Private Monkey Ghost Story

Chapter 15

I stood in the shadows behind the CQ desk for about an hour, thinking dark thoughts.

Cobb had murdered that guy. I knew it was strongly as I knew he'd wrapped his goddamn dickbeaters around my fucking neck. The place wasn't haunted, but it was a fucking wreck, and Mann was right. Ionization was fucking our shit up. Same place every time for the batteries to cut out in the basement, and batteries didn't last too long when they were in use.

The Nazi's had left, that much we knew. When the US troops found this building, they did a cursory sweep and left. There had been POW's stored on this post during World War II, and it was a "Displaced Persons" encampment following World War II. Knights had fought here at one point. We were smack in the middle of the Fulda Gap, the first line of defense against the Red Steamroller.

Bad things had happened here. Rumors of torture practice, garrote practice. Stokes had told me about there being an off-limits area where the whipping post, with its iron ring that people's hands were lashed to, was still intact.

Wounded animals nest up, son. My father's voice whispered inside my mind.

I turned from where I was staring at the hallway, moving slow so I wouldn't attract attention. The SS dagger was in my hand, I'd put the .45 in my pocket.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

Two slow steps took me there, and I gently pressed down on the door handle. It clicked, the sound buried beneath a low moan of agony drifting down the hallway. I pushed open the door, and looked in.

Cobb was passed out on the single bunk in the office, a bottle of Bacardi 151 still in his hand.

Motherfucker.

He had been there all along. Too many people had come in, too many unfamiliar faces, and he'd retreated to his nest where he'd hidden from the sounds of the barracks when he was here all alone.

He didn't try to roll his thumbs.

If you're really strangling someone, you roll your thumbs to crush the windpipe. He'd just squeezed. As I stared at him, I sincerely doubted he could murder anyone. I'd met murderers, rapists, and the like in maximum security before I was transferred. Cobb wasn't a killer, he was scared shitless.

I knelt down next to him. He reeked of booze.

"Cobb," I whispered, shaking him. Nothing. He didn't even flinch. I pinched his earlobe between my thumbnail and fingernail. He didn't even so much as fart. He was fucking wasted. I picked up his pack of smokes and took some, putting them in the pocket of my parka. You never know when you might need cigarettes.

I stood up, and quietly left him to his nightmares. I locked the door, more out of politeness than anything else. I went over to the dayroom, unlocked the door, and went inside.

Captain Bishop was sleeping right next to the door, and I shook him awake.

"Sir, come with me," I said. He looked at me oddly, but followed. I closed and locked the door behind me.

"What is it, Private?" Captain Bishop asked. At least he kept his fucking voice quiet.

"I found Cobb," I told him.

"Fuck, you didn't kill him, did you?" Bishop asked.

"No, he's passed out in his little hidey-hole with a bottle of 151." I pointed at the door. Captain Bishop followed where I was pointing and let out a laugh.