Man-That-Was

MAN-THAT-WAS

By

Adam Balfour

As the sand kicked up into their faces, the third battalion pressed their backs against the cool, hard stone of a small ramshackle hut. As Corporal Terry Jones leaned around the corner and peered through the door, BR16 rifle in his right hand ready to fire a burst of flechette rounds at any threat he might see. There was no one, but, the whole opposite wall of the hut had been blown out. Terry turned back and leaned against the wall once more. Turning his head to the right, he looked at the rest of his squad for a minute.

            “We have to get the holy fuck out of here. The whole other wall is blown to hell. Either we fall back or we get to another position, but, we do it fucking now!”

            “It’s your call, Jones. Right now you pull rank, so whatever you decide we follow,” as Private First Class Germaine said this, he turned and eyed the other men. “If any man has a problem with this, keep it to yourself or deal with me. Should one of you decide to oppose Jones or turn and run, you will be shot. Understood?” This was followed by a series of affirmatives.

            Terry thought about his options for approximately half a second, while this exchange was occurring between the soldiers in his charge. As soon as the last agreement to Germaine’s order was uttered, Terry was issuing orders for the squad to move in the low-crouched tactical run they all learned in boot camp. They would head east along the small huts, staying on the south side and moving from each building to the next in a tactical cover pattern. The last order Terry gave before moving to the corner of the wall, was that there be vocal silence unless things went completely FUBAR.

            The silence and hand signals didn’t last long, not long at all. They continued moving along from bombed out buildings to piles of rubble until they reached a larger building amid the smaller huts. Everything was normal, until Terry gave the order to Private Dettweiller to kick the thick wooden door in.

            As Dettweiller’s foot slammed into the door, just above the knob, there was the sudden sound of boots stomping on metal. Terry knew that sound meant they were probably enemies and they were definitely headed for higher ground. In other words, things were about to get completely FUBAR.

            The instant Dettweiller’s foot dropped and the door had swung clear, there was a loud popping sound and his chest exploded in a massive gout of blood and knots of tissue. Before Dettweiller’s body had hit the ground, the other four men left in the Third Battalion pressed their backs against the outer wall of the building.

            “Fuck! Michaelson get over here with that goddamned radio! Now, soldier!” Terry shouted this as Dettweiller’s body still lay there twitching in front of the doorway. Michaelson moved around the convulsing body, giving it a wide birth. If the man was shaken, it was hard to tell.

            Terry grabbed the radio’s handset from its cradle on the unit, which was set up with straps so it could be hauled around on an unlucky grunt’s back. The radios were cumbersome and the batteries had a tendency to die unexpectedly. This weighed heavily on Corporal Jones as his finger flicked the power switch and there was a moment before the red indicator blinked into life.

            “This is Corporal Jones, over.” There was no response, just the dead crackle of static. His heart sank, then he realized, Fucking idiot, you forgot the codeword! He tried again, “Blue Eagle this is Brown Sparrow. Repeat, Blue Eagle this is Brown Sparrow. Over” He released the transmit button and waited, he didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

            “Brown Sparrow this is Blue Eagle. Over” Came through the static a moment later. Before Terry could respond, the red indicator light on the radio began to flicker, it did this for a few seconds then faded completely. He slammed the handset onto its hook and snapped the power toggle to the off position. “Might as well drop the pack, Michaelson. It’s dead.” Finally given permission, Michaelson was glad to shed the heavy piece of shit. Terry turned to look at all of them and said, “I think we’re on our own here, boys.”

            “Great! I still can’t believe those bastards over at Supply can’t get us those SATCOM units that every fucking other goddamn unit seems to be on!” This was O’Brien, a man with a thick mat of curly copper hair; who held a particular hatred for the Supply Company since boot camp. The first week of camp, he’d been issued boots a size too small and had to wait a week for Supply to get the right size. The first week of boot camp the Drill Sergeant made his squad run a mile and a half every day, full gear with a full ruck. Everyone including O’Brien, small boots and all.

            Obviously, the Third Battalion weren’t the only squad using the shitty radio units. That day, however, they were the only unit that had a flat battery. Ten other requests for air support were received and attended to, all without a hitch.

            Terry leaned his head back against the wall of the building, his grip tightening on the rifle’s grip. “Fuck! Okay, we do this smart. O’Brien, you cover me; I’m going in first and I’ll take out any of these fuckers I can. Michaelson, you cover O’Brien and Germaine, you take up the rear. Eyes sharp, everybody! I don’t want any more letters to home today!”

           

Corporal Terry Jones stepped through the factory door, keeping his body low and hunched together. His weapon aimed slightly upward, toward the stairs immediately in front of the door. As he moved to the right of the door, he caught sight of one of the hostiles moving to take aim just as O’Brien was coming through the opening; Terry quickly squeezed the trigger, sending a flurry of copper shrapnel fire into the man. As they moved toward and up the steel staircase, the railings formed a blind spot that slowed their progress as they tried to keep a line of sight without exposing themselves.

            Keeping low as they moved down the narrow catwalk, they could look down through the expanded steel which served as a floor and see massive hulks of machinery lurking in the gloom below. Ahead there was a heavy door with a meshed glass window. The room beyond the door seemed to be suspended only from the ceiling and supported by the catwalk they were moving along.

            As they neared the door, Terry caught sight of a small glint near the floor. He lowered his face to inspect, letting his eye follow what turned out to be a thin wire. His careful eye tracked the wire to its source, the detonator of an anti-personnel mine. Sometimes the old tricks are still the best, Terry thought when he saw the mine was mounted to create maximum damage to anyone on the catwalk. He pulled his combat knife from the sheathe on his leg, turning to his men and motioning to the mine as he did. Each nodded in turn, indicating they had seen.

            Terry slid the razor-sharp blade under the wire very slowly, placing his left hand on top of the mine’s detonator. Holding the detonator between his thumb and forefinger as he began to drag the knife blade slowly against the wire, taking care not to let the knife snag the wire instead of cutting. The detonator began to tighten for just a second, Terry’s heart a heavy lump in his throat as he made himself move the knife even more carefully. After what felt like an eternity, the wire finally parted with a small plink! against the blade and Terry breathed a deep sigh of relief. Germaine patted him on the back, “Good job, boss. Now, let’s fuckin’ rock n’ roll!”

            When they reached the far end of the catwalk, Terry leaned lightly against the door. He motioned for them to stay quiet as he pressed his ear to the cold, hard steel of the door. Listening for any signs of activity on the other side, he heard no movement. His instincts were on a hair-trigger and everything in him said to remain cautious and alert. Once again, he unsheathed his knife, this time polishing it on his pant-leg. He held the polished blade at an angle to the door’s window, manipulating the blade so he could see a slight reflection of the interior. Unfortunately, the small window only afforded him what looked to be less than a third of the room and only the upper portion at that. Disappointed, Terry brought his knife down from the window and sheathed it.

            Terry led them all back from the door so they could talk more audibly. He took a moment, looking at each of them in turn, thinking. “Look, I know this situation is getting so much fucking better every minute. I like it even less than you guys do. I can’t see shit and I hear less than shit from this side of that door. Everything in me is saying we need to get the Christing fuck out of here. But, I can’t. There’s something here. I can’t explain it better than that, sorry boys. I put it to a vote, you all know how I feel and I won’t force you to continue if you can’t.”

            “Sir, with all due respect, that’s not how this works. You know it and we know it. We all came into the Corps knowing we might face something as fucked up as this. Any man here says he didn’t think of that, he’s too fucking dumb to be thinking in the first place.” Michaelson speaking in a soft, yet assertive whisper. “You say you are going forward and we all go forward.”

            You just did my job for me, Michaelson, Terry thought as he moved toward the door and reached up toward the doorknob. He looked back toward his men, who were poised to offer maximum cover and allow for the best firing positions. He turned the doorknob, pinching it between his fingers with the finest touch he could, at the same time drawing his BR-16 up to the ready. He pushed the door clear and they all started firing flechette rounds through the opening.

            The first shot Corporal Jones fired found its home in a wall behind a fellow with a thick dark beard and a dark green khaki shirt; after first flaying through the man’s neck, leaving blood gushing through the entrance and exit wounds. This man had time to bring his hand toward his throat, before a burst of fire from O’Brien riddled the man a few more times as the body slumped back into the corner.

            As he turned to the opposite side of the doorway, Terry absently flipped the fire selector on his rifle from “FLE” to “RPD.” This stopped the rounds from turning into shrapnel and allowed the rifle to expel them faster. His eye locked on three men standing around a desk, still in a state of shock at their comrade being shot down. They weren’t able to put any weapons to anything resembling usefulness before Terry squeezed the trigger and pulled his weapon horizontally across the three men. As the rounds punched into their targets, these men simply fell backward, two falling to the floor while the third dropped sideways into a chair.

            There were two men against the back wall with a chessboard between them, their guns leaning against the wall behind them. As the men Terry had shot were still falling, these boys were turning for their guns; an action cut short by bursts of fire from Germaine and Michaelson. The chess players fell into their seats, their flailing hands strewing the game pieces every which way.

            Terry had a moment now to realize that all the movies he had ever watched had lied about one thing in particular: when you get shot, you do not fly backward off your feet in slow motion. Instead, you just fall down dead where you’d been standing. That’s it, that’s all.

            As the men began to move through the room, searching for any intel they could use, Michaelson found a folder in one of the desk drawers. Flipping it open, he saw a map with what appeared to be troop positions marked on it. As he turned the map over and revealed the next page, Michaelson looked down at the face that lay printed on the glossy photo-paper.

            The image before them was that of an Asian man, his face appeared to as much metal as it was flesh. As they sifted through the pages in the folder, they found more images of the man, the photos of his face showed a gradual progression from a wounded young soldier to that of something resembling a metallic skull. The final image in the batch showed the back of the maniacally grinning, metallic skull-shape; where there would have been hair, there was a clear dome revealing what was once the young soldier’s brain, which now belonged to the skull-thing.

            “What the fuck are they doing? What is that fucking thing?” Michaelson sounded genuinely terrified, Terry could see sweat beading off his face, despite the air conditioner blasting directly overhead.

            “Whatever it is –“ He was cut off by a loud explosion from the north side of the building just as he was about to say “let’s not stick around to find out.” Terry turned and made for the door, dropping to a tactical crouch as he neared the entry. The others crowded the door behind him, listening as their eyes flicked around the room below.

            Terry’s eyes locked on the blown out wall of the factory as he picked up the whirr-thunk of something moving through the wafting smoke.  He continued to watch, transfixed by that sound and unable to think clearly as he saw the sunlight glint off the rounded metal surface moving through the parting vapour. It can’t be…they couldn’t have…could they? The thought had barely run through his mind when the thing was at once totally visible.

            “Thing looks like the android in those old movies with that big Austrian motherfucker! You know the one I mean, boss?” Germaine was staring at the skeletal looking machine as he said this, the words just spoken when blazing red lenses that filled its eye sockets immediately locked on his blue eyes.

            Those lenses began to burn more brightly and Corporal Terry Jones realized it was targeting. “Everybody down!” as the words left his mouth and he hit the deck, the space Germaine had been occupying above him became a red cloud of vaguely human-shaped mist. The others had gotten down and away from the opening in the same instant, now the blood drops were raining on them.

            In the same instant the men were being covered in the blood rain of their friend and fellow soldier, the thing below had fired again on the door. This shot struck the cinderblock wall right where Terry’s chest had been just a moment before. “This fucker’s sound-sensitive, boys. Keep it down unless you want us all dead.” Terry’s voice just barely audible as he looked at the two men remaining in his squad. This certainly went FUBAR alright. He pushed himself backward on the floor, motioning the others to do the same, terrified of even the slight sound of their clothes on the decking.

            They stopped by the desk, all three dragging in breath as they tried to come up with a plan. Terry picked up his BR-15, considering the efficacy of rapid-fire incendiaries versus fleschette rounds against armored targets. He planted his thumb against the fire-selector switch and snapped it over to fleschette, the others doing the same when he heard the whirr-thunk sound much closer now. It knows we`re up here, that fucking thing knows that staircase is the only way down.

            Whirr-thunk-CLANG!! The skeletal-machine-former-man was on the stairs now. That trifecta of sound getting louder with each stair it climbed. As it approached the walkway Terry thought, Jones you fucking idiot, that tripwire mine could have stopped the thing!

            The whirring, clanging monstrosity approached the doorway. Terry had a moment to register that it was bigger than the opening, thinking, It won’t fit! That bastard’s too goddamn big! No sooner had he thought this when the metal hulk pushed through the steel framed opening, smashing large chunks of cinderblock to the floor as the framing tore free under the force and massive weight moving forward.

            There was a loud whining from within the machine, it rotated from the midsection, the arm pistoned outward from what approximated the right shoulder; before they could react, the man-that-was had O’Brien’s head in the vice-like grip of its hydraulically operated fist. The world became filled with the cracking Terry had only heard as a boy, the ice cracking as his father drove onto the ice for the season’s first ice-fishing trip. Moments later, O’Brien’s head was a mass of raspberry jam seeping through the machine’s hand. As the man’s body went limp, his fingers opened and the rifle slipped from his hands. It slid close to Terry, though he didn’t dare move for it, not yet.

            Before either of the two men in the room could move, the machine’s left arm jolted toward Michaelson, the mechanical fingers punching through the flesh and bone of his chest and grabbing the man’s heart. When Terry saw the arm begin to extend, he lunged forward, sliding his left hand under the grip of O’Brien’s rifle. As he heard the sickening squish of Michaelson’s heart being crushed he pinned the barrels of both rifles to either side of the grinning, metal skull. This better fucking work, he thought then pulled the triggers, pouring two bursts of molten, metal shards into the glassed-in brain.

            The brain exploded under the barrage, spraying chunks of gray matter and glass everywhere. The blazing red lenses went dark and the extended arm dropped, tearing its way out of Michaelson’s chest, leaving the lifeless man to drop to the floor. The machine tottered on its feet, leaning forward at a drastic angle. Terry got his heels under himself and peddled backward, hard. He cleared the space just in time, the machine-monster slammed into the floor in front of Terry, shaking the whole room.

   

*****

          Terry woke up in his bed, the sun shining across his body and cold sweat making the sheet stick to his arms and legs. He peeled the sheet away from himself with a slight shiver. The dream again….the goddamn dream again, he thought, crossing the room as if on air. He got into the shower, scrubbing his body clean and hating the feeling of the oily sweat. Thought those dreams were supposed to be temporary, Doc. The VA doctor had told him the nightmares would pass in time, that they were only stress induced. That had been five years ago and the nightmares still occurred every night.

            As he got out of the shower and toweled himself off, he leaned over and flicked on the exhaust blower above the shower stall. Using a cloth to clear the mirror as the fan noisily sucked the muggy air out of the bathroom, Terry began to see his face. The mess of tussled hair gave way to the scar that ran partially down his face, broken only by his eye. Terry trailed a finger down the scar, before reaching the cup that held his shaving soap and brush.

            He turned on the hot water and let it stream into the sink for a few moments. While the water heated up, he lathered up the soap and spread it on his face with the brush. He shaved with the smooth efficiency of a well-oiled machine, not a movement wasted. It was the time-conserving shave of a military man. Smiling as he wiped the excess cream away from his face, noticing that he had managed to avoid nicking himself for a change. He then returned to the bedroom and got dressed in his usual work attire, a T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans with holes at the knees and a pair of thick wool socks.

            Moving into the kitchen, he smelled the fresh brew of coffee he had set up the night before. Terry poured the pot into his Thermos with the usual one cup left for his morning wake-up. He filled the coffee maker with new grounds and water, setting the timer so coffee would be ready when he got home. He grabbed a couple granola bars and ripped them open. He took a bite as he opened the kitchen door and grabbed the morning paper from the mailbox. He tossed the paper onto the kitchen table and sat down to do the crossword. He worked the crossword every morning before work, solving clue by clue until he either had the Across section finished or had to leave for work. This morning, the clock got the better of him, he had just started chewing the last bite of his second bar when the alarm on his watch began beeping, signalling the time to leave.

            He dropped the pen and headed for the entryway to grab his boots. He slid them on, wrapping the long laces around the tops before tying them for a more snug fit. Opening the door as he snagged his truck keys off the hook on the wall, he squinted as the bright morning sun caught him in the eye. “Ah, fuck,” he said, shielding his eyes from the glare as he walked toward his denim black F-150.

            The drive to the construction site took him about twenty minutes, during which he listened to his current favorite CD: One in the Chamber Music by The Headstones. When he pulled into an empty space next to the foreman’s trailer, Terry sat listening to the end of “Tweeter and the Monkey-man,” looking around the site taking a mental survey of the job ahead.

            He opened the door as the last note of the song still hung in the air, got out and closed the door harder than he intended. Terry took his hard hat out of the toolbox in the truck bed and flipped it up, he ducked slightly and let the protective helmet land on his head – a favored trick of his that had even impressed Earl, the foreman, on his first day. Today’s gonna be a good goddamned day, he thought as he walked past the security fence.

            “Hey, Jones!” Earl Osterman called to him from the stoop of his office trailer. Terry turned toward Earl and smiled. The large man leaning in the doorway was the only person he allowed to call him “Jones.”

            “How’s it goin’ Earl?”

            “Not too bad, mah man. But, you gotta get in here and listen to this crazy shit on the news.” He stood there waving Terry inside, sweating profusely, even though the day was by no means hot.

            Heading up the steps to the trailer’s door, Terry gave his boss a puzzled look. It wasn’t often that the big man wanted to start the day with the news, Earl normally couldn’t be bothered to care what newscasters had to say. “What’re the liars blabbin’ on about now?” He asked with a chuckle.

            “You won’t believe me, just get in here and see for yourself.”

            Stepping into the trailer, Terry heard the talking head on the little view-screen mounted to the wall. “Today, the Zweihander Industries announced the launch of a revolutionary new home appliance. Meet Robbie.” The camera cut to a shiny black sheet, it was draped over something that had a very human shape to it. A moment later, the sheet was pulled away, revealing a face that wasn’t a face on a man that wasn’t a man.

Terry recognized the workings that hid underneath the translucent polymer skin, he’d seen them in his nightmares for the last five years. It can’t be, he thought as Robbie was now doing a graceful pirouette for the camera. The only thing different other than the skin covering Robbie was you couldn’t see the brain Terry was sure would be in the cavity of the head, somewhere behind that featureless face and those dimly glowing lenses. Lenses that were amber colored now, instead of that furious red that still haunted him.

“Pretty cool, or what?” Earl tapped the screen to turn down the volume. “My old lady will want two and I’m going to be in the poor house.”

Terry forced a chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound forced and said, “Uh, yeah, pretty cool.” He turned to leave. “I better get to work though, Earl. Got a few riveters to fix so the boys aren’t held up later.”

“You’re not too big on new tech-stuff, are you?” He laughed at this before Terry could respond. “Anyway, get out there, can’t have those guys falling behind ‘cause you were in here yacking with me.”

Terry smiled and left the office, heading across the hard-packed dirt to the creaking elevator. He punched the button to raise the elevator as he thought, These people have no idea, these things aren’t being made to help us. He rode the elevator to the fourth level, hit the stop button and stepped onto the temporary plywood decking.

That was the last Terry would allow himself to think of the news announcement during the workday, he wasn’t kidding about the riveters. They were misfiring every third or fifth rivet, which wasn’t good for the guy who would be sitting next to a precariously positioned piece of two ton girder. They had to get them riveted fast or the metal bar could, nay would, swing and possibly smack the worker right off of the building.

When the end-of-shift horn finally sounded, Terry had repaired ten riveters, three air hammers, and five air ratchets. He was exhausted, wiping sweat from his face with the collar of his T-shirt, he rode the rickety elevator down to the ground level. Looks like pizza for supper tonight, I’ve got some real work to do. The thought didn’t bother him much, he loved pizza. More, he loved not having to cook.

He popped the lid on his truck’s toolbox and tossed the hard hat inside, got behind the wheel and fired the big 4x4 up. Thinking about the work he had to do tonight, he skipped the CD back to play “Smile and Wave,” dropped the truck in reverse and planted his foot on the gas. He spun the wheel, the tires kicked dirt up as the truck spun around almost on the spot. Terry slapped the shifter down into drive, barely lifting his foot off the gas to do so, then stomped on the pedal again. The truck roared down the road, leaving four long, black tire tracks and sounding like a demon in heat.

He came screaming into his driveway, just as “Tweeter and the Monkey Man” was about to play for the second time that day, again leaving four tire tracks; these ones much shorter. He killed the engine and swung the door shut, slamming it again, this time not caring. He fished his smartphone from the pocket of his jeans and dialed Geno’s Pizza. He had his order for a large pepperoni, mushroom, green pepper and bacon placed moments later, don’t forget the six-pack of Coke. He tossed the truck keys on the dining table and headed for the bedroom.

Terry flipped the mattress and boxspring off of his bedstead, pressing the hidden release catch under the headboard once they were clear. A panel raised up about two millimeters and slid down, allowing access to the civilian issue HR-15. This was the civilian permitted hunting rifle built on the same frame as his familiar BR-15. He had taken the rifle hunting one time only, he had thought he might find it relaxing. Instead, he found hunting to be a horrific reminder.

He pulled the rifle from the safe, ran the bolt to ensure it wasn’t loaded. He knew it wasn’t loaded, but better safe than sorry. He carried the rifle to the living room, walking with the rifle propped against his shoulder out of habit. He set the rifle on the coffee table and began to strip it down. When the pizza arrived forty minutes later, he had it completely apart.

As he munched on a slice, Terry turned the firing mechanism over in his hand, looking for the subtle difference between the rifle he owned and the rifle he knew. The mechanism flipped over and there it was, he knew he couldn’t make the rifle fire incendiaries or fleschettes, he could make it fully automatic though. That would have to do.

He took his file and knocked off the tab that prevented the firing pin from cycling. Terry then snapped the mechanism back into place and set about reassembling the rifle. He carefully polished and oiled each part before clicking it into place. Once the rifle was fully assembled, he ran the bolt and pulled the trigger, the rifle made a series of rapid, dry snapping sounds. He smiled and set the weapon down, picked up another piece of pizza and reached for the TV remote. As the screen flared into life he thought, ready when you are motherfuckers. Ready when you are.