Hunting Season (3 page)

It makes sense.  The disease spreads but only over areas easily concealed by clothes.  The bubbles have coatings which keep them from popping easily.  Then whatever's inside is released at a time of the carrier's choosing.  And I doubt there's a cure not buried under another mound of sand.

I don't know anything about biological weapons or diseases.  But I know what I've got ain't normal.

Is there a disease named FUBAR?

Yeah, I can tell someone and get myself moved to a quarantine unit.  I wouldn't have to deal with the trial.  Or see the fop Dexter again.  But I want to hear the Corps' case against me.  I want to see if they sell us down the river.

*  *  *  *  *

"The prosecution has turned Corporal Hicks and Gunnery Sergeant Lowe."  Dexter stands over me, a broad smile on his face.  "They're going to testify against you.  They're going to testify under oath that you fired first."

It feels like a phantom has shoved a bayonet in my testicles.  Those sonsofbitches flipped.  Now I'm facing death for the rest of those assholes.

"Oh well, Sir," I say.  Although I feel like shit, I'm not going to let Dexter win this little "I told you so" battle he wants to fight.

"With their testimony, you're as good as dead, Sergeant."

Now I smile.  "I guess you're going to have to work that much harder to defend me, Sir."

Dexter's smile shrinks.  "Yes, I guess I will."

He won't.  I know Dexter wants to see me fry as much as the Corps does.  Then I think of the bubbles.  I think how nice it would feel to grab Dexter face and rub it on my chest.  Then I could sit back and see what exactly these fucking things are designed to do.

Dexter turns and leaves before I can put my plan in motion.  I'm left to reflect on my fate and my comrades who've betrayed me.

*  *  *  *  *

"So help me God," I say and sit down on the witness stand.

The puss bubbles, over two hundred now, are pressed tight under my uniform.  None have burst, though.  Thanks to the great number of bubbles it just looks like I've gained weight rather than have odd lumps forming on my body.

The trial has been a joke so far.  The Corps has done a great job painting a portrait of a squad out on a basic security patrol and one sergeant, me, looking to start trouble with the local Iraqis.  Not one word about the mission.  Not one word about the bunker we killed the fuckers outside of.

Gunnery Sergeant Lowe and Corporal Hicks have already given their testimony.  Like they read it from a script how perfect it was.

Dexter did an excellent job sitting on his hands.  His cross examination of Lowe and Hicks was weaker than soggy cardboard.  He kept insisting I needed to get on the stand and tell my side.  That's where my only chance to clear my name lay.

So here I am, ready to clear my name.  Lowe and Hicks sit in the front row of the courtroom, not making eye contact with me.

"Sergeant, can you tell us about the events of that day?" the prosecuting officer says.

I do.  Nice and to the point.  Don't leave out one detail.

"So you claim your squad was ordered to this supposed bunker to search for WMDs?  You also claim you found WMDs.  Yet no report of any mission, bunker, or WMDs exist.  All we know is your squad set out on a security patrol and you thought it would be fun to kill eight innocent civilians."

What an asshole.

But he's just doing his job, you might say.

Fuck that, he's a Marine, just like Lowe and Hicks, selling out another Marine.

"This is a load of horseshit," I say.

"Is that your testimony?" the prosecutor says.

I smirk.  "You know, I wouldn't care if you charged me or anyone else in my squad with killing the civilians for being at the wrong place at the wrong time.  It's a gray area.  I understand that.  But what I can't understand is how the Marine Corps can so easily write-off men that were only trying to do their job, the job they volunteered for, to the best of their ability to protect its own image."

"Sergeant, your personal views-"

"What pisses me off is the Corps denies it sent us on that mission."

I undo the top two buttons on my uniform.

"What pisses me off is the Corps denies there was a bunker there at all."

Another button pops free.

"What pisses me off is the Corps willingly portrays its own men as thuggish brutes looking for blood to protect its image in a land full of people who hate us.  It makes up lies about us and all of you in here let it."

The final buttons are undone.

"But most of all, I hate the fact the Corps lies about there being no biological weapons there."

I rip open my uniform, exposing the bubbles to the warm air of the courtroom.

Every eye is on me, studying with awe the pustules which have taken the place of my normal skin.

While they stare, I borrow a pen from the judge's bench.  He doesn't notice, his eyes locked on my bubble-wrap for a torso.

I hold the pen up for all to see.  My thumb clicks the tip out.  My eyes focus on Lowe and Hicks.

"Death before dishonor."

Then I start popping, stabbing bubble after bubble with the pen.

"Semper Fi, motherfuckers."

People squeal, yelp, and make other odd assortments of noise as the puss shoots and oozes.  A putrid stench fills the room.  I breathe it in deep and grin.

"FUBAR, every last one of you."

CLOSING TIME

Vic forced a pilsner glass in the jam-packed dishwasher between two highball glasses and closed the door and fired it up.  The last load.  Ever.  He wondered why he even bothered and figured routine as good a reason as any.

Sure routine and the fact mom taught you never to leave dirty dishes out because they attracted foreigners and rats
, Vic thought and smiled.  Had to love mom's worldly views.  He remembered when he was twelve, asking her exactly how dirty dishes attracted foreigners.  Her response was a hard swat upside the head.  He didn't ask again.   Near as he could tell the new property owners were a combination of both, not that there was anything wrong with that.

 He checked his watch.  Almost two in the a.m.  Almost closing time.

Jimmy sat at the other end of the bar sipping the last bit of Wild Turkey in his glass.  One last load and one glass by hand it seemed.  And a couple of final sips for Jimmy the Last Customer.  Vic was more nostalgic for the dishwasher than his long time patron.  He wished the old bastard would finish the drink off so he could kick him out.

One more kick to Jimmy's ass wouldn't be a bad thing
.  Vic chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"The reality my boot will be connecting with your tired old posterior soon."  Vic walked down the bar.  "Drink up.  You need to head out of here in a few minutes."

"I paid for it, Vic.  I'll drink it at my own pace.  And threatening to kick my ass is no way to treat a paying customer."

"Jimmy, shut the hell up and finish that Turkey."

"Okay, okay."  Jimmy took a bigger sip.  "Not like you've got the liquor board beating down your door to get me out of here."

 "No, I just want to get away from you."

Jimmy chuckled.  "You may want to get away from me now but you're gonna miss me when you move away."

Doubt it, Vic thought.  He ran a hand through his thinning hair and felt scalp and stopped and dropped his hand to his side.  "Yeah, I'll be crying myself to sleep at night thinking of you."

"You will so you better enjoy these last few minutes you have with me before you leave."

A few more minutes until the deadbolt turned for good.  In three days the entire strip of buildings, VIC's included, would meet the wrecking ball.  Vic wasn't bitter like some of the other business owners, forced out under imminent domain.  He'd gotten good money to make way for condos.  Thirty years of mediocre business had created a nice retirement in a one day real estate deal.  Not a bad ending at all.

"I'm sure the nostalgia will hit me while I'm sipping margaritas in Belize."

Vic grabbed a rag and wiped down the scratch-ridden mahogany bar.  He'd planned to have it refinished until the developer came a calling.  He'd planned to have the whole place redone:  hardwood floors to replace the stained carpet, decent new lighting, and a fresh coat of paint.  Maybe the changes would have brought in new customers.  Vic let his vision fade and replaced it with views of the Caribbean from his private beach bungalow.

"What are you going to do with Ted tonight?" Jimmy said.  "Not exactly the way he foresaw his last night here."

Normally Ted, Vic's one employee, did the clean-up work in the bathrooms and hauled the trash.  He was also supposed to take the remaining inventory for himself.  Not much since Vic had stopped ordering resupplies once the papers had been signed but still a nice little going out of business bonus all the same.  But Ted had gotten sick a few hours before with stomach aches and chills.  Pale as ivory.  One second he was fine and the next he was dry heaving in the men's room.  Probably food poisoning.  Vic told him to go home but Ted didn't think he could drive or walk.  Vic let him sit in the back until he could take him.  Figured resting and not moving for a while might be best for him.

"I'm going to take him home."  Vic threw the rag in a sink.  "Think I'm going to leave him here or something?"

"Just checking."  Jimmy knocked back the rest of his Turkey.  "I'm more than happy to help with whatever stock you're giving him."

"I bet."

The bell above the door jingled.  Vic turned to two men walking in.

Shit, Vic thought.  He didn't want last minute customers.

"Closed, friends."

The strangers looked like they'd been driving for two days straight without food or sleep.  Tired and angry.  Dark circles under their eyes and several days of growth on sunken cheeks.  Faces like thirty miles of rough highway.

"Door says you're open 'til two," the guy on the left said.

The guy on the right looked over his shoulder at the door.  "Damn, you're right Bill.  Open 'til two."

Vic didn't have the patience to deal with two more wise asses.  "Come on, guys.  We're closed."

Bill walked to the bar and sat down.  He sighed as he did.  His breath smelled of rotting food.

"Bourbon."

Vic glanced at Jimmy.  Jimmy's lips tightened.  The smile disappeared.  Vic knew the look.  Nervous.  He wondered if he looked the same way.

"Want anything, Frank?" Bill said.

"No."  Frank turned the OPEN sign over on the glass door and twisted the dead-bolt secure.  "Now you're closed."

Vic's stomach sank and he put his left hand on the bar for balance.

"I said bourbon."

Vic rubbed his mouth.  "I don't know what you guys--"

"My friend said he wanted bourbon."  Frank took a seat between Bill and Jimmy.  "Why don't you get him one, Vic?"

"How do you know my name?"

Frank smirked.  "Name of the bar is VIC'S.  You look like a Vic."  Frank inhaled deeply.  "Man, this place smells like fifty years of stale beer."

Bill sniffed the air.  Vic watched his nostrils flare open and his chest rise.  He'd seen wine tasters on television sniff their drinks the same way.

"No, Frank, I'd say thirty years."

It took Vic a few seconds to steady his hand enough to pour the bourbon.  Even when he could, the neck still rattled against the glass.   He didn't know if Bill had gotten lucky and guessed how long VIC's had been open or actually
knew
it through scent.  Either way, it scared him.  Scared him deep.  This wasn't a stick up.  This was something...else.

Frank stared at Jimmy.  "What's your name?"

Jimmy focused on the bar, head bowed.

"Did you hear me?"

"His name's Jimmy."  Vic pushed the drink to Bill.

"He didn't ask you, Vic."  Bill shot the bourbon back fast.

"Jimmy."  Frank repeated the name a few more times.  "We got a bar full of interesting names here tonight."

Frank and Bill laughed.

Jimmy stared at the bar, his hands trembling around his empty glass.

Vic switched from him to the strangers.  He didn't want trouble.  Of all nights not tonight.  Not when he was so close to sunsets.  How about nine years ago when Helen died in her sleep from heart failure and he woke up next to a corpse?  That would have been a good night to show up and do this.  Or when he found out his boy had taken a bullet through the right eye in Iraq?  That would have been a good time, too.  But not now.  Not when he'd finally accepted it all and said his goodbyes and was ready to--

Frank turned back to Jimmy.  "Sucks to be you tonight."

Vic's stomach hit his toes.  "Now I don't know what you two are planning but--"

"Where's Ted?" Bill said.

The question froze Vic in mid-sentence.  "Ted?"

"Ted."  Frank rapped his knuckles on the bar.  "He works here.  Where is he?"

"What do you want with Ted?"

"If it was your business, we'd tell you," Bill said.

Frank turned to Jimmy.  "Where's Ted?"

"He went home sick," Vic said.

"He's not sick and he's not at home."  Bill reached into his jacket.  A second later a .357 Magnum sat on the bar.  "And you're a terrible liar, Vic."

Vic focused on the gun.  He knew it well.  Had one like it, only a snubbed-nose model, at home
.  This was something...else.

Frank popped a pretzel in his mouth.  "We just finished tearing his house apart and Ted wasn't there.  Found out he works here.  So here we are.  Where's Ted?"

"I don't know."  Vic looked at his toes, unable to meet Frank's intense stare.  "But I did send him home sick."

"He's not sick."  Bill scratched his cheek.  "And I said you're a terrible liar."

"What do you want with him?"

"Your friend Ted got himself into some trouble," Bill said.  "And now we've got to take care of it."

"What?"

"Ted found himself at the wrong place and wrong time a month ago when he was in Vegas.  Took us a while to track him down.  Now we've got to clean it up before it gets any messier than it needs to be."