by James Hunter
But, believe it or not, the scary-ass DC ghosting along behind us, eating up ground no matter how much speed I put out, scared me more than a punji pit full of bamboo stakes, land mines, and napalm-spitting cobras.
Rat was scrambling to keep up; every ten or fifteen feet he would turn and fire a shot or two at the men loping through the forest like lanky man-chimps. Off to my left, and slightly ahead, Greg and Corporal Stanton broke through the dense tree line, likewise running for everything they could manage. Unfortunately, what they could manage wasn’t a whole helluva lot. Greg had one arm wedged up underneath Stanton’s arm and wrapped around his back. Stanton had one hand pressed against his right thigh while he hobbled along, making pretty good time for a guy who, presumably, had a serious leg wound.
Good time wasn’t good enough, however. Those pale sons of bitches were getting closer by the second. No way were we gonna outrun these jokers. If there was any hope of walking—or limping, in Stanton’s case—away from this mess, we were gonna have to put these rabid shits down. We’d tried flight, but it looked like fight was the only way to win this one. I angled left and, with a heave, kicked on an extra dose of speed, pulling up alongside Greg, my breath coming in long uneven pulls from the sudden sprint.
“We gotta fight,” I yelled over the terrible ruckus we were making. “No … way … we … can … outrun them,” I said, panting in between words, straining to get more oxygen into my lungs. Probably all the cigarettes. Shit, what I would’ve given for a cigarette right then.
“Overturned tree, ahead,” Greg called back, not even sparing me a glance. He moved left toward a semi-clear path winding through the trees, meandering this way and that. About fifty feet ahead, and completely obstructing the middle of said path, lay a huge, felled tree, its roots thrusting up into the sky, thick jungle vegetation running over its surface, reclaiming it, repurposing it to make way for the new. That was the law of the wild—move on, kill, win, grow, or die. I looked back over my shoulder and nearly busted my ass in the process.
“Tree!” I yelled at Rat, waving madly with my free hand at the blockade, our future makeshift defensive position. “Fire position!” I yelled, making sure he understood.
I slowed my pace, urging Rat on, letting Greg and Stanton stumble past me. Even as sick as I felt, I was still in the best shape to buy us all a little time. Stanton was practically useless with his leg wound, and thus Greg was rendered useless since he had to carry the man. Rat was a good enough guy, but he wasn’t John Wayne with that .45 of his. If we were in a narrow tunnel, with the enemy ten feet away in a straight line, he’d be a rock star. But running through a friggin’ forest at night, being chased by gibbering madmen? Not so much.
Greg and Stanton were at the tree now, crawling over the knee-high barricade at an agonizingly slow pace. Rat quickly caught them and threw himself over like a lineman going for the sack, flying through the air and disappearing as he tucked into a sloppy roll.
I spun left, ducking behind a drunkenly leaning tree, my M-16 up and at the ready. The DC—eight or nine of the sons of bitches, it was tough to tell in the weak moonlight—were almost on us, maybe twenty feet and closing quick. I popped off round after round, not really aiming at any one target, but rather laying down a blanket of sparse cover fire.
The goal was not to pick off eight or nine running men who had decent cover and jungle-ninja skills. Since this was real life and I didn’t have a mean ol’ Ma-Duce—a beefy fifty-caliber machine gun that was the first and last word on personal firepower—to work with, that shit just wasn’t gonna happen. No, my goal was only to slow ’em down, push ’em to take cover, so the others could get set up and ready.
Clack-clack-clack. My rounds bit into loose earth, sending up bursts of dirt, and chewed into trees; leaves and bark rained to the ground below. Even though the DC seemed like men possessed—and from what I could tell they were possessed, possessed by the music—they weren’t completely careless. Bloodthirsty human monsters, yes, but careless, no, which was both good and bad in its own way.
They slowed their approach, sliding into undergrowth and behind trees, melting away like dreams upon waking.
“I need cover fire!” I screamed out to my boys. After a few seconds, the crack and whistle of carefully placed rifle fire followed: a pair of guns working in tandem, probably Greg and Stanton, making sure there were always rounds heading downrange, pinning the shifty little DC in place. I fumbled at my web gear, my hands trembling minutely as I pulled a set of grenades from their pouches. My last two. But I couldn’t think of a better situation than this. I pulled the pin on the first, carefully holding down the spoon, before lobbing the matte-green death-ball into a clump of bushes to the right of the path. Aiming for a spot I’d seen some of the Dac drop behind.
I went to work as quickly as I could, freeing the pin of the second grenade and likewise chucking it off to the left, spreading the destructive firepower around a bit, hoping to get as many of those freaky assholes as I could while they were pinned down by rifle fire. I ducked back behind the tree just as the first grenade went off—a monstrous boom that rattled the ground and sent a plume of light and heat coursing into the air. The second one followed suit, creating another massive explosion and a brief column of light that left the nearby trees smoking and aflame.
My ears rang, the din temporarily muting the music, though not blocking it out completely. I shook my head, as though I might just be able to shake away the sound, then cautiously poked back around the trunk, surveying the damage. Several trees were burning, there was a smoking crater on the right, and on the left I saw what might’ve been a pair of bodies.
“Moving!” I yelled back toward Greg, Stanton, and Rat, letting them know not to shoot me. Then I sprinted my ass up the narrow path, scrambled over the log, and dropped down as quick as I could. Running like that, with my back exposed to possible enemy fire, always made my shoulder blades itch something fierce—always felt like someone’s finger was on the trigger.
“How we doing?” I asked Greg, easing myself into the kneeling position, careful to keep my head low while I positioned my rifle barrel on the log—a damn good shooting brace to help steady my hands. “Any movement?”
“Clear so far,” he said, though he kept his rifle trained downrange, eyes scanning for any sign of movement.
“I got nothing here either,” Rat whispered. He had his back to us and was doing a continual sweep of our rear and flanks, making sure the slippery DC bastards didn’t get around us without at least sending up a warning. Corporal Stanton was no longer in the kneeling, but rather laying on the other side of Greg, his weapon leaning upright against the log, while his right leg sat propped at an angle on a green Alice pack. His breathing was heavy, audible even over the music, a sheen of sweat coated his face, and he had his eyes tightly closed.
“How’s the Corporal?” I whispered into Greg’s ear, not wanting the man to know we were talking about him. We never left a man behind, but sometimes the odds of a guy making it out were slim and grim. If Stanton wasn’t ambulatory—if he couldn’t walk mostly unassisted—there was a damn good chance he wouldn’t leave this jungle alive. We were deep in the bush, now lost, with diminishing gear and a shit load of baddies out there, and that was without counting the music. We could take turns fireman carrying his hefty ass, but it would be tricky, maybe even impossible.
“Stable for now,” Greg said. “Managed to get a pressure dressing in place before those freaks showed up. We’ll talk later, first let’s get out of this mess, yeah?”
“Do we bunker down here or move on?” I asked. With Stanton temporarily down for the count, Greg was the acting squad leader. What we did at this point was his call, and I trusted him to make the right one. Had Stanton listened to Greg in the first place, we wouldn’t have even been in this situation.
He was quiet for a moment, eyes never ceasing their restless motion over the terrain. “We have to move out,” he said at last. “That daggo
n grenade stunt was good work, Yancy. Real smart, but I have no doubt that some of those boys are still kicking around. They know we’re here. They’ll be coming sooner or later. So we move. Tight diamond formation. Yancy, you’re on point. Rat, you’re on right flank. Rat?” He lightly slapped Rat on the back of the head. “You listening, or what?”
“Dammit, Rat, pay attention.”
Rat turned a sheepish gaze on us, a nervous smile playing across his lips. “Sorry, man, sorry. I thought I saw something out there.” He paused, unsure of himself. “Probably just my imagination, fuckin’ woods, play tricks on your mind, y’know?” he said after a moment, not really a question, more of a justification.
“We’re moving,” Greg said again. “Tight diamond formation. Yancy has point, you’re on the right, I’ll take Corporal. Yancy, follow the music.”
“Are you kidding me, asshole?” I said, louder than I meant to. “We need to go back. I’m done following the music. We’ve lost enough on this stupid-ass mission.”
“Dammit,” he said. “We’re in too deep to turn back now. You think Stanton’s gonna make it back in this condition? Even if we left him, we wouldn’t make it back. Our supplies are running low, and I don’t have a daggon clue where we are. You? Rat?”
We both shook our heads, almost in tandem.
“That’s what I thought. This is a survival mission now. Whoever is behind that music likely has food, water, medical equipment. They should also have some kind of radio to broadcast that daggon music. So, if we can get to that, I can get a signal back to camp, maybe get us an airlift. And if I can’t get an airlift …” He fell silent, his shoulders slumped forward in resignation. “Well, I’ll call down an airstrike right on our heads, enough bombs and napalm to make sure that music never reaches another pair of ears. This is it, Yancy, it’s do or die time. No other options.”
A soft breeze blew through the trees, a warm breeze that seemed to fling the strands of shifting music right into our faces. Mocking me, taunting me, calling to me: follow, follow, follow.
“I hate you so much sometimes,” I said, turning his argument over in my mind. He was right. Dammit, he was right. I had three weeks left in country, three friggin’ weeks before I was slated to go back to the real world and leave Nam behind for good. I’d survived countless humps, a million missions, firefights, and ambushes. Just my luck, last month in would be my last month ever. “Fine.” I moved into a crouch, then padded forward as quiet as I could while Greg hastily shook Corporal Stanton awake and helped him to his feet.
“But,” I whispered over my shoulder, “I want to go on the record and say you’re a colossal shithead for dragging me into this war in the first place.”
I turned my back to the log just as something collided into me; lank arms wrapped around my waist, while a set of shoulders hammered into my ribs.
FOUR:
Burn
My rifle flew out of my hands and cartwheeled through the air, landing near a tree far outside my reach. I hit the ground a moment later like a boulder dropped from an airplane. I happened to land in a reeking, muck filled puddle, which splashed warm disgusting water all over me. ’Cause yeah, that’s just what I needed. One of those DC shitheads was straddling me at the hips—he rained fists and elbows down on my face, neck, and chest.
I brought my fists up into a classic boxer’s guard, tucking my arms in tight, using my long limbs to protect my face and head from the savage beating, though that left my ribs and stomach exposed. The DC continued to lay into me. His strikes walloped into my forearms and biceps, painful blows even if not debilitating.
I bucked beneath the man. If I wanted to survive this fight, I needed to get into a better position, needed to get out from the bottom. My defense was good enough to buy me a little breathing room, but I couldn’t hold like that forever. The guy on top of me was an animal, his blows so intense, his strength so frightening, I couldn’t afford to waste time.
I glanced through the narrow gap between my forearms, waiting for the right moment. There: a big right hook. I dropped my defense.
The blow plowed into the side of my face—clever of me, I know, letting the enemy beat me senseless until he got bored. My face was very unhappy with my tactical decision, but it did afford me the opportunity I needed. I hooked my arm around his extended limb, clenching tight and locking him into a painful arm-bar. I bucked my hips and twisted at the same time, using the leverage from the arm lock to pitch him over while I rolled up, now inside his guard, a classic reversal.
The man seemed undeterred. He clamped his legs down around my waist, squeezing at my center like I was a human-shaped blister he was hoping to pop. He kept his arms slightly bent and slashed at me with his hands, pulling me down with his legs so he could reach my face. Son of a bitch was trying to gouge my eyes right outta my head. Fighting doesn’t come any dirtier than that.
I wasn’t beyond fighting dirty. I’d lost my rifle when the asshole tackled me, but I still had my little Smith and Wesson 15—a gift from my wife, sent all the way from the States—in the leather holster at my belt. I was not at all above capping an unarmed man. I mean, he was unarmed, sure, but he was a long, long way from defenseless. I wrestled the gun from its holster, only to have the dirty DC bat the weapon away with a furious blow to my wrist, which left my fingers numb.
I stretched for the weapon, throwing my weight against the man’s viselike legs. He budged, but I was still a good couple of feet short, and his blows were coming faster now, picking up in intensity like a fire catching a gust of air.
Time to change tactics. I gave up on the gun and threw a series of tight jabs at him, working his exposed belly and ribs, which should’ve taken the wind right out of his sails. Everyone thinks face shots are the best way to go—and there’s something to that; no one wants to get bumped in the kisser—but gut shots can be just as effective. Sometimes more so. If you’ve never been gut punched by someone who knows what they’re doing, let me tell you, it sucks more than a Hoover vacuum. It’s almost worth picking a fight with someone who knows what they’re about just so you can experience the pain, the panic, the loss of oxygen, and the feeling of near suffocation. Go through that, and you’ll gain a whole new perspective on life.
Unfortunately, the DC seemed oblivious to the pain and punishment I was dishing out to his torso. The music, now a madcap 1920s flapper number, was wrapping around his head, darting into his ears and nose, skipping through his vision, and turning his eyes glossy. The strand of music was burnt-gold, slowly fading to black with every passing second. It was spurring on his blood lust, his killing instinct, getting him drunk on murder. It was also inoculating him from the pain. Shit. That meant I wasn’t gonna be able to beat this chump the ol’ fashioned way. No way was he gonna tap out of this bout.
Both my rifle and pistol were just a little too far away, but Greg’s olive-drab Alice pack was within reach. And right on the outside, secured by a set of alligator clips and a thin cloth sheath, was a collapsible black shovel, called an E-Tool. The E-Tool was a multipurpose lifesaver. You could dig a ditch with it, use the serrated blade running along the shovel’s edge to split wood, or, in a pinch, it doubled as a club to beat off insane Vietnamese Special Forces. Like I said, a lifesaver.
I moved for the pack, throwing all my weight against the man’s stomach crushing leg hold, and managed to get my hand around the handle just as my knees buckled. The pressure eased up around my waist, which almost certainly meant trouble, but I didn’t have time to think about that. I ripped the tool from its canvas sheath and hastily unfolded it as I scrambled to my feet and spun to face my opponent. He was on his feet, moving for my revolver in a low crouch. No way in hell was that shit gonna happen. I lunged, the shovel flying out and connecting with the DC’s outstretched wrist. His forearm snapped in the middle with a terrible crack, which almost sounded like a gunshot.
I moved forward—not wanting to lose a second and risk losing my advantage—and reversed the
movement of the shovel, slicing upwards in a ferocious underhand blow that caught the man across his chin and sent him falling back onto his ass, a great bleeding gash now running up the side of his jaw. My vision was red. The music pumped through me, working its power on me, urging me to lash out, to cave the man’s skull in, to hack him apart at the seams. I raised the shovel high above my head, muscles straining with power as I prepared to smash this fuck right into the ground, to obliterate him.
Someone screamed—one of our guys I thought. I glanced back over my shoulder, just a pause before delivering the killing blow, and saw Greg laid out on the ground. A DC loomed over him, bringing the M-16 I had dropped up into his shoulder pocket, preparing to put down my best friend. Time slowed, it paused and took a breather, like a boxer retiring to the corner between bouts. The DC seemed to be moving in quarter speed, a giant slug playing at being a man.
The music yelled in my head. It cried at the injustice, at the inhumanity of the scene before me. This simply couldn’t be the way things ended. It couldn’t. I wasn’t about to let my best friend go out like that. A nasty sneer curled my lips up at the corners, and suddenly, I felt myself nodding along in agreement with the music, nodding my head in time with the base riff while one foot pounded out the backbeat on the jungle floor. This was an injustice. And these monsters deserved to pay, deserved to perish in whatever shitty hell they believed in.
Energy built in me, just as it had with Rat, though this time it was driven by the fury raging in me, an inferno of hate. It started in my head, beating wildly behind my eyes, before flowing down into my body, turning my guts to a boil as though I’d just downed a fifth of Jack. That strange muscle I’d tapped into earlier stirred again, my newly discovered ability reaching out on instinct, ready to enforce my will on the world around me. And right now, my will was to see those bastards burn … and I thought I could do it, or something close enough that it would make no difference.
