Shadows of War

Josh closed his fist around the rock, then pounded his other palm with it. He had to think long range. He had to think survival.

Don’t be a coward, he told himself. This is your chance. You need a rifle if you’re going to survive.

Was it a chance? Or was it suicide?

The man wasn’t wearing a helmet. Hit him in the head and he would go down quickly.

He might be one of the men who had killed the villagers. He might be — he was one of the men who had killed his friends, his colleagues, on the expedition.

True or not, it didn’t matter. Josh began moving forward. His body shrank slightly, slinking closer to the jungle floor. His legs and arms lengthened, the limbs of a cat, preparing to strike.

“Nihao?” said the soldier, asking if anyone was there. “Nihao?”

Josh sprang.

The soldier heard the noise behind him. Thinking it was his friend, he started to spin around. The rifle was in his hands, across his chest.

Josh hit him square in the forehead with the rock. It didn’t seem to do anything. It did nothing — all his strength and he hadn’t even moved the man.

He was going to die. Here, in the middle of the jungle, like an animal, this was how he would die.

His anger exploded. He wasn’t a cat now; he was a volcano, he was fire, he was violence itself. Josh smashed the soldier’s forehead once, twice, a third time — blood splattered everywhere. He smashed it again. He threw his body forward and he hit hard, harder than he had ever hit anything in his life. Again. Another time. He hit the splatter of blood that had been the man’s face. He saw something gray, was sure it was the man’s brain spurting out.

Josh punched the man’s jaw with his fist, the rock still held tightly in his hand. Then he leapt up, grabbed the rifle, and began to run, sure someone had heard, sure he was going to be shot at any second.

He ran until his breath gave out, then pushed himself for a few more strides until finally he threw his arm out and caught himself around a tree. He had a stitch in his side, a sharp pain from muscles not used to such exertion.

He’d just killed a man. He should feel bad. And yet he didn’t. He didn’t feel good — he didn’t feel anything.

He had the gun. The next thing he needed was food.

A map maybe.

What had happened to the other man? Was he following him?

As Josh waited for his breath to become regular again, he looked up at the sky, trying to judge direction by the position of the sun. He needed to go southeast, in the general direction of Hanoi.

Not that he’d be able to walk to Hanoi.

He could if he had to. He would.

Josh gripped the rifle, ready to shoot the man’s friend. But no one came. There were no shouts, no alarms, no cries for help. It was as if nothing had happened.

But it had. The gun proved it. And the blood on his clothes.

Josh began walking. He went at a good pace for another half hour, perhaps forty-five minutes, before starting to tire. He was oblivious of the fatigue at first. Then the rock slipped from his hand. He hadn’t even realized he’d still been holding it.

He crouched down, hoping that by doing that he would avoid falling asleep as he had last time. His nose was starting to act up and he debated taking one of his pills. Finally he decided to risk one of the lighter ones and reached into his pocket for the pillbox.

His hand shook as he opened it. He had only four left — one white, small dose, three green ones. He picked the lighter pill out with his thumb and forefinger, but as he reached for his mouth it slipped from his grip.

Then he sneezed, dropping the case.

Josh went down his hands and knees, patting for the pills on the ground. He found only one — a white one, fortunately. He swallowed, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. Then he hunted some more, until finally he realized it was hopeless, and gave up.

He continued up the hill, his steps becoming shorter and more labored. He spotted a waterfall in the distance ahead, and made it his goal. It wasn’t until he reached it, some ten or fifteen minutes later, that Josh realized it wasn’t a waterfall, or at least it wasn’t now. Erosion from the seasonal storms had carved a sluice down the slope, but without a hard, steady rain the stream was dry. There was no water.

To his left, a ravine dropped into a cultivated field; Josh could see its edge through the trees.

If there was a field, there would be a village. He could get food there.

Steal food. He couldn’t trust anyone now. He’d check it out once night came.

Josh sat on the rocks that had formed the crest of the waterfall and studied the gun he’d taken. He’d handled plenty of rifles and shotguns on his uncle’s farm, but this was unlike anything he’d ever used before. It seemed to be made largely of plastic, which contributed to its odd feel in his hands. Its banana clip was located behind the trigger, bullpup style, something he knew was possible though had never seen. It had a large, M16-like carrying handle at the top, with a lever he surmised was the charging handle beneath it. The ejection port sat at the right side; fortunately he was right-handed.

He put the gun across his lap and peered down into the jungle. The friend of the man he’d killed was still out there somewhere, probably looking for him by now. There were bound to be many others as well.

Josh felt a twinge in his stomach — fear, regret that he had made the wrong choice.

I’ll just kill them all, he told himself. That’s what I’ll do.

The idea floated through his head, something foreign, not too theoretical to take hold.

* * *

Captain Lai’s frustration had ebbed somewhat since the commandos had left them to conduct the search themselves. He was glad to be rid of the lieutenant and his smart-mouthed sergeant; they were a clear threat to his authority. The search mission had seemed like a waste of time from the beginning, but it was a relatively easy task; he didn’t have to worry too much about his men, who he knew had been poorly trained. That wasn’t his fault — he’d joined the unit only a few weeks before — but he would surely catch the blame if they did poorly in battle.

Lai scrolled his arms together, trying to ward off the thirst that was always with him. He had not had alcohol for over two months, and he knew he would not have it now — he had made very sure not to bring any with him. But the urge was extremely strong, a desire beyond emotion that rose from every part of his body.

He craved the warm honey of the first sip as it spread from his mouth to every muscle and organ. He could taste the wholeness it brought, the way the alcohol — any alcohol, at this point — filled the other half of his soul, a complementary yin.

But he would not have any today, or any day for that matter. He would get through today, and the next one, as his counselor advised.

It was torture.

Lai turned abruptly, realizing that one of his sergeants was staring at him.

“Captain, the units are too spread out. We have many stragglers.”

“Then get them together,” said Lai.

“We’ll have to stop the search, sir.”

Lai waved dismissively. “Do it,” he said.

The sergeant bowed his head, and moved to spread the word.

Lai took his satellite radio from his belt and called division headquarters. Instead of getting the communications clerk, he was connected immediately to Major Wang, the chief of staff. He explained the situation, saying that he would need transportation when the search was completed.

“You should have stayed away from the commando,” said the major. “I told you earlier, once you are attached to anything Colonel Sun does, you are as good as dead to us.”

“I did try to,” said Lai. “I told him I had other orders. But he wouldn’t listen.”

“You’re an idiot if you think that is enough.”

Wang asked about transport.