Isolation & Fear (Damned of the 2/19th Book Seven)

Scrabble Tiles Make the Name

Magazine Platoons Operation and Command Tent
Grafenwöhr
US Army Training Area
Training Site 22
2/19th Company Area
West Germany
19 November, 1987
0500 Hours

My arms flailed as I broke free of my nightmare, my legs kicking out as I suddenly sat upright in the chair I'd fallen asleep in. My guts were burning with pain, like they had for years, acid having leaked from the scar tissue that wove through my intestines like snakes and into the soft tissues of my guts. I was covered in sweat, still able to smell the rot and death of the jungles of Vietnam, hear echoes of my own screams of that fateful night. Screams of hatred, screams of rage, screams of absolute all consuming fury.

That night. The night I'd earned that piece of metal and cloth that weighed so heavy in my wallet. The night I'd been more than just some cotton chopping nigger from Louisiana, more than just a man.

I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds...

I could still taste the napalm, still smell the stench of blood and death and cordite.

Still feel the hatred coursing through my veins.

The radio crackled and I looked over to see Murchison asleep at the radio, his headset still on, a Skilcraft pen in his fist. On the other side of him Brubaker, the Specialist that CSM Stillwater had pawned off on me, was slumped in the chair snoring.

"Chief Henley?" The voice was female.

I spun around anyway, coming to my feet, one hand held in front of me, fingers curled, edge of my palm out, the other low and to my side, my feet spreading out.

Around me the jungles of Vietnam were lit with flames, the night alive with the screams of the dying and the shouting of the slant eyed gook goat fuckers I hadn't gotten around to killing yet. My rifle was gone, destroyed, broken, the bayonet lodged in the chest of some zipperhead slope fuck who had thought he had me when I was reloading and hadn't lived to regret his decision to come at me like I was some punk. My guts were leaking blood into my uniform, my legs and crotch hot with it, but none of that mattered.

But I was still fit to fight.

I could still win.

There was only the enemy.

And the enemy is to be destroyed.

"Chief Warrant Officer Three Henley?" The voice was English, female.

I shook my head, trying to throw off the dream/memory.

...serve me, feed me, and I will lift you up beyond mortal men...

I shook off that voice, that dark and twisted voice that whispered in my ear during my stay in Walter Reed Army Medical Center, that had first spoke to me that night.

...deny it all you want, but I am still here...

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the bottom of my palms against my eyes until I could see sparkles.

"Chief Henley?" It was Chalkman. Pv2 Marjorie Chalkman from West Virginia, who was on light duty after recovering from a burst appendix. Private Chalkman, who I'd chosen as my driver and secretary since McCullen and Foster had come up missing.

"I'm fine, Private," I said. I didn't have any strength to curse at her. My chest hurt, even though I hadn't coughed up blood in days, my guts and chest burned with liquid fire. "Just a nightmare."

"Oh," She said quietly. There was a long silence, during which I moved over to stand over the stove, warming my hands. "You wanted me to come get you when she was almost here."