scientific
portfolio...”
“But there’s nothing scientific about the
walking dead!” My voice echoed in the desert night.
“Calm down, Dark,” the General ordered. “If
you’ve got nothing to contribute, you can head back to your
hotel.”
“No, no,” I shook my head, rapidly smoking
the last of my cigarette. I stomped it out in the sand and quickly
lit another one. “I’m sorry, it’s just the shock, that’s all.”
Slowly, my journalistic instincts were returning to me. “What’s his
story? If he’s not a nuclear superman, what is he?”
“As I said, Dark, we just don’t know,” the
General said, looking off into the night.
“Well, where did the Army find him? How was
he captured?”
“You ever hear of the island of
Tori-shima?”
“Tori-shima? No.”
“No, nobody has,” the General sighed. “This
was before Fat Man and Little Boy. We were pushing closer to the
coast of Japan, still looking for airfields. Of course, back then,
Tokyo was still the target for Little Boy. Tori-shima is only three
hundred miles from the Ginza.
“The 11th Airborne parachuted in. We were
expecting heavy resistance, after what the leathernecks had found
on Iwo Jima. And here we were right in the Tojo’s backyard. We
expected hell on earth. But the defenses we found had already been
picked clean. Bunkers, antiaircraft guns, artillery. It was all
there, just waiting. Ten thousand shells and a million rounds of
ammunition, but no Tojos. Not a single one. The whole Goddamn
island was abandoned. Or so we thought.
“The Paratroopers find signs of a firefight,
empty clips, bullet holes. But no bodies. Whatever had cleared out
the defenders had done it hit fast and clean. No mess. The 11th was
left with nothing to do. No enemy. Someone had done their job for
them. Tori-shima was taken without firing a shot.
“But who’d cleared out all the Nips? They
sure as shit hadn’t retreated of their own volition. Not this close
to the shores of Japan. Mutiny, perhaps? Was this a sign that the
Tojo’s grip on the rank and file was beginning to slip? No, it
turned out to be nothing so neat and clean. As the paratroopers
pushed deeper into the island, the found what had taken care of all
the Tojos.”
“That...thing?” I asked, lighting another
cigarette.
The General nodded. “They found an old well,
covered over with sheet steel, chained up and padlocked. On top of
that, the Nips had piled boulders, big enough that it required a
dozen men with block and tackle to move them. Whatever Tojos had
survived the attack, had locked something big...dangerous…down in
that well.
“But all the GIs found was that character,”
Groves pointed back toward the workshop’s door, “cowing in the
dark. Dog tags read PFC Michael Elton. They figured him for some
sort of POW. Maybe from the Philippines. Bataan. He was half-crazy,
rambling nonsense. Then the second they pull him out into the
daylight, his flesh catches fire, like someone had put a match to
him. Queerest thing. They put him out but they figure he’s dead. No
pulse. Nothing. Then it’s into a body bag and back onto the medical
frigate, as the 11th moves on, pushing closer into Japan.”
“But he wasn’t dead,” I said, already knowing
the answer.
“No,” the General said calmly. “In the night,
the frigate goes missing. Takes three days for the spotter planes
to track it down, adrift in amongst the Izu’s. Can’t be reached by
radio, no answer to semaphores or Morse. Rescue crew goes aboard
and find a ghost ship. Not a soul aboard.”
I nodded. “Except one.”
“Exactly. Cowering down in the bilge. One
bedraggled, insane PFC...”
“I take it he’s not, in actuality, Private
First Class Elton,” I asked as the General and I stepped back into
the workshop.
“No, Elton was MIA at Midway. How
this...thing...got his dog tags, and how he ended up on Tori-shima,
we have no idea.”
“Did you ask it?” I queried. “Does
it...speak?”
“Oh
portfolio...”
“But there’s nothing scientific about the
walking dead!” My voice echoed in the desert night.
“Calm down, Dark,” the General ordered. “If
you’ve got nothing to contribute, you can head back to your
hotel.”
“No, no,” I shook my head, rapidly smoking
the last of my cigarette. I stomped it out in the sand and quickly
lit another one. “I’m sorry, it’s just the shock, that’s all.”
Slowly, my journalistic instincts were returning to me. “What’s his
story? If he’s not a nuclear superman, what is he?”
“As I said, Dark, we just don’t know,” the
General said, looking off into the night.
“Well, where did the Army find him? How was
he captured?”
“You ever hear of the island of
Tori-shima?”
“Tori-shima? No.”
“No, nobody has,” the General sighed. “This
was before Fat Man and Little Boy. We were pushing closer to the
coast of Japan, still looking for airfields. Of course, back then,
Tokyo was still the target for Little Boy. Tori-shima is only three
hundred miles from the Ginza.
“The 11th Airborne parachuted in. We were
expecting heavy resistance, after what the leathernecks had found
on Iwo Jima. And here we were right in the Tojo’s backyard. We
expected hell on earth. But the defenses we found had already been
picked clean. Bunkers, antiaircraft guns, artillery. It was all
there, just waiting. Ten thousand shells and a million rounds of
ammunition, but no Tojos. Not a single one. The whole Goddamn
island was abandoned. Or so we thought.
“The Paratroopers find signs of a firefight,
empty clips, bullet holes. But no bodies. Whatever had cleared out
the defenders had done it hit fast and clean. No mess. The 11th was
left with nothing to do. No enemy. Someone had done their job for
them. Tori-shima was taken without firing a shot.
“But who’d cleared out all the Nips? They
sure as shit hadn’t retreated of their own volition. Not this close
to the shores of Japan. Mutiny, perhaps? Was this a sign that the
Tojo’s grip on the rank and file was beginning to slip? No, it
turned out to be nothing so neat and clean. As the paratroopers
pushed deeper into the island, the found what had taken care of all
the Tojos.”
“That...thing?” I asked, lighting another
cigarette.
The General nodded. “They found an old well,
covered over with sheet steel, chained up and padlocked. On top of
that, the Nips had piled boulders, big enough that it required a
dozen men with block and tackle to move them. Whatever Tojos had
survived the attack, had locked something big...dangerous…down in
that well.
“But all the GIs found was that character,”
Groves pointed back toward the workshop’s door, “cowing in the
dark. Dog tags read PFC Michael Elton. They figured him for some
sort of POW. Maybe from the Philippines. Bataan. He was half-crazy,
rambling nonsense. Then the second they pull him out into the
daylight, his flesh catches fire, like someone had put a match to
him. Queerest thing. They put him out but they figure he’s dead. No
pulse. Nothing. Then it’s into a body bag and back onto the medical
frigate, as the 11th moves on, pushing closer into Japan.”
“But he wasn’t dead,” I said, already knowing
the answer.
“No,” the General said calmly. “In the night,
the frigate goes missing. Takes three days for the spotter planes
to track it down, adrift in amongst the Izu’s. Can’t be reached by
radio, no answer to semaphores or Morse. Rescue crew goes aboard
and find a ghost ship. Not a soul aboard.”
I nodded. “Except one.”
“Exactly. Cowering down in the bilge. One
bedraggled, insane PFC...”
“I take it he’s not, in actuality, Private
First Class Elton,” I asked as the General and I stepped back into
the workshop.
“No, Elton was MIA at Midway. How
this...thing...got his dog tags, and how he ended up on Tori-shima,
we have no idea.”
“Did you ask it?” I queried. “Does
it...speak?”
“Oh
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