Люциус Шепард - The Best of Lucius Shepard

have risen and I would walk on in hostile silence, as if he were exuding a chemical that had evoked my contempt. I did get close enough to him, however, to see that the mad brightness was missing from his eyes; I had the feeling that all his brightness was missing, that whatever quality had enabled him to do his broadcasts had been sucked dry.

One morning as I was passing the PX, whose shiny surfaces reflected a dynamited white glare of sun, I noticed a crowd of men pressing through the front door, apparently trying to catch sight of something inside. I pushed through them and found one of the canteen clerks—a lean kid with black hair and a wolfish face—engaged in beating Randall to a pulp. I pulled him off, threw him into a table, and kneeled beside Randall, who had collapsed to the floor. His cheekbones were lumped and discolored; blood poured from his nose, trickled from his mouth. His eyes met mine, and I felt nothing from him: he seemed muffled, vibeless, as if heavily sedated.

“They out to get me, Curt,” he mumbled.

All my sympathy for him was suddenly resurrected. “It’s okay, man,” I said. “Sooner or later, it’ll blow over.” I handed him my bandanna, and he dabbed ineffectually at the flow from his nose. Watching him, I recalled Moon’s categorization of my motives for befriending him, and I understood now that my true motives had less to do with our relative social status than with my belief that he could be saved, that—after months of standing by helplessly while the unsalvageable marched to their fates—I thought I might be able to effect some small good work. This may seem altruistic to the point of naïveté, and perhaps it was, perhaps the brimstone oppressiveness of the war had from the residue of old sermons heard and disregarded provoked some vain Christian reflex; but the need was strong in me, nonetheless, and I realized that I had fixed on it as a prerequisite to my own salvation.

Randall handed back the bandanna. “Ain’t gonna blow over,” he said “Not with these guys.”

I grabbed his elbow and hauled him to his feet. “What guys?”

He looked around as if afraid of eavesdroppers. “Delta Sly Honey!” “Christ, Randall! Come on.” I tried to guide him toward the door, he wrenched free.

“They out to get me! They say I crossed over and they took care of Moon for me… and then I got away from ’em.” He dug his fingers into my arm. “But I can’t remember, Curt! I can’t remember nothin’!” My first impulse was to tell him to drop the amnesia act, but then I thought about the painted men who had scragged Moon: if they were aft: Randall, he was in big trouble. “Let’s get you patched up,” I said. “We talk about this later.”

He gazed at me, dull and uncomprehending. “You gonna help me?” he asked in a tone of disbelief.

I doubted anyone could help him now, and maybe, I thought, that was also part of my motivation—the desire to know the good sin of honest failure. “Sure,” I told him. “We’ll figure out somethin’.”

We started for the door, but on seeing the men gathered there, Randall balked.

“What you want from me?” he shouted, giving a flailing, awkward wave with his left arm as if to make them vanish. “What the fuck you want?”

They stared coldly at him, and those stares were like bad answers. He hung his head and kept it hung all the way to the infirmary.

That night I set out to visit Randall, intending to advise him to confess, a tactic I perceived as his one hope of survival. I’d planned to see him early in the evening, but was called back on duty and didn’t get clear until well after midnight. The base was quiet and deserted-feeling. Only a few lights picked out the darkened slopes, and had it not been for the heat and stench, it would have been easy to believe that the hill with its illuminated caves was a place of mild enchantment, inhabited by elves and not frightened men, The moon was almost full, and beneath it the PX shone like an immense silver lozenge. Though it had closed an hour before, its windows were lit,and—MP instincts engaged—I peered inside. Randall was backed against the bar, holding a knife to the neck of the wolfish clerk who had beaten him, and ranged in a loose circle around him, standing among the tables, were five men wearing tiger shorts, their faces painted with savage designs. I drew my pistol, eased around to the front and—wanting my entrance to have shock value—kicked the door open.

The five men turned their heads to me, but appeared not at all disconcerted. ““How’s she goin’, Curt?” said one, and by his soft voice I recognized the tall guy who had slit Moon’s throat.

“Tell ’em to leave me be!” Randall shrilled.

“I fixed my gaze on the tall guy and with gunslinger menace said, “I’m messin’ with you tonight. Get out now or I’ll take you down.” You can’t hurt me, Curt,” he said.

“Don’t gimme that ghost shit! Fuck with me, and you’ll be humpin’ wtih Delta Sly Honey for real.”

“Even if you were right ’bout me, Curt, I wouldn’t be scared of dyin’. I was dead where it counts halfway through my tour.”

A scuffling at the bar, and I saw that Randall had wrestled the clerk to the floor. He wrapped his legs around the clerk’s waist in a scissors and yanked his head back by the hair to expose his throat. “Leave me be,” he said. Every nerve in his face was jumping.

“Let him go, Randall,” said the tall guy. “We ain’t after no innocent blood. We just want you to take a little walk… to cross back over.”

“Get out!” I told him.

“You’re workin’ yourself in real deep, man,” he said.

“This ain’t no bullshit!” I said. “I will shoot.”

“Look here, Curt,” he said. “S’pose we’re just plain ol’ ordinary grunts. You gonna shoot us all? And if you do, don’t you think we’d have friends who’d take it hard? Any way you slice it, you bookin’ yourself a silver box and air freight home.”

He came a step toward me, and I said, “Watch it, man!” He came another step, his devil mask split by a fierce grin. My heart felt hot and solid in my chest, no beats, and I thought, He’s a ghost, his flesh is smoke, the paint a color in my eye. “Keep back!” I warned.

“Gonna kill me?” Again he grinned. “Go ahead.” He lunged, a feint only, and I squeezed the trigger.

The gun jammed.

When I think now how this astounded me, I wonder at my idiocy. The gun jammed frequently. It was an absolute piece of shit, that weapon. But at the time its failure seemed a magical coincidence, a denial of the laws of chance. And adding to my astonishment was the reaction of the other men: they made no move toward Randall, as if no opportunity had been provided, no danger passed. Yet the tall guy looked somewhat shaken to me.

Randall let out a mewling noise, and that sound enlisted my competence I edged between the tables and took a stand next to him. “Let me get the knife from him,” I said. “No point in both of ’em dyin’.”

The tall guy drew a deep breath as if to settle himself. “You reckon you can do that, Curt?”

“Maybe. If you guys wait outside, he won’t be as scared and maybe I can get it.”

They stared at me, unreadable.

“Gimme a chance.”

“We ain’t after no innocent blood.” The tall guy’s tone was firm, as if this were policy. “But…”

“Just a coupla minutes,” I said. “That’s all I’m askin’.”

I could almost hear the tick of the tall guy’s judgment. “Okay,” he said at last. “But don’t you go tryin’ nothin’ hinkey, Curt.” Then, to Randall. “We be waitin’, Randall J.”

As soon as they were out the door, I kneeled beside Randall. Spittle flecked the clerk’s lips, and when Randall shifted the knife a tad, his eyes rolled up into heaven. “Leave me be,” said Randall. He might have been talking to the air, the walls, the world.