Bravado's House of Blues (12 page)

The two men danced around the shattered bunker, kicking about the items that had once had meaning. Ike shot the man once more before the bayonet flashed forward, striking flesh twice.

The first blow sliced along Ike’s chest, cutting through his fatigues and skittering across his ribs. The second blow sliced deep into his left thigh. Ike twisted his body on the second blow, bringing his gun around to knock the rifle from the hands of his assailant. Ike fell to the ground, gasping in pain. Despite his many wounds, the assailant reached down, picked up a broken table leg, and loomed over Ike. He brought the club down, and Ike rolled out of the way, kicking out to catch the figure in the leg. His attacker’s knee collapsed with a satisfying pop. No noise escaped the lips of the man as he fell. Ike leveraged himself up, picking up his shotgun from the ground and fired into the writhing figure.

The sharp crack of gunfire to the south brought his attention around. He limped over to the rear of the bunker and looked out on Hell. The clarity of sound had returned, he realized, filling the night with the voices of the manic combatants. The enemy ran wild through the perimeter, shooting anything that moved. The main barracks on this side of the compound burned out of control. The ground shuddered when the supply depot blew. Ike picked up his rifle, fished around the shattered bunker for more ammo, filling his pockets with spare clips. He sat on the edge of a shattered crate, pulled the first aid supplies out of his kit, and bandaged his more serious wounds. The harsh chemical light of the flares began to fade, swamping the bunker in shadows once again. He muttered a quick prayer and climbed out of the death pit. The light of gunfire sparked throughout the encroaching darkness. Ike watched, thankfully, as someone, Peeps or Stick, continued to fill the night with gunfire. He limped across the open space, pausing occasionally to shoot at looming shadows. He slowly covered the thirty feet between the bunkers, falling several times as the wound in his leg taxed his strength.

Other demons flashed amongst the embattled, slashing and rending anyone—friend or foe—that came into reach. He emptied his remaining clips into two of the writhing beasts, shrieking into the night as their black blood covered the ground. A third he clubbed to death with his rifle, smashing and smashing the creature, crying out to God, wailing his madness into the night.

The noise of battle faded as he stumbled into his bunker, covered with gore. Stick stood over Peeps, firing into the bodies of the fallen VC. The dead stacked in mounds across the front and left of the bunker. Stick ran out of ammo and began rooting around for more. Ike stumbled forward, reaching out for the young man.

“Stick,” he called, receiving no acknowledgment. “Stick, can you hear me man?” Ike asked, reaching for him. Stick twisted out of his reach, eyes flashing with madness. Ike moved forward, into the boiling torrent of colors that roiled forth—violent shades of purple and yellow, the color of bruises and fear.

Stick swung his gun around, attempting to club Ike with the butt. Ike ducked, then leaned into the boy, carrying them both to the ground.

“Stick! Brian! Snap out of it, man.” Ike wrestled with him, eventually subduing the youth with sheer body weight. Stick lay panting under the much larger Ike.

“Stick, it’s okay man. It’s me, Preacher.”

Stick looked up into Ike’s face, recognition dawning on him.

“Oh, Jesus, Preach,” Stick began. “They just kept coming and coming. I think they got Peeps.”

Ike didn’t even look.

“We’ve got to get outta here,” Ike said, rolling off the boy. “I need a medic, and this place stinks.”

“What are they, Preach?” Stick asked, grabbing Ike by the sleeve. “They just wouldn’t stop. Even when we shot them, some of them would get up again. Some had six legs, some had eyes that glowed like fire. They ain’t human. What are they?”

“Only God knows tonight, boy.” He squeezed Stick’s shoulder. “Let’s figure it out in the light of day, what do you say?”

“Okay, yeah sure,” Stick said. He wrapped his arms around his drawn up knees and began rocking back and forth.

“How much ammo you got left?”

“Yeah, sure,” he answered.

“Come on,” Ike said, shaking Stick by the shoulder. “Do you have any ammo left?”

“I guess I’m out,” Stick said, glancing around.

Ike knew the signs of shock. Knew that he’d have to move the boy now before he collapsed. He looked out the front of the bunker and saw that the combat had swirled west along the camp’s perimeter.

“Okay, we’ve got to see if we can make it to Johnson’s bunker,” he said, holding a hand out to Stick. “I think I still see some fire coming from there.”

“Hey, there’s one flare left,” Stick offered, holding up the bloodied cartridge.

“Okay, Stick. I’ll take that. You get your bayonet ready. It could be some work getting to Johnson’s place.”

The two men crawled out the back of the bunker. Sporadic gunfire echoed into the night, failing to cover the wailing of the wounded.

Ike leaned on Stick as the two men made their way to the next bunker. Suddenly, a mortar shell screamed out of the night, slamming into Johnson’s bunker. Nothing in the bunker survived the blast. The two men moved onward, heading for the next bunker in line. Bunker after bunker lay in ruin, decimated by fire or shattered by bullets. Finally, after the sixth bunker, they decided to turn back.

“Still up for this hike?” Ike asked the flagging Stick.

“Sure . . . man,” Stick gasped. “Sunday stroll.”

“Let’s head in toward the compound.”

“Whatever . . . you say . . . Preach.”

Darkest part of the night, Ike thought. I wonder if we’ll live to see the dawn.

An explosion ripped the ground behind them, sending them sprawling into the dirt. Ike rolled over, looking for Stick. He lay twisted some feet away, unmoving.

“Damn it,” Ike breathed. He crawled toward Stick, desperate to find the boy alive. “Come on, Stick, we got to get outta here, man.” The distance closed slowly.

The overwhelming reek of gasoline assailed Ike out of the darkness. He stared into the night, tantalized by the feeble light of nearby fires. Out of the darkness, a beast arose. The wet sound of its passage sent shivers along Ike’s spine. The huge undulating creature oozed along the ground, flowing across the dead and dying like a tide of diseased mucus, adding them to its increasing mass. Purple and green light pulsed from somewhere deep inside the translucent muck. Ike grunted as the palpitations emanating from the foul thing battered into him in sickening waves. The gelatinous mass moved slowly toward Stick. Ike crawled closer, desperate to reach the boy first.

The beast matched Ike’s progress inch for bloody inch. What hole had this creature spawned from? He could see the faces of the dead that floated in the writhing bloat.

Ike reached Stick, crawled on top of him, and rolled away, hugging the unconscious form with his remaining strength. They rolled, turn after turn, until Ike lost track of up and down. The days of childhood games came to mind, rolling down grassy knolls in a joyous freedom of youth. He blacked out, moving in and out of consciousness as he rolled. His momentum slowed, and they came to an abrupt stop. They had stopped against a jeep. Ike pushed himself up to his knees, and heaved out his remaining rations against the side of the abandoned vehicle. He grabbed the edge of the door and climbed up the side, glancing once over his shoulder to see the beast change course to intercept them.

“Up you go,” he said to Stick as he pushed him into a seated position against the tire. “We’ve got to get in the jeep.”

“Wha—” Stick moaned, regaining consciousness.

“About time you joined me,” Ike said, pushing at him. “We gotta get in this jeep and get the Hell outta here.”

“Okay,” Stick said, shaking his head. He scrubbed his hands over his face before pulling himself up the side of the vehicle.

Ike grabbed the frame, feeling the cold of the metal beneath his hands.

“Can you drive?” Ike asked as they crawled into the jeep.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good, because I’m not feeling so good.”

“Here we go,” Stick said as he cranked the starter. The engine turned, coughing and sputtering. The lights came on strong and bright, cutting through the smoky darkness.

“Catch, damnit,” Stick mumbled.

“Come on, baby,” Ike crooned to the jeep. He looked to the right. The beast oozed onward, narrowing the gap.

Stick looked up, seeing the behemoth for the first time, then slumped against the steering wheel, consciousness failing him.

“Damn,” Ike said. He looked around desperately. On the ground, by the flattened tire, lay the flare gun glistening in the now luminous headlights.

“You sonuvabitch,” Ike said. He pushed Stick, causing him to fall out of the jeep on the other side. “Sorry, man.”

Ike rolled out the passenger side, landing on his chest and face. He sputtered the mud from his mouth, reached for the gun. His fingers slipped against the edge of the slick metal, once, twice, before grasping the thing clean. He sucked in great gasps of air as shock forced his battered body into shutdown mode.

“Okay, you bastard. Let’s see how much you like phosphorous,” Ike said, pulling the trigger. The shell plunked into the wet mass, penetrating deeply before the phosphorous burned through the casing. Ike watched, fascinated, as the creature reared up, tentacles forming out of the mass, reaching for him.

He flopped over and rolled under the jeep. The phosphorous ignited the monster, filling the night with the odors of burning flesh.

“Fucking napalm bastard,” Ike whispered, as the world exploded.

*

Ike woke. The first things he noticed were the smells of antiseptic and the sound of hushed whispers. He felt the bandages across his face—his eyes. His eyes ached. But he could see the phosphenes—those glowing flashes that the brain used to fill in the blackness. He studied their movement, looking for answers.

“Hey, Preacher, got any good words today?”

“Stick, that you man?” Ike asked, reaching his hand out.

Stick took his hand, squeezing it gingerly.

“I’m right here, big guy. How you feeling?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been better.”

Stick hesitated. “The docs say you might get your sight back some day.”

Ike didn’t answer.

“Hey look at it this way, ” Stick started. “You get to go home.”

“What about you, man?” Ike asked, feeling that cold numbness creep over his body.

“Minor stuff, not that bad.” Stick squeezed Ike’s hand firmly. Ike felt the tremor in his hand before he heard it in Stick’s voice.

“Few weeks of R&R and I’ll be good enough to send back to the unit. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

Ike just waited, giving the boy the time he needed to continue.

“Peeps didn’t make it.”

“Yeah, figured that last night.”

“Last night? Hell, man,” Stick said. “It’s been a week.”

“Week? How bad did we take it?”

“Pretty bad. If you hadn’t started the shit when you did, they’d have gotten deeper into the perimeter.”

“What about those things, you know?” Ike asked.

“Nothing man. Found a nine-year-old kid in Williamson’s bunker, blown to shit. Pretty tore up—pinned to the table with a bayonet like somebody’s butterfly collection.”

“Kid? Bastard had six legs and chewed through that bunker like a buzz-saw.”

“Kids,” Stick continued. “All over the fucking compound. Headquarters figures the VC was training them all along. Lots of them were booby-trapped. We lost six medics before we started just burning the bodies. Not taking any chances.”

“Kids,” Ike echoed. “You saw them, man—demons all over the fucking place.

“Yeah, I know, but HQ said the North Vietnamese used some sort of nerve gas. Made everyone see all kinds of freaky shit.”

“But what about that big bastard. You know, that big slug thing?”

“Nothing, and I wouldn’t mention it, man. Psych boys have been all over some of the survivors. Section eighting some of them.”

“But I blew the fucker,” Ike insisted, forcing himself up on his elbows.

“Calm down, Preach,” Stick said, forcing Ike back down on the bed. “I saw it, but the official report is that the whole area was laid down with napalm.”

“Napalm? That’s what that damn thing was. Napalm, right?”

“Yeah, Preach, but where do you think it came from?”

“Who knows,” Ike said, throwing his forearm over his head. “Maybe some demon they conjured up in answer to all the napalm we’ve dropped on them. Weren’t they having some kinda celebration that night?”

“New Years. They usually give gifts to appease the ancient spirits. Guess they decided to sic them on us this year.” Sticks hesitated again. Taking his time, as if deciding what to share. Ike gave him his space. If the man wanted to share more, he would, in his own time.

“Unofficial report has it that some of the VC we took out were way past their prime. Looks like some of them have been dead for weeks, even months.”

“How’s that?” Ike asked, confused.

“You know, man. Zombies or some shit.”

“Dear God,” Ike said into his arm.

“They all owe you, man. The attack fell apart around the time you blew the big fucker. Some guys from the Australian contingency were holed up in the cafeteria; low on ammo and high on wounded when they saw that bastard light up the sky. They were surrounded and all of a sudden, the VC just fell like dolls. They made it out and helped liberate the hospital. What a night.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Ike said. He fell silent, digesting the news. Stick sat quietly.

“We got any chow?” Ike finally asked.

“I’ll get an orderly to find something for you. Oh, and Preacher?”

“Yeah,” Ike answered, squeezing the man’s wrist.

“Thanks for saving my ass.”

“I did what I could,” Ike answered. “Hey, Stick.”

“Yeah?”

“When you come back, you think you could read to me?”

“Sure, I’ll pick up something laying around.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve got a comic book in my gear.”

“Sorry, man. Only personal stuff they recovered was your charms.”