THE blues were too tight, the pants too fucking long. They weren’t Hector’s anyway. The white REMF public affairs captain bitch had thrown them at him and Patterson. Ordered, “Shuck those dirty rags. Put these on.”
His “dirty rags” were the utilities he’d battled through the mountains in, rode tanks in. “They’re what I wore raising the flag,” he muttered.
“You’re not wearing ’em today. Get a shower. Get those blues on, Sergeant. You too, Corporal,” she snapped, wheeling away and slamming the door.
The headquarters staff had taken over the Hyatt Grand. Yeah, he thought bitterly as he peeled the filthy fatigues off, stepped out of them, and padded naked toward the shower, they’d brag all their lives how they’d liberated Taipei all on their own.
Did he care?
No. He didn’t. About that. Or about anything.
Ffoulk was dead. Clay was dead. Pretty much everybody from the old platoon.
Including one C323. The Last CHAD was a Corps legend now. As, apparently, Sergeant Hector Ramos was himself.
Patterson was examining her filthy bra with disgust. A cursory knock, and the captain leaned in. “We ready yet?”
“One more second, ma’am.” He buttoned his stock, straightened the blouse. The best-looking uniform in the services. But in the mirror, the eyes that stared from above it seemed to be looking back from Hell.
He glanced at the door, bent to the discarded rags, and felt in the cargo pockets. Came up with a brown bottle. He popped an anti-PTSD pill and drained the pint to wash it down. He’d just two-pointed it clanging into a shitcan when the door jerked open again. He blotted his mouth hastily.
“Are we ready? Finally?”
Patterson said, “Yes, ma’am. We are.”
“Finally. Then let’s go.”
THE floor the hotel lobby was particolored marble, from which great pillars rose to a white-domed ceiling. Spiral chandeliers hung dark; power was still out. The walls were scarred and pockmarked from bullets, but the Chinese had apparently used it as officer housing, and so largely spared it the destruction widespread in the rest of the city.
The ceremony had been hastily planned, but the networks were here. Fox, CNN, BBC, Patriot, all the alphabets. Hector joined the other awardees to the left of a podium, where two soldiers were still chipping off the remnants of the red-star-and-banner device he guessed had replaced the Hyatt crest.
They draped a Pacific Command flag across it as an Army officer stepped to the podium. He glanced at a cell, then barked, “Attention.”
Two men strode in. One was in American uniform, a tall, rangy general. The other was Asian, in greens, with shoulderboards and a peaked hat. The American wore battle dress and Hector shook his head inwardly. Why couldn’t they have just given him a fresh set of those, instead of these ill-fitting blues? The US general, whose name he didn’t catch, introduced the Chinese, a Taiwanese named Li Shucheng. He then gave a quick overview of the campaign, winding up with the capture of the capital.
“Unfortunately, the enemy commander, Lieutenant General Pei, escaped to the mainland during the final phase of the campaign. But all in all, the Allies have caused the enemy over a hundred thousand casualties, and bagged over three hundred thousand PUCs—I mean, POWs. Though not the most rapid victory, thanks to stubborn resistance, it is one of the most impressive ones in the history of warfare. Which the US Marines, along with their Army and Air Force comrades and the brave Nationalist forces under heroic General Shucheng, share the credit for.
“Not to say our challenges have ended. We inherit a civilian population with a ruined infrastructure after it was rolled over by two violent military campaigns. The locals are, to a large extent, starving.
“But that is no detraction from a truly audacious incident, when three fearless Marines scaled the central tower of the President’s Palace under heavy fire. Three went up. Two came back. This intrepid feat has captured the imagination of the world. Let’s go to the video.”
A huge screen flickered on. Hector watched from a trillion miles away as Patterson’s shaky video began. The sounds: the bluster of the wind, the popcorn crackle of battle, the occasional louder boom of tank guns.
Ffoulk is standing on the ledge, pointing. A pan up at the Chinese flag, streaming in the wind. Then Hector struggles with the downhaul, his lips moving, but none of his curses audible.
The flag collapses, draping him like Batman’s cape. He fights free. Ffoulk stuffs it into her pack, then hands him the Stars and Stripes. She snaps an order.
Then her head whips sideways in a mist of red. She folds and collapses.
That was the sniper … who’d kept firing the whole time he’d been trying to get the fucking flag up … Hector squeezes his eyes shut, unable to watch. The world sways. The PAO digs her knuckles into his ribs from behind. A sigh eddies from the audience. Must be that last shot Patterson took, of the American flag streaming out high above the captured city.
“Corporal Emily Patterson. Sergeant Hector Ramos. Front and center.”
His eyes snapped open. He and Patterson stepped out, wheeled, marched to the center of the lobby, and turned in unison into a right-face, confronting the general.
Who took a moment, studying a paper.
He said, “I will now read the citation.
“The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal (Posthumously) to LaRhonda S. Ffoulk, Lieutenant, U.S. Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the enemy as part of Expeditionary Forces, U.S. Marine Corps Forces Pacific Command, in support of Operation Causeway. Following the rapid seizure of a vital avenue of approach into the city of Taipei, Lieutenant Ffoulk and her Marines occupied the building known as the Presidential Office. With disregard for her own safety, Lieutenant Ffoulk exposed herself to tank, machine gun, and sniper fire in order to provide suppressive fire facilitating the evacuation of the wounded Marines. She had just pulled down the enemy ensign and was preparing to hoist the American flag when she was mortally wounded by enemy fire. Lieutenant Ffoulk’s aggressive actions and bold leadership were critical in quieting enemy resistance and assuring the population they had been liberated. By her courage, leadership, judgment, and complete dedication to duty, Lieutenant Ffoulk reflected great credit upon herself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.”
Hector squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to replay it. But already in his mind it was the video, not what he’d seen himself, high on the central tower. He felt sick to his stomach. His fingers twitched. He needed another drink. Just one more, then maybe he could hold it together.
When it came his turn and his own citation had been read, he took five steps forward and halted. The general’s nametag read FAULCON. Hector tried to hold his breath, so the guy wouldn’t smell the whiskey, as the tall officer pinned on the gaudy red white and blue striped medal, then stepped back and saluted.
“About … face,” someone murmured, and Hector snapped around and marched back, to take his place in the ranks once again.
THE Word had been that the platoon would get a week’s R&R, but that quickly got countermanded. They would load up on MRAPs and Oshkoshes and convoy south that afternoon. Somebody had to guard three hundred thousand prisoners. So nobody would be going on R&R for a while.
He did get a chance to call home. The lieutenant set it up, along with a fresh set of Cameleons at last. That made him feel a little warmer toward her. Though he still didn’t feel much of anything, really. Except that fucking nausea.
“Hello. Mirielle? Is that you?”
“Who’s this?… Oh. Hector?”
“It’s me. It’s me.”
“Are you all right? You sound…”
“Borracho, I know. I had a couple.”
“But you’re okay. You were on the news.”
“Yeah, did you see us raising the flag?”
“Yes. Oh, yes, everyone saw that. You’re a hero. You’re famous.”
“Never mind that. It don’t mean nothing. Hey, you see my mom, right? She okay?”
“She’s fine, Hector. She’s proud of you. The medal and all.”
“That’s good she heard. Give her my love.” The line hissed empty for a few seconds. Finally he said, “Is that fucker Mahmou’ leaving you alone?”
“Mahmou’? He’s not at the Zone anymore. He left. After somebody beat him up and stole his stuff … was that you, Hector?”
“Me? Shit, no. I’m a man of peace.” He squeezed his eyes closed, tried to keep the shaking out of his voice. “Just wish I was home. With you.”
A pause then, low, “I do too, Hector. You still got … you still got my picture?”
“Oh yeah.”
“And my rosary?”
“Your rosary … no, I lost that. The string broke. On the stairs … Look, they’re calling me. Rejoin the platoon. I miss you, Mir.”
“I’ll send you another one. I miss you too, Hector. I wish we could make plans. But you know. What we said, last time you were home.
“Please stay safe. Vaya con Dios.”
He wiped a hand over his face. It came away wet, but he couldn’t feel whatever was making him cry.
NO one knew why it was called Camp Rocky, but the name fitted the place. Anyhow, that probably wasn’t its real name. A valley in the mountains, almost a ravine, with steep slopes already blasted bare of trees by bombs or artillery, and now lined with barbed wire. Niegowski, one of his three squad leaders, said he’d heard it called Shanshuilu, where the Chinese had kept their own prisoners. But remembering the camp he and Patterson had seen farther south, Hector didn’t believe it. If the slants had held prisoners here, there would be mass graves.
“Okay, get them debarked,” Lieutenant Hawkshadow told him, studying his tablet. “First POWs arrive tonight. We want OPs, lights, and sensors out, MGs dug in by then. Show ’em a firm hand from the get-go.”
Hawkshadow was Lt. Ffoulk’s replacement. He was older than she’d been, moderate height, dark-skinned, sparing of words. Previous enlisted, which could be either good or bad. Hector guessed from his appearance and name he was ethnic Indian, Native American, though they hadn’t gotten personal enough yet to really know each other.
The platoon debarked the trucks to face a line of waiting machines. They stood at ease, dull olive camo on their surfaces brightening and darkening as the clouds chased shadows over the hills.
Hector walked the ranks. Their oculars followed him, then snapped back to eyes front when he looked in their direction. These were the new D model. Unlike 323, the CHAD he’d left manning the machine gun during that desperate battle on Hill 298, these had a sleeker, less overtly mechanical appearance. Their heads were even smaller than the Cs.
Hill 298.
Dug in on a terraced ridge, in the rain, in the mountains, with only the hilltop above them. Tangled jungle two days before. Now blasted down to matchstick trees, exposed rock, and raw orange harrowed mud, glittering with steel fragments and ammo casings …
No, he thought, balling his fists. Then opened them, trying to breathe slow, in, out, in, out. He extracted a container from his blouse pocket and shook out another anti-P. They didn’t seem to block the memories themselves, which were vivid as ever and just went on and on. But they did seem to numb his mind. Kill his feelings.
Suddenly realizing Hawkshadow had been calling his name, Hector shook himself back to the present and trotted over. “Sir?”
The officer studied him, frowning. “You okay, Sergeant?”
“Fit to fight, sir.”
The lieutenant looked unconvinced, but finally just said, “Okay then. I’m going to pass on what I got from Higher. Right now, we have to feed and guard three hundred thousand starving troops. Plus they pretty much used up or destroyed any food stocks to keep the civilian population alive. The submarine blockade didn’t help, either.”
“Copy that, sir,” Hector said. The same situation the general had outlined at the hotel.
“They estimate there’ll be nine thousand slants in this camp alone.”
“Nine thousand…”
“Military plus civilian internees. Locals who cooperated with the mainlanders. They have to be interrogated, sorted out, see if it’s safe to release them. To contain them we have two platoons of Marines, two platoons of friendly militia, and the CHADs.” Hawkshadow walked along the barbed wire; Hector paced him.
“Sir, we’re not trained for this. Guarding POWs. Interrogating prisoners. I had maybe five minutes on how to treat captures at SOI.”
“I know. The Army’s promised us a military police unit. The … 728th Military Police Battalion. But I don’t see them yet. So it’s OJT … just keep things battened down, and cope until the doggies show up. Oorah?”
“Oorah, sir.”
“The CHADs rotate back to the recharge station on their truck every twelve hours with minimal walking, every six hours if they march patrols. They’re programmed to handle their own reliefs and pass on standing orders, so you don’t have to do that. Chow and barracks for meat people will be at the eco station.”
“The eco station, sir?”
“Down in the far valley.” Hawkshadow pointed over the hill beyond the wire. “This place was like some kind of Jurassic Park. There’s an army medical team coming in too, for us and the prisoners. There’s an OP layout on your tablet. Modify it if you see better positions once you get eyes on the ground. Catch up with the other platoon sergeant and work out your guard details. Once more: Show a firm hand from the get-go, and we won’t have problems later on.”
Hector nodded and started to walk away, but Hawkshadow called him back. “One more thing. Sergeant. You getting rock happy?”
“Rock happy, sir?” Hector frowned. “I don’t know what that means.”
The lieutenant said patiently, “It means, are you still with us, Sergeant? Because it doesn’t look to me like you totally are.”
“No sir. I’m on deck, sir.”
“Getting enough sleep?”
“No sir.”
“Taking your P meds?”
“Yessir.”
Hawkshadow studied him a second longer, then leaned in. “You’re a two-island Marine now, Ramos. Combat certified. That means your people look to you for how to act. I want your head in the sunshine. Not up your ass. And yeah, I smell that booze on your breath. I don’t want to smell it again. We clear?”
“Aye aye, sir. Very clear.”
“Good. Now let’s get this installation nailed down. They hand us shit, we make it smell like Chanel. But a force ratio this lopsided can go south in a heartbeat. These people have given up, but that doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous. That’s why I said, show a firm hand from the get-go. Firm hand, Sergeant.”
Hawkshadow nodded then, as if to dismiss him.
Hector wondered if he should salute, and finally didn’t. And what did “a firm hand” really mean?
He looked along the ranks of robots again. They gazed back with attention, but without expression. Without emotion.
If only he could stop remembering. Like them. Do what he was told, and instantly forget.
He thumbed out another pill, and swallowed it dry. But it caught halfway down, and seemed to stick there, burning a hole in his throat.
THE first trucks rolled in just before dark. By then the Marines had OPs out and machine gun pits started. They had sensors deployed, and mine warning signs planted along the wire, though no actual mines yet.
Hector stood by the main gate area as the POWs straggled in. They weren’t short, like the troops he’d fought in the mountains. These guys looked well fed, not combat worn at all. They didn’t appear defeated, though they’d been disarmed. They met his eyes. A few gave him half smiles, as if to say We’re not done with you. Civilians were with them too, the internees Hawkshadow had mentioned, Hector figured. These were in worse shape, bedraggled and shamefaced. Some, bruised and tattered and limping, looked as if they’d been beaten up recently.
Hector put Milliron’s squad on duty first, setting up the watch rotation, and sent the rest back to the center to rest. But he stayed on, supervising the digging of the gun pits, T-shaped positions with the primary field of fire down into the ravine and the secondary covering the gate area.
He dropped into one pit and flipped up the cover on the M240, pretending to inspect it, but actually just wanting to lay hands on its cold alloy. The Pig. His old friend. With him since boot camp, since SOI, on two invasions.
He wished he was just a gunner again.
A little before dusk three prisoners climbed up from the ravine to where Hector watched at the main gate. Two were uniformed. An older guy wore a gray suit without a tie. Hector unslung his carbine, but they stopped a few yards downslope, on the far side of the deadline. “What do you want,” he yelled.
One yelled back, in pretty good English, “To speak to officer in charge.”
“I’m in charge. What do you want?”
“Establish a cadre. We will help you manage our men. In exchange you deal with them through us. Also, we are hungry. When will we be fed?”
Hector called the lieutenant, while keeping the prisoners behind the yellow poly rope strung forty meters downslope, parallel to the barbed wire. “Sir, got three slantie zeroes here. They want to set up a cadre, they call it.”
Hawkshadow sounded like he’d just woken up. “Tell them, tomorrow.”
“Aye aye, sir. They say their people are hungry, too.”
Hector glanced downhill to see other men climbing the slope behind the trio. Many others. Hundreds.
“I’m working that. Tell ’em they’ll get MREs tomorrow, same as us.”
He called to the shadowy figures, “You’ll get rations tomorrow. Same as us.”
“We demand to speak to camp commander,” the older man said.
“Go back to your tents,” Hector told them. “All of you. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”
“We don’t have tents for everyone. Half our men are out in the open. Without shelter. Without food. We protest this inhuman treatment. Against Geneva Convention.” The civilian turned and started shouting to the prisoners in Chinese.
The others were still climbing, filing into ranks behind the leaders. A growing mutter, a growl, rumbled from the crowd. A searchlight beam from one of the trucks swept the front rank, leaping their faces forward from the growing dark.
“Shit,” Corporal Karamete muttered, coming up beside him. “Hector. Look.”
The prisoners were carrying sticks, rocks, sharpened branches. From the bomb-shattered forest. He told her in an undertone, “Get us some reinforcements. Get the CHADs on line.” Then called Hawkshadow again. This time, the lieutenant sounded like he was already awake.
A motor roared on the far side of the hill, climbing up from the valley where the eco station and its parking lot lay. The Oshkosh crested the hill and braked, slewing. Hawkshadow jumped out and hiked over. He cradled a helmet in one arm, but was unarmed except for a pistol. “Report,” he snapped.
Hector brought him up to speed in three sentences. The Chinese stood immobile, but the crowd behind the leaders began a chant. Obviously something they’d learned before, maybe a marching song. Yeah, it had a cadence.
“I’m going down,” Hawkshadow said. He stripped off his pistol belt and thrust it into Karamete’s hands. “Don’t let them cross that line.”
“Sir, don’t take this off. And let one of us go with you—”
She tried to give it back, but Hawkshadow refused with a hand-chop. “Take it,” he snapped. Reluctantly, she accepted. He handed Hector his phone. “I’ll be right back. If I’m not, notify Battalion. Oorah?”
“Oorah, sir. Did you tell them what was going on, sir? We gonna get some reinforcements up here, like, ASAP, right?”
“They’re all still at the parade. We’re all there is.”
Parade? Hector thought. What the hell? A fucking parade, when they had nine thousand POWs locked down here? But before he could voice the protest Hawkshadow was striding away down the slope, the heels of his combat boots digging into the shell-plowed soil.
Karamete frowned. “This is a bad idea.”
“You got those CHADs coming?” Hector said. “And the rest of the platoon?”
“Second squad’s mustered, Sergeant. Behind the crest. CHADs are mustering. And don’t forget, you got two MGs covering the gate.”
He glanced back to note the line of machines and the weapons they held. Thumbed his phone, and called up their command app. Muttered, “Detail: Lock and load.”
Lock and load, the confirm read. Behind him bolts rattled as they stripped cartridges off magazines, snapped safeties on. Unfortunately he wasn’t sure sending the CHADs down there was smart. They were programmed to detect humans with weapons, execute an algorithm to identify them, and engage those tagged as enemy. If they had any kind of crowd control setting, he didn’t know it. He told Karamete, “Get me more lights. Or a helmet. I can’t see shit up here.”
“Here’s the lieutenant’s helmet.”
Hector settled it over his head and turned on the Glasses. But the night vision was busted, or below spec. It came up in a puke-green-and piss-yellow boil, with shit contrast. Through the shifting, foggy murk he could barely distinguish Hawkshadow as a figure surrounded by the slightly shorter Chinese. Behind them seethed the crowd, which seemed to be growing increasingly restive.
A rock flew over the deadline and thudded at his feet.
In the piss-green seethe, a lifted cudgel.
“On me,” he yelled to the rest of the gate guard. He unslung his carbine and started jogging down the hill. Into the valley … he hurdled the yellow deadline and glanced back to make sure they were following. Karamete, Milliron and his squad were behind him, but that was all. The CHADs stood immobile, watching.
“Want me to bring ’em down?” Karamete said, low, urgent.
“No. I can’t command them like this. Have them stand fast.” He faced front again.
But now he couldn’t see Hawkshadow at all. The whole bottom of the valley was a writhe of green-lit forms, rushing here and there, apparently all carrying rocks and sticks. Where had the lieutenant gone? Check his tablet loc—no, he’d handed that over.
Go down and find him? Unwise. They’d be surrounded, and either beaten up, or have to kill prisoners by the dozens. Maybe by the hundreds. But they’d still be overwhelmed, their weapons taken, the gate forced, the POWs streaming out.
A firm hand.
He held up a closed fist. Karamete passed “Halt” over the tac circuit.
He clicked on it too. “Post One, Post Two, fire mission. To the east. One long burst, over their heads. I say again, fire mission, to the east, one long burst, over their heads. Execute.”
Fire lashed out in a solid-seeming beam of bright green, arching like a deadly rainbow as the tracer zipped across the valley and blasted up the ground on the far side. The chatter of the guns was deafening even through the helmet. Die goddamn you die. Die goddamn you die. The machine gunner’s mantra for timing a burst. “Repeat,” he told the gunners. “Then lower your sights. Stand by for fire mission.”
When they fell silent after the second burst the crowd had parted, sullenly, but the way downward lay open.
To where a form lay supine. But another prisoner was bent over it. For a second Hector couldn’t see what he was doing. Leaning on a stick? Then he did. The guy was holding something. A suicide charge. The pale thing in his outstretched hand, the detonator.
A firm hand.
Before he knew it, the lit circle of his reflex sight framed the bent-over silhouette and the carbine jumped against his shoulder. He didn’t even remember taking the safety off. Only that when the muzzle flash ceased dazzling his Glasses the prisoner was crumpling, sliding to the torn-up, boot-scuffed earth.
Karamete shouldered past his frozen offhand firing stance. With no more thought than before he averted the muzzle from her and thumbed the safety on.
Then followed, forcing his steps, staggering like Frankenstein’s monster. He slipped on the muddy slope and almost fell, but recovered himself, staggered up again, and half slid, half stumbled the rest of the way.
To Hawkshadow’s limp body, and the prisoner’s beside him. The crowd had backed off, but they were still waving sticks and shouting, if anything, more violently and threateningly than before.
The roar of surf in his ears. Men wading toward him through the water. Water red with blood. His hands shaking.
He tried to pick the officer up, but he was too heavy. Drag him, then. “Give me a hand here,” he grunted. “Or if you—no, never mind, I’ll get him. Cover me, though. Shoot them all if they come at us again.”
“Sergeant—”
“What, Corporal?”
“I think he was trying to help.”
Ramos stared down at the man on the ground. Half his abdomen had been perforated, horribly mangled by the tumbling bullets. His guts hung out, and he was craned back, convulsing, wide-open eyes fixed on Hector’s even through the seething murk.
A pop above them. Flarelight blanked the goggles, carving shadows into the torn soil. He tore the goggles off, to see what the Chinese had been holding. It was a medical pack. The pale thing in his hand had been a bandage.
He started to lift the carbine again, not really understanding what he was doing. Then Karamete was pulling it from him, dropping the mag, jacking the live round out of the chamber. She all but threw the rifle back into his defensively raised hands. He mumbled, “I thought—”
“Yeah, well, maybe you had the wrong sight picture.” She grabbed Hawkshadow’s other arm and they began tugging him uphill. But before they got three yards four of the D models were striding downslope. Ranging themselves around the body, they lowered themselves with that strange hydraulic slippage that always looked so inhuman, linked hands, and lifted the sagging body.
Only it wasn’t a body, but a wounded man. Hawkshadow stirred and flung out his arm. His gloved fingers lashed Hector’s cheek like a challenge. Karamete ordered, “Take him to the eco station. Aid station. ASAP.”
In a hollow voice one of the CHADs repeated the command.
“What’s going on here?” A steely voice from a bulky shadow striding downhill. The tone alone said mid-grade officer. “I’m Major Deutschmann. Seven Twenty-eighth Military Police Battalion. Who’s in charge here?”
Hector turned his face away. After a couple of seconds Karamete said Lieutenant Hawkshadow had been, but that he’d gone down alone to speak with the prisoners, who were presenting grievances. Now he was wounded, but they hadn’t seen how. One of the prisoners had been shot.
The major shook his head in disgust. “He went down alone? After Koje Island? I won’t say he deserved what he got. But that’s not procedure, not with POWs. Look … we’ll take it from here. Just hand over command of these Ds. Both of you, and the rest of you Marines, you can go back to your hootches. Or wherever. They’re shipping you out. For Korea, I guess. But don’t come back here.” He glared down into the valley. “Grievances. And they beat up an officer? We’ll see about grievances.”
HECTOR went back to the aid station with the lieutenant, and stayed until the corpsman said he was stabilized. Battalion was sending a dustoff. He needed another pill. He kept patting his cargo pockets, but each time they were still empty.
They’re shipping you out for Korea. He was pretty sure that’s what the major had said.
The corpsman kept looking at him. “Sergeant. How long you been shaking like that?”
Hector extended his hands. Yeah, they looked bad. “Pretty much since Taipei,” he muttered.
“Might be CSR,” the corpsman said. “Combat stress reaction. You been feeling okay? Panic, anxiety, depression, hallucinations? See stuff that isn’t there?”
“No, nothin’ like that,” Hector lied.
“You’re not getting flashbacks? Feeling bad about something you did?”
The Pig jackhammers his shoulder as other guns along the beach open up too. He traverses, picking out clusters of wading figures. Geysers of white spray burst up. Those who still carry rifles throw them away, raise their hands too. They cry out, pleading, but he keeps firing. Under the relentless impacts they wilt, spin, drop, sink back into the sea. The water turns red beneath the silver mist. Screaming. Cries. The other guns fall silent. Someone grabs his shoulder. But he shakes it off and keeps firing.
Behind a walking wall of gray-white antitargeting smoke an army of huge green cockroaches lumbers up the slope. Gun flashes winks from their muzzles. Whistles blow. Laser beams probe like antennae through rainfog and gunsmoke. Helmets bob behind the beetles. Cheers carry on the wind. The Marines yell curses back.
The flag descends, slides down, and falls over him in folds of scarlet and yellow. As he fights free of it Ffoulk grabs it and stuffs it into her pack. She hands him a red and white and blue one. “Hoist that,” she snaps. Then makes a strange whisper, a puff of meaningless sound. Her head whips around, surrounded by a pinkish halo like that of a stained glass saint.
He snapped his head up, trying to focus. The medic frowned. “Want to lie down awhile, get some shuteye? We got a spare bunk here in the tent. Nice and quiet and dark.”
“What I could use is a drink,” he said. “Any of that medicinal brandy, or whatever?”
“We don’t give out alcohol,” the medic said. “But I can issue something to calm you down. No problem, that’s what you want. Off the books. No record.”
He didn’t need calming down. He needed … he didn’t know what exactly. To be somebody else. He rubbed his face so hard he felt the skin come off. No. That was somebody else’s face, burned, sloughing away …
He stumbled out of the tent. The corpsman called after him, but he didn’t go back.
A lightless time. He wandered, groaning aloud. Flashes of vivid images. He must have thrown his helmet away then, though he didn’t miss it until later.
Sometime after he found himself at a low block building, lightless, that he only slowly recognized as the eco center. He tried the door. Unlocked. He went in, then flinched, startled, whipping around, aiming his carbine instinctively. A dinosaur … no, some kind of frog, only a hundred times bigger than life. A plastic model. But it loomed menacingly in the dim light. It moved … no it didn’t … it had teeth … shit.
Korea. Another battle. More horror and killing.
He looked at the carbine again. Sniffed the muzzle. It still smelled of powder from the valley. From when he’d shot a man who’d only been trying to help …
An idea struck him. He stalked the corridors until he found the room he was looking for. A window shattered, smashed in by the butt of a carbine. A door clicked open.
Glass glittered in the light of his flash. A clear fluid surrounded bizarre shrunken forms, reptile embryos, snakes, insects, amphibians in the unlikely colors of a fluorescent rainbow. Beneath the counter, ranks of chemicals … he unscrewed the cap on a carboy and sniffed.
He carried the jar back to the lobby before taking the first swallow. The neat alcohol, nearly two hundred proof—or maybe it was actually ether, the label was in Chinese—seared the membranes of his throat like napalm. He choked, gasping, reeling, coughed and snorted, barely able to breathe through the fumes. He waited until the fire died, drew a deep breath, and took another sip.
It hit in seconds. He slumped-slid down into a corner filled with darkness. He huddled there, looking up at the frog monster. It loomed threateningly, ready to leap. His head spun. Another sip, another coughing fit … He set the carboy down, leveled the carbine, and flicked off the safety. The optic powered up with a faint high buzz, barely discernible above the hiss and roar already in his ears. His finger trembled on the trigger.
Then he reversed the weapon.
He set the muzzle under his chin, and closed his eyes. The raw alcohol would take the pain away. The guilt. The suffering. But when he was sober once more, the horror would still be there. Waiting.
But he could end it.
No more killing.
No more terror.
No more of this awful feeling of doom.
Hell? The priests said so. He’d be judged. Condemned.
But even eternal flame might be more peaceful than this.
“You’re a two-island Marine,” he muttered drunkenly. Your men look up to you. Duty, he had duty … the Corps … but he wasn’t up to this. Wasn’t right. His head … his brain … felt … fucking … broken. Something in there was shattered. Through the cracks, the horror was flooding in. And the pills only made it worse.
He set the rifle aside. Fingers scrabbling desperately, he extracted a slip of photo from his combat wallet. Mirielle. But her features were blurred, the colors had run together with rain and sweat and wear. Even with the flashlight, he couldn’t make out her eyes.
He set it aside, propped it facing him on the frog’s pedestal, and picked up the carbine again. Settled it between his legs, and set the powder-smelling muzzle once more beneath his jaw.
Crouched there, shivering, panting, Hector Ramos wavered between life and death.