Chapter 16
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Dale's Passion, 1917, Beneath No Man's Land.
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Thousands of Machine-Guns keep on firing though the night.
Every night, in my bed, I can hear them.
They're haunting my dreams.
They're still there when I sleep.
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"So, let me get this straight." Baloo furiously stood and walked around the room sarcastically yelling and pointing to himself, the Pale Walker, his pocket watch, and at Don. "You want me to believe that I'm dead, YOU are the Angel of Death, time doesn't pass like my watch says it does, this poor asshole is still alive and well but not here but is actually just here in spirit and that his torture in which you beat the ever living daylights out of him is really just a metaphorical manifestation created by his own guilt for committing some great sin in his life, and that this whole damn war ended nearly twenty years ago?!"
The Pale Walker nodded, "eh, Yes."
Baloo erupted, releasing his confusion and rage at the top of his lungs. "So then why in the hell am I still in a goddamned bunker?!"
"Because you're not fully dead…. not yet anyways. But you are running out of time." The Pale Walker coughed as he darkly laughed not bothering to shield Don Karson from his bloody sputum. "And you wouldn't be able to see Don Karson if he was not directly tied to your life."
Baloo just blankly stared at the Pale Walker for a moment. "Now hold on just a damn minute. I've never met his asshole before! I don't even know him!"
"No, noooo, I suppose not….not yet…" The Pale Walker wheezed for air, as if he was suffocating. He was hunched over again, his left barbed wire hand reaching as if to clutch his chest, the barbs pinching and pulling the fabric of his uniform, the clean silver saber in his right now pointed into the concrete ground, acting more as a crutch than an armament, its masterful craftsmanship showing itself in its refusal to even bend beneath the Pale Walker's bodyweight. "…but your son does."
"Wha…what?" Baloo's wide eyes stared in awe at the news that he was a father or would be a father one day. He thought back to the times he, Louie, and Wildcat would take a little bit of time in the town not too far from the airstrip in-between missions to "boost their morale" at the local Saloon that had popped up for the soldiers to "spend some time" at. Was one of the ladies there carrying his child? He had to get out of here! He had to go back there and find out which one was pregnant. He would not, could not abandon his child to live the life of an orphaned bastard. But wait, the war ended twenty years ago! His son would have to be as old as he was now if he had gotten one of them pregnant, right? Time did not flow here like it did in the normal world, whatever that meant. Was a second here akin to an hour there, a day, a year?! Was his son in his twenties, or was he still waiting to be born? A man could go mad thinking about this; still, he had to know. "I have a son? How does he know Donovan?"
"Yes, well, sort of. Let's just say, for now, that you very much have a son Baloo, and he needs you. But you haven't much time. Your departure from the world of the living set him down a dark road and if you do not hurry back to him, I fear that there won't be much you can do to save him from sharing in Captain Don Karnage's fate." The Pale Walker's gestures to the silent third party in the room were as foreboding and forlorn as his words. Baloo seemed confused at the use of the rank 'Captain'. Donovan, or Don Karnage as the Pale Walker was now calling him, was but a Private according to the rank insignia on his uniform, why address him as "Captain", furthermore, why did he keep changing his name? And what did he mean by saying that he "sort of" had a son?
The Pale Walker fell to one knee as he coughed up a puddle of bloody mucus, his chemically burnt lungs sounding as though they were collapsing and his struggle for air a lost cause. Baloo moved to help him up however the decrepit Houndland soldier waved him off, aggressively refusing any assistance. "I was hoping…you would make…that gesture…" he said to Baloo in-between dire breaths. "…for all the scars the…horrors of war have…left upon you, you still…find it in your heart…to help an enemy. And…for that…I am grateful."
The Pale Walker rose weakly to his feet and hobbled over to a table in the corner, placed his saber upon it, reached in his pocket, removed what was weighing him down, and set it upon the table which groaned beneath the weight. Baloo was finally able to see what had been so heavy in the Pale Walker's pocket. It was a thick book bound in dark iron that easily had to weigh more than all the guilt of all the dark deeds of every civilization throughout history and beyond combined. It was impossible to have been able to fit in the Pale Walker's pocket, and yet he had seen him remove it with his own eyes. To call it ancient as mortals understood the word would be to call this object young. The Pale Walker opened it and began to search; for what, Baloo had no idea. The surface of each leaf of paper looked as though it would fall to dust in his fingers. Baloo stepped closer for a better look and discovered that it was a book of names; a list! Lines upon pages upon directories upon libraries of antediluvian and forgotten names passed briefly once again into existence as Baloo observed the Pale Walker referencing the book before they ceased to be, forgotten once again just as quickly as he turned each superannuated page. Below each name were two dates, a time to be born, and a time to die, and as new souls entered the world, new pages with new names entered the book. The pages near the beginning were not even comparable in age or durability to those farther to the back. Baloo had noticed that as the Pale Walker flipped forward thousands of pages that the strangely formidable material which comprised the folio of the volume was becoming increasingly solid and formidable and that they were decreasing in age. He also noticed that the Pale Walker seemed to be reading between the lines, as if there was writing behind the print, as if this book was double printed with an ink that could not be seen by mortal eyes.
The Pale Walker had found what he was looking for unbeknownst to Baloo as he quickly tapped a page and then shut his gargantuan tome with satisfaction. Baloo couldn't figure out what he had discovered, as he had recognized nothing upon it.
"Perhaps, I…should let…you cheat." Death sounded like it was coming for the Pale Walker, every breath he took sounded like it would be his last. "I don't…make the rules….Baloo, and…they can't be…broken, but….I can….bend them. Young Kristopher Cloudkicker…needs his…..father."
In a sudden instant all of Baloo's memories came rushing back to him in a bizarre flash of realization. Kit, the Seaduck, Cloud surfing, Don Karnage, The Iron Vulture, Higher for Hire, Rebecca and Molly Cunningham, the case of child abuse, and even the moment after the finalization of the adoption in court when Baloo held Kit up for the world to see and proclaimed that he was "His Boy" and that that day was the greatest day of his life. Baloo brought his hand to his head as he became dizzy with the digestion of all the new access to old information that was now again available to him. He looked around the room seeing it all in a new light. He eyed the Pale Walker and then changed his attention to the younger version of Don Karnage still sitting and restrained in the bloodied chair in the middle of the room. "YOU!" Baloo had lashed out. The red wolf jumped with fearful surprise as he heard footsteps coming closer to him. Baloo picked up his rifle and turned it over in his hand as he made his way to the tormented prisoner.
"NO! Don't hurt him." The Pale Walker called from the side of the room as he began a coughing fit, but Baloo had become blinded by his anger and sudden lust for bloody vengeance.
"Five minutes, not even, one, just one minute, sixty fucking seconds! That is all I need with him!" Baloo analyzed the pathetic shaking specimen in front of him in an effort to decide where to strike first, drinking in his terror like sweet nectar, savoring it before striking a Coup de Grâce.
"Baloo, STOP!" Came a much stronger voice from the Pale Walker, but still it fell upon deaf ears.
"You think you're going to get away with hurting MY BOY?!" Baloo's blood ran like liquid thorns in his veins, a sweet pain pulsating in his chest, raging behind his eyes, and pounding in his ears like the sound of a grinding-metal-subway-train. "I'll Kill Ya!" Baloo gripped the barrel of his rifle so tightly he could swear he was causing it to warp. "I'LL TAKE YOU TO HELL!"
"HE IS NOT YOURS TO TAKE!" Roared a celestial godlike voice that seemed to come from everywhere all at once, but Baloo did not relent, nor did he notice that the Pale Walker was no longer off to his side. He only held his rifle up by the barrel like a club and wound up his back and arms as tightly as his nineteen-year-old youthful and muscular body would allow.
"Give me one good reason not to" Baloo stated, his eyes never leaving the swollen face of the shaking, wounded, and bound Don Karnage; the cracking sound and feeling of wood upon bone was already anticipatively ringing in his ears and through his hands.
A child's voice spoke up behind him, just barely audible, "Because I don't want my dad to be a killer."
Baloo's eyes widened, "I know that voice!" he thought to himself immediately lowering his rifle. "Kit?!" Baloo turned around, and there he saw him, standing in the middle of the room, only he was hurt, badly. There was a bullet hole in his shoulder and the bloodstain on his green sweater was rapidly growing bigger, and the color in Kit's face was fading by the moment. The sound of a slow but quickening drip on the dirty concrete floor penetrated Baloo's ears as he noticed a stream of blood flowing down his arm and dropping from his fingers to form a red puddle by his small bare feet. Baloo dropped his gun and immediately rushed to his son's aid, pulling a thick rolled up bandage from his pack. How did he get shot?! He went to lift up his son's shirt to stop the bleeding that had now spread completely across his chest and was now beginning to stain the top of his brown pants and the elastic of his white underwear. He immediately turned his boy around and pulled him into a desperate embrace, placing Kit's back against his chest, and applying pressure to the hole in Kit's shoulder, tears leaking from his eyes just as quickly as blood leaked through the inadequate and blood-soaked bandage.
"I got 'cha buddy, don't…don't you worry." Baloo started to rock back and forth in as much an effort to comfort himself as the twelve-year-old boy in his arms who was bleeding out.
"I'm not here Papa Bear." The now fully Pale Kit softly stated. "You can't help me Baloo."
"That won't stop me from tryin', Kit." Baloo hugged his boy tightly, there was so much blood and he didn't have any hope of stopping the bleeding without more supplies or a hospital. "I promised I would never give up on you!...just…..just try to relax, don't get excited." Baloo knew this was the end. He didn't know how, but his son was here, and he was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Did the bullet shatter and nick his lung or a vital artery? Did it matter? All that was left was this moment.
Baloo hugged his boy tighter for what he was sure would be the last time when suddenly his hands passed right through him like a ghost. "What the hell?!" Baloo cried out in his panic only to notice once again his child standing directly in front of him.
"I told you." The Pale Kit said with sorrow heavy upon his lips. "You can't help me Papa Bear. But I'm glad you tried."
"Then, how…what did you…..what's going on!?" Baloo was as confused as he was angry as he was desperate to help his child.
"You can't help me Papa Bear because this already happened, and I'm not here."
There was a silence between them. Baloo was not understanding. Spending the latter part of his teens growing up in war, he knew how to process death. He could see comrades fall or be shot down and think nothing of it. But when it was children, that always hit differently, it gave him pause and the fact that this one child in particular was his caused him to shut down.
"They say Death lurks in the shadows, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. I much rather prefer plain sight, and I can appear to people however I want or however they need and right now you needed to see your son. But I must congratulate you" the Pale Kit said. "You have successfully passed two of the three tests in this game, so far you are showing that you are worthy to continue living."
Baloo's feelings and memories had mixed together and somehow logic was coming out of it all as he started to abstractly piece together what seemed to be going on. He did not like being manipulated and these riddles the Pale Walker was speaking in were seriously starting to get on his nerves. He no longer looked like the living embodiment of the entire western front, now he looked exactly like his son, specifically he looked like his son had looked right after Don Karnage had shot him aboard the Iron Vulture during Shere Khan's air raid. "Tests? Game? Speak plainly!"
The Pale Kit decided to level with Baloo, at this point there was no real need to continue with convoluted theatrics.
"You were placed here in the depths of The Great War because this was the part of your life when you had a sense of duty, when your purpose was clear, and when you had a clear understanding of yourself. Ever since you've been drifting through your life aimlessly, not accomplishing much of anything, and living for nothing and no one. At least you were until you met your son. The first test was a test of your character. I was the enemy, and I was hurt. When I fell you selflessly offered to help me up. Loving your enemies is something my superior approves of. The second test you passed just now. With your memory restored you now recognized your greatest hatred. Unlike most people, your hatred is born from the love of your son and your desire to protect him, but I had to know which was greater: your love for your son, or your hatred for the person who caused him so much pain and suffering. When the sick enemy requested for you to stand down you ignored his word. When strength and authority demanded you to stop, you continued onward to avenge your boy. And when the voice of an otherworldly force commanded you to cease and desist you did not cower in fear like most men, instead with your final ounce of patience holding your executing blow and desire for vengeance back, you asked for a reason why as your rage and hatred began to take control. But when your mortally wounded son spoke, you stopped and all of that melted away. At the sound of his voice, you dropped your gun, raced to his side, embraced him, and tried to help him, abandoning any thought of retribution in favor of saving someone most others would dismiss as a useless street vermin born to be someone else's problem."
Baloo was agitated. For harkening so much on being short on time, this shade of his deathly son, this Pale Kit sure was droning on and on. "Good, glad ya like me, now gimme your last test so I can get the hell out of this God forsaken bunker!"
"I already have" the Pale Kit stated. "Gather your equipment and exit this room. When you are once again able to see daylight, open the second envelope and read the instructions. Be warned that once you do leave this bunker, once you leave this room, you will never be able to find it again. Your rifle and pistol will work like normal once more, you will be back on the battlefield, and you will again be in perpetual mortal danger. If you have any questions, I advise you to ask them now, I will answer what I am allowed, for the next time we meet it will be where all things are left behind when I come to ferry your soul to the afterlife."
The Pale Kit's words were as foreboding as they were ominous. Baloo couldn't help but notice that his son, or this projected image of his son, was still bleeding and the puddle of blood on the floor around his feet was turning into a pool. He fought his paternal instinct that was screaming for him to help even though he now knew his efforts would be in vain. "Yeah, I do have one question. If this is a dream, why does it matter if I get shot?"
"This indeed is a dream Baloo, one constructed around all your memories, but remember you are not asleep, you are in a coma, your soul is between worlds, and you are also playing a game of life and death, a game against me. I like you and I am bending some rules in your favor, but still, there are protocols which must be honored, regulations which must be adhered to, and no one receives exemptions. If you die here, you die for real." The Pale Kit then spoke on more of a sincere level, "You have only one chance here Papa Bear. Do be careful."
Baloo turned to collect his things. He slung his pack back securely over his shoulders, cocked his pistol, and reloaded his rifle when he saw his reflection in a piece of polished glass that lay on the floor, he picked it up and gazed at himself for a moment and cracked a sly side smile. "Been a long time since I've seen someone so young and handsome in the mirror." With his memories restored he set down the glass upon the table and made his way to the exit, but before he crossed the threshold one more thought occurred to him. "Hay Kit, or whoever you are."
The Pale Kit's attention was fully on Airman Baloo. He folded his bloody arms, shifted his weight to one side and shot Baloo a spunky and confident smile with one eyebrow raised, not displaying any signs of distress despite his wound continuing to profusely bleed, "Yes, Papa Bear?"
"First off, you're really starting to freak me out with how well you are acting like the real Kit."
"Thank you, I've had millions of years to hone my impersonation abilities." the Pale Kit jokingly interrupted.
"Riiiight. Anyways, what are you going to do with him?" Baloo asked, nodding his head to Private Donovan Karson.
"Don't you worry about him" the Pale Kit said while slowly walking around behind him. "He and I have some unfinished business together; don't we Captain?" he said, addressing the last part of his sentence to the captive. "You should go Baloo; the clock is ticking. Do what I told you and then wake up before you forget how to…."
Baloo nodded, "See ya 'round Kit." And without another word, Baloo turned and left the room.
"No" said the Pale Kit, "if you play your cards right, I don't think you will." And with that the Pale Kit turned his back to Baloo and resumed his brutal redemption duty to his perditioned soul. He pushed the chair forward, tipping it over, forcing Don Karnage's face to slam into the concrete floor directly in the middle of the pool of Kit's blood. "You want me to bleed so badly? Take my blood and choke on it!"
Baloo heard the Pale Kit's response to him; he hoped and prayed it wouldn't be the last time he heard that voice. He heard the sound of the wooden chair tipping and the sound of a small slap and splash, but he did not turn to look. He heard what sounded like his boy yelling things that his son would never even utter, but still he walked onward into the darkness, the light from the room growing dimmer and dimmer until he turned the corner and, like magic, all the light behind him went out, and the sounds from that room were cut silent as if a radio had been switched off. "…once you leave this room, you will never be able to find it again." Baloo did not expect those words to be so literal. He started forward but took only a single step before stopping at the sound of his own footstep, "No way." Baloo's curiosity got the better of him. He took two steps back only to back into a solid brick wall. "Oof, that kid wasn't joking." Baloo started forward again and made his way down the hall and when he was once more in the main bunker and the sunlight provided enough illumination for him to see, he opened the second envelope. The instructions were short, but the orders were far from simple.
"Find your boy, do what you have to, but not at the cost of who you are."
-END CHAPTER 16-
