Strange Magic: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (9 page)

I took plodding, methodical steps forward, each one carrying me a little further from Morse and his gang.

Left. Right. Left. Right. I let the words flow into me, the steady singsong cadence of a Marine Corps drill instructor.

I’m not sure how far I made it when my legs finally gave out and I crumpled to the ground. I’d crossed at least one more intersecting side street, so my guess would be about two blocks, maybe three—though that seemed like a stretch in my mind. It wasn’t far enough away, not really, but it’d have to do. My body was finished, it flatly refused to cooperate in any meaningful way. Though the pain was still a distant thing, I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

There was a dilapidated station wagon, which looked like it hadn’t moved in a good long while, parked near me. I tried to push myself toward it with my legs, but everything below my waist had staged a mutiny. My arms were still hanging in there though, serviceable, if only just.

I pulled myself, inch by terrible inch, under the vehicle—a beaten up junker, in shades of green and rust—my body a dead weight fighting against my progress, my survival. Through a dirty puddle of water pooling at the curb—it smelled disturbingly of dog pee—but I didn’t care. Well, maybe I cared a little, but I’d get over it.

A sense of peace filled me … no, not peace, resignation. Yeah, that was it, resignation. I rolled onto my side, letting go of the Vis, letting my body surrender to the tranquilizer agent pulsing through my blood. I’d finally gotten to cover, finally found a haven of sorts, a place where I could pass out with at least a small hope of waking up. All that was left now was to wait. Soon drug-induced darkness would take me and I’d sleep. Wouldn’t be so bad.

I couldn’t feel my body anymore, my mind was a floating orb in a sea of nothing. Even that was fleeting as my thoughts took on the woozy quality of near-dreams … my eyes filled with the vaguely lucid images that sometimes arrive on the front edge of genuine sleep.

I saw my boys. All grown up now, with children of their own—I couldn’t remember much of their childhood. I’d left, missed so much: parent teacher conferences, holidays, music recitals, birthdays, football games …

My youngest son was sitting cross-legged in front of the Christmas tree, his hair a mussed pile of burnt red, a large smile splitting his smooth and lightly freckled face from ear to ear. A little puppy—a shaggy thing with black and tan fur and a long lolling tongue—romped around in my boy’s lap. Little tyke would send up delighted squalls whenever the puppy jumped onto his chest to plant puppy kisses on his face. It was one of the few good memories I had with my youngest.

Why had I missed so much?

I hadn’t wanted that, had I? Why had I left them, left my wife? Lauren with her strawberry-blond hair, clear blue eyes, and small happy smile, the one that never left her face. God, she was lovely. I could see her on the day I proposed: she was hugging me, tears running down her cheeks in tiny rivulets, a new engagement ring cuddling her finger. She was smiling so big. Except the smile
had
left. Left with me—I’d taken it. What a bastard.

Shit. I hadn’t wanted the road—the decision had been forced. I couldn’t have given them anything good. I stole her smile though, made a pariah of myself, alienated myself from the boys. From leading a normal life. No nine-to-five. No retirement plan or health benefits. No cozy, white-picket home. No peace.

When’s the last time I had peace, when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder? What the fuck was wrong with me? Who in the hell would want that? I’m alone now. A homeless man who lives by himself out of a car.

I’m not a loser! Not a dead-beat Dad or a run out husband …

What a bastard. I’m not … the decision had been forced—I couldn’t have given them anything good, not after … not after I’d come into my power. I’d needed to give them a fucking chance! Shit.

You understand that, Lauren, don’t you understand?

Where was I? Everything felt so fuzzy, my head all full of cotton balls, my thoughts jumbled … where was my body? Was that dog pee?

Vietnam, that was it, I’d been shot. I was tired and dying.

ELEVEN:

The Bush

“Son of a bitch!” I hollered, my voice lost amidst the chaos and panic filling the jungle around me. I heard the
clak, clak, clak
of weapon fire, the wet
thunk
of thick vegetation exploding, the strident shouts of NCO’s issuing commands, and the cries of injured Marines. Lots and lots of injured Marines.

I held the pistol grip of my M-16 in one tightly clenched fist. Training demanded I start firing at the VC who had to be out in the jungle somewhere. That’s what I was supposed to do, what I’d been trained to do in this situation. But Martin was dead … everything was different now.

“Son of a bitch! Someone help me!” I screamed again instead of firing, knowing I wouldn’t be heard—not over the clamor of battle. I didn’t know what else to do, so I kept calling out, hoping someone would hear.

Corporal Martin was dead.

My hip and thigh were full of heat, pinpoints of fiery light like hot coals—some the size of dimes, a few the size of quarters—covered my flesh. A part of my brain insisted I’d been shot, insisted I was dying and should give up. The rational part of my brain argued otherwise and was trying to slap the shit out of the gibbering madness in my head. I hadn’t been shot, it wasn’t that bad. Shrapnel was all, and shrapnel wouldn’t kill me. Probably. It wasn’t as bad as a bullet wound. Couldn’t be
.

I’ll be alright, I’ll be alright
,
I’ll be alright
.

Martin was dead though, so maybe I wouldn’t be alright.

Shit, but it had happened so fast. The blast of light surrounding Corporal Martin, the dull pulse of sound, the
whomp
of air throwing me into the thick tangle of trees and foliage.

This was Greg’s fault, that asshole.

Here I was bleeding with a leg full of shrapnel, eight-thousand miles away from a good bar or a decent set of tunes, and for what? I didn’t want to trek through some jungle hunting for VC, weary of punji-pits, lobbing grenades and sending lead down range—I didn’t even like camping. He’d convinced me to come here. I wasn’t cut out to be a Marine, I wasn’t fit for this shit. Greg had persuaded me—he was so gung-ho, decked out in his ROTC uniform, talking the Corps up.

I hoped he was okay. He’d been closer to the blast than me. He could be dead. He better not be dead, that asshole.

“You’ll probably get drafted anyway, Yancy,” he’d told me matter-of-factly after we walked at high school graduation. “It’s not like you have other prospects anyway—don’t kid yourself, you’re not college bound.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll get drafted,” I’d told him, “there are lots of other guys that haven’t gotten snatched up and they didn’t go to college.”

He snorted. “You’re not those guys, Yancy. You’re the most unlucky sonuvabitch I’ve ever met,” which was true. Everything bad happened to me. Bad things so improbable and absurd they could only
be the stuff of high school nightmares, but weren’t. During freshman year, my locker had exploded, littering the hall with pages from my personal journal—the whole friggin’ football team got a real good laugh at all my innermost thoughts. Getting a date after that debacle? Forget about it. Took me three years to finally land a girl. Then, at senior prom, my pants had somehow spontaneously caught fire in front of the entire gymnasium. Had to rip them off to stomp out the flames.

Me at prom, in my whitey-tighties, doing a jig on my burning pants. Mortifying. Unlucky didn’t begin to cover it.

“Chances are,” he continued, “you’ll get drafted into some shitty Army infantry unit—probably get three weeks of basic and end up over in Nam by month’s end. No training, no friends, and unlucky as a rabbit about to lose its foot.”

“I’m not a fighter, Greg. I don’t like the ROTC bullshit—I’d never make it in the Marines. Officers yelling. Sergeants yelling. Shit, the cooks probably yell. No thanks.”

“That’s why we go in together, man.” He threw an arm around my shoulder. “I’ve already talked to a recruiter—we can go in on the buddy program. We’ll do basic together, go to SOI, hit the fleet in the same unit. I’ll get your back. Help you make it through the training.”

He was probably right, with my luck I
would
get drafted to some shitty Army unit; probably fall into a bamboo-filled punji pit four days in-country. Greg was a good friend, we’d been buds for a long time, and I knew he’d have my back—he’d always had my back. Since freshman year, he’d been there: locker explosion, epic bullying, flaming pants, all of it. Damn good friend.

And he was scared. Going to Nam was in his cards, and he was scared to face that game alone. He wouldn’t ever say it, he was too proud for that, but I could feel it in him. He wanted me to go in for him, as much as for me. It was a little selfish, but I didn’t hold it against him—he couldn’t ask me like a regular person. Not Greg. This was his way of reaching out. No one wants to go through something like a friggin’ war all by their lonesome.

I didn’t have plans anyways, not really. I wasn’t going to go to college and I didn’t have a single job prospect lined up. Hell, I didn’t even know what I wanted to do for work. I liked music and cards, but those weren’t job possibilities, they were hobbies … truth be told, I was kind of a loser—exactly the type of guy that gets drafted and blown to pieces. Better to be in the Corps with Greg, than in the Army by myself.

He convinced me, sold me the dream. And I’d bought it.

But now I was bleeding in the Vietnam bush. If he was alive I was going to beat the tar out of him. I hoped he was alive. The thought of picking up his splintered limbs and ripped-up guts sent a few tears streaking down my face. I didn’t want him police calling pieces of my body either.

“Son of a bitch! Someone help me! Help me!” I yelled. I didn’t want to die here, I was so young—
too
young—I didn’t want to end up like Martin.

I could see the explosion all over again, replaying in my mind’s eye.

Corporal Martin and Benson had been playing some grab-ass game off to the right, killing some time while Sergeant Thomas and the Com guy, Schneider, put in a radio call to HQ. They were laughing hard about whatever the hell they were doing, really chucking it up. The platoon was supposed to be practicing sound discipline, but no one minded—not even the Sergeant. We’d been in-country for what felt like a lifetime, about a month in actuality, and we hadn’t seen piss from the VC.

Everyday our butter-bar lieu swore up and down that Charlie was out there—“
don’t get complacent Marines, complacency kills
.” Every day and every brief, the same shtick and the same sermon. Practice sound discipline, practice light discipline. Stay sharp, stay alert, stay alive. Complacency kills, complacency kills, complacency kills. Twenty-one patrols—some during the hot of the day, others by the light of the moon—and not a bullet fired, not a single VC spotted. We’d patrolled in thick jungle, swampy bright-green rice patties, and dusty little villages with straw and tin roofs.

A whole lot of nothing, save sore muscles and bug bites.

God, Nam had some friggin’ bugs—Collins had woken up one night screaming, a fat black leech stuck on his tongue.

So it was fine that Martin and Benson were screwing around a little, having a few yacks during the break. It made things easier to bear if you could laugh a little. Even without VC incoming, Nam was still a shithole: the long humps and the driving rain, the crap food, biting insects, and sleepless nights. Watch every friggin’ night. It was enough to make us all fray around the edges, and when everyone is armed with M-16s and grenades, frayed edges is bad-to-go.

Plus, we’d been humping for three feet-numbing hours, pushing past vines and marching through knee-high grass. It was hot as balls and we were sweating oceans in the humid haze of the day. A little laughter was okay. And Sergeant Thomas was making a radio call, so we had time to kill and we deserved the break.

Greg and I were picking at our C-rats, just a little bite to eat—he’d been leaning up against a tree and I’d been standing in the open. Shit, but everything had been hunky-dory in that moment, the platoon could’ve been on a nature walk. It wasn’t much different from the training exercises we’d done in Okinawa.

“What do you miss most?” I’d asked Greg.

He stared morosely at the beanie-weenies on his metal spoon. “Pizza,” he said. Yeah, I missed pizza too. We all missed regular food. Nasty-ass C-rations. Even the good ones were awful, and the whole lot of them either plugged you up or sent your running for the shit-can. At least they came with cigarettes and toilet paper.

I picked through my ‘spaghetti.’ As if. “When I get back I’m gonna eat a fat ol’ cheeseburger and fries.” My mouth salivated at the thought. It was torturous to think about food when you were chowing down on C-rations—masochistic even—but it also made things more bearable. It helped remind us that someday we would go home, that cheeseburgers and pizza were waiting, and that Nam wasn’t forever.

“You?” he asked. “What do you miss most?”

“I miss Lauren and my boys,” I said without much thought. Lauren and I had been a serious item in senior year, but I hadn’t thought it would work—long-distance wasn’t my thing or hers. I’d accidentally knocked her up during boot leave, though, and everything changed. A son: little tow-headed, slobber-machine—he was a good kid. I missed him. My second son had been born right before Greg and I hit country. I’d had a week with him before deployment.