Bart

  He had his rifle leveled at us. Draped in a filthy tarp, with a hole cut for his head, he looked less human and more like a phantom dragged out of the jungle. His hair shot wild in all directions like Einstein in a storm, and leaves and twigs intertwined in his beard. Only his eyes, wide, glassy, and haunted, looked aware.

  I stepped forward slowly, my hands raised, palms open.

  “Dad? Are you okay?”

  “What are you doing out here, son?” he asked me as he reached out with his left hand and grabbed me by the back of the neck. He pulled me in for a rough, manly, forehead to forehead hug with a strength I never knew he possessed. His breath hit me like a wave, like rotten meat and decay. I knew I didn’t smell great, but he really, really stank. Still, he looked healthy. Alive!

  “I came to find you, Dad. My friends and I have been searching all day.” As I said it, I realized the sun was sinking. No way we’d make it back before dark. Thank God the spider silk would keep the mosquitoes off me; they’d be swarming soon.

  “Why didn’t you go home, Dad? I figured that would be the first thing you’d do.”

  “Can’t,” he said, his tone flat, soldier?sharp. “My unit’s missing. I need to hold my ground, defeat the enemy. Keep searching ‘til I find ‘em.”

  “Your unit? What are you talking about?”

  “My unit, boy! What unit are you and your friends in?” Dad’s eyes narrowed suspicious.

  “We aren’t in a unit. We need to get you back home. We all need to get back home.”

  “1st Calvary Division,” he spat, as if I’d said it myself “No way they would send in anyone but the 1st. Where’s your helicopters?”

  He didn’t look right. His eyes darted, body twitching in erratic spasms.

  Dehydration, I thought.

  He leaned close, whispering hot against my ear. “You sure these friends o’ urn ain’t Charlie? Or Ruskie spies?”

  “No sir. It’s Keith and Steve. No one named Charlie, Dad. Do you need us to find a Charlie?”

  He waved me off, cursing louder than I’d ever heard him curse, then spun back. “Meh, whatever! Dey better be on da up and up! Better not be spies! Come wit’ me. Now!”

  “Dad,” I shouted after him. “Come back!”

  Steve muttered, “Is he joking?”

  Keith twirled a finger at his temple, whistling the “you’re crazy” tune, ‘whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo.’

  I punched him lightly in the back. “That’s my dad, bro. He’s not crazy.” Then to Steve I said, “I think he’s sick, dehydrated, or both. I don’t know what he was talking about with the ‘spies’ stuff. I’ll talk to him. You guys stay here and set up camp. We need a good fire to keep the bugs and other critters away. Can y’all handle that?”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  I probably sounded a little too harsh, but I needed to focus on my dad. They nodded, so I took off.

  Dad moved fast, swatting at invisible bugs. I had never seen him act like this. I grabbed a bottle of water from Jeremy’s pack and and sprinted after him. “Dad! Wait up. Here. Drink this!”

  He grasped it and chugged half in one go. “Aaahh…nice. Danks, bud. I needed some ‘Life’s Blessing!’”

  The phrase froze me.

  “Dad… why’d you call it that? Do you have magic? Do you see words in the air. Like words in banners?”

  He stopped, eyes locked on mine, hard and unblinking. He leaned in close, squinting like he was sizing me up for a fight, studying every twitch in my face. I felt stripped bare, like he could see straight through my skin and into whatever I was hiding. My knees wanted to buckle, but I stood firm, praying he’d see his son instead of an enemy.

  “You sayin’ I’m crazy?” he asked me.

  “No, Dad! I see them too. I think it’s some kind of magic or something.”

  “Hmmm…right…best keep goin’ den.” He waved me off like he was shooing a fly and kept going.

  “Dad, please. Come back with me.”

  He stopped. “Go back where? Where’m I supposed to go? Nowhere’s safe. Charlie everywhere. Spies everywhere. Don’t know who ta trust.”

  “Home, Dad. Let’s go home. Where do you think you are?”

  “Dis is war, boy! What’d you tink you’re doin’ out here, chicken farmin’?!? You don’t wake up; you’re gonna end up on da wrong side of punji sticks!”

  “Punji?? Dad! We don’t have punji traps here,” I couldn’t believe Dad was suspicious of one of the most dangerous and malicious Viet Cong boobie traps out here in the bayou. ““That’s Vietnam. Not the bayou.”

  “Dere are traps everywhere. Viet Cong don’t leave areas like dis without ‘em. You gotta be vigilant, boy.”

  “Okay, we’ll be vigilant. Let’s go back to my camp for the night. We’ll eat something, get some rest, and then head out first thing in the morning. Okay?”

  I prayed he’d listen. If he wandered deeper into the swamp, convinced it was Vietnam, I might never find him again.

  I had seen something like this at the hospital in Landstuhl. Soldiers made it back from Afghanistan or Iraq their bodies broken, minds fractured. Some suffered from invisible wounds while recovering from obvious ones. Some clawed their way back after therapy. A few managed to live semi?normal lives until a trigger dragged them under again. Too many couldn’t bear it and ended the pain themselves. Twenty?two veterans every day.

  I didn’t know what Dad had done in Vietnam, but now I believed it was darker than he’d ever let on. Something had broken him, and this swamp had triggered it,

  I had to tread carefully. My friends needed to stay quiet, leave him alone, and mind their manners. Let me handle him.

  “Dad,” I said softly, “please come back with me. Let’s eat. You can debrief us about the situation with the enemy. Okay?”

  He hesitated, then nodded.“Okay, but be careful what you say around dem ‘friends’ of yours. I’ve caught spies lurkin’ about deese last few days. You got it?”

  “Yessir.”

  Dad sat across from them, still suspicious. Then, his arm shot out like lightning. I braced to intervene—until he yanked up an enormous snake. It writhed, snapping at him, but he pinned it behind the head and sank his teeth into its flesh. Blood ran down his chin as he chewed raw meat.

  We headed back towards the place we killed the willow tree. The team had already started a good campfire. Dad’s eyes flicked uneasily at the flames, scanning shadows for threats.

  “Steve, can you find us something to eat?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Sure. He good?” He replied picking up the rifle.

  “No guns!” Dad snapped, and I had to grab his tarp cloak.

  “Here. Take the machete.”

  Dad sat across from them, still suspicious. Then, his arm shot out like lightning. I braced to intervene, but yanked up an enormous snake. It writhed, snapping at him, but he pinned it behind the head and sank his teeth into its flesh. Blood ran from his lips as he chewed raw meat.

  “Ewww! Mr. Cash!” Steve gagged.

  Dad grinned, mouth full, spitting viscera. “Tastes like chicken.” He pulled a bone from his teeth, blood dripping down his beard.

  Well, that explains his horrible breath.

  I hated seeing him like this. Half here, half lost.

  I had to figure out a way to get him back home so I could get him the help he needed. Dad was alive, but part of him was still in Vietnam. Still in the jungle. Still fighting a war he’d never escaped.