The muggy, predawn darkness of the heavy jungle clings oppressively, alive with crawling, biting bugs--
Suddenly unnatural silence.
Ahead of the marine patrol, clustered in a tiny clearing, are six thatched-roof huts. Dark and silent. Reluctant to leave the security of the jungle, the marines pause at the edge of the dense growth and gasp for breath. They listen and peer into the clearing; but there is nothing, only the stifling stillness. For a few more moments, they hesitate, sweat darkening their camouflaged utilities. Finally the point man moves cautiously along the trail of red mud, his M-16 held like a dowsing rod. As he nears the first hut, the rest of the squad fan out behind him and step into the clearing--
Ponk--A dry metallic sound overhead, followed by a burst of brilliant light that freezes the patrol in place. Instant daylight, fading rapidly to a silvery twilight--Crack-crack, crack-crack, crack-crack, tongues of orange flame flick out at the marines from a stand of green bamboo. Clunk ... clunk ... clunk. The echo of mortars firing. The clearing explodes chunks of red mud--
Sudden quiet again, except for an animal-like whimpering that fades away after a few seconds. Then absolute stillness as a blanket of fog descends gradually over the clearing, covering the crumpled rag dolls littering the red mud.
Wet and still....
Patrick Manspeaker groans, stirred to consciousness by a sharp pain deep in his gut. Stabbing, penetrating ... he's lying doubled over, both hands clutching his stomach, watching blood trickle through his fingertips, staining the mud a deep purple. "Sweet Jesus," he moans through clenched lips, the curse sending another sliver of agony into his stomach. With a mental effort he calls on an inner strength--a remnant of his Ojibwa heritage--and is able to pull himself together enough to look about.
A stillscape.
Patrick manages to crawl a few feet to the crooked body of the navy corpsman assigned to the patrol. For a second the intense pain paralyzes him, making pinwheels of flashing light dance before his eyes. But he blinks away the tears, and, after taking a long, slow breath, he searches through the corpsman's pack of medical supplies, finding a large gauze compress and two syrettes of morphine. With trembling fingers he injects both tubes of drug into his thigh. Panting from the pain and exertion, he rolls over on his side and rests, letting the morphine dull the gnawing in his gut.
After a few minutes Patrick is able to lift his head and whisper hopefully, "Big O? Big O? Sarge? Anyone--?"
No answer.
Silence, except for the drone of a mosquito about his head. Patrick resists the impulse to swat the pest, suddenly recalling the tongues of fire from the bamboo. Charlie! Holy shit. Frightened, he rolls back on his chest, willing himself smaller, hunkering down behind the body of the dead corpsman. And he tries to think, sort it all out. The V.C. are in the bamboo. Everyone in the patrol's probably dead. He shudders at the realization: I'm all alone. Alone with Charlie. He stifles a moan. They will take him. What are they waiting for? Dawn, they must be waiting for dawn. He looks up into the mist, guessing it will be light in half an hour. Then he remembers the bleeding. He peels away the paper from the large bandage and slips the compress inside his shirt, gingerly applying pressure to the wound.
The morphine begins to hit hard, making Patrick drowsy. He blinks, telling himself he must stay awake, because Charlie will be coming soon. Coming soon, coming soon. But he is too tired, too sleepy. His eyelids droop, his thoughts drift back to the previous summer, his grandfather and the mountain and the strange woman....
)
A supernatural force stalks Patrick Manspeaker from a magical mountain in the Napa Valley, to Marine Corps boot camp in San Diego, and finally to the Vietnam jungle, where he lies dying frightened and alone in a Viet Cong bamboo cage.
