Edward Lee - Ghouls

— No, no, don’t hand me that shit again. It’s the truth. I’m not crazy, goddamn it. It’s the truth. —

— You’re disillusioned, Sergeant. You’re upset, and you’re hurt. We know what happened. —

— Bullfuckingshit! I know what I saw. And it wasn’t any goddamned…whatever the fucking hell you called it. —

— Hypnagogic delirium. Your symptomatology is classic, we’ve no doubts. And let me assure you that hypnagogic hallucinations are by no means synonymous with any mode of psychosis. It can happen to anyone, Sergeant. And it’s what happened to you. —

Aside then. Doctor to Doctor. — What with the delusions and of course the shock reaction to his physical injuries, the unipolar manifestation comes as no real surprise. —

The other doctor nods. — Then we both agree, at least from a rudimentary standpoint, on a typical dysfunction of biogenic amines? —

— Certainly. But that’s just scratching the surface. —

— What of the rest, then? —

— Could be a lot of things, could be right under our noses. I’ve ordered basic bloodwork already, scanning for nutritional imbalances seems a good place to start. It could be something as simple as low folic acid, or excess levels of B12. Statistically, most service-related cases of pellagra are attributed to a high rate of C-ration consumption… Sergeant, do you eat a lot of C-rations? —

You frown. Your face itches. — No. I haven’t had any c’s since the last Reforger years ago. They’re all MRE’s now. —

— And where was that? —

— Erlangen. Germany. Alpha 2/37, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division. You know, my last duty station before I came here. Don’t you fucking people have records? —

— No C-rations in years, then? —

— No! —

The doctors turn to one another again, like children trying to be discreet. — Supplemental nicontinamide can’t hurt. They say most of the West is deficient to begin with. —

The other doctor nods. — But that wouldn’t explain the rest of it. —

— Porphyria, maybe? Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome? —

The other doctor nods. He seems well-practiced at nodding, as though such an acknowledgment is proof of diagnostic competence. — I hadn’t even considered alcoholic hallucinosis. That might account for the obvious confabulation. —

— Sergeant, do you drink? —

— No, but if this keeps up, I’m gonna start. —

— You don’t drink at all? —

Your face is beginning to hurt from frowning. — Look, Major, it’s all in my records. I had a drinking problem a long time ago, when I got transferred from 1st Cav to 716th MP’s. But when I came back to the World I beat it. —

The doctors seem delighted at this, and you sense they don’t believe you’ve stopped drinking. You look at them hard. One is in khakis, a dorkish, fat 0-4 with crumpled pants and corfam shoes. His hair is longer than regulation, and his sideburns well past the bottom of the opening of his ear. Wimp, you think. A fat, out-of-shape turd wearing the uniform of a soldier. It makes you sick. The other doctor, the nodder, is the scary one. His fatigues shine from starch, though his boots, too, are patent leather, the trademark of all medical officers. He has a stiff, thick mustache and very short hair. He reminds you of Shakespeare’s description of Cassius.

— I’d love to see what he’d do with a TAT and an MMPI. —

— Due time, Captain. Due time. The next MED EVAC is Wednesday; we’ll let Forest Glen worry about a diagnosis. Did you look at his DD service file? I’d hate to see a TDRL at this point in his military career, but I suppose separation is indicated. —

The captain turns back to you. — Sergeant, I want you to think hard about what we’re telling you. We’re not here to steer you wrong. There’s no need to be so implacable. —

— You guys sound like Oxford dictionaries. Implacable. What the hell does that mean? —

— It means stubborn, Sergeant. You’re being stubborn. And if you don’t calm down and collect your thoughts, you may find yourself in a very unpleasant situation. And don’t think you can hide behind your Silver Star and Distinguished Service Cross. —

You snap. — You fucking guys think you can walk all over people just because you wear brass. Having a degree makes you superior, right? Well I’ve seen trainee washouts who’re better men than you. You’ve got no right to even wear the uniform. I was fighting North Vietnamese Regulars when I was eighteen, and you were in diapers playing with your own poop. You don’t know the difference between a HEAT round and a round of golf, you couldn’t operate a field radio to save your life, and you probably think CBN is a television network. And now you’ve got the balls to imply that I’m using my commendations as a shield. I’ll kick you in the dick so hard you’ll have to open your mouth every time you want to piss. —

Now the major. — You’re on thin ice, Sergeant. Talk like that can get you an AR 635-100. I don’t care if you fought in the Revolution, we’re officers, and you will afford us proper military courtesy as per regulations. —

— My God. Regulations? You’re fat, you’re weak, you couldn’t pass a PT test if your life depended on it. Your belt buckle’s misaligned, your pockets are unbuttoned, your hair’s too long, and your pants look like you pressed them with a tank track. Don’t tell me about regulations, Major. You’re in violation of at least a dozen just standing there. I could have you written up in less time than it takes to eat your next pack of Twinkies. And if you want to file a 635-100 against me, go ahead. You’ll be able to hear the Adjutant General laughing all the way from the Pentagon. He happens to be a good friend of mine. —

The major backs off, like the pussy he is. His face glows pink from embarrassment. — Really, Sergeant, this is getting us nowhere. We understand how you must feel, and how angry you must be. You just don’t remember, that’s all, and loss of memory and disorientation are common in a situation like this. We’re here to help you, Sergeant, we’re on your side. Please try and realize that this story of yours is fantasy. —

All you can do is look back at them. You detect a strange heaviness over your face, the dull ache in your chest. You notice then that you are viewing the doctors through one eye. The other eye is overlapped by a thick bandage.

— There, excellent… Now, as I was saying. We know all about O’Brien and Kinnet, CID gave us all the details. And we know all about the black market collaboration. No one’s saying you were part of it, quite the contrary. You knew that O’Brien and Kinnet were stealing from the armory, so you followed them to their pick-up point. The men who brought you in tonight have already given their statements. —

— Van? —

— Yes. Tech Sergeant Van Holtz. He and an airman were on perimeter patrols; they’re the ones who found you and brought you in. Van Holtz said that yesterday you told him you had found out about the plan to rob the armory, and that since it was your armory, you wanted to take care of it on your own. So you armed yourself and followed the two Marines, O’Brien and Kinnet, after they’d stolen the weapons from the vault. Unfortunately, a gunfight ensued, and the two Marines escaped along with their middlemen. —