or river mud, or blood. Embers shimmered in the firepit and pots were ranged on the hot rocks. The longhouses stood in darkness, not a hint of movement from within. It was as if the villagers had grown weary of their location and elected to abandon their homes, a mass exodus, leaving their possessions behind.
Either that, or someone—some thing —had beaten them to the punch.
“Where the hell is everybody?” Crosshairs said.
“On a nature hike?” Gunner said. He wasn’t smiling.
Tripwire whispered, “Bad mojo, Mogumbo.”
Oddy set the binoculars on the bridge of his nose and surveyed the left flank of the far longhouse. He whistled shrilly, the sound a fair replication of a jungle bird’s call. A reply came from the tree line behind the far longhouse. “They’re in position.”
“Something’s righteously fucked here, Sarge.” The note of apprehension in Tripwire’s voice was jarring. “You think they’re waiting inside the huts—armed?”
They’d all heard horror stories of headstrong units charging into seemingly safe situations only to be surrounded and torn to shreds by disguised enemy troops, or sometimes even villagers with single-shot Chinese rifles and pitchforks.
“Give it a few minutes,” Oddy said. “We got nothing but time.”
A massive raven settled to roost on the peaked roof of the central hut. It preened itself with a hooked beak, digging ticks and other parasites from its molting plumage. The walls of the hut rattled. The startled raven took flight, leaving a drift of black feathers on the thatched roof. A smell wafted across the village grounds to where the soldiers were hunkered.
“Jesus,” Crosshairs gagged. “The fuck is that?”
Nobody could liken it to anything they had ever smelled before—except Gunner, who, as a teen, had worked in his uncle’s hog-butchering pen. The smell reminded him of standing above a vat of rendering hog fat, the fumes thick enough to achieve a nauseating, buttery physicality beyond mere scent, forcing itself to be felt and tasted.
“Something’s not kosher here.” Oddy’s extremities had gone numb for some unexplained reason. “So we’ll sit tight and see what happens.”
The sound of a choppy motor in the distance. It was near dark, and Oddy had to squint through the binoculars as he focused on the waterline. A pair of NVA gunboats beached on the sandy shore. Soldiers offloaded long wooden crates.
“We got company,” Oddy said. “Ten-twelve NVA with a shitload of crated firepower.”
The Viet soldiers made their way up the gradual grade leading from the shore to the village. Two-man teams carried crates on their shoulders, or by the hemp handles hung on each side. Their cigarette tips bobbed in the darkness, easy targets for Crosshairs or any member of Team Blackjack, all competent marksmen. Their officer, identified by his yellow armband, called out. When nobody answered, he ordered his men to search the huts. Soldiers entered and exited two huts without incident. Then they entered the third, central hut.
And all hell broke loose.
The soldier’s screams were unlike anything Team Blackjack had ever heard: high and blood-curdling, the screams of small children caught in savage traps. Pieces of meat spewed out of the hut’s tombstone-shaped entryway, resembling wet rags or scraps of fat.
More screams. This time they were worse. Much worse. They wailed out and out, as if the soldiers’ lungs had been soaked in napalm and lit.
The remaining Viet soldiers were of two minds: some of them drew their weapons and stood firm, while others fled towards the boats. Another sound emanated from the darkened hut: the sound of giant, clattering teeth, or threshing steel gears.
The NVA officer detonated a percussion grenade and rolled it through the entryway. It exploded in a starburst of white light and Oddy saw, for the briefest second, shapes hanging from the hut ceiling.
Long slack shapes. Muscle-corded and tendon-strung shapes.
Either that, or someone—some thing —had beaten them to the punch.
“Where the hell is everybody?” Crosshairs said.
“On a nature hike?” Gunner said. He wasn’t smiling.
Tripwire whispered, “Bad mojo, Mogumbo.”
Oddy set the binoculars on the bridge of his nose and surveyed the left flank of the far longhouse. He whistled shrilly, the sound a fair replication of a jungle bird’s call. A reply came from the tree line behind the far longhouse. “They’re in position.”
“Something’s righteously fucked here, Sarge.” The note of apprehension in Tripwire’s voice was jarring. “You think they’re waiting inside the huts—armed?”
They’d all heard horror stories of headstrong units charging into seemingly safe situations only to be surrounded and torn to shreds by disguised enemy troops, or sometimes even villagers with single-shot Chinese rifles and pitchforks.
“Give it a few minutes,” Oddy said. “We got nothing but time.”
A massive raven settled to roost on the peaked roof of the central hut. It preened itself with a hooked beak, digging ticks and other parasites from its molting plumage. The walls of the hut rattled. The startled raven took flight, leaving a drift of black feathers on the thatched roof. A smell wafted across the village grounds to where the soldiers were hunkered.
“Jesus,” Crosshairs gagged. “The fuck is that?”
Nobody could liken it to anything they had ever smelled before—except Gunner, who, as a teen, had worked in his uncle’s hog-butchering pen. The smell reminded him of standing above a vat of rendering hog fat, the fumes thick enough to achieve a nauseating, buttery physicality beyond mere scent, forcing itself to be felt and tasted.
“Something’s not kosher here.” Oddy’s extremities had gone numb for some unexplained reason. “So we’ll sit tight and see what happens.”
The sound of a choppy motor in the distance. It was near dark, and Oddy had to squint through the binoculars as he focused on the waterline. A pair of NVA gunboats beached on the sandy shore. Soldiers offloaded long wooden crates.
“We got company,” Oddy said. “Ten-twelve NVA with a shitload of crated firepower.”
The Viet soldiers made their way up the gradual grade leading from the shore to the village. Two-man teams carried crates on their shoulders, or by the hemp handles hung on each side. Their cigarette tips bobbed in the darkness, easy targets for Crosshairs or any member of Team Blackjack, all competent marksmen. Their officer, identified by his yellow armband, called out. When nobody answered, he ordered his men to search the huts. Soldiers entered and exited two huts without incident. Then they entered the third, central hut.
And all hell broke loose.
The soldier’s screams were unlike anything Team Blackjack had ever heard: high and blood-curdling, the screams of small children caught in savage traps. Pieces of meat spewed out of the hut’s tombstone-shaped entryway, resembling wet rags or scraps of fat.
More screams. This time they were worse. Much worse. They wailed out and out, as if the soldiers’ lungs had been soaked in napalm and lit.
The remaining Viet soldiers were of two minds: some of them drew their weapons and stood firm, while others fled towards the boats. Another sound emanated from the darkened hut: the sound of giant, clattering teeth, or threshing steel gears.
The NVA officer detonated a percussion grenade and rolled it through the entryway. It exploded in a starburst of white light and Oddy saw, for the briefest second, shapes hanging from the hut ceiling.
Long slack shapes. Muscle-corded and tendon-strung shapes.
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