April 1964
The platoon had been walking for miles, steady on the path, stomping through the musty, steaming jungle. They'd been on the watch for weeks, eyes peeled for foreign slants and dark skin, playing the waiting game. There was a good chance of an ambush today, but they didn't know when or how the enemy would show up; they were ill-prepared in more way in than to deal with the oncoming threat. Boot camp was a ride in the park compared to this. Jack scraped the mud off his watch, bringing it up close to his face to look through the grimy film on the glass, when a whoosh of air whined by his left ear, leaving a hot welt in its wake. All at once the screams started, "AMBUSH! Fire at will, men! Go, go, GO," and Jack swung his gun around wildly, blood pumping hot in his ears and battle sonic bursts reverberating through his skull, praying to God that his training would kick in as he ran into the frenzy of bullets, firing at what he hoped was the enemy, the strange faces shouting in a strange language, the reason he was in this fucking hellhole in the first place; he fired at will, over and over and over until he had to reload, had to wipe them out of existence. His reality narrowed into a single mission, a single pinprick of purpose, the usual chatter in his brain falling away into one solidified statement: fire at will. He shouted incoherence, boots sticking to the mud and rage pumping his blood, ran into a Vietnamese soldier, shot him in the stomach quick and dirty, ran on, no time to think, no time to separate all the noises from the battle, no time to do anything but feed the lust, to kill at will. The wave of red battle heat carried him high and he led his fellow soldiers into the thick of it, but the butt of a gun straight to the forehead pulled him up short, sending pain arcing down to the base of his spine.
Jack fell in suspension. He hit the ground with a thick, sucking sound, felt the mud cold against his back, soft and giving under his weight. He thought that he should struggle against it, pull up out of it, but the sounds of the battle receded into the background, a slow fade, leaking from his ears with the rain onto the slick ground. And as a bubble of deafness enclosed him, he was back on the mountain. The moon was high in the sky, full and dripping light, must have been three in the morning; he was buoyed on his back by the crystalline waters, ears submerged under the surface, filled with a soft pressure, the sounds of the night filtered through the muffle of the water. Couldn't hear anything but the sound of his breath, heavy and hissing through his head. He floated free, skin naked and cool with the currents of the lake, watching the night sky, points of light drawing his eyes in the dark, scattered jewels demarcating the blackness. Through the curtain of black he saw bits of bodies flying overhead, chunks of enemy flesh blazing red like comets in atmosphere, saw a man falling to the ground in a slow dive, crown of his head blown off, face frozen in a mask of surprise at his fate. His friend, 'Nesto, kicking and shouting, his hot spittle fell onto the faces of the dead, stars glinting metallic hate in pits of his eyes; Jack heard the ratta-tat-tat, announcing the battlefield, the frenzied roars of fury and hate and fear and death, all filtered through the undulating waves. But above all was his own breathing, the sound of wind before a storm, and he sank back into the lake, lost all sight and hearing, surrendering into the blue-black waters.
The water flows off as he emerges, hair plastered onto his skull with might be blood, skin prickling goose pimples with the cold. Ennis lies in wait, propped up on his elbows in the grass glowing under the moonlight, smiling his secret smile. "Good 'n soaked, bud? C'mon over here."
Jack stretchs out next to him, "This place ain't all it's cracked up t'be, Ennis."
"Tol' you."
Jack closes his eyes, feeling Ennis's fingers touch his face. "Thought you'd never find me here."
Ennis leans down, "Shhh, darlin', I'm here," smoothing away the worry creases on Jack's forehead, thumbs gentle. Jack opens his mouth to Ennis's kiss, sighing, content.
"Want you, Ennis… but needin' some rest now…"
Ennis's lips disappear, and Jack opens his eyes, searching for him. He's back on the battlefield, gun in hand, still naked with the smell of the lake on him, standing on a mound, strewn bodies and unidentifiable colors, allegiance to nations whose names he can't remember.
Throwing the gun aside he runs, looking around wildly, "Ennis! Ennis!" He trips over the faces, twisted at witch-like angles and biting his feet as he walks on them. After an eternity, he sees the familiar blonde curls, tipped in red, and goes toward them. Ennis is holding his hat on his chest, hacking blood in his fist. "Not feelin' too good, Jack, don't think I'm goin' a make it."
"Don't say that Ennis, need ya. Not gonna make it without ya."
"I'm sorry…" Ennis's arms falls to his side, and the hat drops, revealing a gaping hole where his chest should be, the maw of an angry monster, bleeding horror.
"Sorry… Jack…"
Jack lays down beside him once more, holding tight, trying to cover the wound with his hands, staining them right down to the bone, crying so hard he doesn't make a sound.
Jack shifted positions and wrapped his arms around Ennis, nuzzling into his nape sleepily, lying up against the length of his body. "Mmm, this is nice," he mumbled, moving closer and falling back into slumber. He wasn't sure how long he slept until someone was shaking him by the shoulder, "Leave me be, Ennis, still tired," he said, batting at the hand until he realized that Ennis was lying beside him, shrugged the intruder off.
"Private? Private, you alive?" An unexpected voice, familiar.
He cracked a groggy eye, heavily crusted with mud and pus.
"What the…?" The sun blinded him, flaring on his retinas.
"C'mon, get outta there. You alright?"
"Just wanna sleep…"
"C'mon, private, gimme your hand."
He was about to bat it away again, but his sight slowly returned, and he saw that the man beside him was no Ennis; he wasn't even American. He was the enemy, fallen, maybe at Jack's own hand. There were already flies buzzing around his face, crawling on his eyeballs, skin splotched sickly, like a full-body bruise. Jack saw death staring him in the face, but couldn't accept it, couldn't will Ennis back, couldn't escape the death even in his sleep. He accepted the offered hand, hardly seeing the man, just another uniform; he couldn't meet his gaze, the image of nuzzling up to the dead man flaring in his retinas hotter than the sun.
"Don't worry private, been there, done that. Happens to the best of us."
A pain started in the middle of his chest, sucking the life out of him as he looked around, the dead strewn everywhere. Men picking through the death, sorting it out, putting it into neat piles and laughing at it, turning green at the smell of it, defiling the remains of it.
Everywhere Jack looked, death stared him back in the face.
August 1963
"…or I might be back, if the army don't get me," Jack said, holding out the unspoken hope.
Ennis bit his lip, couldn't take it. "Guess I'll see you around."
He turned, quick, needed to look away, needed to be far away, fast. Didn't know why, didn't want to think about why; just got his legs walking and waited for the rest to sort itself out. He saw the truck speeding away in his periphery, thought maybe he shouldn't have been so quick about fixing it. No use in worrying on it now, though. The pain started small, a hard kernel of doubt gnawing at him, could have beens curdling with should not bes, but it soon escalated into full blown body-wracking disgust. He ignored it as long as he could, clamping down on it as he walked, but he was soon overtaken, stumbling to the side of the road as his body rejected the pain.
His stomach spasmed up nothing over and over again, the poison wouldn't come out that easily, didn't come in his fists, either, crunching impact ringing up to his elbows.
"What the fuck you lookin' at, huh?" He screamed at the figure approaching him; needed the anger, needed the rage.
By the time he was able to walk again, he was ill to the point of double vision, kept his head down, clutched his bag tight against him. Didn't know where he was going, had no idea what the next few days held for him—didn't much care. What was there to look forward to now?
Just had to keep going, one foot in front of the other. Keep going until he could remember what his life was like before Jack Twist came into it.
He was a small figure, lone and somber in the backdrop of the mirror, trembling with the movement of the car and blurred at the edges by tears held back through sheer force of will. The summer, best time of his life, over too quick, was reduced into that wavering shape, shrinking with every mile the road lay behind him. He straightened in his seat, blinking, needed to focus, and he forced his eyes onto the lines, flowing white and stretching to the horizon, marking out the promise of nothing that lay before him.
He had to pull over when the shape disappeared in the mirror; he was breathing heavily, looking back, desperate to see Ennis one last time, had to see him, just one last time. Couldn't just end like this. He wanted to turn the truck around, go back and ask if he needed a ride, needed a few bucks to tide him over until the next job—
Grimacing, his head dropped onto the seat. Ennis didn't need a ride. Didn't need anything from him. Couldn't have made it any clearer; he fingered the splotch of purple-black under his eye. No way he could forget. He got out of the truck, couldn't breathe, pulling out a cigarette, lit it with trembling fingers, inhaling to the limit of his lungs, nicotine tasted like ash. He paced, landing a swift kick on the truck, growling a curse that couldn't even begin to scratch at the words stinging in his throat. Leaning back, he lit another cigarette, resting his head against the roof and closing his eyes. One more cigarette and then he'd go. Five crushed butts later, he promised himself just one more for the road, when he heard a boot kicking the gravel. The name caught in his mouth, too full of hope to get past his lips.
Ennis scuffled over, head down, licking his lips like he was gearing up to speak. He shifted back and forth on his feet, twisted the canvas bag in his hands. Jack thought he would die of the waiting and let something fly, testing the waters, "Use a ride somewhere?"
Ennis shrugged, looking away. "Where you headed?"
"Haven't decided yet. You?" Jack crushed the cigarette under his heel, taking half a step toward Ennis.
"Dunno. Nowhere, really."
"Wanna head nowhere… together?"
Ennis lowered his face, but not before Jack caught the split-second smile, a ray of light arcing through the clouds. The nod was barely perceptible, but more than enough to get the cunt of a truck on the road, them smiling like fools and laughing like kings.