by Tim Lebbon
One night while on patrol, Skinner’s unit had been ambushed. Every single man had fallen, including himself. Moments after being shot, he had looked down upon his body, lying motionless in the jungle beneath him. He’d watched, peaceful and unafraid, while the Viet Cong stripped off his uniform and seized his weapons and gear. Eventually, after looting the bodies, the enemy had moved on. At sunrise, another Marine unit had arrived. Skinner had watched them zip his corpse inside a body bag. He’d awoken two weeks later in a hospital in Saigon, and was told that the Marines had found a pulse on him shortly before processing his remains.
That much Sharon—and only Sharon—knew. What he hadn’t told her, or anyone else, was that an old woman had remained with him that entire time. She had appeared when he first looked down at his body, and had stayed with him until he’d woken in the hospital, ultimately lifting him up and carrying him away from a bright light before departing.
Skinner didn’t believe that he’d had what Mulder would have called a near-death experience. He had always chalked the old woman and the rest of the matter up to a hallucination, one he had suffered while gravely injured and no doubt exacerbated by the amount of drugs he took just to cope with the things he’d done while in the country. He was certain of it. Nevertheless, he still dreamed about her, years later, and woke screaming.
He sighed. No wonder his marriage was coming undone.
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. A headache was starting to form there. Someone knocked on the office door. Skinner put his glasses back on and straightened up.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and a member of the janitorial staff peeked inside—a Guatemalan kid, barely twenty-one, by the looks of him. He smiled at Skinner, who returned the gesture with a curt nod.
“You here late,” the youth said, grinning. “You work hard.”
“Somebody has to.”
“You want I come back?”
“No.” Skinner shook his head. “That’s okay. I was leaving for the night anyway.”
He made sure that his computer was powered down and locked, collected his briefcase, coat, and weapon, and walked to the door. Behind him, the young man hummed tunelessly and emptied the trash can. Glancing back at him, Skinner was reminded of himself at that age. Except that instead of passing a security clearance and getting a job as a custodian inside FBI headquarters, he’d voluntarily enlisted in the Marine Corps and—three weeks into his tour—blew the head off a ten-year-old North Vietnamese boy strapped with grenades.
Voluntarily enlisting. Shooting a suicide bomber. Those were choices he had made, and good or bad, they were his choices to live with. Now, he was trying to live with not making any choices at all.
Skinner wondered which was worse.
“Do me a favor? Make sure you dump that ashtray. It stinks”
The janitor nodded. “Sure thing. It’s full. You smoke a lot.”
Skinner decided not to bother explaining that he didn’t smoke.
*****
He made his way to the basement of the building, intent on retrieving his running clothes and sneakers from his locker in the employee gym. On his way there, he passed by Mulder’s office. When Skinner had been starting out, the cramped, dingy room had been where they kept the copier. More recently, it had housed the X-Files.
Now, it merely held a sense of despairing air of futility.
Mulder was the only person Skinner knew who slept less than he did. Chances were good that the younger man would still be there, working late. Deciding to check on the agent’s progress with the wiretapping detail, he knocked on the door, steeling himself for some sarcastic quip. When Mulder didn’t answer, Skinner opened the door and looked inside. The room was vacant, but the light was still on. Frowning, he crossed over to the desk and rifled through the transcripts and reports. He couldn’t help but smile wistfully at the doodles Mulder had scrawled on a nearby notepad—several flying saucers, a naked woman, spiral shapes, and something that he guessed was Bigfoot—but his frown returned when he caught a glimpse of something buried beneath the mound of paperwork.
He pushed the transcripts and notepad aside and picked up a series of newspaper clippings that had been paper-clipped together. The top article was dated from two weeks before, and at first glance, had nothing to do with Mulder’s current assignment. The headline read “TWO DEAD IN SEWER SLAYING.” Skinner scanned the lead, which reported that two metropolitan sanitation workers had been mauled to death in the sewers beneath the nation’s capital by an unknown animal.
“Damn it, Mulder.”
Clearly, the agent was still collecting potential X-Files, something he’d strictly been forbidden against doing.
Clenching his jaw, Skinner flipped through the rest of the clippings, all of which detailed further reports of an unknown wild animal on the loose in the sewers, along with the deaths of several homeless. Skinner shook his head and turned to the last clipping, dated from that morning. As he did, it felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. His ulcer burned, and he gasped, staring at a photograph that had been taken next to a manhole cover, apparently near the scene of another homeless person’s death. A large group of people was congregated in the picture—emergency responders, law enforcement, and a few street people. It was the latter that caught Skinner’s eye, particularly a homeless man standing apart from the others, to the far left of the photograph.
“Ramirez?”
Could it be? He stared intently. The photo was in black and white, and the man was out of focus. He looked much older than Ramirez would have been, but that could be accounted for by his rough condition. He was dressed in dirty clothes and his long, thin hair and beard were matted and unkempt. His hands and the exposed skin on his face were covered in what was either filth or sores. Skinner couldn’t be sure which. But when he studied the man’s eyes, and then noticed the scarring on the man’s left cheek, visible despite the thick beard, there was one thing he was certain of.
“Ramirez...”
Skinner decided not to go jogging after all.
He folded up the last newspaper clipping and stuffed it into his pocket. After returning the others to Mulder’s desk, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Before leaving the building, he checked his weapon and briefcase, and took possession of his personal sidearm. Agents were encouraged to carry while off-duty, and Skinner obliged, but he much preferred his 1911 to the shitty department-issue handguns.
The guard eyed him as he swiped his badge through the scanner.
“No civilian clothes tonight, sir?”
“Not tonight. I’m going to meet an old friend.”
* * *
DUC PHO, VIETNAM
AUGUST 1970
Even at night, the jungle was hot—a wet heat that seemed to cling to everything. The rain just made it worse.
Nineteen-year-old Walter Skinner hunkered down in a banana grove three kilometers west of Duc Pho, listening to the raindrops pelt the thick vegetation. Droplets fell from his poncho. He swatted in annoyance at a mosquito. In Vietnam, even the insects were tenacious, and not scared away by a storm the way their American counterparts would be. He slapped his neck with both hands, crushing two bugs, and then wiped the smeared remains on his legs.
When he looked again, there was still blood on his hands.
An hour earlier, their patrol had discovered an underground Viet Cong tunnel complex, embedded in the heart of the banana grove. Their orders were to guard the entrance until the Army could dispatch a tunnel rat to search and destroy the facility. The Marines were scattered across the area, and although Skinner couldn’t see them, he knew they were there. He himself was positioned to the right of the tunnel entrance. Kyle Lybeck, a native of Seattle and fresh out of boot camp, crouched to his left. Skinner had been tasked with showing the new recruit the ropes, which so far had pretty much consisted of getting him high.
“We gonna smoke one later?” Lybeck whispere
d in the darkness.
“It’s the only way to deal with this shit,” Skinner answered. “But not now. You light up now, and Charlie can take your head off from out there in the brush just by tracking your match. Don’t give them a target. And besides, I’m still coming down from the acid I took yesterday.”
Lybeck’s eyes widened. “You mean...? Out here? Man, that’s insane.”
“It’s not so bad,” Skinner replied. “It’s mostly just the after-effects now. Just a few vapor trails.”
“God, Skinner...”
“I’m fine. I could do without standing out here in this rain, though.”
“How long do you think we’ll wait here?”
“As long as it takes. You know the drill. Hurry up and wait.”
Somewhere in the distance, a radio squawked. Birds and insects created their own cacophony. The rain continued to fall, turning from drops to mist. Skinner shivered, despite the heat.
Eventually, the lieutenant called out, signaling his approach in the dark and identifying himself so they wouldn’t mistakenly shoot. With him was a new arrival—a soldier from the Army.
“Skinner, Lybeck,” the lieutenant said, “this is Sergeant Ramirez from 1st Battalion. He’s here to deal with the complex. I want you both to assist him. Show him what you’ve found.”
“Yes, sir,” both men replied, without saluting.
They studied each other as the officer disappeared back into the darkness.
“You’re both too tall to fit inside,” Ramirez said, “so don’t worry about assisting me. Just show me the entrance. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“What are you going to do?” Lybeck asked.
Ramirez shrugged. “What I always do. Head down inside, explore the place, watch for booby traps, recover any intel, and then blow the fucking thing sky high.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Skinner observed. “You sure you want to go it alone?”
“I prefer it that way. Truth is, things gets fucked up down in those tunnels. I’ve got a lot better chance of staying alive if I can focus, and I can’t focus if I’m babysitting two jarheads.”
“Fuck you,” Skinner replied.
“No offense. You can call me a grunt if it’ll make you feel better. All I meant is that you guys don’t know what’s probably waiting down there. I do.”
Lybeck glanced at the entrance to the tunnels. “What is down there?”
“Booby traps, for sure. Bats, sometimes, and snakes and rats. I went in this one tunnel in the HoBo woods north of Saigon. The VC flooded it with poison gas.”
“Hope you were wearing a gas mask,” Skinner said.
“I was that time, luckily. Usually, I don’t. It’s hard to see down there. Even harder with a fucking gas mask. But something told me to wear it that time, so I did. Anyway, listen. You guys stay here, topside. You hear any shooting, that’s just me saying hello to Charlie.”
“And you’re sure you don’t want any help?” Skinner asked.
Ramirez grinned. “Not unless you hear me start screaming. Then...sure, you can lend a hand. Or say a prayer, maybe.”
“I’m not much for praying. I lost whatever faith I had left during my first month here.”
Ramirez’s smile grew broader as he stripped off his extra gear and set it in a neat pile. “You’re a serious motherfucker, aren’t you, jarhead? What’s your name?”
“Skinner.”
“No, I mean your real name.”
“Walter.”
“Well, take it from me, Walt. You need to loosen up. You’re wound too tight. And if I’m not mistaken, you look like you’re on something. That’s no way to experience the Nam.”
Skinner snorted. “What would you suggest?”
“Just try to enjoy the ride. This place is Disneyland and we’re all on vacation.”
Then, without another word, Ramirez ducked low and entered the tunnel, disappearing into the darkness.
Skinner and Lybeck waited in silence. The minutes seemed to crawl by. The mist turned back into rain, and the mosquitoes returned in force. Then, slowly, the jungle began to fill with sound again. One of their fellow Marines coughed somewhere in the shadows. A radio crackled sporadically. The birds and insects resumed their chattering.
And a muffled gunshot echoed from beneath their feet.
Startled, Skinner and Lybeck both turned to the tunnel entrance as two more shots boomed below. These were followed by an agonized, monstrous squeal and then three more gunshots in quick succession. All around them, their fellow squad members called out, wondering what was happening.
“What the hell was that?” Lybeck’s voice went up an octave. “Sounded like an animal.”
Instead of responding, Skinner crouched down and stepped inside the tunnel. It sloped steadily downward into the darkness, barely wide enough for him to traverse without turning to his side. Cold air wafted up from below, along with acrid gun smoke. Squinting, he peered into the blackness and listened for more gunshots, but the tunnel was silent.
“I can’t see anything.” Skinner turned back to Lybeck. “Do you have a flashlight?”
“Yeah. I almost left it behind when you told me not to hump so much stuff, but then I didn’t, in case I wanted to read comic books out h—”
“Give it to me,” Skinner interrupted. “Then go get the lieutenant and the others.”
“Shouldn’t I go with you?”
“Just do what I said.”
Lybeck’s expression betrayed his relief at staying topside. He rummaged through his pack, found the flashlight, and handed it to Skinner. Then he ran to get the others.
Skinner clicked on the flashlight and trained the beam downward. The darkness seemed to surround it, as if annoyed by the intrusion. Taking a deep breath, he bent over and crept forward, alert and listening for any movement. He knew better than to call out for the tunnel rat. The burrow was quiet. He swept the beam back and forth, watching for traps. The further he went, the tighter the tunnel walls seemed to become. Even though he walked hunched over, his head still scraped against the roof.
Eventually, the passageway leveled out, but he had to drop down to his hands and knees to fit through it. He crawled along, struggling to hold both his rifle and the flashlight, while also watching for booby traps or enemy combatants. He sputtered as strands of spider webs brushed against his face and clung to his skin.
Then he saw the first corpse.
The dead Viet Cong lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the tunnel. His clothing was torn, and his chest, arms, and face were covered with deep scratches and odd bite marks that seemed almost like singular puncture wounds. After a moment’s hesitation, Skinner placed his palm against the dead man’s face, making sure it was real and not some drug-induced hallucination. The skin was cold, slick, and felt like cheese.
He noticed a discarded pistol next to the corpse’s left hand. He set his rifle aside and claimed the weapon, hoping it would make his crawl easier. Then he moved forward again. The passageway was still quiet. When he glanced behind him, he could no longer see the entrance.
Soon, Skinner came to a section where the excavators had dug two holes to each side of the tunnel. He peered into both. One was empty. The other contained a second corpse. This one bore the same bite and claw marks as the previous body, but it was missing its head. A broken bamboo spear lay by its side. He found the head twenty yards farther down the passageway. The eyes were still open.
The tunnel narrowed again, squeezing against his shoulders, but Skinner pressed on. He noticed claw marks in the soil, and an odd, wide track that looked like it had been made by something dragged through the dirt—perhaps a tail or a very large snake. He had to crawl over three more corpses, including one whose abdomen had been ripped open and emptied of its innards. Skinners hands and knees sank into the still-warm cavity as he wriggled over the body. All of the dead had similar wounds. There were no bullet holes, and the puncture marks were definitely some type of bite, rather than being made by a kni
fe or bayonet. Skinner wondered what had happened to these men. It couldn’t have been Ramirez. He’d only been armed with a handgun and a knife. None of these corpses had been shot, so how then to explain the gunfire he and Lybeck had heard? What had killed these men? And where was Ramirez?
Then he heard a moan.
He fought the urge to call out, unsure if the voice belonged to the missing soldier or another Viet Cong. The passageway widened, allowing him to stand up again. Soon, the tunnel opened up into a large underground chamber. Skinner stretched his aching muscles and stepped inside. Another agonized moan echoed softly through the room, followed by harsh breathing. Skinner raised the pistol and trained the light over the walls. He saw crudely fashioned bunk beds, storage lockers, a table and chairs made from tree stumps, and other debris, all of it damaged or askew, as if a struggle had taken place. The room still stank of gun smoke, and beneath it, there was a wetter, muskier smell.
“Who’s there?”
Startled, Skinner shined the light toward the voice. Ramirez sat propped up against a dirt wall, chest rising and falling as he struggled for breath. His uniform was in tatters, and his body bore the same wounds that covered the dead.
“Ramirez!” Skinner rushed over to him and knelt by his side. “Hang on, man. Help is on the way.”
“Can’t hear you so well, Walt,” Ramirez wheezed. “Shot that fucker but my ears are still ringing. Damn muzzle flash nearly blinded me.”
“Help is on the way,” Skinner repeated, raising his voice. “Are there any other VC?”
Ramirez shook his head. “All dead.”
“What the hell happened down here?”
The injured soldier motioned weakly to the corner. Skinner turned the flashlight in the direction he’d pointed, illuminating yet another corpse. But this dead body was no Viet Cong. It wore the torn and barely recognizable remnants of a North Vietnamese uniform, but that was where all similarities ended. For one thing, it was much larger than a human. Skinner estimated its height to be about seven feet and its weight just over two hundred pounds. He idly wondered how something that size had even fit in the tunnels. It had two arms and legs, but was covered in coarse brown hair. Its head was distinctly rat-like, with a pointed snout, beady black eyes, ears, and sharp teeth. A long, hairless tail lay limp in the dirt behind it.
