chapter 3 – the army gang
So they were probably a bunch of commandos, but at this point, their guns were useless. It had been days since they escaped into the jungle. Their great General of moonbeam cheekbones had failed them, and as such, they were the detritus and the scraps. A war monger or other would come along and dance over their bodies, soon enough. This did not sit well with the troops. They wandered and wandered, to escape, and hopefully, to find salvation.
The band of thirteen or so gunmen came upon the abandoned laboratory a little late in the morning. They were thirsty and barreled through the broken doors of the lab. The soldiers tore apart cabinets, overturned beds, raided cupboards, and generally shot around the place like bullets. Some were tempted to lay down for the night and cook something over a fire. Some were tempted to remove their flesh and dangle in the rafters. Some were tempted to burn the walls from the windows. The leader of the group rallied his men and grunted. They should only stay the day; death is always behind.
The garrulous ones could hardly contain themselves. There was a secret life flowing behind the once white walls. There was mystery. The curious coaxed the others into following as they wandered the long, smashed-up halls and stumbled upon a small room that looked like a shower. There was purple residue on the tile floor near the drain, and above, the ceiling was painted red with shower heads dangling. Some began to giggle, others paced around and gazed blankly down the hall they had come from. And then a clicking sound came and the door slammed shut. A stream of gas emptied from above and swelled the soldier’s heads. Some grew blue in the face, others began slapping the walls, and some stood on their heads, kicking their legs in the air. When it was all over, the gas was sucked away by a giant vacuum in the corner of the room. The soldiers lied upon the tile and grumbled. Something, oh yes, was mysterious.
The gang of thirteen men, proud and disciplined, were reduced to boys, with
imaginations working the speed of infancy. One man-child, Robert, proclaimed,
"The sun is a yolk with beating eye lids." Jose, drool pooling 'round his
mouth, laughed at Robert and said, "Gimme my tinker toys!"
Thirteen beings splayed out on the floor. No one was in charge. No one was
angry. The calm peace of dying men washed over them. All thirteen inhaled and
exhaled as smoothly as any living soul could. Gregory, the oldest of the boys
at 29, smiled at Tim and said, "Bless the blue in you." One by one the gunmen
closed their eyes and died.
Those that did not die, the young and the meek, were left slumped against walls and peed themselves. They imagined grand hippos in their head, tap-dancing and giggling. None of the mutated men were aware when the soldier emerged from a doorway and tossed a grenade into their laps. As the explosion came, only one realized what was happening. He thought that the past had caught up with them; he grimaced in the blast.
Outside of the room, the Soldier paused to draw his breath. His face was cut and bleeding. He and the Scientist had an altercation, a disagreement, and now he was about to blow the rest of the laboratory. He ran down the halls, tracing his fingers across the flesh of the place. Somewhere the Scientist was roiling in rage, clutching test tubes and dreaming of a better world. He escaped too, in a tunnel, barking and slamming his fists into his head. The Soldier was not aware of any of this. His soul burned too, but with a different rage, with pity.
The explosion of the laboratory was simple; it merely required a few moments of intensity and blindness. The Soldier ran through the guts of the jungle, attempting to outrace something. It was a torrid dream, or it was just a storm in the evening; the jungle was open. Something had been loosened, and it remained to be seen whether the rest of the world was now better or worse for it. The soldier sighed and made for the river.
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