The Chameleon Soldier: NOW AS AN ALIEN BLUE HE CANNOT DIE.
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Authors: D.B. Silvis
Tags: #Fiction
By
D.B. Silvis
Copyright # TXu 1-843-457
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved
Cover Design by Connie Wenzel-Jordan
Image Communications – Rehoboth, Massachusetts
T
here was a
loud roaring noise in the sky. They looked up and saw a huge wingless bird, with skin of silver. Glittering in the orange sun it passed over their heads. It was descending.
Tom Muldoon shouted, “What the hell is that, Killian?”
“Damned if I know, Tom, but it sure is big and bright.”
It was a cool spring day in 1860. The sun was shining in a clear azure sky and the ground was slightly crusted with light snow from the night before. The two men, who were in their late twenties, had been hunting and trapping beaver in Damon Lake and Bonito Creek in the White Mountains of the New Mexico territory. They were carrying rifles and pelts as they hurried through the woods toward the place they’d seen the silvery-white flash in the cloudless sky. When they came to a cliff, they lay on the ground and looked down into a valley, where they saw a Navajo Indian encampment. Some of the Indians were doing a sacred dance, while others were bowing to a few short, slightly built, grayish-looking creatures that appeared to be welcoming the large silver bird.
“God Almighty, Killian what’s that silvery thing?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. I sure ain’t ever seen anything like it before.”
“It’s the biggest damn bird I ever saw, and it ain’t got any wings—and whatta you suppose those short gray things are?”
“I’m not sure. They’re awful weird-looking. They could be animals or, I guess, some kind of people.”
“Those Indians are gettin’ damn excited. I don’t like this.”
“I don’t cotton to it neither, Tom. Let’s get the hell outta’ here before they see us.”
The two trappers stood and quickly started off through the woods toward Bonito Creek. After they had walked about a quarter of a mile they saw four Navajo Indians running through the trees toward them. Killian and Tom raised their Hawken rifles, and each got off one shot, killing two of the Indians before the other two, knives in hands, attacked them. The trappers dropped their rifles and pulled out their Bowie “scalpin” knives.” The trappers and Indians were fighting hand-to-hand, swinging and slashing the knives at one another. They clashed and wrestled, falling to the ground in a life-or-death struggle. Tom Muldoon killed the Indian he had been fighting, stood up, and turned to look at his friend Killian, who was still rolling on the ground with the other Indian. Tom had a knife sticking in his chest. He stared off into space and fell to the ground, dead.
Killian, fighting fiercely with his own, strong opponent, was lying on his back. His left arm and hand were badly cut and bleeding. The Indian, who was now on top of him, slashed his knife across Killian’s neck. Blood spurted out. At that same instant Killian buried his Bowie knife into his attacker’s heart. He felt the blood spurting from his neck as a silvery bluish fluid gushed from the Indian’s chest. The fluid spilled into Killian’s eyes and mouth. He choked and gagged as he swallowed the ghastly-tasting liquid. He coughed, spat, and rubbed his eyes in an effort to remove the stinging fluid that was blinding him. He pushed the Indian off and grabbed at his bloody neck. The skin was burning as if it were on fire, but had stopped spewing blood. To his amazement, instead of a fresh wound, he felt a long crusted gash, which ran across the entire front of his neck.
Killian wiped the blue liquid from his eyes again and looked over at the Indian he had stabbed. He removed his Bowie knife. The body that was lying in the dry grass began to change shape. Killian stared in amazement and quickly rolled away. The Indian was losing all human appearance; the body was becoming small and gray. The head was growing larger, with abnormally large silvery black eyes. Killian stood up and stumbled backward as the gray figure burst into flames. There was a bright flash of blue light and the body vanished, leaving just a ribbon of blue-white smoke ascending into the sky.
Killian stared, stunned, at the empty space where the Indian had lain. As he watched the ascending smoke, he became aware that his neck and arm were aching and burning. Raising his left arm he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The deep wounds were healing. He rubbed his skin; there weren’t any scars. It was as if he’d never been cut. Killian looked around at the surrounding woods as if the answer to this phenomenon was out there.
He went over to Tom Muldoon, knelt down, and felt his pulse. His friend was dead. He closed Tom’s eyes and removed the knife from his chest. He walked over to the three dead Indians and slashed the knife across their arms. They all bled red blood.
Killian rose and stared down at the place where he had seen the Indian’s body disappear. He was confused; it was as if he were dreaming. However, it was real and Tom was dead.
He went back to his friend’s body and began to dig a hole. He lowered Tom’s body into the grave. While Killian was covering him with black dirt, he began to feel dazed and nauseated. He muttered a prayer for his fallen friend and started off through the woods toward Bonito Creek. When he got to the creek he lay by the edge and splashed water into his face and thirstily drank. Suddenly Killian became violently sick. He began to shake, cough and vomit blood. He tried to stand but fell backward and passed out.
An hour later,
a United States Cavalry troop passed near the creek. They saw a body lying by the water.
Lieutenant Hiram Liddle stopped the troop. “Corporal, go down and check on that body.”
“Yes sir.”
The corporal rode down to the creek and dismounted. He checked on the man, who was wearing a 1st Cavalry soldier’s uniform.
The corporal yelled back to the lieutenant. “He’s alive, sir. He’s one of us.”
Lieutenant Liddle, a sergeant, and a young medical officer rode down to where the corporal was standing. They dismounted and examined the man on the ground.
“It’s strange, sir,” the corporal observed. “There’s blood all over the ground, but he doesn’t have a scratch on him. He just seems to be passed out.”
The young medical officer knelt down. “The corporal’s right. No wounds, but he’s very weak.”
The sergeant turned to the troop, and instructed them to dismount for a break.
“Where do you think all this blood came from, sir?” asked the corporal.
Lieutenant Liddle thought for a moment. “Maybe he had a fight with a Navajo Indian and killed him.”
“Sir, there’s no dead Indian, and no signs he’s been in a struggle,” said the sergeant.
“And his weapon hasn’t been fired,” added the corporal.
The lieutenant leaned down to take a closer look at the man. “He’s wearing the uniform of the 1st Cavalry. Does anyone recognize him?”
They all muttered and shook their heads.
“I’ve never seen him before, sir,” added the sergeant. “He’s not one of the men from the fort.”
The medical officer, with the help of the corporal, splashed water in the man’s face. Then he waved smelling salts under the man’s nose, but he didn’t stir. “It’s baffling. He’s breathing fine, but he’s totally unresponsive. I believe he’s taken a severe blow to the head.”
“All right, Sergeant, make up a horse litter. We’ll take him to the fort,” ordered Lieutenant Liddle.
The sergeant had the men make a litter; they laid the man on it and tied him down before heading off toward Fort Defiance. The medical officer rode behind the litter to keep an eye on the unconscious man.
Shortly before they entered the fort, Killian woke up. He was bewildered by the US Cavalry uniforms, at the litter and the cavalry uniform he was wearing. He watched as they entered the fort, which consisted of a series of assorted buildings forming a square. They passed between two of the buildings and halted in a large open area. The medical officer rode up beside the litter and looked down.
“Good, you’re awake.” The medical officer dismounted. “How do you feel, trooper?”
Killian didn’t say anything. He was confused.
“What happened to you? Did you get thrown from your horse?”
Killian still didn’t answer.
Lieutenant Liddle rode over to them. “Can you talk, Trooper?”
“Yes,” answered Killian.
“Very good, can you tell us who you are?”
“I’m thirsty,” said Killian.
“I’ll bet you are, and hungry too,” said the medical officer as he helped Killian to his feet and handed him a canteen. Killian gulped the water.
“What’s your name, Trooper? How’d you get here?” asked Lieutenant Liddle.
The medical officer held up his hand. “Hold on, Lieutenant. Let’s get him over to the infirmary. I need to have the surgeon, Dr. Earle, check him out. Then you and the captain can ask him all the questions you want.”
“There’s something strange about this man. We need answers.”
The medical officer glared. “It can wait, Lieutenant” he said forcefully.
The lieutenant nodded and headed off to the captain’s office. The medical officer and Killian walked to the infirmary.
Later that afternoon, Killian was lying in a bed. The young medical officer and Dr. Earle, a rather heavy-set man in his early fifties, were standing next to him.
“You seem to be a pretty healthy young man. I can’t find anything wrong with you, other than the fact you’re very weak,” said Dr. Earle, smiling.
Killian didn’t respond.
“The medical officer told me there was a lot of blood near where you were lying passed out cold. Did your horse get hurt and throw you to the ground? That could account for the blood and your being unconscious.”
“I didn’t have a horse,” said Killian.
The doctor frowned at him. “You must have had a horse. You’re a soldier. How else could you have gotten here?”
“I don’t know how I got here or why I’m in a soldier’s uniform.”
Dr. Earle shook his head as Captain Ryan and Lieutenant Liddle entered the infirmary. They walked over to Killian’s bed.
“How’s the patient doing, Doctor?” asked the captain.
“Body-wise he’s darn healthy, but I believe he has a bit of amnesia, Captain.”
The captain nodded, acknowledging the doctor’s diagnosis. He looked at Killian.
“Do you know who you are and what you’re doing in this area, Trooper?”
Killian stared dumbly at the captain and wondered why they kept calling him a trooper.
“Can you answer any questions for me?” the captain persisted, “Your name, how you got here? Were you with anyone?”
As the three officers stared down at him, Killian felt dizzy again. He was thinking about his friend who’d been killed by the Indian. “Muldoon,” he mumbled.
“Muldoon. Very well, that’s good. What’s your first name?” asked the captain.
“Killian.” he whispered.
The captain nodded, “Killian Muldoon, an Irish lad. Now we’re getting somewhere. Can you tell me how you got here, Killian?”
Killian looked up at the captain. “This is all very strange to me.” He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know how I got here or why I’m wearing this uniform. The last thing I remember is hunting, and fighting with an Indian.”
“See what I mean, Captain?” the doctor broke in. “It’s a type of amnesia where he can’t remember everything, only bits and pieces of the past. He’s blacked out his memory of military service.”
“How soon before he remembers everything, Doctor?” inquired Lieutenant Liddle.
“It could be tomorrow, a month, a year or never.”