“We certainly will,” Willard assured him. “Anything we can do to help. We’ll all rest easier when these people are found. It’s quite frightening to know that as we sleep there’s a troop of weirdos milling around my property.”
By now Kurt’s vision had partly adjusted to the poor light. Just past where Willard stood was a heavily banistered staircase. Crowded into the upper corner of the second-floor landing, Kurt recognized three things: a motion-detection alarm, a bracket-mounted sealed-beam floodlight, and a pan/tilt RCA CCTV camera. Then he noticed an identical motion detector at the end of the hallway.
“Well, I better take off now.”
“We’re grateful you took the time to come out,” Willard added.
He managed to resist a final glance at Nancy Willard’s chest. “It was my pleasure. You all have a good day, and it was nice meeting you, Mrs. Willard.” Brother, don’t I know it.
When Kurt was at last out of the house, he felt the relief of a claustrophobe just freed from a footlocker. He looked up when crossing the front porch and noticed still another motion detector. That irked him, as he paced back to the Ford. True, there was nothing out of the ordinary about home burglar alarms, but this bordered on paranoia. He’d seen at least three thousand dollars’ worth of security equipment in the space of thirty seconds.
The Ford started eagerly, as if it, too, wished to get away from the macabre house. Kurt lit a cigarette and stared straight ahead as he drew the first puff. He saw two squat objects protruding from Willard’s side yard. They seemed to be large cylinders with teepee-like crowns of weathered metal. They reminded him of ventilators, but the notion was lost at once as he wound down the high hill and away, back toward home.
— | — | —
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Voices. Reduced now, by time, to the discourse of ghosts. Your voice.
— It’s true. I swear to God it’s true. —
— Of course it is, Sergeant. —
— You think I’m schizzing out, you think I’m crazy. You don’t believe me. —
— Of course we believe you, Sergeant. We believe that you’ve been under a tremendous amount of stress, and while doing your duty —
— No, no, don’t hand me that shit again. It’s the truth. I’m not crazy, goddamn it. It’s the truth. —
— You’re disillusioned, Sergeant. You’re upset, and you’re hurt. We know what happened. —
— Bullfuckingshit! I know what I saw. And it wasn’t any goddamned…whatever the fucking hell you called it. —
— Hypnagogic delirium. Your symptomatology is classic, we’ve no doubts. And let me assure you that hypnagogic hallucinations are by no means synonymous with any mode of psychosis. It can happen to anyone, Sergeant. And it’s what happened to you. —
Aside then. Doctor to Doctor. — What with the delusions and of course the shock reaction to his physical injuries, the unipolar manifestation comes as no real surprise. —
The other doctor nods. — Then we both agree, at least from a rudimentary standpoint, on a typical dysfunction of biogenic amines? —
— Certainly. But that’s just scratching the surface. —
— What of the rest, then? —
— Could be a lot of things, could be right under our noses. I’ve ordered basic bloodwork already, scanning for nutritional imbalances seems a good place to start. It could be something as simple as low folic acid, or excess levels of B12. Statistically, most service-related cases of pellagra are attributed to a high rate of C-ration consumption… Sergeant, do you eat a lot of C-rations? —
You frown. Your face itches. — No. I haven’t had any c’s since the last Reforger years ago. They’re all MRE’s now. —
— And where was that? —
— Erlangen. Germany. Alpha 2/37, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division. You know, my last duty station before I came here. Don’t you fucking people have records? —
— No C-rations in years, then? —
— No! —
The doctors turn to one another again, like children trying to be discreet. — Supplemental nicontinamide can’t hurt. They say most of the West is deficient to begin with. —
The other doctor nods. —But that wouldn’t explain the rest of it. —
— Porphyria, maybe? Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome? —
The other doctor nods. He seems well-practiced at nodding, as though such an acknowledgment is proof of diagnostic competence. — I hadn’t even considered alcoholic hallucinosis. That might account for the obvious confabulation. —
— Sergeant, do you drink? —
— No, but if this keeps up, I’m gonna start. —
— You don’t drink at all? —
Your face is beginning to hurt from frowning. —Look, Major, it’s all in my records. I had a drinking problem a long time ago, when I got transferred from 1st Cav to 716th MP’s. But when I came back to the World I beat it.—
The doctors seem delighted at this, and you sense they don’t believe you’ve stopped drinking. You look at them hard. One is in khakis, a dorkish, fat 0-4 with crumpled pants and corfam shoes. His hair is longer than regulation, and his sideburns well past the bottom of the opening of his ear. Wimp, you think. A fat, out-of- shape turd wearing the uniform of a soldier. It makes you sick. The other doctor, the nodder, is the scary one. His fatigues shine from starch, though his boots, too, are patent leather, the trademark of all medical officers. He has a stiff, thick mustache and very short hair. He reminds you of Shakespeare’s description of Cassius.
— I’d love to see what he’d do with a TAT and an MMPI. —
— Due time, Captain. Due time. The next MED EVAC is Wednesday; we’ll let Forest Glen worry about a diagnosis. Did you look at his DD service file? I’d hate to see a TDRL at this point in his military career, but I suppose separation is indicated. —
The captain turns back to you. — Sergeant, I want you to think hard about what we’re telling you. We’re not here to steer you wrong. There’s no need to be so implacable. —
— You guys sound like Oxford dictionaries. Implacable. What the hell does that mean? —
— It means stubborn, Sergeant. You’re being stubborn. And if you don’t calm down and collect your thoughts, you may find yourself in a very unpleasant situation. And don’t think you can hide behind your Silver Star and Distinguished Service Cross. —
You snap. — You fucking guys think you can walk all over people just because you wear brass. Having a degree makes you superior, right? Well I’ve seen trainee washouts who’re better men than you. You’ve got no right to even wear the uniform. I was fighting North Vietnamese Regulars when I was
