by Robert Bloch
One of them called out angrily; “You won’t get far, boy!”
Beside him, another hooded man cupped his hand, shouting. “You’re one dead man! You hear me?”
A third Klansman brandished his torch, then pointed with his free hand. “There he is! I see him!”
Shotguns and rifles rose, following in the direction of his outflung arm.
Bill swam forward frantically, flinching at the sound of shots whistling overhead. Filling his lungs with air, he ducked his head beneath the surface of the water. Captured by an undercurrent, his body swirled helplessly in the dark depth. Eyes bulging, lungs bursting for want of air, he bobbed to the surface again, gasping for breath.
He inhaled quickly then, tense with anticipation of the sound of gunfire. But no sound came.
No shots. No shouting. No sound of rushing water.
The river was calm.
There wasn’t the slightest ripple of movement across its expanse and its surface no longer seemed clear. Instead, he found himself surrounded by floating clumps of rotting vegetation from which a brackish stench arose, steaming into the tropical night.
Tropical.
Bill glanced toward the treetops lining the shore. Their appearance was strangely altered, or changed completely. These trees seemed shorter and more compactly clustered. Ferns rose to rim the base of their gnarled trunks; tall reeds towered against the shoreline.
Dazed and bewildered, Bill swam slowly toward the riverbank at his right. Within moments his feet were touching bottom, kicking up a mixture of mud and weeds to cloud the surface of the water around him. He stood up, feeling his feet sinking into the ooze, sensing the slow swirl of the warm air against his wet skin.
And even that was wrong. The air was too warm now. Bill glanced back toward the river with a rush of recognition. It wasn’t really a river at all—the look and the smell of it was more like a swamp; a tropical swamp, steaming in the humid heat of the jungle night.
But how did he get here?
Bill shook his head, then froze abruptly at the sound of soft voices murmuring from the darkness of the trees lining the bank. He crouched down quickly, shielding his body behind the reed-cluster near the shore. Peering between its upthrust stalks, he watched, silent and motionless, as four uniformed men moved forth from the trees in single file. They were short and squat, with dark hair close-cropped beneath the bill-caps pushed back over perspiring foreheads. Their skin was dark and their eyes and cheekbones identified them as Orientals. All wore identical uniforms, splotched with stains of mingled mud and perspiration. In sharp contrast, the rifles they carried were spotless, the steel barrels gleaming in the moonlight.
Abruptly, Bill’s memory bridged a gap of twenty years. He was just a kid then, just a young punk, drafted right out of school and into the war to kill the orientals.
Now he knew where he was. This was Nam, and these were Charlies—Viet Cong!
They advanced toward the riverbank still muttering softly, and for one hideous moment Bill thought they’d wade right into the water and through the weeds where he was hiding.
Then they swerved, moving left along the river’s edge, following its course until they disappeared into the darkness beyond.
Bill slumped back into the water, exhausted by his fright, his tension, his inability to comprehend what had happened.
Something stirred, rippling the surfaces surrounding him. He turned quickly, staring down in sudden terror at the sight of the green shape wriggling toward his waist. It was a watersnake and a big one.
Now, as its body twisted forward, the reptile’s head drew back abruptly, jaws agape and ready to strike.
Bill hurled himself to one side and rose, stumbling and splashing through the reeds along the bank.
Then he halted as voices sounded faintly from the shore beyond. Quickly he lowered himself once again into concealment beneath the topmost level of the reeds. Even though he was soaking wet, Bill could feel the fresh perspiration trickling across his furrowed forehead.
They were coming back. But now, as he hunkered down, the voices rose loud and clear. They were speaking English!
“Charlie’s out there—I can hear ’em.”
A deeper voice rumbled in reply. “Cool it, man! I don’t hear nothing!”
A third voice sounded. “He’s right—there’s something moving.”
Bill rose to his feet, waving his arm toward the darkened trees bordering the riverbank.
“Don’t shoot!” he cried. “I’m an American! Help me—I’m hurt! Over here—”
His eyes searched the shoreline eagerly, waiting for his rescuers to emerge from concealment behind the trees.
Nothing stirred. And now, after a moment that seemed to elongate into an eternity, he heard the voices once more. This time they dropped to a series of harsh whispers.
“What’d I tell you? They’re out there all right.”
“Where?”
“Too close for me, man.”
Bill started to wade through the reeds, moving toward the shore. “Listen to me,” he shouted. “I’m an American! You’ve got to help me—please—”
From the bank above came an excited murmur. “Look! There’s one now!”
“You’re right, I see him!”
The rest of his words were lost in the sudden burst of sound—the insane chatter of machine-gun fire.
Bill flung himself back down into the muddy waters, screaming.
“No! Don’t shoot— No!”
Bullets spurted, splashing into the water around him.
Bill ducked under, holding his breath as he swam out through the shallows.
It was only when lack of air forced him to the surface that he ventured to raise his head again, gasping hoarsely as his eyes sought the shoreline.
All was silent; the firing had ceased. Once more his ears strained for sounds to break the stillness.
Frogs croaked querulously from their concealment along the marshy weed-clumps bordering the riverbank. Somewhere deep in the distant jungle beyond, a night bird uttered a raucous cry.
Then, from the shadows amidst the trees bordering the shore, a murmur drifted faintly across the water. Bill recognized the voices of the patrol.
“Hear anything?”
“Not me, man. We must’ve got him.”
Bill hesitated, fighting an impulse to call out once again. No use—those trigger-happy guys would only start shooting again. Now all he could do was keep moving, try to get across the river. Maybe it would be safer on the other side.
He began to swim again; moving slowly, with cautious strokes in an effort to avoid disturbing the water in his progress. Don’t make waves.
A sudden sound emerged from somewhere along the bank behind him. He halted his effort, floating on the surface as he turned his head toward shore.
The deeper voice murmured again. “What’s wrong with your ears? He’s still swimming around out there—I heard him!”
“Nothin’s wrong with my ears, man. Only thing I hear out there is frogs.”
A third voice rose excitedly. “Hey, look! There’s his head sticking out of the water! He’s trying to make it to the other side!”
Bill ducked under quickly, his arms flailing. No use worrying about the noise now. They’d spotted him, and all he could do was pray that he could stay beneath the surface long enough to reach the safety of the opposite shore. Another burst of machine-gun fire shattered the surface above his submerged head; the sound sped him on his way.
He swam on, swam until his eyes blurred, his arms ached, his lungs burned. Then, just as he reached the point of no return, his thrashing feet touched bottom.
Unable to endure another airless moment, Bill sought the surface, his head rising just far enough to clear the water. Inhaling deeply, he stared at the sheltering shore directly before him.
He’d made it!
And the gunfire from the other side of the river had ceased; now the only sounds he heard were the gasps accompanying his o
wn intake of breath. Relieved, he drew himself up and waded through the shallows, then started up the sloping bank to head for the trees beyond.
As he did so, a shout echoed across the waters behind him.
“There he is!”
Bill turned, crouching against the side of the bank, staring back across the river. He could see the shadows of the men moving on the other side, see them all too clearly.
For the first time he realized that the river itself was not all that wide; once they started shooting again, he was done for. He crouched lower, hands digging deep into the mud as he waited for them to fire.
But no shots came. Instead, as he glanced back across the swampy stream, he saw one of the shadows raise an arm, drawing it back like a pitcher preparing to throw a ball.
Something came hurtling down from above and landed in the mud with a dull plop, about a dozen yards to Bill’s left. He turned, staring down at the object half imbedded in the soft mud of the riverbank.
This was no baseball—the size and shape were wrong. As he blinked at the reflection of its shiny surface in the moonlight, Bill heard the hissing.
Baseball? This was a grenade—
He rose, running forward.
Behind him the grenade exploded in a blinding burst of light, its blast shattering the silence. The impact of the explosion sent Bill flying, lifting him into the air to crash headfirst against the barrier of tree trunks directly before him.
He must have blacked out then; maybe for a minute, perhaps for hours. There was no way of knowing, but slowly consciousness returned.
Bill realized that he was still alive, alive and aware, lying on his back against warm grass, arms and legs outstretched. Cautiously he moved his fingers, wriggled his toes. Dull pain shot through his limbs and he felt a throbbing ache in his shoulders, but the muscles responded. He hadn’t been hit after all.
Opening his eyes, he stared up past the encircling treetops toward the night sky overhead. The air above him was moist and heavy with heat. The clothing that clung to him was wet and sticky.
Nothing had changed. He was still in the jungle, still here—wherever here was.
Cautiously he raised himself on his right elbow and glanced back over the riverbank and the deep crater fashioned by the force of the explosion. He peered across the water. No shadow moved along the opposite shore and the only sound rising from it was the chanted litany of the frogs.
Slowly Bill rose, his eyes probing the jungle growth before him. Somewhere within its depths he could detect the drone and buzz of insects on their nocturnal rounds. There was no other sign of life.
Life?
Bill shook his head. How could he be sure that anything was alive? First those Nazis, next the Klansmen, then the VCs and the G.I.s. All of them were gone now, but had they even been real in the first place?
Maybe he was dreaming; maybe he was dying, delirious with fever. Maybe he was already dead.
But the aching in his arms and legs as he moved forward reassured him. Dead men feel no pain. Whatever had happened, wherever he was, he was still alive.
His problem now was to make sure he stayed that way.
Cautiously, eyes and ears alert for any hint of shape or sound, Bill started forward through the trees ahead. He had no hint what lay beyond the jungle; all he wanted to do was get away—away from the river, away from the shapes that prowled his nightmare.
Nightmare—that’s what it was—that’s what it had to be!
Nothing else made any sense to him. But if it was a nightmare, then why didn’t he wake up?
And when had he fallen asleep?
He remembered being with Ray and Larry. That part was real, and he knew he wasn’t asleep in the bar. But how long had it been since then?
Was it hours, days, months?
Somehow it seemed like years; yes, it had to be years, because of the Nazis. And when had the Ku Klux Klan stopped lynching blacks? That was years ago, too, and so was the war in Nam.
Bill shook his head. How could it be years ago? It was still going on, and he was in Nam now. Here, in the middle of the night, lost in the jungle.
This was no dream; he could smell the rot, feel sweat break out over his body in the humid heat of the tropical night, feel the stinging of the mosquito swarms surrounding him, hear their angry buzzing as he advanced.
Advanced?
Bill halted, glancing around him at the trees, which loomed in silent circles.
Which way was he going? How could he be sure he was moving in the right direction? There was no trail to follow, nothing to see but the trees stretching endlessly on all sides.
He was lost, lost in the jungle. His lips moved in a silent prayer.
There was no answer, no sign; only the insect-humming rising from the tangle of vines and creepers looping snakelike between the tree trunks.
For a moment longer, Bill stood indecisively, then turned abruptly to his right and began to move forward again. Keep moving, that was the answer.
His entire body was aching now; he felt like he’d been beaten with a sledgehammer, but he kept going, had to keep going, because there was no other choice. Sooner or later he’d get to the end of this jungle and come out on the other side. No way of knowing what he’d find there, but anything was better than this maze of darkness in which he floundered.
Tripping over vines, blundering into overhanging branches, slapping at the insects that assailed him, Bill panted forward.
Then, suddenly, the way ahead was clear.
Halting at the edge of the clearing, he glanced down at the river below. Bill shook his head, his jaw muscles tightening.
Oh no—don’t tell me I doubled back!
Another glance reassured him, however, that the stream was broader and wider than the one he had crossed. And rising behind the bank on the opposite side was a towering cliff. At its base was a cluster of thatch-roofed structures, perhaps a dozen or so. Light bulbs loosely strung on wires hung between the huts, and in their glare he could see a black cluster of insects encircling each bulb with a dark and humming halo. The light was reflected on the surface of the water below, flecking its murkiness with glints of gold.
Bill stood silent, focusing eyes and ears intently. But nothing moved beneath the light on the other side and no sound broke the stillness. Even the frogs were silent here.
Slowly, he started down the sloping bank to the water’s edge, glancing left and right as he did so. In the jungle growth behind him the mosquitoes’ hum was faintly audible. That was all he heard. Before him the river stretched soundless, its surface serene.
Bill made his way to the water’s edge, staring into the lighted semicircle of huts once again.
Again his eyes searched for a hint of movement, and again he hesitated.
Had the villagers seen him? Were they hiding from him in fear or had they retreated into the huts to surprise him with an ambush?
There was no way of telling, no way of knowing if he faced friend or foe. Only the lights held promise, beckoning him forward, out of the darkness. No matter what might be lurking across the river, it was better than what lay behind him.
Bill waded into the water and when it rose to waist-level he started to swim, ignoring his body’s aching protest. No matter how tired he was, he had to keep going.
To his surprise, as he swam he felt the tension in his muscles ebbing, but the realization was purely physical; his mind was not affected.
Or was it? Once again the events of the past few hours flashed before him and again the question came: Had it only been hours? Suddenly it seemed to him that he’d been on the run forever—running from the Nazis, the Klansmen, then those G.I.s in the jungle. Had it really happened or was he going crazy?
The full ache in his limbs returned and now he greeted it gratefully; at least this gave him part of the answer. There was no way he could be so beat unless what had happened was real.
It wasn’t his imagination and he wasn’t crazy. It was the others who’d freak
ed out; the Nazis who mistook him for a Jew, the Klansmen who thought he was black, the G.I.s who figured him for an oriental.
What was the matter with them, didn’t they have eyes? Couldn’t they see that he was an American all along? If they’d only looked, only listened, they should have known.
Crazy, that’s what they were. But it didn’t matter now; the important thing was that he’d escaped and if he could find someone here in the village across the river, if they were friendly, then maybe they’d help him to get away. Away from the jungle and the crazies, help him to get back home again.
Reaching the shallows, Bill rose to his feet and made his way to shore. Ahead of him the hanging lights still burned, but nothing stirred in the shadows beyond.
Again the thought came and with it rose the fear: Was it an ambush?
There was only one way to find out, and now that he was here he had to take the chance. Slowly he forced himself forward up the bank and stepped into the semicircular clearing before the thatched huts arranged by the cliffside. Above him he could hear the buzz and drone of the insects fluttering around the burning bulbs. There was no other sound except his own harsh breathing and the muffled thudding of his heartbeat.
Outlined against the light, Bill glanced across the compound. What were they waiting for? If they had weapons, now was the time to use them; standing here he made a perfect target. And if they didn’t shoot, if they were friendly, then why were they afraid to show themselves?
Bill swallowed quickly, then took a deep breath. “Anybody here?” he shouted.
The only answer was the echo of his own voice.
Bill frowned. Maybe they couldn’t understand what he was saying, but at least they had heard him call out and they could see he was unarmed. Why didn’t they show themselves?
Still no sound, still no movement, except for that of insects buzzing and fluttering around the bare bulbs overhead.
Bill turned and crossed to the hut on the far end at his left. He moved along the side to the open doorway, halting there. Again he called. “Anybody here? Come on out— It’s all right, I won’t hurt you.”
There was no answer to his invitation. Beyond the darkened doorway, all was still.
Bill took a step forward, then peered into the hut. Dimly he discerned the cast-iron cookstove in one corner, the sleeping-mats littering the bare earth on either side. Other than that, the hut was empty.
