Ghouljaw and Other Stories (30 page)

The husky man hitched in a breath, but stifled speech as the deer’s slender legs spasmed, flicked, and drew up under its torso. As if startled from a nap, the headless carcass lurched up onto its hooves.

Blake bristled and whimpered something as both he and Roger shuffled backward.

The carcass quaked. From within the hacksawed wound emerged a gelatinous blackness, amorphously oozing out between severed arteries and ripped muscle. Paul flicked a glance over at Roger and Blake, who were staring, seemingly paralyzed.

The gelatinous blackness hung out of the wound, then, in a snake-strike flash, clusters of black tendrils spilled forth, stretching out and writhing at the air, as if testing it, or tasting it.

Paul recognized the slender appendages—tentacles that had been hanging like a poisonous skirt beneath the jellyfish; now they trembled and began bifurcating, separating, merging in clusters to either side of the undulating pseudo-skull.

Paul’s vision dimmed on the fringes, and he shook away another bout of light-headedness. Refocusing, he saw that the tentacles had now elaborately braided themselves together, imitating an enormous crown of black antlers with Rorschach symmetry.

“Goddamn it, Blake,” said Roger, “get that rifle.” With that, the deer’s body bristled, the black-pronged rack seemingly intent on the source of the voice.

Paul watched Blake bring the gun to his shoulder with quaking hesitation.

The deer carcass took a few stilted steps forward, its hooves stabbing with mincing baby-steps. It stopped and started again with more stability, more precision.

“That fucking thing is de—” Blake began, but before he could finish the deer sprang forward, advancing across the clearing in a bolting lurch, leaping over thick underbrush with its black antlers thrust out as it charged ahead. Roger had time to fire two haphazard shots from the revolver before the carcass jumped up in front of Roger, its legs kicking, hooves slashing. Paul watched one of those hooves come down in a vicious arc across Roger’s cheek and collarbone, instantly lacerating a long patch of flesh. Roger howled, grabbed his face and fell sideways.

Blake was screaming now, the deer carcass flinching and pivoting in his direction. Blake leveled his rifle on the deer but made the mistake of blindly retreating backward and was tripped up in a thick thatch of fallen branches and low vines. The machine gun chattered a series of haphazard shots as Blake pitched down, his frantic screams lost under the stutter of gunfire. As furious as the sound was, it suddenly ceased as the clip was expended, leaving only Blake and his screams as he struggled to free himself from the tangle of underbrush.

The deer advanced, charging full tilt, its prongs thrust forward combatively as it bore down on Blake, who screamed and wept, thick strands of saliva clinging between his irregular rows of yellow teeth.

And then the deer leapt up and fell on him, its forelegs stomping his chest and stomach, antlers whip-goring the young man. And with each stabbing plunge Paul saw that the venom-barbed tentacles were leaving ropy, livid streaks. The bruised marks on Blake’s face and throat appeared to swell instantly into varicose welts.

Blake was still struggling, the deer carcass still mauling him, when a single shot rang out. Paul flinched and saw Roger, now up on his knees, a trembling arm extended with the smoking revolver. The wound on his cheek and jaw had opened thickly, blood streaming down and soaking into his logger’s jacket.

Three more shots pealed out, rocking the deer’s body each time. The carcass lurched back and staggered away from Blake.

Roger shakily made it to his feet. He stumbled forward, his eyes, shocked and glazy, danced around the clearing and found Paul, who was fighting to remain draped over the tree trunk. Roger’s expression was absent and impassive as he raised the revolver, brought its barrel level with Paul’s face, and pulled the trigger. The gun’s hammer snapped repeatedly on empty cylinders with each frantic pull, and it took Roger a moment to hurl the gun at Paul, missing him, the useless weapon tumbling off into the underbrush. Roger began hobbling over to Blake, casting a wary glance at the deer carcass, which was on the ground now, the black antlers receding into the wound.

Blake was crying, his welt-lashed face stricken with each anguished plea. “Oh, Roger . . .” Blake moaned. “Roger . . . my eyes, Roger . . . oh Jesus . . . burning . . . it . . . can’t breathe.”

Roger muttered something as he pulled Blake to his feet, clutching one of the young man’s arms and awkwardly hoisting him up beside him, cradling the young man as his legs wobbled beneath him. Roger gave Paul a glance as he began carry-dragging Blake out of the clearing, the younger man sobbing incoherencies. Soon, Roger and Blake’s dark clothes blended with the huddled tree trunks, and then they were gone. Periodically, an agonized scream echoed into the forest, but even those eventually ceased.

The dim rim around Paul’s field of vision had worsened, his breath grew meek. Instead of pulling himself up onto the log, he let go and dropped down, falling on his back.

Silence settled in the clearing. Silence and darkness.

Consciousness ebbed and flowed, he dozed and was shaken awake by bouts of cold and feverish quaking. With the occasional rustle-hush of leaves from the upper reaches of the trees, the clearing was quiet, peaceful, which made the abrupt presence of the jellyfish hovering above him all the more startling.

It rose up from the lower portion of Paul’s eyeline, floating languidly, swimming in the air four feet above him, its delicate tentacles hanging below it. He thought about his daughters, and regret was replaced with a sober sort of calm—the jellyfish sting, Paul wiping away tears, telling her it would be all right.
I promise
.

The jellyfish descended, its skirt of tentacles converging. He winced as the tendrils sank in smoothly, streaming into the wound as its globular hood contorted, crumpled, and slunk into Paul’s chest. His respiration became rapid, and he could hear a wavy thrumming in his ears.

He felt pressure from below and from the sides—the overwhelming sensation of floating on his back. He smiled and closed his eyes.

Paul shivered awake, his body tensing, causing his mattress of dead leaves rustle.

Through the lattice of burnt-orange leaves clinging to dark branches, he noticed that the gray sky was now pale blue, and the position of the sun suggested afternoon rather than morning.

Paul swallowed and aimed his face down to inspect his chest. Blood had dried and stiffened across his sweatshirt; he carefully lifted his fingers to where he’d been shot, feeling only chilled unbroken skin. Paul rolled to his side and rose up on his hands and knees, catching his breath and licking his lips.

Head muzzy, he pulled himself up. Paul took a few mincing steps forward and spotted the silver glint of the revolver. He hefted it, ran his fingers along the cylinder, and checked to ensure it was empty. He dropped the gun into his duffel bag and surveyed the clearing. The deer carcass. Paul sought the half-wrapped tarp, hefted it, and brought it over to the desecrated corpse, settling it down carefully alongside the torso.

Paul retrieved Blake’s machine gun, stabbing the butt of the weapon into the damp earth, and started digging.

Hours later, Paul Dawson—covered with dirt, his face sweat-streaked with grime—was walking through the woods. The light was beginning to retreat and the shadows were creeping long. He walked earnestly, with purpose, passing part of the time by wondering if Roger and Blake had made it out of the woods; and if they had, would they find him sooner or later? The notion made him smirk. With the sky dimming into lavender-fringed pastels, Paul hiked on, moving so swiftly and so smoothly that, when he closed his eyes, it felt like floating.

—
Hamlet,
Act 3, Scene 4

The principal of Clarke Ridge High School has two hours left as an independently functioning organism—two hours left to exist as something other than
food
. This is the way his world ends: He is preparing to close his office when the secretary calls out from behind the receptionist’s counter: “Mr. Wilkinson?”

With his hand on the doorknob, the young principal tries, and fails, to sound professionally serene. “Yes?”

Mrs. Welch pivots and examines a slip of paper. “That gentleman from the Army called for you again.”

Wilkinson is slowly narrowing the space between his office door and the jamb. “What gentleman?”

“William Craft. He says he’s been calling and e-mailing you for several days.”

Wilkinson faintly recalls the name. “Did he say what he wanted?” He hopes his tone implies that she better make it snappy.

“No,” says the secretary, clearly taking the hint, returning her glasses to her face and her fingers to the keyboard of her computer. “Just that it was urgent.”

Wilkinson thanks his secretary and finishes closing the door.

Silence. He knows the peace of his office will be brief. And despite a tedious to-do list of parent phone calls to return and discipline reports to manage, he savors the tranquil moment nonetheless.

Wilkinson sets his coffee mug on his desk and walks over to his aquarium, scanning the pristine tank of tropical fish before sprinkling in some food. Smiling, he watches the flakes float down.

Wilkinson straightens his tie and settles down into his chair, swiveling toward the computer. He maximizes and opens his e-mail. A new message. Wilkinson notices the last name, Craft, and has another flicker of guilt for not returning the man’s phone calls, but it had been a mercilessly hectic week. The principal passes a hand over his generously tanned face and clicks open the message:

“I encourage you to read the rest of what I’ve written here, but the most important thing is this: You have to stop Lonnie Meadows from entering your school.” Wilkinson’s leather chair creaks as he leans closer to the screen.

“I’m not sure what he intends to do, but I’m certain you’ll regret permitting him on the premises. He’s been calling me for the past few weeks, saying he has a plan, something to do with a recruiting session at your school. I’ve tried listening. But it’s not the same Meadows. It’s not the same guy I knew from combat. I started ignoring his phone calls, just like you’ve clearly done with me.

“Before I go on, I want to jog your memory. My name is William Craft, formerly staff sergeant William Craft. Now, I am no longer a sergeant of any kind, nor a soldier. I am a coward. And if you’d seen the things we’d seen, you call yourself a coward too.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about that staff sergeant, Robert Bales, the monster who murdered all those women and children in the Panjwai district back in March, 2012; and I’ve often wondered if he’d ever been assigned to a place just north of Ceghak, in the Oruzgan province. The military would never release that information, just like they’d never release the truth about the details of our last mission—the one where I lost Meadows as a combat comrade and a friend and maybe a human being altogether.”

Wilkinson is still frowning at the message on the monitor, still reading the strange e-mail, when the morning bell rings. Over the PA speaker, a student begins reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Wilkinson refrains from standing and placing his hand over his heart, but mumbles along with the oath. With the previous messages, Wilkinson had suspected that Craft, because he claimed to be affiliated with the Army, was contacting him about scheduling a recruiting session with some of the students. But Wilkinson had assumed that his secretary would take care of the arrangements. Now Wilkinson was relieved that he’d never taken the phone calls or returned the messages. This young man was obviously unstable. Wilkinson takes a sip of coffee, winces, and reads on . . .

If you don’t take this seriously, that’s up to you. If you’re still reading, it’s probably too late. Like me, you may find solace in Eliot’s wisdom: “This is the way the world ends—not with a bang, but a whimper.” I know the poem “The Hollow Men” has nothing to do with what follows, but the words have drifted in and out of my mind since witnessing the horrors of war.

If you are still reading, then maybe there’s something within you willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. In that case, I’ll get to the point: I met Lonnie Meadows about seven years ago. We joined up around the same time, right after high school. We endured boot camp together, we were deployed together, we were even assigned to the same squad during our second and final tour. Our squad’s job was to work with tribal leaders and villagers as security advisors.

I would take you directly to the events in that unnamed village just north of Ceghak, but I also need you to know—and anyone else whom you choose to share this message—that Meadows was my friend.

In high school, I’m sure Meadows would have given me a hard time. As a principal, you would surely have classified him as a hood. But within the great equalizer of the military, I guess I had proven myself a worthy ally. After trading a few boot-camp insults with Meadows, we became fast friends and, to my surprise, remained friends long after our initiation.

During our downtime—and when he wasn’t either arguing with or sleeping with his girlfriend, Brittany—we’d made a habit of driving aimlessly around the backroads of the countryside, splitting a twelve-pack or trading sips from a pint of Beam. Meadows had been driving this particular night. This was long before he’d received the extensive wrist-to-elbow tattoos, and his unmarked and uninked forearm was slung over the steering wheel. He glanced over at me and said, “You know, Craft, you and me, like, complement each other.”

It was one of the rare occasions when Meadows had something thoughtful to say, but one of the common occasions when he’d been drinking heavily. “Well hell, man,” I said. “I’ll take that as a
compliment
.”