Cut and Run

Thirteen

O tis Raymond ducked into the fishing shack and collapsed onto his bunk, lying on his back on the stinking mattress. With the back of one skinny hand, he wiped some of the dirt and sweat off his face. He was sweating and shivering at the same time. It wasn’t as cold as Washington, but colder than he was used to. All the campaigns he’d been involved in had taken place in warm climates. He liked the heat, had gotten to where he couldn’t stand the cold. He’d told the guys, “Gimme mosquitoes, dysentery, malaria-just keep your friggin’ snow.”

He could almost feel his bones rattling inside him. He kept getting thinner, must have picked up a worm or something, and he couldn’t keep up with the younger guys, even some of the older ones, the fitness freaks. Christ, he was what, forty? Never thought he’d live even this long.

With a squeaky chuckle, wheezing, he sat up. “You call this living?”

His head wasn’t right, either. Too much booze, too much dope, even though Bloch was pretty strict about that stuff. God wasn’t as straight as the sergeant. But Otis found ways around rules and regulations; he always had. He had a bottle stashed now. Wouldn’t make much difference, though, if he drank it or not. No matter what he did lately, he kept thinking about the old days and the guys he’d saved-but mostly about the ones who’d died. He’d hated having guys go on his ship. He remembered how the poor dumb fucks, the unlucky bastards, would scream for their mothers and girlfriends and wives, or how they’d yell, “fuckin’shit,” or just scream and scream without any words at all, and he could still see the blood and guts and bones and smell the dead and dying stink of them. They’d have to dip the chopper in water, him and Stark, to clean out the blood and guts.

He’d seen men die since Vietnam, but it wasn’t the same. Maybe because he was older, maybe because they weren’t the first, maybe because he just didn’t give a shit anymore-it just wasn’t the same. He didn’t give a flying fuck if he died himself. When he’d first gone to Vietnam, he didn’t figure on living at all. Didn’t know what to do with himself when he did make it out. Go back home and pick tomatoes?

He still didn’t give a damn whether or not he died. Christ, if he did, would he be risking his scrawny neck to help Ryder and get information to Stark?

“Shit,” he muttered, getting out his bottle. “Ryder’s an asshole-Stark, too. What the hell they want me to do? Screw ’em.”

He drank from the bottle and lay back in his bunk. The mattress was full of bugs. He woke up every morning with bites all over him. Fuck it. He didn’t care.

“Hey, Stark, buddy.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “Man, I’m counting on you.”

Matt’d get Ryder’s ass out of the fire, but Otis had quit believing that was the main reason he’d gotten Stark involved. Yeah, he wanted to help Sam, why not? But more than that, he wanted Stark to take out Bloch. He might be the only one who could do it. If he stayed on the story, he’d end up at the camp.

Someone had to do something about Bloch. Goddamn wild animal, the sergeant was. Always had been. Otis didn’t know why the hell he’d signed up with the fucker, except he didn’t have shit else to do and Bloch was offering good money. Stark’d known right from the start what the sergeant was, told Otis, too, but he’d ignored him, just like he’d ignored his daddy who kept telling him he could come on home, he could stay with him and Mamma, find a regular job, eat good. Jeez, when was the last time he’d seen his old man? Five, six years? Probably dead by now.

He drank some more, the warm booze dribbling down the sides of his mouth and onto the mattress, maybe killing off a few bugs. Bloch slept in the main house, living it up, the bastard.

If Matt could see him now. Otis sniffled, imagining his old buddy’s black eyes on him, telling him like no words could what a stupid asshole he was for taking orders from Bloch. For not telling him in the first place Bloch was involved. What the hell. Matthew Stark was on the story now, thanks to Otis Raymond. They’d all be thanking him soon. Yeah. The Weaze’d be responsible for saving Ryder’s stupid ass and seeing Bloch go down.

Good ol’ Weaze.

Nobody had ever expected him to do shit. He remembered how surprised everybody was when he got noticed for his marksmanship at North Fort. Fucking wowed them, he had. Ended up a door gunner because of it. “We can use you, buddy,” they’d said.

He grinned and closed his eyes. They burned from lack of sleep, too much bad living, and too many goddamn memories. But shit. It’d all be worth it. Stark’d say to him, “Hey, good going, Weaze,” the way he had before, back in ’Nam, when Otis hadn’t been brave so much as plain doped-up crazy. This time he was being brave. He knew the risks, knew what he was doing. Yeah, after this, he’d haul out his medals. Brag a little.

The door to the shack creaked open, and Bloch and two of his bodyguards walked in, just like they’d been out fishing all day. Bloch was even cleaned and pressed. Beside him, Otis had always felt like a dirty, slimy worm. It was the one thing the sergeant liked about him, called it proper respect.

Otis wiped the dribbled whiskey off his mouth. He didn’t care if Bloch saw the bottle. He squinted at the sergeant and the guards from the gloom of his corner and wished they’d shut the fucking door. They were letting in the cold air.

“Raymond,” Bloch said.

Out of habit, Otis climbed to his feet. The rules of soldiering were all that made sense to him anymore, maybe all that ever had. He sucked in what was left of his stomach. “Sergeant?”

“You’ve been out of camp, Raymond.” Bloch’s voice was steady, his tone without condemnation or doubt. “You went into town without permission.”

No use denying it, so Otis just stared straight ahead. He couldn’t figure out why, but he wasn’t seeing anything. Just blankness, not even dark. Nothing. It was weird.

Bloch shifted his position on the dirty floor. “You made a telephone call while you were there. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Do I need to, Sergeant?”

“No,” he said softly, almost sadly, but Otis knew better. Bloch didn’t have feelings. “I don’t suppose you do, Raymond. The call was to Washington, D.C. You talked to Matthew Stark, didn’t you?”

Otis didn’t move, didn’t speak. No point in bluffing. Bloch already knew who he’d called and what he’d said. Bloch knew everything. Otis wasn’t surprised, he wasn’t impressed, he wasn’t even scared. That was just Bloch. One thing: Stark’d handle him. Otis wished he’d have a chance to warn Stark that Bloch was onto him, but what the hell. Matt was good.

“Raymond?”

Otis idly scratched an insect bite on his forearm, and suddenly he smiled. His mind wasn’t going after all. Shit. The uncontrollable visions, awake or asleep-they weren’t the mindless wanderings of a fucking lunatic.

They were the dreams of a dead man.

Yeah, he thought. Bloch can’t kill me. I’m already dead.