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| The following story is an entry in Network Twenty's March 2008 Fiction Contest. Author's name will be posted after a winner has been chosen. Spider's Webs "If you wish to live and thrive, let a spider run alive." Tracers zoomed across the black sky like bottle rockets as the Vietnamese soldiers, hidden in the jungle, shot their rifles at Tower 22. Bragger stood tall and proud, M-60 in each arm, shooting down at the enemy, oblivious to bullets flying over his head and grazing his jacket. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Davis screamed, grabbing Bragger by the pants, dragging him to the floor. "Didn't they teach you anything in training?" Davis peeked his M-79 grenade launcher out of the tower's opening and released, sending a grenade whistling, booming into the ground. "Hey, if it's my time to go, it's my time to go," Bragger smirked. Bragger was just a kid. Stupid, tall, and bulky, with matted brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and neatly ironed uniform. He was your typical Green—out for the fight, fighting to kill. For Davis, it was never about the killing; it was about staying alive. When the enemy appeared behind the mess hall last week, Davis fired first, bullets spraying over the camp like pesticide. Through thick darkness, he couldn't tell whether he was shooting at men, women, children, or even his own soldiers—and frankly, he didn't care. After the shooting ceased and the smoke disappeared, Davis and Bragger went on a recon mission to find dead bodies. A monsoon heading their way, Davis quickly scanned a starlight scope over the perimeter of the camp—the fluorescent green jungle filled with crowded trees and intertwining vines and leaves—double-checking for any possible movement. All was clear, but the rain was coming down cold and hard, so hard that they couldn't see their hands in front of their faces. Davis and Bragger descended the tower, crept through the murky jungle, and stumbled upon the dead Vietnamese, their bodies punctured with bullet holes. Some were blown to pieces, blood and guts scattered on the muddy terrain. "Say, have you ever killed anyone before?" asked Bragger, bright-eyed at the spectacle of death surrounding him, mashing his boots into the slimy mud. "Only people who ask stupid questions." Davis lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at Bragger. "Next question?" * On the corner of 13th Street and Oregon Avenue, a group of young, husky Italian men in leather jackets talked trash, planning revenge on the scumbags in Jersey who jumped them last weekend at a club. Eddie Davis leaned against the brick wall, raising a Camel to his thin lips, slowly sucking in the smoke, and exhaling in short, staccato breaths creating foggy circles. His eyes squinted in the orange light gleaming from the tall wooden electric poles. Going after the Foreman's son. He could lose his job at PECO. He could go to jail for life. If his father were to find out about tonight, he'd kill him. A World War II veteran, he didn’t "take no shit from nobody." Eddie looked away from the light, sliding a hand into his jacket pocket, fingering the trigger of a loaded gun. A payphone resonated throughout the neighborhood. It was Eddie's girlfriend, Franny. "Are you coming over tonight?" she asked. "Not sure yet, babe, gotta take a trip." "Another weekend out with the boys, huh." Eddie stood by that payphone every Saturday night, expecting Franny to call and check up on him. His boys didn't dare call him whipped, though; he was tall and lanky, but so quick and sneaky, you'd never see it coming. Franny had a short, thick build, dressed in bold patterned multicolored dresses, and wore a different hairstyle and color every other week. More outspoken than Eddie, she was also insecure and too attached, always thinking the worst about him, and his friends whom she so often called "losers." Eddie's neighbor, Joey "Meese" Messino, swayed back and forth, his thin body shivering in the cool night air. "We're gonna get those fuckin' hicks tonight, ain't we?" Joey Meese acted like a badass, despite the fact that he was three years younger than the others. Just like his red Plymouth Barracuda, he was all show and no go—the type of kid who'd instigate a brawl, then hide behind a trash bin as it began. He was a complete ass kisser, always buying Eddie a pack of cigarettes from the tobacco store, laughing hysterically at his stupid jokes, most of which he didn't even understand. He ran a comb through his thick, greasy hair, and then sauntered over to an alleyway to take a wiz. Eddie ignored the comment and sucked on his cigarette, thinking that maybe Franny was right. They reached the apartment complex in Camden where the Jersey gang was gettin' loose and gettin' high. Across the deserted road, the boys waited in the car, while Eddie strolled, sans Joey Meese, in long, heavy strides, boots crackling against gravel surrounding the orange brick building. The black metal staircase was five stories high, but that wouldn't be a problem for the Spider, who could climb four steps at a time. Upon reaching Apartment 528, his hand gripped the gun as he kicked the door with his boot. Berky McCann, a scrawny, redheaded kid with crooked yellow teeth and bubbling zits appeared. A group of skinny, longhaired boys sporting beards and bellbottoms sat on a brown velvet couch, stoned, watching their hands multiply and dance across the psychedelic wall. "Hey, it’s Daddy Long Legs!" Berky laughed, leaning back. "You've messed with the wrong crowd, cuz." Eddie pointed the gun at his head and, when Berky turned back around, pulled the trigger. Click. * Company Commander Gerald Peeve entered Headquarters Tent where Davis, Bragger, and four other men were stationed. A tall, stout, intimidating man with a white walrus moustache and hooknose, Peeve demanded respect from every soldier. He noticed Davis sitting on the edge of his cot, pulling off his boots—aware of Peeve's presence but unthreatened by the hovering commander. "What do you do when a company commander walks in here, soldier?" "Well, I usually just ignore them," Davis replied without looking up. They didn't like each other from the beginning—Peeve, thinking he was hot shit and Davis, knowing he was hot shit. After all, he had just been upgraded from Supply Specialist to Battalion Lineman—the only soldier who had any climbing and electrician experience. Even though he didn't want to admit it, Peeve needed Davis, yet he still tried to break him. A few weeks earlier, Davis and the other soldiers faced a surprise locker inspection. Peeve noticed that Davis cut off his shirtsleeves, and he planned to punish him for it. Peeve glided across the floor, glowing, and stopped in front of Davis, spitting as he hollered. "Do you know why I picked you first, soldier?" "No," Davis wiped his cheek, "and I don't really care." "You've been defacing government property. Now move on over so I can write you up." Davis slid to the side so Peeve could open up the locker. In it, he found five neatly ironed shirts, with sleeves. Davis befriended Bragger for a reason—he worked in the supply room. * Spider and the boys entered the Penrose Diner at approximately 2 a.m., taking their seats on squeaky black stools at the white marble counter. Bertha, a burly black waitress with big frosted lips and a tight curly fro, slid some ashtrays their way. "You lookin' a little shook up tonight, Spider," said Bertha. "I'm cool." Eddie fiddled his thumbs and looked out the window. The group ate and drank in silence. Some stood by the jukebox, smoking cigarettes, checking out some lady friends from the neighborhood. Joey Meese huddled by the doorway with wide eyes, an unlit cigarette between his pursed lips. "Y'all are scarin' me, bein' so awfully quiet," Bertha said. "We’re cool," said Eddie. When he pulled the trigger earlier that evening, Berky's smile disappeared, as he stood frozen in the doorway. "Consider this a warning," Eddie said, walking away. He knew those boys wouldn't be coming back, but he couldn't stop thinking about what he'd just done. What if the trigger worked? He replayed the scene in his head, picturing Berky's brains splattered against the white walls. He saw the policemen handcuffing him, reciting his Miranda rights. The sirens and swirling of reds and blues lured a crowd of people outside, trying to catch a glimpse of the murderer. Glossing over the mob, his friends were nowhere to be found—the car gone, skid marks on the road. * "I'm a short-timer now," Davis announced to Peeve, "and I want a less dangerous job." "Oh yeah? I got something for 'ya, boy." Peeve smirked as he wrote on a scrap piece of paper, then slid the note across his desk to Davis—a short and simple list of things to do: "BURN SHIT AND HAUL TRASH." Davis laughed as he walked out of Peeve's office, and bumped into Bragger. "Sergeant Davis, Sir!" Bragger yelled, hand to forehead, chest puffed out. "Don’t call me Sir, Bragger. I work for a living." Bragger lowered his hand and slumped his shoulders. "Anyway, do you have that list of Friendlies on you?" "Sure do. Why? You got shit that needs to be done?" "Yeah, shit that needs to be burned. How were those Vietnamese kids you hired last week?" "Quick sons-a-bitches, those slanty-eyed Gooks. The trick is, you gotta give 'em what they want. When they get what they want, you get what you want, 'ya hear me?" Davis searched through his bag and grasped something rectangular. "Excellent." He snatched the list from Bragger and took a trip over to the front gates to sign in the two teenagers, a carton of cigarettes nestled gently underneath his arm. Davis and Bragger headed over to the NCO Club to celebrate their last few days overseas. Trinh, the bartender, served Davis a seven-and-seven on the house. She was a small Vietnamese woman with curly, black bouffant hair. She slid her thick-rimmed glasses down to the edge of her nose and winked at Davis. "Free for you, my dear." "Thanks, babydoll." The radio played tunes by the Temptations, Three Dog Night, and The Rolling Stones as the boys and girls grooved on the small wooden dance floor. Trinh asked Davis for a dance and they walked over to the center, underneath the sparkling disco ball. Peeve entered the club in uniform, walking in their direction. "May I cut in?" he asked Trinh with a wide smile. "Hey, this ain't no officers' club!" Davis hollered, sending a wave of laughter throughout the room. Peeve stood back, red in the face, and pointed at Davis. "You'll pay for this, you bastard!" "Hey, I'm a Vietnam Vet. Kiss my ass." * Spiders, the weavers of people's fates, represent the fragility of human life, and the temptation of evil. They connect past with future. Found in homes, spiders are a sign of good luck and good fortune. Balloons hung from the black metal railing, and a multicolored sign displaying WELCOME HOME rested on suctioned hooks in the window. Before walking inside his parent's row home on Iseminger Street, he dropped his bags on the cement pavement and sat on the top step. A monsoon of memories flooded Eddie's brain. The incident in Jersey—a stupid kid who made the wrong decision, but was given a second chance. Joey Meese—big mouth, no balls; a kid who looked up to him, idolized his courage. His draft letter—the tan envelope with URGENT written in bold red letters, his future resting in his father's lap. Peeve—a pathetic, insecure bully, an older version of Berky. Bragger—a ballsy kid who'd be dead if it weren't for him. He heard the screen door click open and turned around to see Franny, who'd been waiting for him to return home so they could finally start a family of their own. New webs to spin. | |