Death?
I'm nine years old. I'm standing on the pier with my father, watching ducks swim in the water. Before us stretches a very large forest, densely packed with artificially planted coniferous trees. The lake we're looking at is so clear that I can easily distinguish the colors of the fish in the water. There are tons of different birds in the sky; I don't know their names, but some are beautiful. Just beyond the pier is our house. We've only lived there a few years. This place is truly beautiful. Everything here has its own distinctive smell—trees, leaves, wooden planks. Everything here is different from big cities. There are no crazy people with guns in their hands, no violence, no rush. Unfortunately, there are only two shops here, and I don't have my own cards, tons of bullets. Recently, I tried to build a boat. A real one. I selected a few strong boards from the garage. I clumsily nailed them together to form a sort of base. I tried to make railings out of thick logs, but in the end, I decided to strip the boat of its railings. I replaced them with a stake driven into the ground, which I could hold onto in dire situations. I made the mast from a tree from the forest. Of course, I had to cut it down first, which took a few days, and I used a stolen, dull axe for the entire job. I made the hole for the mast using a vise. It took me about six months to hammer out the hole. Finally, the mast is in place. I made the flag from my own T-shirt. I wanted to write something clever, but all I could think of was "Victorious." Finally, the boat is finished, after six months of work. After the final touches, I go to bed. In the morning, I wake up intending to use the boat, but unfortunately, I can't. The boat is nowhere to be found. After asking around, it turns out that no one has the slightest idea what happened to the boat. And Mr. Chance's son has no idea what a T-shirt with "Victorious" on it is doing in his house.
I'm jolted from these blissful thoughts by a very loud shotgun blast. Birds are hurriedly flying away, fish are swimming away. My father stands behind me, his shotgun still attached to the barge as if it were his best friend. His eye is on the scope, his feet firmly planted on the boards, his face filled with concentration and the joy of another victory. Something flies from above, growing larger. My father grabs my head, ruffles it, and pushes it back a bit. Finally, the unidentified object falls to the ground. It crashes onto the pier. It moans and squeals. A young bird that will never be a bird again...
Chapter One: with him
February 12, 1973
"Henry Samehill saves his comrades and takes fifteen prisoners during an attack on an officers' house."
Clipping from the newspaper "Wiatr" published between 1940 and 1982.
Me, Tom, Base, and Was. We're the only ones left from the entire team. There were twenty-four of us, now there's only a handful left. Tom is Thomas Wesson from New York, the absolute best bomb disposal expert; he can blow up anything and everyone with granite and a lighter. He can build fortresses for all of us with a simple bomb disposal unit. Base is Bazyli Szalinsky, a Pole. Unfortunately, foreign names don't get into our unit, and Bazyli is associated only with Base. Base is a slightly crazy mathematician who, by a sick accident, ended up in the army. One glance at an enemy unit is enough for him to know everything about them, from the number of weapons and magazines to the food in their canteen. He knows the sound of every magazine being removed, the sound of a shot, the velocity of the shot, and he can calculate the number of rounds and the velocity of fire. Was is another foreigner.
He's half Russian, half American. Although his family has lived in the States for a long time, his name is Vasilejw Saltsion.
A fantastic trapper will make dinner out of leaves, a rat, and a squirrel.
He'll lead you out of any forest, and he's also a brilliant strategist.
Plan
I: Again in the clouds,
again in the sky. A sharp
needle, soft rubber,
fire powder, a spoonful of happiness,
a tongue of flame, a crazy plan.
Plan happiness, a final plan.
A spoonful of fire, a water pump,
a hole in the sand, a remnant of fear.
Pump into motion, wet sand,
spoon into fear. End of motion
, end of flight, end of happiness.
Spoon to table, pump to basket,
fire to dust. Crazy plan to a new day.
A new day, a new plan,
a crazy plan, an unfinished plan...
And then there was Henry. Because our team was so popular, everyone wanted to join us. Unfortunately, we were shown soldiers who could kill 15 people in 30 seconds, blow up a factory, killing civilians in the process. We always refused, until one day, Henry was forced upon us. It turned out his father wanted to be proud and bribed the army to get his son into the best squad. Henry is hopeless, he's never spoken a word, never fired a shot, never been wounded. He's like a ghost, all he does is polish his badges and stare down the barrel of his rifle. I don't even know his last name.
"Hey! Henry, give me that damn magazine!" Tom yells from the end of the trench.
Instead of saying anything, or even looking at him, Henry stops nodding. He shakes his head vigorously, saying it's no use. Tom knew he'd be easily convinced.
"Come on, damn it! What's the point of that crappy magazine if you can't even get a bullet out of the barrel?"
Henry pulls a magazine from his ammunition pouch and throws it across the trench at Tom. The magazine hits him in the leg. Tom wordlessly rubs his calf and grabs the magazine from the ground. Henry keeps rocking back and forth. So we all ignore him. We lie there and wait, picking our noses, cursing, tearing buttons off our sleeves. We do everything we can't do at home. We wait for the officers. We don't even know why we have to kill them. You just get a rifle and kill. After about an hour, they pull up to their house. We all dig deeper and wait. I learn from Base that there are many more of them than we thought. We expected about three officers, but there are five. They took 15 men for cover. I go first. I load six rounds. I put on the scope, tuck the stock away. I pull my belt at my side and put the scope under my eye. I aim for the furthest forward hero, who has plenty of ammo. The first shot is the most important, after that it's all hell, you're water and they're flames. I narrow my eyes and pull the trigger. A damn loud shot and the officer in a pool of blood are enough of an excuse for his colleagues to wipe us out. Of course, from the very beginning, we wanted to take the initiative. Base and Tom jump out with their Thompsons and unleash burst after burst, but it's still not enough. After five minutes, we're buried as deep in the trench as possible, praying they'll run out of ammo first. The biggest mystery right now?! Henry! As usual. He's sitting in the trench, surrounded by a wave of fire, swaying from side to side. Suddenly, he does something absolutely incredible. He gets to his feet and, with a swift leap, leaps out of the trench, hides behind a stump, and loads the Thompson. He tilts the barrel. BAM!!! BAM!!! BAM!!! BAM!!! BAM!!! Out of fear, I put on my helmet visor as required. The Germans are falling like ants under his fire. I don't know what the hell he's doing there, but not even five minutes have passed before about fifteen Germans are rushing towards us with their arms raised. Everyone runs out of the trench and starts jumping for joy. Instead of doing what we did, Henry sits on a tree stump and watches us in surprise. After a few moments, I do the same, but I usually cover my face with my hands. It helps me when I'm tired. Then I feel calmer.
"Henry's pretty high," I say, breaking the silence of joy.
"What Henry?" Base says in a strangely altered voice.
"What Henry? Team hero!" I reply with a smile they can't see through my hands.
"What Henry?! What are you talking about?" Base insists.
Exasperated, I pull one hand away from my face, cover myself with the other, and point to the tree stump where Henry was sitting.
"There's Henry," I add.
"But Henry is you!" Tom replies to me in a completely incomprehensible way.
I uncover my eyes, and what I see sends shivers down my spine. Instead of cold and forested terrain, I'm sitting on warm, dry grass. It's incredibly hot. Lots of tropical trees. My squad is nowhere to be seen. Before me stand three guys with strange clothing and even stranger weapons. The prisoners aren't German, but soldiers with Vietnamese complexions. I'm much older myself, my hands are withered and tired. My movements are slow and tiring.
"Where am I?" I ask with sick terror.
The first guy looks at me and says briskly,
"Vietnam, man, Vietnam."
Chapter Two: Through the Looking Glass.
Jerry quickens his pace, taking longer strides. The woman continues following him. Jerry decides to pick up the pace again, and his pace turns into a jog. The woman in high heels breaks into a run. Finally, after two flights of pursuit, Jerry stops at a bulletin board, pretending to read something. The woman immediately takes advantage of this and approaches him, passing the hospital doctors.
"Mr. Jerry Fisk?" he asks, extending his hand.
Jerry nods and pretends to be wildly interested in the new prototype recliner for typhus patients, though the device actually disgusts him.
"Can we talk about my husband? His name is Henry—"
"Henry Samehill." He interrupts her, waving his arms.
"And no! If I find out anything, I'll let you know," he replies irritably. "
Can I show you something? It'll only take a moment."
Jerry walks to the window the woman is pointing to.
"See that car?" he asks, pointing to a car that looks like it was pulled from a junkyard and beaten with a crowbar.
"I do," Jerry replies, not seeing the point of this silly game.
"It just so happens to be my car! I drove this thing here for 12 hours. I slept in it last night." And I think someone's going to tell me what the hell is wrong with my husband now, or I'm going to become very, very insufferable.
Jerry points to the door of his office, which is opposite the corkboard.
"Come in," he says, truly upset now.
Jerry is greeted by the same usual office: a desk, two chairs, a cabinet, and blank walls.
"Mrs. Samehill, do we really have to?"
"Betty will do. We have to anyway."
"But his condition hasn't improved at all." Jerry tries to save himself.
"But you know something, right?" he asks, pulling out a notebook.
"Your husband has..."
"What does he have?!
A very strange illness. He connects events from the Vietnam War with events from World War II, and to fill in the gaps in World War II, which are a thing of the past for him, he creates an alter ego of himself within them: Henry Samehill.
"Could you explain this to me as if I were a child?"
Jerry sighs, barely understanding it himself, let alone explaining anything.
"So let's give you the facts. During World War II, your husband's name was Alan Parker. He belonged to an elite team of the best. He was weak there, not physically, of course. Apparently, he was a great shot. But his education was pathetic; he couldn't count, could barely write, and so on. After the war, he changes his last name and starts using his middle name, Henry. Then, about 20 years later, he ends up in Vietnam illegally. For some reason, he wants to join the army himself. Your husband is 48, which is a bit too old. Fortunately, everything works out. Unfortunately, Henry has a blind spot, events from World War II. He gets his weapons and battlefields mixed up. Memories come flooding back, old memories. He's ashamed of himself, so he adds a weaker person to his old team. He adds himself. He adds Henry Samehill. Now he feels at peace. The whole team is a cohesive unit, and Henry is the scapegoat. Of course, regarding the past." Until one day, during an attack on a Vietnamese officers' building, Henry relives events from his past, believing he's with his old team. He enters that world so powerfully that he can't escape. Henry, or rather Alan, and his colleagues Base, Was, and Tom, plus his alter ego Henry, attack an officers' house, only it's the house of German officers, not Vietnamese. The situation begins to deteriorate. Suddenly, Alan's alter ego breaks free, which is actually himself. He runs behind a trench and, using an M16, takes fifteen prisoners and kills the officers. For the past Alan, Henry did it. Alan simply sits on the chopping block. And only now does he awaken from this sick dream. He learns that he killed those men and took the prisoners, that this isn't World War II, but the Vietnam War. None of this registers with him. Don't be surprised; just a moment ago, he thought he was 20 years in the past and that his idiot friend had done it all. We're taking him to that hospital. And we've been talking all week. I've been coming to the same conclusion. This is the first time this has happened.
"Sir. Can I see him?" Betty asks with tears in her eyes.
***
Tragedy, tragedy. They've locked me up in a psychiatric facility. Pure sick absurdity. They ask a hundred questions. They never answer mine. When I raise my voice, I get hit in the back of the head with a baton. I think they'll let me out soon. What have I done again?! I'm a calm soldier who leads the defense of the American military. Isn't that what these sick people want?! Or maybe I'm just a guinea pig. Maybe they put a jar on my head while I sleep, or maybe...
"YOU! Stop talking to yourself. We're all mentally ill, but get a grip, damn it!"
That's Troy. Troy is an absolute lunatic. Recently, a cellmate told me that to see that Troy is a lunatic, you have to be one yourself. I remember waking up the next day in solitary confinement. I never saw that overly knowledgeable colleague again.
Poster.
I nail a poster to the wall,
made of thick canvas, with a
steel nail
. The poster covers another one. Much
older, covered in dust.
It tells the story of war, of
people killed, of the loss
of weapons, of the zeal to fight.
Mine is new, different from
all the others, it tells the story of a lost
woman. She escaped,
far, far away.
A lost woman won't return
quickly. When she finds
another land, she will find herself.
And then she will return. But
I'm searching, I'm impatient
, I search aimlessly...
A guard told me I could see Betty. Apparently, she came specifically to see me. He also said that in front of the, and I quote, "Center," there are benches where we can sit and talk in the fresh air. The idea seems really interesting, and I'll gladly agree to it. We're supposed to meet on the twenty-fourth. I have no idea when; I don't count the days; I don't have a calendar. And that's all the guard told me. I've been waiting for my visit for a month. That evening, I prayed for it to come as soon as possible. I don't know why I did it. After all, what do we need God for? A hero at our beck and call. Or maybe a tracker with a shotgun. I have the feeling he's following me. I was lying in my bed one night. I looked up at the ceiling. In red letters, it clearly said, "God is following you." It got me thinking.
I don't know what to answer Troy, so I blurt out a curse, which is the smartest possible answer.
***
Betty walks slowly down the path. She passes all the benches. She sees madmen and their families talking to them. On one, she finds her madman: Henry. Henry doesn't look his best, his hair is tattered, he wears baggy clothes made of a few rags, and instead of lying quietly on the table, his hands are in handcuffs. Her entire body is in a straitjacket. Henry sits with his back to Betty, so when she approaches him, she jumps out from behind his chair with a smile. Henry smiles back. Unfortunately, she can't move. Betty walks around the bench, sits on the other side, and takes Henry's hands, which are warm from the sun.
"Oh, I was so worried. Do you have a warm bed? And food? What are you doing here with them?" Oh God, oh God, Betty is chattering like crazy. "
Finally, questions," I say with a smile.
"I can survive," she adds,
"Betty, listen to me, I have a very important matter." Betty nods and listens intently to my words.
"You see. As you've already noticed, I'm here for no reason and no purpose. My hands are cuffed and I'm handcuffed. I want to get out of here. I just don't know when. And I know you know that. Tell me, when?"
Betty looks at me regretfully.
"Unfortunately, it'll take a while. I'll be able to see you in peace.
" "How long? A month or two?"
"A little more."
"Six months? I don't think I can last that long.
" Betty keeps looking at me with the same gaze. "How the hell do I have to stay here?!
"You know, Henry.
" "Excuse me?
" "At least three years."
I almost choke on air. My ears and nose are filling up. They're multiplying before my eyes. If this is what it looks like, I'm going to screw it all up. It's now or never. I jump off the bench. And with a swift movement, I slam my head into the guard's. Three years?! Well, you'll wait. I run for the open gate.
Chapter Three: The Game.
I'm running like crazy. Two guards rush after me from behind. I realize they won't catch me. From the front, I see two at the gate, running towards me, and one further to the right. The one on the right tries to trip me up. The only thing I lose in the process is the cleanliness of my pants. The guard makes a beheading, splashing mud on my legs and tripping over them himself. What are they teaching them here? I have no problem with these two; I smash their outstretched arms with my shoulders, striking them at high speed.
Finally, Base, Was, Tom, and Henry, who after the last stunt looks as if he hadn't done it at all, run up to me. I don't know why, but I feel like my hands are tied; I can't move them. The guys immediately open fire, shooting at them, but the Germans are having a Fuhrer's Day. It seems none of them got hit. Finally, we run through the gate. We all turn left and run nonstop. After ten minutes, we come across a small forest. We're hiding under the bushes; I finally managed to deal with these hands myself. I approach You and try to get myself a weapon; if I aim correctly, we'll have to leave in a few minutes.
"Are you kidding me?!" You look like I've hurt him especially badly.
"Why not ?"
"We're escaped prisoners, where are we supposed to get weapons?
" "Who are we, You?
" "I'm not You, I'm Troy. What are you playing at, Henry?
" ***
Five months later.
"Let's finish this case," Dix says nervously.
"Plus one last search of the woods?" Bane asks
. "That's right." And that's it.
Bane gets up from the desk and slowly walks to the weapons cabinet. He stops halfway and looks sadly at Dix, who's combing through the papers about Henry.
"Boss, why do you think he'll be there?" That question has been bothering him for a long time. Why do they keep searching the same woods instead of looking for him somewhere else?
"His wife." She
"Yes...?
" "...she gave him up.
" "Why?!?" Bane doesn't understand anything now.
"And why did you hide it from me so much?" "
She was counting on discretion. She was meeting him in those woods. He was living in a small motel registered under a different name."
"But why did she give him up?"
"Something's clicked with him. A lunatic, an idiot, a nutcase, a lunatic. Does that mean anything to you?
" Bane nods.
"This time you'll take two more guys. Agreed? "
"There'll be four of us. Why so many people?"
"Don't ask so many questions.
" "And mount a scope on the sniper rifle," Dix adds, and loads the Colt, pulling the hammer.
***
"Tony!
" "What?!" Tony yells over the others. The radio is turned up to maximum volume, the rush of wind entering the van through the open windows, and he's singing "Sweet." "
If it doesn't quiet down here soon, I'll do it to you." Here, Dix unleashed a trick he certainly wouldn't dare use in front of his wife.
Tony, offended, rolls up the windows, turns off the radio, and hums softly to himself.
"I'll bet you a hundred bucks we don't catch him." Bane breaks the silence. "I accept
," Dix says, and everyone looks at him in surprise. He never wanted to take bets.
"Okay..." The words died in Bane's mouth. Tony braked hard and rammed someone's path. The van overturned and slid through the mud. Tony jumped out. He showed Dix, who was scrambling out of the van, a hazy figure a dozen or so meters away.
"That's him, we're chasing him!" Dix stood stunned, his speed bending down to those currently stuck in the van. It looked like Bane had a minor injury to his arm. "
You'll catch us, then we have to catch up with him." With these words, he and Tony break into a run. Tony removes the sniper rifle mounted on his vest and tries to aim as they run. The foggy dot begins to fade into invisibility. Bane and Dix yell together
, "Stop, or I'll shoot!" But it's to no avail.
I break into a run. From what I could see, they have weapons, but how did they know I was here? I run even faster; I have a revolver with me. And ten bullets. I can always defend myself, and why do they care so much about me? They brought a tank, they have uniforms. But I sense these aren't ordinary Germans. And not bad. The sharp pain in my thigh, the twist in my leg, and the blood on the ground make me realize I've just taken a serious blow to my leg. I fall to the ground.
"Stop, damn it! Now the guy looks different. Some modern weapon. He's dressed in a suit that looks like he cut it out of a cardboard box. He's aiming a sniper rifle at me, but he's no more than 4-5 meters away, yet he's looking through a scope. The other is a broad-shouldered scoundrel who preaches the same rule, only instead of "damn," he throws out more elaborate curses. A moment later, two more join us. One is wounded in the shoulder and, with a trembling hand, aims his pistol at me. The other is choking on smoke. I'm leaning against a stick with a sore leg, wondering if there's any point in running away. But where's my revolver? A
bullet . A
massive trigger lies
in the mud. The entire weapon
is invisible, covered in mud.
A dead soldier
rises from the ground. He reaches for
his rifle
, gripping its trigger
. He polishes it to a shine.
He pulls a bullet from his shoulder,
smeared with blood.
He removes a bullet from a skull
with steel fragments.
He inserts the only two bullets
into the gun. I load, pulling
the trigger. He aims at nothing and pulls the trigger. He shoots
aimlessly, without reason, as long as he can. He fights even after death... Dix looks at him and can't believe it. The guy picks up a stick from the ground and starts aiming it at them. He looks like he honestly thinks the stick is a sharp weapon. " Stand back!" Henry utters these words in a long hiss of air. There's really no point in standing back, because everyone's afraid to approach him anyway. "And what are you going to do with that stick?" Tony snorts and spits out a broken tooth. " With a stick?! He really is a lunatic," Dix thinks. For some reason, Bane starts crying. He sits down on the ground, covers his eyes with his hands, and sobs. It's not good, they're trying to confuse me. I don't know if they should run. Will they shoot. No plans, no ideas. The end? "On the ground ! Where?! There's no dirt here, it's concrete! That's what you'd expect. Tony's veins are popping out too, and he starts crying. Dix feels an unpleasant lump in his throat. The rifle shakes so much in his hands that the only thing he can hit now is his own feet. Henry puts that unfortunate stick loaded with leaves to his head and falls to the ground on his knees. "One more step and I'll help myself." " Now," Bane shouts through his tears. "Do it now." I look around at everyone. I shoot... EPILOGUE Two years later
Two heavily muscled orderlies approach the door of a hospital van. They open the door. They remove an unconscious man on a stretcher. They enter the psychiatric hospital and walk through the corridors. They stop at the last door on the third floor. They place the stretcher so that it rests against the hooks attached to the wall. The unconscious man doesn't move off the stretcher because he's tightly strapped to it. The orderlies knock on the door marked Hawkins. A moment later, a small doctor emerges. Dressed in a scrubs and holding a pair of tongs in his hands, the unconscious man slowly awakens and finally opens his eyes. At that same moment, he begins to thrash violently. He screams across the corridor, flailing his chained arms. One of the orderlies swings his baton and brutally strikes him in the nose. He now appears broken, blood oozing profusely from his body, staining the fresh sheets.
"Name and surname," the psychiatrist says to one of the paramedics, ignoring what just happened.
"Henry Alan Samehill." The paramedic replies in a thick voice. "
Are you sure he's supposed to be here? We use rather er...
" "...drastic methods," the thug finishes for him.
"You know, he's completely lost it. He doesn't understand what's being said to him. He's babbling constantly, his mouth foaming. His eyes are crossed, his head tilted. You understand."
The doctor nods and brings his face closer to Henry's to look him in the eye. At that moment, Henry lunges at the psychiatrist's face with all his might. The doctor jumps back at the last moment. His face turns into a sour grimace.
Henry pays for this outburst with the loss of two teeth and a very painful jaw pain.
"Suitable," Hawkins says with a smile. He reads the name on one of the thugs' ID tags and addresses him politely.
-Torell, be so kind as to take my friend to cell 23G.
Locked up. I'm locked up again. I won't see Betty again. I probably won't see anyone. I've been squinting all day and kicking myself for forgetting to load my revolver...
Crying.
Pain and terror mixed
together. They tear apart my empty heart.
Crying and fear freeze every
muscle. Tears turn into
sweet water. And blood turns
into the food of the Gods.
Flight is beautiful. People small, people bigger.
Until finally, the end.
Terrible silence and suffering. A human scream and
cry. The cry of another person, a stranger.
It's God crying over you. On the other
hand, laughter, laughter, and
joy. He lost his life. He
lost himself. He sold
himself...
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz