Lying on his side after the force of the explosion knocked him back thirty feet or more and out cold, Nuke regains consciousness, a searing pain rapidly shoots through most of his body. Unable to move, he manages to open his left eye; his right eye no longer functions. He stares through the bloody orb across the asphalt into darkness—clumps of roasted meat and charred bone light up random areas of the dark highway like roadside flares. Becoming more alert, Nuke finally registers Adlemeyer’s soft whimpers, begging anyone for help. It would seem logical to try to move, but as logic often dictates, an excruciating pain accosts Nuke’s body and lingers long after he decides not to try again. Leering down at his wet and bloody clothing, he cries out, fully conscious of his dire situation.
“Nuke… Nuke, is that you? Cochise? Amigo—” Adlemeyer calls out, choking on the blood that spills from his mouth. His head arches back against the median wall with his arms pinned at his sides; both are lacerated and bloody.
“Where are Colden and Blaster?” Nuke manages to spew out.
“Oh, thank God.” Adlemeyer closes his eyes, briefly relieved. He is no longer capable of expression. After the explosion, the Hummer flipped over and collided into Adlemeyer. The back end now presses into the lower part of his midsection, nearly severing him in half. With his spine and aorta severed, blood still pumps from Adlemeyer’s heart to his brain, and his lungs still draw in shallow breaths, allowing Adlemeyer to shadow his former self. In quickened, desperate breaths, he speaks, “I… I thought y-you… were w-wasted. I t-thought I was the only one left.”
Nuke turns his head away from the wreckage of the Humvee to assess his own situation and repeats his question with a painful groan, “Where are Colden and Blaster?”
“I… I’m pretty sure Blaster’s unconscious… probably dead. I called out to him, but he never answered.” Adlemeyer goes on, “I heard an exchange of gunfire and… and Colden never came back. I don’t know.” Adlemeyer chokes back a mouthful of blood. “I t-think they b-both might be dead. H-how bad are you hit?”
“I can’t tell—I’m in a lot of pain. I think it’s really bad.”
As Nuke touches the moisture on his face that seems to too thick to be sweat, he realizes that shrapnel flayed the entire right side of his face. Shrapnel also embedded itself through most of the right side of Nuke’s body. Metal fragments securely anchor his arm and leg to the road, causing him to lose blood with every passing second.
“I’m scared, Cochise. I-I think I’m dying.”
“You’re all right,” Nuke assures Adlemeyer. “Hang in there.”
“No, man, I’m FUBAR!” Adlemeyer’s respirations quicken into short gasping breaths as he fights for each one. In his last moments, before he completely fades from the world, Adlemeyer sobs like a child. “F-fucking fobbits… goddamn fucking fobbits… should’ve let us waste them… fuck me… wait… oh… oh god—”
Nuke groans, desperately throwing his free arm over his chest and latches onto his right triceps trying to pry the pinned arm from the ground. The metal bolt that penetrates his humerus has deeply embedded itself in the asphalt. Nuke feels the short exposed length of the fastener and counts the threads on the bolt with his middle finger, quickly understanding he is not going anywhere. Flinching through the pain, he releases the arm, allowing the limb to fall back over his chest and flop against the asphalt. He lies still a moment longer before calling to Adlemeyer, “I can’t… I can’t get free.” Nuke then pauses to ponder his situation then shouts defiantly into the night sky. “GOD, THIS SUCKS…”
It does not have to end this way, John. Pick yourself up…
Calling to him by his given name, a calm hollow whisper invades Nukes thoughts. It speaks to him with purpose, although Nuke feels he might pass out if it continues with its intrusion. The voice envelopes his mind as sharp painful images project themselves forward, obliterating any thought or vision Nuke tries to gather in a panic. The deafening sound of Native American chanting rings in his ears, and the singular offbeat of a drum throbs like a rhythmic pulse through his heart, into his veins, and to the very roots of his teeth.
Images begin to form behind the lids of his closed eyes. He sees the shelf of a cave nestled high in the mountains, powdered with fresh snow. Its mouth exposed to the northern winds; incomprehensible iniquity shrouds the frigid darkness. Nuke hears a faint whispering within the moaning wind as if it harbored an invisible host. The rider in the wind calls to him, beckoning Nuke to explore the cave. But Nuke is weary and does not proceed.
I have a gift to offer you, Ojibwa. The soothing voice is deeply riveting, inviting, and crisp like the winter chill after one of his grandfather’s sweat sessions. Soon you will pass from this world and into the next. Accept what I offer, and in return, I will spare you. I alone can heal your broken vessel—put you afloat again. You will experience more than you ever thought possible, but first, you must get up.
Systematically, Nuke throws his arm back over his chest and takes hold of the bolt pinning his arm. He holds firmly to the riveted post and this time, without flinching, Nuke jerks his arm upward, savagely and without remorse. He jerks at the limb until the humerus shatters and he tears his arm free.
Nuke sits up screaming, and in a panic, uses the same brutal tactic on his leg. The pain is torturous, and Nuke may pass out before the course of his action is complete. Relentlessly, he presses on shredding muscle and ripping through flesh. Life essence spatters on the asphalt and the leg pulls free. Wet and soiled camouflage clings to his skin as rich warm blood leaks from his grievous wounds. He hasn’t much time left, and he knows it. Soon, he will be more than a couple of quarts shy of a beating heart.
Using his rifle, Nuke manages to pull himself up. To ease the pain, he shifts the weight of his body onto his undamaged leg and uses the rifle like a crutch. He quickly surveys the area but does not know in which direction he should start moving. The voice thrusts itself back into Nuke’s thoughts. He stumbles forward, shrieking, yet manages to remain standing.
John of the Ojibwa tribe, the voice whispers to him, your salvation awaits you. Walk to your brothers. Let them show you the path.
Leaning on his rifle, Nuke shambles painfully toward the Hummer’s wreckage. As he stumbles forward, drawing closer, he hears the viscous gnashing of teeth and savage animal-like growling. It reminds him of hungry wolves eating away at an animal’s carcass. It reminds him of Sasha, his grandfather’s loyal wolf companion, while she digs into a fresh trout after one of their long fishing days back in the reservation. Though no wolves nor Sasha await Nuke on the other side of the wreckage, only one word escapes the young Ojibwa’s lips as he turns the corner around the Humvee and catches a glimpse of a horrific sight—a wendigo. His jaw drops. The uninjured portion of his face expresses utter dismay as he takes in the appalling revelation with one bloody, gasping breath.
No more than a mocked up spark of life after the bloodiest defamation, Blaster now appears irreparably broken. His snapped collarbone luridly protrudes through his torn blood-drenched field jacket. In his hand, he holds tight to the remains of a dark-skinned arm ripped violently from the socket of its owner. With his head unnaturally twisted to the right and his spine jutting out against the left side of his neck, Blaster uses the full strength of his teeth to rend strips of meat from the appendage. His other arm proves useless; it is bent, bloody, and hangs limp from the elbow down. He manages to cover his mouth in between the ripping and chewing with his pronounced biceps, keeping his meal from falling free.
Next, Blaster stuffs the bloody stump of the upper arm deep into Adlemeyer’s throat. Adlemeyer eagerly and atrociously chokes down loose bits of bone, flesh, and any blood that might remain in the arm’s cord-like veins. His bulbous throat has expanded like a croaking bullfrog and turned a deep rosy blush, giving way to the protruding limb. In the thick of their feeding frenzy, neither notices Nuke.
Quickly shuffling backward, Nuke loses his footing and falls against the median wall. His rifle makes a clanking noise as it hits the asphalt. Using the wall, he quickly propels himself backward, putting as much distance as possible between he and the other two marines. It is then that Nuke spots Bill. On the far side of the highway past the median, Bill lies across the body of the dead insurgent; his legs fanned out behind him.
Bill seems to be mesmerized with the gooey red mess that stretches from one palm to the other. His KA-BAR is plunged to the hilt into the corpse, just below its rib cage. Nuke quickly takes note of the puddle of blood and the socket that is missing its arm.
Bill pulls the knife free from the corpse, plunging his hand deep into the hole. He digs his fingers through meat and tissue until he has a firm grip on its spine. He relentlessly pulls upward, attempting to separate the corpse’s spine from its body, though it does not give way. Decidedly, Bill stands up while managing a firm grip around the spinal column. The body hangs limply at his waist, arched in a semicircle, fingers and feet dangle just off the ground. Unable to fend for themselves, Bill hauls the corpse over to Blaster and Adlemeyer. His somber expression atrociously accented with scraps of meat and flecks of blood. Nuke could try for the rest of his life and come no closer to hell than what he is experiencing at this very moment.
Do not dally in your task, John.
“This is insane. What have they done?”
They have chosen survival, the whispery voice reasons, as you must. Your mortal vessel is broken and soon… it will perish.
“I can’t. I won’t.” Revolted by the thought of cannibalism, Nuke hides his face from the appalling sight. Seconds later, he peeks into the night sky searching for the telepathic intruder. “This isn’t possible. How?”
You cut your hair Ojibwa, the voice snidely confesses to its means of escape. The source of your people’s spiritual strength, and you cut it off. It has weakened you. The explosion weakened you further, allowing me to slip out from your subconscious. I have come for you, John. After all of these years, patiently sleeping and waiting, you are finally mine.
“No—”
Time is short. Find your resolve or the icy grip of death will find its way into your flesh.
“I can’t,” Nuke whimpers.
Can you feel the cold envelope your bones? Your strength leaves you, your life essence nearly spent on the ground around you. Soon, the wolf will come. You will ride the great-spirit wolf into the underworld… It will chew on your meat and feast on your bones for all eternity. You know it to be true, Ojibwa. You were a child when the wolf first tried to take you. Your mother bought you time.
“No. That is not true!” Nuke blurts out in a bloody cough and stumbles forward in outrage. “I was sick. I WAS JUST SICK!”
No, Ojibwa. It was I. You could not comprehend or embrace the splendor of what I offered and so I slept, patiently waiting for this very night. I have always been with you, offering my strength when you needed it most.
“Lies—you’re lying. I did it myself!”
You couldn’t climb the rope… A scared little boy that couldn’t even climb the rope on the obstacle course. One… two… only two pull-ups. You must have been so embarrassed.
“Stop it! I did those things! It was me. It was always me!”
No, Ojibwa. You cut your hair when you joined the ranks, and in doing so, you left your spiritual heritage back in the reservation. It was then that I began clawing my way out of you. I gave you my strength. Time is short, Ojibwa, and you are dying now climb—that—rope!
Physically defeated, Nuke leans into the wall and slumps onto the cold asphalt of the decimated highway. The arduous damage his body sustained leaves him swollen and livid, depleted, and clinging to every shallow breath. Dying, he feels his heart slowing. One or two more breaths and his eyes will flutter and close. He listens to the cool breeze as it passes by his ears. The rider within the wind speaks no more; Nuke has made his decision.
All should have remained quiet in his passing, but something… something is coming for him. It is faint at first, crisp like the crunching snow beneath one’s feet. He can hear its distant panting and the trotting footfalls that close in distance. They beat in rhythm with his slowing heart, and the more it slows, the closer and louder the trotting becomes. He can almost make out the phantom’s form in his mind. It grows louder, triumphant over his dwindling heartbeat.
It grows closer… closer…
Nuke feels its hungry hot breath on the back of his neck.
Ojibwa, open your eyes . . .
* * *
Coming to, Nuke sits hunched over in an open field of snow with legs spread apart. He lifts his head and blinks. Billowing swirls of snow whip like a lashing tongue sweeping the obscure flat powdery landscape. Nuke’s body no longer appears broken or flayed. Fervently, he erects himself, scanning his immediate surroundings; there is nothing to see other than vast white emptiness and continuous snowfall. There are no trees or bushes, streams or mountains, and most of all, there is no sign of that dark desert highway. There are only white flakes of purity falling around Nuke, tickling his brow and nose.
He knew this place. His people often spoke of the spirit realm. It was a place of peace and tranquility—the omega to a long life of struggle and strife, hopes and dreams. If he was truly in the spirit realm, then he wished never to leave.
Standing up, brisk and euphoric, Nuke loudly cheers and raises his outstretched arms to the sky. Stretching his fingers apart, he reaches upward in surrender. He cannot remember the last time he smiled so willingly. He intends to thank the creation spirit for delivering him here and calls to the spirit by its name.
“Glooskap boozhoo… Migwetch manitouwabi… John Nukpana ndishnikaaz.”
The ground rumbles beneath his feet, a small tremor acknowledging his presence. Nuke’s smile widens in anticipation of the great ones arrival. Repeatedly, he calls out to Glooskap, more excited and enthusiastic each time.
“Glooskap—”
“Glooskap—”
“glooskap—”
Again, the ground rumbles. This time, the snow shifts and what lay beneath stirs, separating the ground into a deep dark fissure, like a glacier giving birth to a ship’s bow.
It, whatever it is, begins rising up from under the heavy blanket of winter. Snow and sheets of ice give way, falling all around the hulking form. A twisting wall of frost obscures the spirit, revealing only a massive silhouette and two fiery red orbs.
Just as freezing ice around the broken landscape and the billowing snow and frost begin to settle, the monstrous thing emerges. Nuke soon realizes his error; it is not the Great Spirit Glooskap but a massive wolf that looks as if it is in a late stage of decomposition.
Frozen chunks of ice mat its silver-black fur, resembling massive stalactites rather than icicles. It is muscular from its powerful legs to its exposed withers standing even at ten feet and weighs nearly eight hundred pounds. As it snarls, a scarred and rotten muzzle reveals jagged yellow canines and unhealthy black gums; eyes like molten lava sear through Nuke with intense abiding hatred.
Nukes curses the apparition with spit and then calls to it by its dreaded name—a name given to the father of all things evil, twisted and poisonous.
“Jiibay… Malsum . . .”
With little effort, Malsum rears forward quickly and hungrily, and engulfs most of Nuke’s left arm and torso within a single bite of its massive jaws. It lifts Nuke violently from the ground, shaking him from side to side before darting off into the cold emptiness.
* * *
Opening his eyes, Nuke gasps back to life with a choking breath. He looks anxious and determined—possessed by a single thought. Regaining a small semblance of his strength, he lowers himself onto his abdomen, catching glimpses of charred fragments belonging to a dead insurgent spread thin over the cluttered open road; small licking flames still dance off the insurgent’s smoldering remains. They flicker rapidly as a strong swirling wind picks up. Nuke thrusts himself forward on his hands and feet, grimacing through pain, and slides on top of the charred meat cradling it with both hands. He then ferociously sinks his teeth deep into the seared flesh. The wind intensifies, lifting upward into the night sky.
Before closing his eyes for the last time, Nuke manages to eat the charred meat. The last of his thoughts are of death and rot, gnashing teeth and ripping flesh. It is at this moment, dwindling on the threshold between life and death, that he can feel his soul slip from his body as something else creeps in. He will soon follow his brothers into dark coldness as the wolf now addresses all of them with one last message: rest my children, sleep, and heal. Soon, you will suffer the fever.