Authors: Mark Tullius
To Feed an Army
Until he joined the Army, Private Edwards had only seen the jungle on TV. He wasn’t prepared for the heat, and the air was so damn thick you could practically sip it. It hadn’t rained in days, but everything just stayed wet.
Edwards had been moving all morning, alone on the run. Even though he’d lost most of his baby fat in basic training and these six months in the shit, Edwards felt just as heavy as he did in high school, when the kids used to point at his white, lumpy stomach and call him “Curdle King.”
The sweat probably added another five pounds to his uniform and gear. When Edwards could go no further, he leaned against a tree and threw off his pack. He didn’t sign up for this. He didn’t want to be a soldier. He just wanted to survive, maybe learn a skill. That’s why he’d requested to become a medic.
Something moved to his right. Edwards grabbed his M-16 and aimed. The sunbeams coming through the canopy played tricks on his eyes. He heard squawks and the distant cry of a monkey. He figured it was nothing, but Rex was still out there.
Edwards forced himself to stand. His feet began to tingle like he’d tied his laces too tight.
Something fluttered. A rustling. Edwards wanted to take off running, but he stayed still, scoured the ground for tripwires. There was always something waiting to turn you into wet confetti.
It was hard to believe that it’d been less than twelve hours since Edwards foolishly thought the real danger was gone. It’d been gruesome, but the worst of it was over. Their squad had taken the village and secured a massive food supply, Staff Sergeant Rex doing things Edwards spent the entire night trying to forget. But they were safe and just had to wait for the convoy. They’d be supplied for three months.
Everyone knew Staff Sergeant Rex was a dope-fiend and had issues long before any of them
had landed in country. But he was their superior and this was war. No one thought Rex would ever intentionally do anything to jeopardize their lives. There was talk that this was to be his last mission. Maybe that’s what sent him over the edge. Or maybe it was the heat. Or maybe he was just an evil piece of shit.
Whatever it was didn’t matter. Edwards just wished he could get Rex’s knife tricks out of his head.
An hour after breakfast, Rex had called everyone over to the open-walled hut where Ornalez, Shipley, and Curtis lay
sleeping. Edwards was squatting in the bushes, halfway through a shit that was more of a spray. He almost yelled he’d be right there, then noticed no one else was hurrying. Jennings was last to join the group, his hand holding his stomach. Neither Rex nor Jennings said a word to any of the men still sprawled on the floor.
Nothing special happened, there was no provocation. Rex just started blasting. Jennings and McKinney, headshot, headshot. Everyone else got one in the chest. The entire squad dead in seconds, tendrils of smoke curling from the barrel of Rex’s gun.
That shit saved Edwards’ life, but he knew he had to keep moving. If he didn’t, he’d end up like the others, so Edwards started running again. He didn’t check for traps or hiding gooks; all those drills and training evaporated in the clammy mist. Sweat cascaded down his back and legs, dripped into his socks. He wiped his forehead and a chill ripped through him. A wave of nausea stopped Edwards short, and he doubled over in pain. Invisible hands were twisting his guts like they were wringing a wet towel. It was just like the time he’d had a bad oyster on vacation with his folks, his stomach cramping so hard he saw stars. But he’d barely touched the powdered eggs for breakfast. And last night he only had coffee and cigarettes, unable to eat after watching Rex’s wet work.
Another sharp abdominal pain dropped Rex to his knees. The M-16 fell from his hands, and he grabbed his throat. It was closing up. He gasped but just barely. Something was moving near him, crunching over branches. He reached for his gun, but he fell
onto the muddy leaves. He didn’t even try to get up, just curled into himself. His rifle lay a few feet away. Sweat rolled into his eyes, and he realized he couldn’t blink. Something awful was coursing through his veins. A spider or bug must have crawled into his clothes. He hadn’t felt anything bite him, but that had to be what happened. In training they’d been given a little book of dangerous insects, but he’d lost his the first week.
Edwards tried to sit up but he couldn’t move. It was like he’d been filled with cement. If the enemy found him like this, he wouldn’t even be able to turn over. He’d just have to stare into his executioner’s eyes. He prayed it wasn’t anyone that’d escaped from the village. He knew what they’d do to him.
Now everything was black. His eyelids had finally shut. He listened to the crunching steps coming closer. Closer…
He struggled to look, but only a sliver of light came through before another round of darkness. He could hardly breathe. He prayed the birds were drowning out his sickly wheezing. He listened for the steps, wondered if he’d hear a growl or voice before the inevitable, but the crunching steps were growing faint. Whatever or whomever was angling off. Edwards figured he must still be hidden. His paralysis might actually be a blessing. If he could have moved, he’d have been spotted.
Tiny pinpricks jittered up and down his fingertips, then hands and wrist. It wasn’t much, but his thumb was starting to bend. Maybe lying down was slowing the poison. The pinpricks
were becoming more painful, but at least a sense of feeling was coming back. If the poison passed, Edwards could get to his pack. There was a vial of epinephrine. Why the hell had he taken off his gear?
Again, he tried opening his eyes. It was like lifting a rusted roll-up door on a cargo truck, but he could make out glossy leaves. His vision was still blurred and he couldn’t turn his head, but he was sure he was lying next to a slow-moving black stream. He didn’t remember a stream before he’d fallen, but here it was, washing over him. He could feel it moving up his hands. It made no sense, but it had to be freezing, because the pinpricks spread over his arms and neck.
Edwards tried to tilt his head to get a little of the water into his mouth. It was so close. A few pinpricks hit his chin. He wanted to scream. Then another loud crunch came from nearby. Another rustling. Edwards hoped it was a small, cute animal, that he’d open his eyes and see a cartoon fawn lapping at the stream. But he remained realistic. His luck, it’d be an anaconda.
Then he heard a voice, a voice he knew. He’d heard it every day for the last six months.
“Goddamn, Eddie. You come all the way out here to take a nap?” Rex’s words were mumbled. It sounded like he was wearing a gasmask. “If you wanted to sleep in, all you had to do was ask. You could’ve invited your friends here. Had a sleepover.”
Edwards didn’t know what the lunatic was talking about, but he was actually relieved to hear the staff sergeant’s voice, especially so friendly. Maybe Rex didn’t want to be alone in the jungle. Rex could open his pack, inject the epinephrine. Even if it didn’t work, he might be able to carry Edwards to the village.
“You feeling okay there, Eddie? You’re not looking so hot.”
Edwards tried to speak, but all he could squeeze out were wheezing puffs of air.
“I can’t hear you, bud. You
gotta
speak up.”
Edwards tried to swallow, and Rex just laughed.
“Ah, hell, I’m just fucking with you. You just lie still, buddy. I mean it, don’t move a muscle.” Edwards couldn’t see, but it sounded like Rex actually slapped his thigh. Any relief Edwards had quickly dissipated. Edwards curled his fingers, imagined them wrapping around Rex’s throat, but he gave up and tried to look in the direction of his pack. He couldn’t actually see it, but hoped that resetting his gaze and quickly looking left might get Rex to stop fucking around and help.
“I
gotta
say, Eddie, for a blubbery piece of shit, you sure can move. I don’t know how you made it this far.” Rex started stomping the ground. “Goddamn, man, I don’t know how you
aren’t flipping the fuck out, right now. That shit would be driving me crazy.”
Edwards lifted his finger a few inches. He hoped he was pointing at his pack. Black beads of water slid towards his knuckle, then strangely crawled up the nail and twisted around his hand defying the laws of gravity.
“I just figured if anyone was going to finish their eggs, it’d be a big fuck like you,” Rex said. “But I guess I’m lucky. If it’d been McKinney or Barklett I’d still be running my ass off.”
The powdered eggs had tested almost metallic. Edwards had just assumed it was the water from Rex’s canteen. Now, he knew the truth. They’d been poisoned. It’s why Rex had been able to take everyone out. Barklett was the fastest draw in the squad.
Rex started cursing, smacked at his skin, and hopped around like he was on fire.
A water bead trickled down into Edwards’ ear and burned. And that’s when Edwards saw the undulating black stream thinning on the ground in front of his face. Little droplets spread out and crawled towards his eyes. It wasn’t water. It was ants. And they weren’t the kind you’d find at a picnic. They were devouring Edwards, and there was nothing he could do but blink.
“Now this is an army,” Rex said. “There might be twenty million in this one colony. All working together.” Rex spat on the stream of ants. A few got stuck in his loogie. Others scattered. But they all found their way back towards their goal. “Now, that’s loyalty. They know what’s important. It’s not the individual. It’s the team.” Rex bent down and lowered his head so Edwards could look him in the eye. “I knew you all were going to talk. You forced my hand.” Rex shook his head. “No, our boys have lost enough…perception-wise. I had to put us on track again. For the greater good.”
The M-16 lay a few feet away. Edwards tried to fling his arm, but it barely moved. He felt an ant crawling up his cheek and closed his eyes. It gnawed at the thin layer of skin until bits of red light filtered through.
Edwards tried to cry out, which sent a battalion of ants into his mouth. He gagged, almost puked. Rex stood, walked over to Edwards’ M-16, and picked it up. “I am sorry though. I want you to know that.” He forced a little laugh. “What you wouldn’t give for a can of Raid right now, huh?”
Edwards swallowed a mouthful of blood and managed to
eek
out, “Please…”
“Ah, man, I wish I could. Truly. But if anyone finds you, I can’t let it get back to me.”
Edwards blew out strings of bile and ants. Then he tapped his finger onto his chest. Rex gave a little nod.
“Okay, alright. But you got to do this on your own.” Rex bent down and placed the rifle in Edwards’ hands. The barrel was just under Edwards’ chin. “All you
gotta
do is squeeze.”
Edwards’ finger fumbled for the trigger. Rex told him he was almost there. Edwards dragged the gun a little higher, strained to lift his head a few inches. There was a fleeting thought he might be able to take one shot at Rex, but it didn’t last long. He just stared at what was left of his hand, the tendons and bones. A cluster of ants, clinging to some remaining flesh, plopped down onto his chest and carried away the meat. Edwards’ finger started to slide off the trigger, but Rex held him firm, even placed his own finger over Edwards’ bone.
“They’re army ants, Eddie. Just like you and me.”
Follow Mark on
his journey across the country
as he interviews fighters, reads from
Brightside
and
25 P
erfect Days.
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Special thanks to the following bands whose music helped inspire
Brightside.
To read how their music affected me, you can check out this post:
http://marktullius.com/2012/11/the-music-behind-brightside/
Machine Head
http://machinehead1.com/
Fear Factory
http://fearfactory.com/
Puscifer
https://store.puscifer.com/