Not Fanfiction -- 2b -- Soundtrack
2b -- Soundtrack
He woke up in a puddle of piss, hot and sweaty with the taste of dirt in his mouth. Somewhere nearby, a man was sobbing. A breeze curled around his face, bringing the thick scent of warm ocean and death. He spat out bile, swallowed and then heaved again.
Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.
A shadow fell over his face and he blinked up. Someone stood over him, silhouetted by the sun, weaving drunkenly. “Gunny?” The person squatted down. He was young, with very dark skin and liquid brown eyes. “You alive, Gunny?”
“Unfortunately.” That sounded too optimistic. “For now,” he added.
The kid reached out and began searching him for injuries. “How far did ya get thrown, Gunny? Where were you when it hit?”
“Don’t remember.” He brought a hand up to his brow. “Don’t remember … ahh.” He met the kid’s eyes. “Don’t remember shit.”
The kid smiled gently. “Don’t you worry, Gunny. That happens sometime. It might be that it’ll come back. But if it don’t, you just ask me whatever, and I’ll tell you.”
He moved his other arm, slowly bunched his fingers into a fist and let them loose. The kid was patting down his torso, his thighs; he gasped when the kid’s hand probed his knee.
“Ok, ok, Gunny. Yeah, looks like ya blew out your knee. How’s this other one? And the ankle?”
He took a breath and pushed it out, long and slow, between pursed lips. “Everything’s sore, kid. But I think the knee is the only critical. Find me something to splint it with, yeah?” He wiped a shaking hand over his face. “Who else? I heard …”
“Yes, sir. That was Tucker. He’ll be alright. And there’s Orlov.”
He stared into the brown eyes, waiting. The kid blinked. Shit. “That’s it?”
“I counted… everybody. Can’t find the Lieutenant. She might be … but, uh, I think she was pretty … she was close to…”
“Yeah. Alright.” He gripped the kid’s forearm. “You did good.” Damn, what was the kid’s name? He searched for the patch. “Kendo. You did good.” Carefully, he laid his head back in the dirt. “Go get me that splint. Bring Orlov.”
“Yes, Gunny!”
The relief in the kid’s voice almost made him loose it.
Not in Kansas. Nope. He could smell the ocean. And other things, but let’s just sidestep that right now, “Gunny.” His uniform was a sophisticated camouflage. There were no patches that he could see, just a name patch: King.
Damn. He probed his memory and came up with visions of orderlies, straps and long white halls. How ‘bout I just try to stay alive, for now. How ‘bout that?
Kendo’s voice murmured over the surf, indistinct. He could hear their boots squeaking in the sand, and three voices, “Gunny… Gunny made it … Gunny?” They gathered around him like lost children.
Three kids left from a platoon. He knew them, and didn’t question how or why. Tucker, two hundred pounds of muscle and too smart for his own good, had a bandage where his left hand used to be and Orlov had a burn patch that covered most of the right side of her head. Kendo knelt beside him with two pieces of conduit and a roll of duct tape.
They stared at him, waiting. He let his eyes go over them a second time and they straightened and lifted their chins; Orlov’s one bright blue eye glinted fiercely into his. “Damn straight,” he nodded to them.
Kendo set the pieces of conduit on each side of his leg and began to tape it up. He gathered Tucker and Orlov with his eyes. “We’re buggin’ outta here. Gather up supplies. Make sure that we have maps and comms. Pack heavy with water.
Kendo, you gather ID’s?”
“No, Gunny, I …”
“Do it. Might be all they’ll get.”
“Yes, Gunny.”
When they left, he pulled himself up, cursing. He knew that what had happened to him was not normal, and pushed the thought aside. Maybe it’d come back to him, who he was and what on God’s Green Earth was going on, but today was not a day for epiphanies. Today was a day for trying to stay the hell alive.
That today was also a day to be pissing out psychoactive medications and blown with concussive force through time and space was acknowledged and set aside.
They were too battered to travel far. Less than a mile from the beach, the ground rose in great up-thrusts of weathered rock. Kendo was the only one in decent shape; Tucker had turned an alarming shade of greenish grey and Orlov stood weaving, eyes closed. When he called a halt, they collapsed slowly with groans and sighs.
They found a split in the rock that opened up into a small cave and dug in, watching the beach. Over the next handful of days, Kendo crept down amongst the dead in the dark of night and gathered supplies, the stench following him back, clinging to his clothes and skin. The bodies rotted in the surf as one hot, torpid day followed another.
No one came. Not friend, not foe.
He wracked his memory and came up empty of any knowledge of their mission. Not only did he not know what they were supposed to be doing, he didn’t know who might have attacked them. He didn’t even know the name of the damned beach.
His troops were young and strong. They healed quickly. He thought that they had seen more than their share of death. At night, they honored their fallen comrades with stories and songs, laughing and crying in equal measure. They didn’t expect him to join them so he was able to sit, nodding solemnly at their offerings, accepting for the dead.
After fifteen days, he came to the conclusion that they were not supposed to be alive.
He didn’t know exactly where the thought had come from. It bubbled up from some dark place in the back of his mind, grabbed him by the throat and wouldn’t let go. They hadn’t been able to get the long-range comms working, and he was glad for it. They were unfortunately alive, against all hope, all plan, all desire.
Whose plan? Whose desire?
He had to answer those questions before he could make his next step. Death was very close, hovering around them as thickly as the stench that rose up from the beach, and just as real. His troops were getting spooked, looking at the sky, at the horizon, wondering why it was all so empty. They gave him what little information that they had, the code name for the mission, the code name for the beach, but he knew that asking too many questions would erode moral, so he nodded and kept his own confusion tight inside his chest.
In turn, they questioned him with their eyes but kept quiet, waiting on him. Waiting for answers.
They fashioned hammocks for themselves amongst the palm trees, just like in the movies. He could see stars thick between the fronds. His troops were murmuring low, like kids on a campout before settling into their sleeping bags. He looked up at the stars, sending them his thoughts. What now? What the hell do I do now?
That night, he dreamt that he lay on a hammock under a tropical night sky. He could see stars thick between the fronds, and they sang to him as he lay there. They sang low, sweet, and sad. “Are you lonesome, tonight? Do you miss me, tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart?”
“Very funny.” He rubbed a hand over his face and frowned up at them. “I need answers.”
“Is your heart filled with pain? Should I come back again?”
“Aw, come on, you can do better than that.”
“Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?”
He gave them a raspberry and flipped them off. “What good are ya?”
“I have a dream!”
“No shit.”
“Houston, the Eagle has landed.”
“And got blasted to fucking kingdom come.”
“Straight t’ th’ moon, Alice! Straight t’ th’ moon!”
He clenched his jaw, angry. “Who the hell are you to mock me?”
“Mork to Orson! Come in Orson!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“My God… it’s full of stars!”
He woke groggy and nauseous, head pounding. All the joy of a hangover, without the bennies. Kendo was up, flashing a cup of coffee. The kid stirred in sugar, eyes half closed, humming an old Elvis tune under his breath.
“Stow it, Kendo.” He swallowed thickly and pulled himself out of his hammock. “I’ve got a fucking headache.”
“I got some pills, Gunny. Fix you right up.”
“Yeah. Thanks, kid.” He stood carefully and limped over to the seat that they’d rigged up. Are you lonesome, tonight? Do you miss me, tonight? Great. Now the kid had him singing it.
The pills tamped a lid down on the headache but it lingered there, dull and throbbing, making him slow and stupid. When Orlov started singing Is your heart filled with pain? Should I come back again? he growled, grabbed the binoculars and limped off toward the ridge.
The ocean and sky were eerily quiet, as if he and his troops were the only living thing on the planet. He didn’t even see any contrails. What would you do if you were the last man on Earth? Huh. Either this Operation had gone bad in a big way, or it was going very, very right.
He lowered the bino’s and massaged his temples. Maybe those two things weren’t mutually exclusive; a good Operation might be bad news for his unit. People were sacrificed all of the time. That is what war was.
He lifted the glasses again and swept the horizon. Maybe. But this didn’t make any sense. His platoon hadn’t been slaughtered taking the beach. They’d just been slaughtered.
In other wars, men had been left for dead out on the islands for years, for decades, fighting a battle that had already been won and lost, wild-eyed men who lived in some other reality and who never really came home, ever.
That night, he looked up at the stars speculatively. Kendo moved in his sleep and sighed gently in the velvet night air. Orlov and Tucker were quiet in their hammocks, asleep or near enough. He let a smile tug up the corner of his mouth. They were damn fine troops. He realized that he desperately wanted them to make it out of this mess alive.
“What can I do?” He whispered the words up to the stars. “What the hell can I do?”
“Ask yourself not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country!”
He scrubbed both hands over his face. “Yeah, that’s the question.”
“To be or not to be; that is the question.”
“Is it?” He felt suddenly wistful. He couldn't really hear the stars talking to him, not really. “Damn, I wish you were real.”
“Rybar King! You get yer skinny little butt home right this minute! Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mama.” That one made him nod appreciatively. It was nice to remember her voice so clearly. “Right away, ma’am.”
“Ground Control to Major Tom.”
His smile slipped sideways and he sang. “This is Major Tom to Ground Control.”
“This is Ground Control to Major Tom. You’ve really made the grade!”
“So’m’bitch.” He swiped at tears and raked his hands through his hair. “For here, am I sitting in a Tin Can,” he sang quietly, “far above the world. Planet Earth is blue, and there’s nothing I can do…”
“Ground Control to Major Tom. Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong. Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you hear me Major Tom?”
“Oh, I hear ya. But what good is it?”
There was no answer to his question. He grunted in self disgust and settled into his hammock. I want it too much. When had this conversation with the stars become so … real? Damn. They’re gonna put me in the loony bin. Gorge rose up in his throat and he swallowed heavily. The pills, the goddamned pills.
He rubbed his hands roughly over his face. I’m losin’ it.
He scorned the stars after that, turned his face away from their glimmer and siren songs, turned instead to the hopeful faces of his troops and to the lush greenness of their surroundings. Here and now. He measured Kendo, Orlov and Tucker with his eyes. Let’s get real.
He walked with a crutch, so used to it now that he hardly noticed it as they reconnoitered from the beach. They found a pristine emptiness that befuddled him. Tucker was the first to voice what they were all thinking. “It doesn’t make sense! No place is this remote!” They had made a small fire for no other reason than it improved morale. Tucker tossed a stick onto the flickering flame. “No planes, no trash on the beach, nothing on the horizon! It’s crazy!”
Crazycrazycrazy. The word rippled through him like a stone tossed into a deep pool. He stood up abruptly and paced away from the fire in short, limping steps. Is there someone with keys? He could almost put his finger on it - almost. Like a watermelon seed. Pain flickered across his skull like heat lightning.
He fell asleep that night with an arm thrown over his eyes, but the stars found him anyway.
“Hello? Is anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home?”
His lips pursed as he searched for the words. “When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse … out of the corner of my eye.” The words were barely a whisper. “I turned to look but it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now. The child is grown, the dream is gone.”
There was a swell of strings, a different melody. “Memory! All alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days. I was beautiful then.”
The arm that was still over his eyes stiffened and he clenched his fist. “No! No ... memories.”
“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away.”
“What?”
“Back in the US…Back in the US … Back in the USSR!”
Go back? A wild grin suffused his face, maniacal and grim. Here you go, you bastards. “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me … for me … for me!”
He was answered by silence. “What?” He peeked out from under his arm, but there was just the night sky. “No snappy answer?”
“Try not to get worried. Try not to turn on to problems that upset you …Oh! Don't you know… Everything's alright, now. Yes, everything's fine. And we want you to sleep well tonight. Let the world turn without you tonight. If we try, we'll get by …So forget all about us tonight.”
“Hmph.” He snuggled his nose into the crook of his elbow. “Roger that, Houston. Over and out.”
Orlov was the first one to say it. “Maybe we’re all dead.”
Tucker rocked back on the log that he was sitting on. “Nope. I’m too horny to be dead.”
Orlov’s single eye glinted at him, crinkled into a smile. “Maybe we’re in hell.”
“Uh-uh.” Tucker shook his head. “None of my exes are here.”
“Besides,” Kendo added, “if we was in Hell, the Devil’d be here with cold beer for the Gunny.”
Orlov nodded solemnly. “Word.”
He took to spending his days on the high bluff, looking out at the sea and sky. The weight of the emptiness pressed on him, a ghostly non-presence that scratched against his mind like burrs, catching and pulling free. It made his hands shake and his head throb, filling him up with unease so that he couldn’t eat. The ‘Stones jangled in his head, “You better stop, and look around … Here it comes."
On the bluff, he watched the sun slip beyond the horizon. Slowly, stiff, he made his way back in the sudden dusk. The itch in his head had ramped up to an insistent tapping; it wasn’t something that he could feel or hear, but it was there, tapping, tugging, humming; a desperate signal just beyond his peripheral vision.
He stumbled into camp, almost tripping over his troops. “Danger,” he muttered. “Danger, Will Robinson.”
“Gunny?”
He hobbled over to his hammock and collapsed into it. “Get yer gear.” He threw the words up toward them. “Bed down with anything you don’t want to leave behind.”
“Did you see something, Gunny?”
“It’s coming.” He squinted at Tucker’s face as it bobbed pale in the early night. “Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. Soon.”
The stars were already singing. “It had to be you, wonderful you… had to be you.”
He clutched his arms around his gut, holding himself together and it blasted him, leaping from the edges of his senses. It blared in his ears, flamed in his eyes so that he blinked and gasped, “My fault. I did it. Brought them here…like...like...”
“People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly … timey-wimey … stuff.”
Kendo was hovering over him and he reared up into the kid’s face. “It was me!” A laugh burst from his lips. He could feel his fingers grind into the kids forearm. “All this time! I thought … I thought … But it was me!”
“’S ok, Gunny. Just …” Kendo searched his eyes, but he knew that the kid wouldn’t find anything in there.”
"This doesn't make sense!" He stared at Kendo. "Who has the keys?"
Orlov brushed a hand over his brow. He squinted up at her, knowing that it was impossible, that it was too late to explain.
He looked beyond her, into the night sky. “You help me!” He jabbed his chin up at the stars. “Hey! You... you fuckers! They come too! Do you hear me!”
The stars sang down at him. "Riders on the storm ... Riders on the storm ... Into this house we're born ... Into this world we're thrown."
“C’mere!” He twisted in the hammock. “Here! By me!”
“We’re here, Gunny. It’s …” Orlov grabbed onto his sleeve. “It’s gonna be ok.”
“Hold on, all of ya.” He couldn’t let go of himself or he might fly apart. His eyes went from Orlov to Tucker to Kendo. “It was me. Remember! I put us here, threw us here...”
“Alright, Gunny. I’ll remember.”
The stars laughed. “Four to beam up, Scotty.”
“It’s coming!”
Ppfftt.