’s direction.

  ‘Fuck!’ Stretch drops his rifle parts, oil, brush and rag as he jumps up to avoid the flying arachnid.

  It misses Stretch, disappearing outside, but Stretch is furious. ‘You dumb shit! You made me spill my oil!’

  Mick’s been looking for a reason to get in a scrap with the surly second scout. Now he has one.