Hunting Season (2 page)

Elijah moved his left hand for his knife.

"Pull over," Miguel said.  "I want to show you something."

Elijah pulled the knife from his back pocket.  Switching hands on the wheel, he grabbed the knife from his lap with his right.

"I want you to see."  A gun cocked in the dark.  "Pull over and I'll show you."  Miguel jammed the barrel into Elijah's ribs.  "Now."

"Okay, okay."  Elijah took his foot off the accelerator and pulled over onto the shoulder.  "Just take it easy."

The barrel moved from his ribs but Elijah could still feel it pointing at him.

Miguel rifled through his backpack.  Elijah tried to see better in the dark, staring, willing his night vision to sharpen so he could locate the gun.

"Turn on the map light," Miguel said.

"What?"

"Turn on the map light.  I said I wanted to show you."

Elijah reached up to the rearview mirror and flicked on the map light.

Sitting across from him, Miguel held the gun in his left hand and the severed head of a woman in the other.  Elijah jumped back and hit his spine on the driver's side door. 

"I'm not alone," Miguel said.

Elijah closed his eyes, waiting for the gunshot.

Nothing happened.

Elijah opened his eyes a millimeter at a time until the passenger seat came into focus.

Empty.  The only thing occupying it was the light from the rearview.

He turned and looked forward.  The mist still hung heavy on the road.  The car, still parked on the shoulder.

A ghost, Elijah thought and exhaled slow and long.  It had felt more real than any other.  And it had lasted longer than any of his previous experiences.

"Which means he's up the road."  Elijah flicked the map light off.  "I am Vision."

The accelerator pinned to the floor, the back wheels spun and then bit the asphalt.  The car rocketed from zero to sixty in about seven seconds.  The eight cylinders of the engine roared as the RPMs flirted with the red line.  By the time he topped out in speed, the lights did little more than illuminate a gray wall.

The headlights reflected off something small.

Then Miguel was there, bathed in the glow of angry headlights, backpack slung over his shoulder.  Elijah swerved and there was a sickening thud as Miguel was sucked under the right front tire and then the rear one.  The car bounced almost out of control, but Elijah slammed on the brakes.  The car skidded about
fifteen feet.
 
Breathing hard, he glanced in the rearview but saw only mist.

Just drive, Elijah thought.  Get to Mom and wash the car off while it's still dark.

But he needed to know Miguel was dead.  Then the dreams would end and maybe the part of him connected to Miguel would finally have peace.

Elijah shifted into reverse and backed slowly until a lump of twisted flesh appeared in the rearview, the brake lights blanketing the lump in red.  He grabbed his knife, opened the door and approached the body slowly, just in case Miguel pulled the gun.

Something moved.  Miguel rolled over, gurgled blood and wheezed for air.  Elijah knelt next to him, the knife held to his chest, ready to stab.

Most of Miguel's body was crushed.  The right side of his head was caved in and only his left eye remained.  It stared at Elijah.

"Who are you?" Elijah said.

Miguel appeared to be grinning, a mouthful of broken and chipped teeth on pointing out at Elijah.  A long breath escaped his mouth.  Elijah watched Miguel's life sputtering out in the red brake lights.

"This is how you die."  Miguel gurgled blood.

Elijah blinked and found himself kneeling over the empty pavement.  Miguel had vanished.  He ran around and looked at the front end of the car.  It was undamaged.

"What the Hell?"  He'd never experienced anything like it.  A vision followed by a vision?

A semi raced by and honked.  Snapping out of his disbelief, Elijah climbed back aboard and drove on, determined more than ever to get to Mom.

*  *  *  *  *

The guards were expecting him and called for an escort from the infirmary when Elijah arrived.  A thin, gaunt man met him and took him to his mother.

She was a sack of bones with sunken eyes and birdlike
arms.  He walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead.  Her skin was clammy.  She smelled of wet-wipes and urine.

"I'm here, Mom."  He leaned over her, and saw a glint of recognition in her milky eyes.

"Knowing you were alone and unloved here in prison has been the only comfort in my life.  You murdered Dad, and left a broken kid to roam the broken world.  My only hope is that you don't die.  That you continue to rot away, alive and in misery, forever, and ever."

A single monotone sound emanated from the heart monitor.  A flat line drifted across the screen.  A doctor and a nurse raced in and pushed Elijah aside and started CPR.  Rather than watch, he moved toward the door feeling empty and defeated.  Ten minutes later, a doctor found him in the hallway and told him she was gone.

"I am Loneliness," he said when he was by himself.

Elijah stood there a long time, thinking about her, and his life.  Thought about Miguel, the stranger of his dreams.  Thought about the people he'd killed before they could do bad things, the images of them replaying in his head all at once like a surreal movie.  And now the one thing he'd always had in his life, his focus of rage, the woman who had ruined him, was gone.

His hands trembled as he rubbed the back of his neck, thinking, wishing he could make sense of everything and feeling more alone now than he ever had.

Just get out of here, he thought.  Find a motel, sleep, and then bury Mom tomorrow.

After signing out with the guard at the front, Elijah walked to his car and climbed in.  When he tried to start it, nothing happened.

"Come on."

He turned the key again.  Nothing.  Not even a click.

Deal with it tomorrow, he thought and got out.

Elijah grabbed his backpack from the backseat.  Looking at the solitary patch sewn on the front reminded him of when Mom had first given it to him.  His favorite band for her favorite son.

Fuck her, he thought, shaking the memory off and slinging the pack over his shoulder.  He slammed the door and walked from the car down the road away from the prison.

I am Loneliness, he thought as he pulled his jacket tighter against a chill wind.  I am Vision.

The headlights of an approaching car rounded the bend up ahead.  As it neared, Elijah stuck out his fist and cocked his thumb up.

The car slowed and pulled over just past him.  "Need a ride?" a woman said.

Elijah stared at the car a moment before walking toward it.  "Yes, I do."

"I can take you as far as town."

"Sounds good."  Elijah climbed in the passenger seat and set his pack on the floor between his feet.  "I appreciate it."

"Got a name?"  Her accent was soft, maybe Georgia.

Elijah looked at her.  He couldn't make out much but could tell she was thin.  Her breasts were nice and round.  Her hair, auburn and long.  She looked like Mom when she had been younger.

"Miguel," he said.

I am Vision, he thought.  I am Death.

FUBAR

The term for my situation: FUBAR.

FUBAR, one of those handy-dandy acronyms used in the military to prevent one from speaking more words than necessary.  Meaning: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

The perfect description of my situation.

Usually you pass through two other levels before reaching FUBAR.  First, there's SNAFU:  Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.  Then there's TARFU:  Things Are Really Fucked Up.  As a situation grows progressively worse, it moves naturally from SNAFU to TARFU to FUBAR.  Kind of like the way the degrees go up the worse you get burned.

I never got to experience SNAFU or TARFU.  No, I jumped right to FUBAR.

FUBAR.

Fuck.

*  *  *  *  *

"You need to give me something more than, 'I was following orders,' Sergeant."

Second Lieutenant Dexter stares at me hard but his attempt at intimidation doesn't work.  This clown has a nice high and tight haircut, freshly pressed uniform, and a school boy face.  Couldn't intimidate a skittish puppy.

Fresh out of law school I bet.  Uncle Sam paid for college now Dexter repays his debt.  But he's too pretty to be scary.  Never seen combat.  Never faced death.  An actor playing a role, nothing more.  Plus, he's an asshole.  Figures the government sends an asshole to defend me.

"That's the way it went down, Sir."  I tap my fingers on the metal table I'm handcuffed to.  "We were ordered to sweep the bunker for WMDs and eliminate any resistance.  Someone resisted."

"Your squad killed eight civilians, Sergeant.  Not one of them was armed."

"One of them in the crowd fired on us, Sir."

"None of the Iraqis you killed."

My nerves are raw.  Fuck this little prick.

"We followed the Rules of Engagement.  We swept the bunker and took fire.  We returned fire.  It's not my fault eight people were at the wrong place at the wrong time."

I can tell my words taste sour in Dexter's mouth.  The Marine Corp knew we were following orders.  But eight Muslim civilians got killed.  It looked bad, especially since whoever did open fire didn't stick around for the fight.  Not our fault, though.  In this case, fault doesn't matter.  Perception does.  The Corp didn't want another black eye.

Dexter sighs like a fop, all wispy and girlish.  "The prosecution will pursue the death penalty, Sergeant.  Maybe if you testified against your Gunnery Sergeant, we could get a reduced sentence."

My military bearing and respect for rank is the only thing keeping me from beating the asshole's head against this nice metal table.  Well that and the handcuffs.

I look around the room, letting my anger subside.  It looks like one of those interview rooms you always see on cop shows.  Puke green-painted cinder block walls, concrete floor, and a solitary metal fan mounted near the ceiling, doing little to help cool the air.

"I'm not going to point the finger to save my ass, Sir."

"You could die if you don't.  I'm not joking when I say they're going for the death penalty."

Big FUBAR.

"Then I die, Sir."

No way I'm turning rat.  Death before dishonor still means something to me.

*  *  *  *  *

They get these big ass sandstorms in the Middle East.  I mean fucking huge.  End of the world type storms.  And when they hit, forget about trying to see two feet in front of you.  It's like God decided he wanted to cocoon you in desert.

The thing is, when one of those storms kick up, it moves tons of sand.  It's not unusual to find a whole street full of cars buried, never to be seen again.  But when something is buried, often something else is uncovered.  That's how the scout helicopter located the bunker.  What had been a sea of sand the day before the storm was now a desolate wasteland with a one hundred foot bunker cresting the surface.

The order came in two hours after the helo reported the bunker.  Our platoon would go in and secure it along with any contents within.  The brass sounded concerned.  If WMDs were in the bunker, they didn't want a bunch of insurgents getting their hands on it.  The order came fast.  Move in.  Now, now, now.

Just before we took fire outside the bunker, we found the canisters.  Don't know how we missed them on the initial sweep but there they were.

Talk about FUBAR.

The all clear had already been given.  Everyone had stripped their masks off, relieved to shed the sweat hats in the 120° heat.  The dust we'd kicked up rummaging around stuck to my damp face.

Then Corporal Hicks sounded the alarm.

"Biologics!"

Time seemed to slow down.  I looked at my Gunnery Sergeant, thinking I hadn't heard it right.

Gunny, though, already had his mask pulled back over his head.

Did I race to put mine back on?  No.  Instead, I glanced at the rest of my squad, seeing if anyone else had donned their masks.  I mean, this really couldn't be happening, right?

Most already had and were fleeing to the outside air.  The rest ran toward the exit while pulling their masks on.

Fucking FUBAR.

From the time Hicks sounded the alarm to the time I finally donned my mask, about ten seconds passed.

Ten seconds.

More than enough time to end a life.

Time returned to normal speed.  I assembled outside with the rest of the squad, hoping I hadn't just killed myself.

A bunch of local camel jockeys stood outside, watching us.  I didn't pay much attention to them because I was waiting for my eyes to pop out or blood to start pouring from my ass.

My point is I didn't see what happened once I got outside.  Panic raced through most of us.  Adrenaline surged, you know?

Then I heard the gunfire.

The response was swift and immediate.

I didn't shoot one round.  My hands were too busy feeling my ass for blood.

*  *  *  *  *

The first mark appeared on my chest a week after our visit to the bunker.  It looked like a patch of ringworm; round, scaly, itchy about the size of a quarter.  A few days later puss bubbled over it.

Then it started to spread.

FUBAR, buddy.  FUBAR.

At last count, I've got ninety-six bubbles on my chest, stomach, and back.  None have burst yet.  The protective layer of skin holding the puss in is tough and leathery like a football.

No one's noticed.  The orange jumpsuit they make me wear in holding is baggy and hides the protrusions easily.

I wonder if anyone else from my squad has broken out with the same bubbles.  I doubt it.  If they had, the Corps would be taking a more active interest in my health.  I'd be seeing doctors looking for anything mysterious.  But that hasn't happened.  All I've seen is my jerk-off Judge Advocate – lawyer for you civilians.

As my finger passes over the leathery bubbles, I think maybe we found a new type of biological weapon down there in that bunker.  Something engineered to spread and mature but not activate until the carrier chooses the time and place.