Galaxy's Edge Magazine Read online

  We walked too far. I mean a couple hundred yards. That meant they were really spread out thin. I didn’t look forward to spending the night. The goddamned machine gun started up again. The major looked annoyed and shouted, “Sergeant, will you please control your men?” and the sergeant told the machine gunner to shut the fuck up, and the machine gunner told the sergeant there was a fuckin’ gook out there, and then somebody popped a big one, like a Claymore, and then everybody was shooting every which way. Frenchy and I got real horizontal. I heard a bullet whip by over my head. The major was leaning against a tree, looking bored, shouting, “Cease firing, cease firing!” The shooting dwindled down like popcorn getting done. The major looked over at us and said, “Come on. While there’s still light.” He led us into a small clearing, elephant grass pretty well trampled down. I guess everybody had had his turn to look at the corpse.

  It wasn’t a real gruesome body, as bodies go, but it was odd-looking, even for a dry one. Moldy, like someone had dusted flour over it. Naked and probably male, though incomplete: all the soft parts were gone. Tall; one of our Montagnard allies rather than an ethnic Vietnamese. Emaciated, dry skin taut over ribs. Probably old, though it doesn’t take long for these people to get old. Lying on its back, mouth wide open, a familiar posture. Empty eye sockets staring skyward. Arms flung out in supplication, loosely, long past rigor mortis.

  Teeth chipped and filed to points, probably some Montagnard tribal custom. I’d never seen it before, but we didn’t “do” many natives.

  Frenchy knelt down and reached for it, then stopped. “Checked for booby traps?”

  “No,” the major said. “Figure that’s your job.” Frenchy looked at me with an expression that said it was my job.

  Both officers stood back a respectful distance while I felt under the corpse. Sometimes they pull the pin on a hand grenade and slip it under the body so that the body’s weight keeps the arming lever in place. You turn it over, and Tomato Surprise!

  I always worry less about a hand grenade than about the various weird serpents and bugs that might enjoy living underneath a decomposing corpse. Vietnam has its share of snakes and scorpions and megapedes.

  I was lucky this time; nothing but maggots. I flicked them off my hand and watched the major turn a little green. People are funny. What does he think is going to happen to him when he dies? Everything has to eat. And he was sure as hell going to die if he didn’t start keeping his head down. I remember that thought, but didn’t think of it then as a prophecy.

  They came over. “What do you make of it, Doctor?”

  “I don’t think we can cure him.” Frenchy was getting annoyed at this cherry bomb. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Isn’t it a little…odd to find something like this in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Naw. Country’s full of corpses.” He knelt down and studied the face, wiggling the head by its chin. “We keep it up, you’ll be able to walk from the Mekong to the DMZ without stepping on anything but corpses.”

  “But he’s been castrated!”

  “Birds.” He toed the body over, busy white crawlers running from the light. “Just some old geezer who walked out into the woods naked and fell over dead. Could happen back in the World. Old people do funny things.”

  “I thought maybe he’d been tortured by the VC or something.”

  “God knows. It could happen.” The body eased back into its original position with a creepy creaking sound, like leather. Its mouth had closed halfway. “If you want to put ‘evidence of VC torture’ in your report, your body count, I’ll initial it.”

  “What do you mean by that, Captain?”

  “Exactly what I said.” He kept staring at the major while he flipped a cigarette into his mouth and fired it up. Non-filter Camels; you’d think a guy who worked with corpses all day long would be less anxious to turn into one. “I’m just trying to get along.”

  “You believe I want you to falsify—”

  Now, “falsify” is a strange word for a last word. The enemy had set up a heavy machine gun on the other side of the clearing, and we were the closest targets. A round struck the major in the small of his back, we found on later examination. At the time, it was just an explosion of blood and guts, and he went down with his legs flopping every which way, barfing, then a loud death rattle. Frenchy was on the ground in a ball, holding his left hand, going, “Shit shit shit.” He’d lost the last joint of his little finger. Painful, but not serious enough, as it turned out, to get him back to the World.

  I myself was horizontal and aspiring to be subterranean. I managed to get my pistol out and cocked, but realized I didn’t want to do anything that might draw attention to us. The machine gun was spraying back and forth over us at about knee height. Maybe they couldn’t see us; maybe they thought we were dead. I was scared shitless.

  “Frenchy,” I stage-whispered, “we’ve got to get outa here.” He was trying to wrap his finger up in a standard first-aid-pack gauze bandage, much too large. “Get back to the trees.”

  “After you, asshole. We wouldn’t get halfway.” He worked his pistol out of the holster, but couldn’t cock it, his left hand clamping the bandage and slippery with blood. I armed it for him and handed it back. “These are going to do a hell of a lot of good. How are you with grenades?”

  “Shit. How you think I wound up in Graves?” In basic training, they’d put me on KP whenever they went out for live grenade practice. In school, I was always the last person when they chose up sides for baseball, for the same reason—though, to my knowledge, a baseball wouldn’t kill you if you couldn’t throw far enough. “I couldn’t get one halfway there.” The tree line was about sixty yards away.

  “Neither could I, with this hand.” He was a lefty.

  Behind us came the “poink” sound of a sixty-millimeter mortar, and in a couple of seconds, there was a gray-smoke explosion between us and the tree line. The machine gun stopped, and somebody behind us yelled, “Add twenty!”

  At the tree line, we could hear some shouting in Vietnamese, and a clanking of metal. “They’re gonna bug out,” Frenchy said. “Let’s di-di.”

  We got up and ran, and somebody did fire a couple of bursts at us, probably an AK-47, but he missed, and then there were a series of poinks and a series of explosions pretty close to where the gun had been.

  We rushed back to the LZ and found the command group about the time the firing started up again. There was a first lieutenant in charge, and when things slowed down enough for us to tell him what had happened to the major, he expressed neither surprise nor grief. The man had been an observer from Battalion and had assumed command when their captain was killed that morning. He’d take our word for it that the guy was dead—that was one thing we were trained observers in—and not send a squad out for him until the fighting had died down and it was light again.

  We inherited the major’s hole, which was nice and deep, and in his rucksack found a dozen cans and jars of real food and a flask of scotch. So, as the battle raged through the night, we munched pâté on Ritz crackers, pickled herring in sour-cream sauce, little Polish sausages on party rye with real French mustard. We drank all the scotch and saved the beer for breakfast.

  For hours, the lieutenant called in for artillery and air support, but to no avail. Later, we found out that the enemy had launched coordinated attacks on all the local airfields and Special Forces camps, and every camp that held POWs. We were much lower priority.

  Then, about three in the morning, Snoopy came over. Snoopy was a big C-130 cargo plane that carried nothing but ammunition and Gatling guns; they said it could fly over a football field and put a round into every square inch. Anyhow, it saturated the perimeter with fire, and the enemy stopped shooting. Frenchy and I went to sleep.

  At first light, we went out to help round up the KIAs. There were only four dead, counting the major, but the major was an as
tounding sight, at least in context.

  He looked sort of like a cadaver left over from a teaching autopsy. His shirt had been opened and his pants pulled down to his thighs, and the entire thoracic and abdominal cavities had been ripped open and emptied of everything soft, everything from esophagus to testicles, rib cage like blood-streaked fingers sticking rigid out of sagging skin, and there wasn’t a sign of any of the guts anywhere, just a lot of dried blood.

  Nobody had heard anything. There was a machine-gun position not twenty yards away, and they’d been straining their ears all night. All they’d heard was flies.

  Maybe an animal feeding very quietly. The body hadn’t been opened with a scalpel or a knife; the skin had been torn by teeth or claws—but seemingly systematically, throat to balls.

  And the dry one was gone. Him with the pointed teeth.

  There is one rational explanation. Modern warfare is partly mindfuck, and we aren’t the only ones who do it, dropping unlucky cards, invoking magic and superstition. The Vietnamese knew how squeamish Americans were, and would mutilate bodies in clever ways. They could also move very quietly. The dry one? They might have spirited him away just to fuck with us. Show what they could do under our noses.

  And as for the dry one’s odd, mummified appearance, the mold, there might be an explanation. I found out that the Montagnards in that area don’t bury their dead; they put them in a coffin made from a hollowed-out log and leave them aboveground. So maybe he was just the victim of a grave robber. I thought the nearest village was miles away, like twenty miles, but I could have been wrong. Or the body could have been carried that distance for some obscure purpose—maybe the VC set it out on the trail to make the Americans stop in a good place to be ambushed.

  That’s probably it. But for twenty years now, several nights a week, I wake up sweating with a terrible image in my mind. I’ve gone out with a flashlight, and there it is, the dry one, scooping steaming entrails from the major’s body, tearing them with its sharp teeth, staring into my light with black empty sockets, unconcerned. I reach for my pistol, and it’s never there. The creature stands up, shiny with blood, and takes a step toward me—for a year or so, that was it; I would wake up. Then it was two steps, and then three. After twenty years it has covered half the distance and its dripping hands are rising from its sides.

  The doctor gives me tranquilizers. I don’t take them. They might help me stay asleep.

  Copyright © 1992 by Joe Haldeman

  David Afsharirad has edited four volumes of The Year’s Best Military and Adventure SF for Baen books, and has been published in Another Dimension. This is his first appearance in Galaxy’s Edge.

  SEE A PENNY…

  by David Afsharirad

  Devlin finds the second penny near a trash can outside of a convenience store. Probably someone meant to throw it away. People do that, toss their change in the garbage, especially the pennies and nickels. Devlin sometimes wonders how many thousands of dollars are forever lost in landfills across the country. This penny is heads-up. Good, but Devlin has long since stopped being superstitious about such things. He scoops it up, inspects it briefly. It is nothing special, just a 1998 penny minted in Denver. He’s found some valuable coins on the street before, but this is not one of them. He puts it in his left trouser pocket, along with the two quarters, four nickels, and three dimes he’s already found today. He doesn’t think any more about the penny. Not now.

  Devlin has been picking up coins since his sophomore year of high school. His chemistry teacher mentioned off-handedly how much he hated change, how he always tossed it in the street, and Devlin saw an opportunity. He used to find quite a bit, back when people used cash more, but even now that credit cards have taken over, he manages. You just have to know where to look. Over the years, he’s collected several hundred dollars by picking up change—perhaps more. He keeps it in a series of old pickle jars in the coat closet, much to Rebecca’s chagrin. He’s bought some nice things with the money he’s found. Right now, he is saving up to buy a new briefcase. Another three months and he should have enough.

  When Devlin arrives at the coffee shop, the line is almost out the door. He glances down at his watch. He’s running behind. If he waits, he might be late for work. But if he leaves, he’ll have to drink the swill in the break room. He decides to risk it.

  In front of him a young woman in a business suit shifts from foot to foot, stands on her tip-toes to see what the holdup is

  The holdup is that too many people are ordering fancy mixed coffee drinks, the kinds that require the barista perform an elaborate series of steps in order to make them just right.

  “All I need is a cup of black coffee,” the woman mutters under her breath.

  “Same,” Devlin says. When the woman spins around, he smiles a smile that says that they are in this together.

  “They shouldn’t even be serving all that crap this early in the morning,” the woman says, conspiratorially.

  “Or they should at least have two lines,” Devlin offers. “One for all those silly drinks and one for us real coffee drinkers.”

  Their conversation having reached the point at which it would be awkward to continue, the woman turns back around and pulls out her phone. Up ahead, Devlin sees a man come out from the back room of the coffee shop and step behind the counter. He is wearing an open-collared shirt, rolled at the sleeves. His head is shaved and the key-card badge dangling from his belt loop indicates that he is the manager of this establishment. He opens a second register and addresses the crowd.

  “Anyone just need coffee?” he shouts. “Coffee only, this line.”

  The woman turns around to cock an eyebrow at Devlin, then the two of them join an old man in a purple windbreaker in the new line.

  * * *

  When he gets to work, Devlin finds his boss, Gene Meade, waiting for him at his desk. Devlin can tell by the way Gene stands and regards him when he enters that this is bad news, that Gene is worried about something. This is nothing new. Gene is a perpetual worrier, always sure that he is on the verge of being fired by Mr. Hansen or that the firm is about to fold and he will be out on the street, minus his pension.

  “Something wrong, Gene?” Devlin asks.

  “The Pickman account,” Gene says with no preamble. “They’re pulling out. Taking all their business over to Wickham and Straus.”

  “What?” Devlin cannot believe his ears.

  “They say they want to go with a firm that focuses more on new media—Facebook, Twitter, all that,” Gene says.

  “That’s ridiculous. They’re a grocery store chain.”

  “That’s what I said.” Gene is frantic now. He’s pacing in front of Devlin’s desk like a sitcom father-to-be in the labor and delivery waiting room. “But that young buck grandson that’s running the show now won’t listen to reason.”

  This is very bad. If Pickman’s walks, Gene’s doomsday scenarios may not be too far off the mark.

  Devlin throws himself into his chair, snatches up the phone.

  “I’ll talk sense into him,” Devlin says.

  “I’ve tried,” Gene says. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “Well, now I’m trying.”

  The phone stops ringing in Devlin’s ear and a secretary tells him he has reached Mr. Gage Pickman’s office. In short order he is patched through to the man’s cell phone.

  “Gage,” Devlin says. He has been told to use first names. “Gage, it’s Rich Devlin over at Hansen, Hansen, and Peabody. I’ve just heard some upsetting news from Gene.”

  Gage Pickman tells him that he’s sorry, that times are changing and that HH&P is strictly twentieth century. He says he knows it’s hard to hear, but they’ve got to go with a different firm.

  “One that doesn’t think going viral means catching a bad cold,” Pickman says.

  Devlin wants to reach through the phone and sla
p the smug little bastard. Instead, he touts the decades-long partnership between HH&P and Pickman’s Grocers. He plays to the kid’s sense of loyalty, only to find that Gage Pickman has none. He talks up the firm’s new social media liaison, offers to bring her in on the call. Finally, when he gets mad enough, Devlin threatens to sue over breach of contract. It’s an empty threat, he knows. But damn it, he’s pissed.

  And desperate.

  When it is clear that he has lost, that the account is gone no matter what he does or promises, Devlin says, “You want my opinion, Gage? Understand this is just me talking. My two cents is that no one in their right mind would give a damn about being Facebook friends with a grocery store, and if you were smart you’d drop this whole nonsense and come crawling back to us.”

  Devlin slams down the receiver. He can feel his face flush red with anger and embarrassment. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead and upper lip. In all his years, he’s never lost his temper with a client.

  Across the desk, Gene looks horrified.

  “Rich,” Gene begins, “What did you just—?”

  The phone rings.

  “Hello,” Devlin says into the receiver. “Gage, I—look, I apologize…”

  But on the other end of the line, it is Gage Pickman who is apologizing. Devlin is right, he says. Why would anyone re-tweet a grocery ad? Why would anyone want to share a grocery store’s status update?

  By the end of the call, he’s fairly begging HH&P to take Pickman’s back.

  * * *

  It’s not yet ten o’clock in the morning, but they find a bar that’s open. If anything deserves toasting, it’s this. The place is strictly blue-collar and is all but empty save Gene, Devlin, and the bartender, a heavy-set man with coke-bottle glasses. When he comes over, Devlin orders a Bud, figuring when in Rome. Gene orders a Stella, and when the bartender says they don’t carry it, Gene indicates the neon sign that seems to indicate otherwise.