Night & Demons (55 page)

“How’s that?” Fuller snapped, nervous about anything unusual. The bunker buster went off, a hollow boom like a cherry bomb in a garbage can, only a thousand times as loud. Dirt and whizzing fragments of stone mushroomed upward, drifting mostly toward three-six and showering it for thirty seconds. The crew covered their eyes and hunched their steel pots close to their shoulders.

Captain Fuller, kneeling beside the track under the unexpected rain of dirt, suddenly choked and jumped to his feet swearing. “My God,” he roared, “which way’s the wind blowing?” The charnel reek that oozed out of the newly opened bunker was strong and indescribably foul. The troop had found NVA buried in the jungle for months in the damp warmth, found them and dug them up to search for papers; that stench had been nothing to this one.

“Must’a been a hospital,” Sergeant Peacock suggested as he edged upwind of the pit. He was covering his nose with an olive-drab handkerchief. “Jesus,” he repeated, “I never smelled anything like that.”

Three-six’s diesel ripped back into life and brought the track upwind of the hole in a wide circle. Ten yards away, its nose pointing out toward the road beside the next vehicle over, it halted and Casely descended again. He still held his pistol. “God, look at that,” he said.

When the bunker buster had blown, it lifted the roof off a narrow crypt some ten feet long and half that wide. It could not have been more than inches below the surface of the soil at any point. Relatively little of the rubble kicked up by the explosion had fallen back into the cavity, leaving it open to the eyes of the men on its edge. Most of the litter on the floor of the crypt was of bones. All were dry, and many had been smashed to powder by the blast. One skull, whole by some mischance, goggled toward the north wall.

The idol glared back at it. It was about six feet high, cut out of streaky soapstone instead of the omnipresent laterite whose pocked roughness forms the walls and ornamentation of most Cambodian temples, even those of Angkor Wat. Though it stood on two legs, there was nothing manlike about the creature. A fanged jaw twisted into a vicious grimace, leering out over the beast’s potbelly. One clawed arm rested on the paunch; the other, apparently the only casualty of the explosion, had been broken off at the shoulder and lay half-covered by the gravel on the floor. The gray-on-black marking of the stone blended to give the image a lifelikeness it should not have had; Fuller blinked, half-expecting blood to spurt from the severed arm. Over all lay the miasma of decay, slowly diffusing on the hot breeze.

Fuller hesitated a moment, peering over the edge. “Anybody see a door to this place?” he asked. None of the group slowly gathering on the edge of the crypt answered. The whole room had been faced with thin slabs of the same stone that formed the idol. Line after line of squiggly, decorative Cambodian writing covered their surface unintelligibly. Fragments from the roof of the crypt showed similar markings.

“That ain’t no hospital,” Sergeant Peacock asserted needlessly, wiping his palms on the seat of his fatigues. The light-green material darkened with sweat.

Jody Bredt, the undersized Private first Class who drove three-six, sauntered over with his gas mask in his hand. He took the war a little more seriously than most of the rest of the troop and kept his mask in the hatch with him instead of being buried in the bottom of his duffle bag. “Want me to take a look down there, Captain Fuller?” he asked importantly.

“Why don’t you just put in for official tunnel rat?” his TC gibed, but the officer nodded appreciatively. “Yeah, go ahead. Be careful, for God’s sake, but I think this may just have been an old temple.”

Jody slipped his mask on, virtually blinding himself even in the bright sunlight. The lenses were dusty and scratched from knocking around in the track for months. A preliminary sniff had convinced him that the stench had almost dissipated, but he couldn’t take the mask off now that he’d made such a production of it. Gingerly, he lowered himself over the edge. Sergeant Peacock knelt down to hold his wrist in case he slipped; there might be a mine under any of the delicately carven slabs. The gooks were clever about that sort of thing. Still, any mines down there should have gone off when the bunker buster did. He let his feet touch the ground with a little more confidence and ran his hand over the wall. “I don’t see any swinging doors or anything,” he reported. “Maybe they got in through the roof, huh?”

“Hell, we’ll never know that now,” Casely snorted. “Hey, Captain, I think the smell is pretty well gone. Let me go down there.”

“Why?” Fuller grunted. “Want to take that statue back with you on R&R?”

The TC grinned. The captain knew his men pretty well. “Naw, too big. I did think one of them skulls would make kind of a nice souvenir if they don’t check my hold baggage too close, though.”

Fuller swore and laughed. “OK,” he said, squatting down preparatory to jumping in himself, “go ahead, you found the place. But I want the rest of you guys back on your tracks. We’re going to be leaving here in five, as soon as I get a look around myself.”

“Hey, Red, throw me something,” one of the bystanders begged Casely, but the captain waved him away peremptorily. “Go on, goddammit, I don’t want all of you hanging around here in case the dinks are out there.” He hopped down into the cavity, joining Casely and the driver whose mask hung from his hand again. The air was thick but had lost the earlier noisomeness.

Casely picked up the skull he wanted for a trophy with a finger through each of the eye-sockets. When he had lifted it waist high, the bone crumbled to powder. What was left of the skull shattered unrecognizably when it hit the floor. “Goddamn,” the TC swore, kicking angrily at the heap of dust, “why didn’t it do that when the frag went off if it had to do it at all? Now I got my hopes up and look what happens!”

Peacock, squatting like a black Buddha on the rim of the crypt, chuckled deep in his chest. “Why, the next dink we get, you just cut his head off and dry it out. How that be, Red? Get you a nice fresh head to take back to your wife.”

Casely swore again. The captain was handling another of the bones. This one was a femur, sheared off some inches short of the knee joint. If the frag hadn’t done it, the damage dated from the unguessable past. The bone was almost as dry and fragile as the skull that had powdered in Casely’s hands. He tossed it up to the field first, shaking his head in puzzlement. “How old do you guess that is, Sarge?” he asked. “I don’t think I ever saw anything that used up before.”

“This old guy is still in fine shape,” Jody put in, rapping the brutal idol on the nose with his gas mask. “Frag didn’t hurt him hardly at all, did it?” He kicked at the broken limb lying near the statue. The others, more or less consciously, had been avoiding the idol with their eyes. If you looked too closely, the crude swirls on the thing that were supposed to represent hair seemed to move by themselves. Probably the grain of the stone.

“Goddamn,” Fuller said. It was not entirely blasphemous the way he said it. “Will you look at that.”

The driver’s foot had shaken the broken arm, paw, whatever, out of the pile of rubble in which it lay. Previously unseen was the figure of the man—it was clearly a man—held in the monster’s clawed grip. The man had been sculpted only a fraction of the size of the thing holding him, some thirty inches or so from foot to where the head would have been if it hadn’t been broken off by the blast. Fuller looked more closely. No, the figure had been carved that way originally, limp and headless in the idol’s claws. The beast-god’s leering mouth seemed to take a further, even more unpleasant dimension. Fuller stretched his arm up to Sergeant Peacock. “Sarge, give me a hand. Come on, you two, we’re getting out of here.”

“Think the gooks been using this as a hospital?” Jody asked, scrambling up to the surface with a boost from Casely. Jody always missed the last word and didn’t have quite the intelligence to supply it himself.

“I don’t know what they’re doing,” Fuller grunted. “If there’s one bunker around here, there could be a hundred though, and I’m not sitting around to find out. I think I’ll ask for a B-52 strike here. God knows, they’re flattening enough empty jungle they ought to be willing to hit a spot like this.”

Casely picked up a bit of the crypt’s roof and tossed it in his hand. “Hey,” he said, “maybe some of those locals speak English. I’d like to know what these squiggles are saying.”

“You’re going to have to find them to ask,” Peacock said with a shrug. “They must’a took off when the bunker buster went off.”

“Umm,” the redhead grunted. “Well, it makes a souvenir anyway.” Around the circle of vehicles engines were starting up. One of the gunners signaled Casely with the radio helmet in his hand. “Come on, Red,” he shouted, “we’re moving out.” Casely nodded and began jogging toward the track. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving this place either. Not sorry at all.

Three-six had a full crew of four men, and so they split the guard into two-hour shifts from 2200 to 0600. The new location was a dead ringer for the one they’d just left, low jungle approaching the graveled length of Highway 13, but at least there didn’t seem to be any bunkers. Or idols. Casely had last guard, a concession to his rank that meant he could get six hours sleep uninterrupted, but he couldn’t seem to drop off soundly. The air was cool and misty, cloaking the tracks so closely that the Sheridan to the left in the laager was almost invisible. A good night for sappers. Casely could almost feel them creeping closer.

He glanced at his watch. Three o’clock, Jody’s shift. The TC was stretched out on the closed cargo hatch of the ACAV while the two gunners slept inside on mattresses laid over the ranked ammo boxes. He should have been able to see Jody sitting in the cupola, staring out into the jungle. At first glance the driver wasn’t there, and Casely sat up to make sure the little guy hadn’t gone and done something unusually stupid. At the first sound of movement from behind him Jody gasped and straightened up from where he was hunched over the cupola’s fifty-caliber machine gun. “Jeez, Red, it’s you. Jeez, you gave me a shock there!” he whispered nervously.

Casely swung himself around to lean his left side on the sloping steel of the cupola and peer out in to the night. “Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered. The rustle of static escaping from the driver’s radio helmet was comforting, mechanical.

“I think there’s somebody out there,” Jody blurted suddenly, waving his arm toward the mist. “I keep hearing something moving, kind of.”

Something like thunder began in the far distance. It didn’t seem loud until you tried to whisper over it. Unlike thunder, it didn’t stop. The rustling, rumbling sound went on and on, and to the west the sky brightened intermittently with white flashes.

Jody tensed. “What the hell’s that?” he stammered, his right hand already snaking for the cal fifty’s charging handle. His TC chuckled and stopped him. “Christ, you are new,” Casely said without malice. “This the first time you heard an Arclight?”

Jody’s blank expression was evident even in the gloom. “Arclight,” the TC repeated. “You know, a B-52 strike. Hell, that must be ten klicks away at least.”

“Ten kilometers?” the driver said in surprise. “It scared me there for a minute.”

“If there’s any dinks under it, it’ll scare them worse,” Casely stated positively. “Wait till we go through one of the bombed areas, and you’ll see. They just flatten whole swaths of the jungle, a quarter-mile wide and as long as there’s planes in the strike. Don’t leave a thing higher than the grass, either.”

He glanced at his watch again and swore. “Look, I got to get some sleep. Wake me up in half an hour, huh?”

“You don’t think there’s something out there, Red?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” the TC grunted. “Keep your eyes open and wake me up in half an hour.”

There was something pressing down on them from the dark, but it might have been the mist alone. Casely drew his poncho liner closer about him and fell back into a fitful sleep. He dreamed, aimlessly at first but then of the writing-covered crypt he had stood in that afternoon. He was there again, but the roof had been replaced and the walls were miles high. The idol was waiting for him. Its soapstone jaws grinned, and its remaining arm began to reach out. The stench rolled almost tangibly from its maw.

“Jesus God!” the TC blurted. His head rang with the blow he had given it, lurching uncontrollably against the cupola to get away from his dream. Even awake, the charnel fetor lay heavily in his nostrils. “Jesus,” he repeated more softly. If he’d known the sort of nightmare he was due for, he’d have spelled Jody right then at 3:15 and let the driver dream it for him.

It was still pitch-dark; dawn and sunset are sudden things in the tropics. The illuminated hands of his big wristwatch were clear at five after four, though, twenty minutes after Jody should have waked him up. “Hey, turtle,” he whispered, “I told you to get me up at a quarter of. You like guard so much you want to pull my shift too?”

No answer. Alarmed, Casely peered into the cupola. The light fabric of the driver’s shirt showed faintly where his torso covered the receiver of the cal fifty. Despite all his talk about hearing something in the jungle, Jody had fallen asleep.

In the guts of the ACAV, the radio hissed softly. “Come on, Jody,” Casely prodded. He put his hand on the driver’s shoulder. Jody’s body slipped fluidly off the seat, falling through the cupola into the vehicle’s interior. One of the gunners snapped awake with a startled curse and turned on his flashlight.

On the back deck of the ACAV, Casely stared at the dark wetness on his hand. For a moment he was too transfixed even to look down into the track, to look down at Jody’s torso sprawling in headless obscenity.

Captain Fuller yawned, then shook his head to clear it. “Sure hope we don’t have another sapper tonight,” he muttered. “Christ, I’m tired.”

Sergeant Peacock methodically checked the tent flap, making sure it was sealed and not leaking light from the small yellow bulbs inside. The command track’s engine was on, rumbling to power the lights and the two radio sets in the track itself behind the tent. It was midnight and voices crackled as the radio operator called the roll of the vehicles around the NDP.