Mike Duran

         Three days ago, I received an urgent message from Colonel Craig Wyender—though it seems like ages now. Back then, I was weak, without purpose. Alone.

         Now with the night air in my face, hurtling down the desert highway toward a starry pool of light, I feel like a new man. Finally, I have an assignment, an order, a reason to live. Someone's survival is at stake.

         Six men are dead because of Irene. But it'll be weeks before anyone knows they're missing. That's one good thing about classified missions. By the time they find those guys, Irene and I will be long gone.

         There's a tart, brittle smell in the air—desert sage and wildflowers. Part of me remembers that smell, vaguely. Like the past.

         Retirement made me soft, like retirements do. I'd made a living being strong and confident. When a soldier became homesick, lost a limb or got killed by friendly fire, I had to stand tall and say the right things. But the more I saw, the less I said. When I finally left the service, I had little motivation for propping up an image of stability or composure. I just wanted to breathe.

         Army chaplains are a strange breed, no doubt. One day we walk the wire, small talking to soldiers trained to kill, the next we teach a class on morals and ethics, or stress management. Sometimes just the monotony of routine and protocol is what drove a guy crazy. And following orders, without flinching, inevitably led to explosions and implosions.

         As a chaplain, I sifted the debris.

         The first time I met Colonel Wyender, it was informal. He'd sent for me and asked, off the record, what I knew about demon possession. They'd been digging through my files, saw that I served in Egypt then further down.

         Wyender knew I'd met Raven.

         I kept it on the surface, divulged little. Told him how, on the edges, we'd occasionally come across an outcast, wandering, babbling, frothing at the mouth. When they weren't ostracized they were sheltered and separated, turned into a tribal secret or a whisper. In the States, we have different names for it: multiple personality disorder, psychosis—anything but possession. In the civilized world, they give you pills and couch time; over there, they keep you in a clay hut or a cave, summon the imams and priests who bob and babble, dust you with herbs and whip you with branches. Yeah, I knew a bit about demon-possession.

         That's how I met Irene.

         She'd been a relief worker and got way too involved with the locals. Seems a slave girl escaped and good old Irene took her in and treated her. It caused quite a stir—sent some crazy shaman into a tizzy. The girl had a curse on her, they said, for good reason. Irene stood her ground. But how do you fight conjurations and voodoo?

         Bottom line: The shaman cursed Irene. Introduced her to someone new, someone who wouldn't let go.

         They had me stationed near the Horn of Africa with a counter-terrorism outfit. Nearing the end of a second tour of duty and tired. Irene was from New Mexico, I discovered, so we had the States in common. The locals rarely went that far with foreigners—especially demonized ones. Word got to me that an American woman needed help of the spiritual kind. So I hoofed it into the village with my Bible, an escort and a slew of misgivings.

         That's the first time I saw my wife.

         She sat straight up, tense and rigid, facing the doorway with a blank expression. The air smelled like smoke and vomit. Unwashed hair dangled over her jaundiced, sunken eyes. When I threw the flaps aside and walked in, she smiled and spread her bony arms out like wings, contorting skeletal fingers into claws. The two women serving there backed up, prattling in tongues, and dumped liquid from wooden bowls. Then Irene croaked—a guttural, throaty sound. She kept croaking and followed me with her wide, icy eyes.

         The spirit called itself Raven.

         Seminary hadn't prepared me for this. I could outline ecclesiastical hierarchies, models of cross-cultural ministry and modes of baptism, but as far as helping a croaking white girl from New Mexico, I didn't have a clue.

         For two and a half days, I read Bible verses and prayed, fumbled and fought to be strong, removed sweat and foam. Irene writhed and cursed, and in between slept, but I stayed there, opposing Raven and an angry shaman. Then the fever broke and the black ladies danced. Irene asked for water and I heard humanity in her voice. She massaged her knuckles and looked at me, barely able to hold my gaze. We'd been through something awful and wonderful, and we knew it.

         Shortly after that, Colonel Wyender contacted me from a unit up north. I watered down my report to spare us the embarrassment and avoid further interrogation, but they kept tabs, read between the lines. That's how they found me. It was harmless Q and A, but I had to mention the paranormal.

         About six months later, Irene and I were married. She'd been through a nasty divorce and needed to re-gather the loose ends. I'd learned how to listen. Our loneliness brought us together, or our brokenness. Either way, we got hitched and buried the incident. But the frowns and whispers pushed us over the edge. Word spread about me and Irene. And Raven. We needed a change of scenery.

         So I retired early and moved us to California, somewhere wide open where we could be anonymous, blend in. We holed up, waved to the neighbors and spoke little of those days. Irene became a good cook, and kept her life simple: grocery store, crossword puzzles, Sunday paper, to bed early.

         Me, I drifted. 

         Wyender's message came with a young man with scars on his face, remnants of a nasty, youthful complexion. He knocked on the door of our two-bedroom, low-rent house – the modest kind that military retirements get you - knock-knock, knock-knock. That is the curt, military way. He handed me a letter and stood there till I read it. I caught him following Irene with his glassy eyes, and scowled at him. 

         Colonel Wyender had requested my assistance. Some type of assignment in the low desert, a week at best. That's all it said. I'd be briefed later if I wanted the job. What did they need an ex-military chaplain for? And what was Wyender doing in these parts?

         I looked back at Irene as she stared over my shoulder.

         Man, I'd been itchy, bored. I spent six months tinkering around the house, watching TV, reviving bad habits; laying the foundation for an early death. My faith had grown cold, the little that was left of it. I'd gotten a belly and my thighs quivered when I rose. As much as I'd grown tired of the military, I still needed it. The Army does that to you. You see the world and live on the edge, wake before dawn and test the chain of command, and then coop up in a suburb like normal folks, no one to answer to, no assignment. And you go nuts.

         I'm gonna go, I said. I needed to get back in the groove, lose the gut, get God. It won't take long.

         A car waited outside for me. Irene watched as I packed, shook her head, and went silent. I blew the dust off my pocket Bible and donned the khaki uniform. It had become tight in the waist and armpits. I'm getting stir-crazy, babe. Understand? She didn't.

         They took me to the base and briefed me. The mission is classified, they said. That's odd. Maybe there had been a training accident—or they anticipated one. Could be someone snapped under interrogation, needed to make a quick confession before spilling their guts. But why me? There were plenty of other military chaplains.

         I wrestled with it as I headed south. They gave me a map and an unmarked military vehicle. I slipped a flask under the front seat, alongside some gum wrappers and cigarette butts. The air conditioner blew stale air, so I turned it off and rolled the windows down. I traveled out past Palm Springs where the freeway opens along with the sky, where you pass snowbirds in their Caddies wearing oversized sunglasses and southwestern prints. I drove and the mountains came and went. And I kept driving. If you're gonna do classified, you might as well do it here.  

         I looked for a dirt road marked by a ring of rocks. It led to another, a wisp of a trail that paralleled a chain of hills streaked with copper and rust. In the distance, I could see a house and a shack. Insects droned, cloistered in leaf and shadow, a sharp, reverberant buzz. A crow wandered by, and a worn-out chaplain plummeted down a dusty road.

         The car skidded in the gravel. My legs ached from the ride and I swung them out real careful. Something, a jackrabbit or rodent, darted mound to mound through the scrub. The setting sun flushed the landscape and a breeze rattled the brush. My shadow rose, long and immense, and lumbered with me to the unmanned gate. 

         A solitary sign sprinkled with buckshot hung from a tall fence crowned with razor wire: KEEP OUT, Private Property. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called out. The insect noises stopped. No reply. Below, the highway meandered like a black serpent through barren swaths, and the song of the insects gradually resumed.

         Still no one appeared. Maybe I'd made a wrong turn. I thought about Irene, with her lips pursed and arms crossed, watching me pack.

         I shouted again and shook the gate. It swung open.

         I froze, half-expecting a gunshot or attack dog. But there was only the wind and whirring of the bugs.

         The house stood thirty or forty yards away, faded pink. I followed the gravel driveway, crunching as I went, studying the property. That's when I saw a green military jeep with stenciled letters parked out back. I guessed I'd found the place.

         The front porch consisted of a plain cement slab. I stepped up and rapped on the front door, just like the scar-faced boy: knock-knock, knock-knock. No one answered. I heard no movement inside so I knocked again and tried the handle. Locked.

         Standing on the porch, staring at the dust-covered car on the far side of the fence, I pondered my next move.

         In my briefing, they hadn't mentioned risk or degree of difficulty, maybe intentionally. If they had, I might have sobered up sooner, got my head on straight, got right with God—or turned the assignment down. Instead, I stood on the porch armed only with a dusty pocket Bible.

         I stepped off the slab, walked past some tumbleweeds and rusty barrels, toward the back of the house.   

         That's when I saw the first body.

         Laying on his side, a kid, like the scar-faced boy but without the scars, dressed in military garb, the back of his skull caved in by something blunt. His skin had begun to mottle and I kept my distance. I looked for a weapon, saw none, so I stood and called out again. My voice ricocheted off the foothills, causing my heart to jump. A crow answered the echo. I looked back at my car, thought about the flask under the seat and calculated how fast I could get back down to the main road. And how much I could drink on the way.

         I called out for Wyender. The echo answered, not the crow.

         The back door to the house jittered in the breeze. Maybe I could find a phone inside and call for help. At least, get myself off the hook. I went there, stealth-like.

         It stunk like fish. Dust gathered on the linoleum, a tiny dune against the threshold. In the corner, a small refrigerator sputtered. Plaster crumbs speckled the stovetop below three bullet holes. I glanced around for a phone but couldn't locate one. A humming sound, not from the refrigerator or desert insects, pulsed nearby. I turned. Flies lined the rim of the sink. They scattered angrily as I approached. I shooed them away and leaned over to see why they were congregating.

         In the sink, tuna cans, stacked, un-rinsed and ripening.

         I wrinkled my nose and followed the narrow hallway into a cramped, dark living room. Shafts of light pierced foil-covered windows enough to see a small TV, angled on a milk crate. A pillow stamped with a greasy halo lay on the couch and magazines littered the corner.

         I made a slow three-sixty and spotted a vacant phone jack. Called out again, but I didn't expect an answer. The back door jittered and a breeze swept through.

         One more room, I told myself, and I'm outta here.

         The next hallway led past a bathroom that smelled like urine to a dimly lit room at the end. As I approached, something moved. I stopped. Who is it? Who's there?

         Splinters of wood from the doorjamb littered the floor inside. I heard a dry rustling sound, light flashed, and a breeze carrying a rancid smell went by. I turned my head and let it pass, called out again and edged into the room. A thick curtain flapped over a window with a gaping hole.

         Near the window, a man with sunken eyes, propped in a chair, leaned motionless against the wall. Dry blood filled his ears and his face appeared bruised. A gun lay across the room. I scrambled there, picked it up and checked the clip. I had firepower.

         I glanced through the flickering curtain and noticed the door to the shed moving.

         Slowly, I backed out of the room, pointing the gun at the corpse as if he might decide to follow me, retraced my steps and hurried out of the house. I thought about the flask under the front seat and the Bible in my shirt pocket and they did not seem in conflict—I needed both. 

         I turned and started to the car, but papers, white fresh papers, swirling in the doorway of the shack, caught my attention. I hadn't used a firearm in ages, but holding that one made me feel a little safer. So I stopped and walked toward the shack with the gun out.

         The building loomed, without windows, leaning slightly to one side. The wood appeared weathered, almost petrified. A tall, narrow door creaked in the wind. It had one tiny window with a hatch in it, much like an observation room. On the outside hung a large metal bolt and, partially buried in the sand nearby, a wooden brace.

         I surmised that interrogations occurred here, or detainees held. It could be a detox facility, a holding tank for addicts and strung-out jarheads. Whatever the case, Wyender had been keeping someone locked up. Was that legal? Well, this would be the place for it. Especially, if the methods were unsound.

         I went to the door and looked in, leading with the gun. It smelled of chemicals and vomit. A cot occupied one corner, a toilet, the other. Several folders and a dossier were on the bed, and loose pages skittered across the floor.

         The wind rocked the door behind me and I shielded my eyes from whirling sand.

         A folding chair lay on its back in the middle of the room. Tangled leather straps, an extension chord and handcuffs lay bunched under the cot. A milk crate had become an end table and on it were some candles, a Bible and three used syringes.

         I listened for sounds outside, other than the crow and the creaking door, before making my way to the cot. Keeping an eye on the doorway, I fingered through the stacks of paper. Military letterhead. Wyender's signature. Classified. Paranormal.

         A gust of air flung dust into the room, rocking the door.

         I stepped toward it, fearing it would close. The wind subsided and I returned to the paperwork: Subject X. Over-shadowed. Seizures. Subdued. Contact made. Scorpion. Watchman. Psychological Operations.

         Psy-ops? What were they doing out here? That's the branch of military kept under the radar, left to speculation and conspiracy theories, downplayed and denied. Maybe they'd been conducting some kinds of mind control experiments. Or perhaps testing a new truth serum.

         By why did they want me?

         Another gust of wind pelted the room and a large shadow sucked the light out of the doorway. I stumbled upright and pointed the gun that direction.

         Colonel Wyender stood with the sunset behind him, framed in gold and grit.

         He asked me how Irene was. I kept the gun on him, too startled to answer. Good, I said reservedly, she's good. He looked at the papers in my hand and asked if I knew what was going on out here. Some type of experiment, I guess. His uniform had dirt stains on it and small lacerations. Why did you call me?

         Wyender craned his neck, looking around the outside corner of the shed. He asked if Watchman had delivered the message all right. Watchman? The kid? Yeah, sure, but why am I out here and what's going on? The colonel seemed unconcerned about the two dead soldiers and the classified papers floating free. He stood unmoving, without emotion. I kept the gun on him, threw the papers back on the cot and stepped toward the door.

         He didn't move.

         I contemplated pulling the trigger. But shooting a colonel in the United States Army... What's going on? I asked instead.

         He spoke in hollow, unemotional tones, but seemed intent to pass on the info.

         Apparently, our brief discussion about demon possession over a year ago had piqued his interest. He'd been digging through old military documents and decided to do some research of his own, in the outbacks, where civilization is minimal. Uncle Sam is always looking for an advantage, a leg up, whether it's hypnotism, hallucinogens, remote viewing or the occult sciences. So Wyender tracked down a zombie in a tiny village, not far from the base. A young, skinny kid, red-eyed and frothing, sent four grown men heading for the hills. The Colonel was impressed. Imagine what you could do with a unit like that? Who wouldn't want an army of Ubermen? That's why he'd been picking my brain about Irene.

         I'd evicted a demon, but they wanted to invoke one. Or bring one home.

         I broke into a sweat, wondering if a bullet in his chest would faze him. But at this juncture, maybe a Bible verse – or last rites - would be more appropriate.

         Who's been in here, and where is Subject X? Wyender motioned outside. With the braintrust, he said, out back, three of them all together, two doctors and another grunt. They were casualties when the experiment went awry. Those demons are cagey creatures, he chuckled. X served his purpose—he was just the carrier to get Her over here. She brought a few others along for the ride. Watchman and Scorpion were already out, waiting for Her to join them.

         Now She wanted to go home.

         I just couldn't bring myself to shoot a military man. The only alternative would be a physical altercation, which held little promise. If I had been prepared, I could have prayed authoritatively and renounced the monster. Instead, I shouted, lowered my head and tried to barrel him over. The Colonel tossed me aside with ease. I landed hard on my back, lost the gun, and lay helpless.

         He stood in the doorway with the sun behind him. Dust swirled at his ankles and the insects droned. And Colonel Craig Wyender croaked—a guttural, throaty sound—inhuman, but familiar.

         He croaked, spread his arms out, curled his bony knuckles into claws and approached me.

         That seems like so long ago. In a way, it was. Unmoored, without purpose, I was the perfect candidate for a mission like this. I let my guard down, opened the door, sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind.

         I chucked the flask at the main road, along with my Bible. Now the city lights twinkle before me, fluttering in waves of warmth, awaiting my immersion. Irene is in there somewhere. Because of her, six men are dead. I hope she appreciates the effort.

         And Wyender is back at the post. He served his purpose.

         Raven has come such a long way. From here on out, I'll be taking orders from Her. I had been looking for an assignment and I got one. We'll rendezvous with Scorpion and Watchman and, when my mission's over, Raven will discard me—and reacquaint Herself with Irene.

 

This story first appeared in the June/July 2005 issue of Alienskin Magazine

 

Copyright 2006, Mike Duran

Mike Duran lives in Southern California. His short stories have appeared in Infuze and Alienskin Magazine, and articles in The Matthew's House Project and Relevant Magazine. Mike was also a finalist in the 2005 Faith in Fiction short story contest, and was one of ten authors published in Infuze Magazine's print anthology.

www.mikedurans.blogspot.com