Mbandaka, Congo
There a uncomfortable feeling of alienation and exposure in the room. Even alone. Its entire air was something that Caramel had not come to known to be a soldier's environment. All the features incorporated into the office by Doctor Lieughen just didn't feel right. And far removed from the area's base, it was difficult to believe and to accept the Dutchman was an employee to ASN.
The softly ticking clock that hung alongside the door set a slow timely tempo for the softly trilling air-conditioning. The soft rattling of the fans and the vents was distinct to the Congo. Even in the finestly decorated quarters. The foil rattling warbled and scratched like a den of furious mice, as the soft gentle breath of cold air fell into the room like a flow of cold water. Less could be said of the town outside.
Alone in the office Caramel had to wonder if he was early to his appointment, or Lieughen was again late. The passing minutes in the decorated office ticked away at the constant tempo of the clock. An expectation that he had perhaps had the wrong date or time filled the vessel of his conscious as the cold air continued to circulate.
There was a nagging sensation that for whatever issues he had, what Lieughen saw in him that needed to be addressed, could be attested to in some other way. Impressions of the long dead suggested that he didn't need a doctor. Maybe if he kept his head low, kept silent, learned to deal with whatever he'll carry through. Images of American Veteran types in the movies, sitting slouched over bars throwing back shots of whiskey or gin crawled up. What movie had he seen these in? He couldn't recall, it must have been before The War.
And he was Ok. Physically at least. Unlike the armies of the crippled that trudged through the streets at home. Arms and legs replaced with skeletal replacements to their legs. Or surrendered to their having only a single arm. But he couldn't fit in there. He hadn't lost anything. Not anything that could be seen.
Caramel jumped, his heart skipping a beat as the slow languid rhythm of the room was disrupted by a sharp click from behind. Caramel's breath held as he instinctively almost grabbed for a nonexistent weapon. Turning to face the door. Finding Lieughen.
“Goedemiddag.” the doctor said smiling, closing the door behind him. Held under his arm was the plain, simple folder holding Caramel's medical and psychiatric papers. Tucked under, the clear crystalline, plastic shine of a tablet computer sat cradled between the cardboard folder and the side of the doctor's hip. The glow of the plastic suggested it was on and running.
“Same to you...” Caramel replied uncertainly.
“I'm sorry, that's right,” said Lieughen, laughing politely as he walked to his desk, “you don't speak Dutch. What languages do you speak then, brother?”
“Spanish and English, sir.” the soldier nervously replied.
“I suppose English is a given.” Lieughen said, “Where'd you learn your English?” he asked.
“Movies, sir.” said Caramel with a shrug, “And a bit in the war, working alongside some American soldiers... time to time...”
“So, you think you're ready to start?” Lieughen asked.
“For what?” asked Caramel. He knew what it was, but he felt somehow if he played dumb this would be over quick and he could go back to do whatever. But the Dutch doctor wasn't taking it as he leaned over his deck, giving him a stern impatient look.
“Look, I can tell you don't like to do this.” he said. His voice was hard, but warm. Fatherly almost. “But it's for the best we confront things, what at a time. This thing we all suffer, Shellshock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is malignant to our own mental health if we keep it bottled up like many war fighters like to do. For the sake of your health and our peace of mind should open up.
“Not much, just a bit at a time.”
“Well how the Hell do you know I got a problem?” Carlos cursed.
Lieughen leaned back in his chair, rocking it back as he opened his arms. “This is a start.” he said, “And a severe case of hyperarousal, quite well after the fact. Though I don't know if this is a lingering case given you're a active duty member of our family. We also got the insomnia and nightmares...”
“How'd you hear of that?” Caramel sneered.
“I'm not obligated to say.” Lieughen said, “I have my policies. Heavier so the policies set from higher up in the human resources chain. There would be no way I can tell you, even if I wanted to.”
“God dammit, I don't want to do this!” Caramel shouted.
“Many don't.” Lieughen responded.
Caramel shook his head, throwing himself further back into the chair. Slouching back into the hard cushion of the back. “I don't suppose I'll be let out until you get what you want.” he said defeated, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
“Not at all.” Lieughen said.
“Can I ask a question then?” Caramel sighed.
“You may.”
“Just how serious is all of this, to everyone?”
Lieughen nodded. Laying his head back against the rich black leather of his office chair he recounted in a dry factual tone, “Not everyone.” he said, “But all of us, given we're all war veterans in some form, develop PTSD as a fierce side-effect of our job. Some of us get over it, as we all do. Sometimes they'll face the trauma for all but a couple months. But serious conditions a year after The War means there's serious conditions. Pierre and the Board is not interested in loosing anyone to the effects of Trauma, or anyone outside the organization without need. They're very serious on this.
“So any suggestion of what lingering trauma remains a year after will need to be addressed by myself, or the Psychology Department. I'm obligated to do this.”
“I see.” Caramel grunted, “Alright, fuck it. Where do you want me to start?”
“Where do you want to start?” Lieughen asked.
“I was hoping you'd know.” Caramel hissed aggressively, “So where do I start? My first engagement!? Want me to go through them all in order!?”
“I'm sure we could both be here a very long time.” Lieughen smiled, “But whatever is easier. How about we begin there?”
Caramel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The room took on a darker feel. More distant as the air grew colder. More so than it was. Feeling clammy and sick he leaned forward into a slouch, holding his head low as he danced his thumbs, sitting in silence.
There was many things he could open up about. But, what was there to talk about. The sights and sounds of his demons swam in his head. With vivid clarity he could see what he had seen. The fires of Costa Rica, the blood in the Panama Canal. Howling sirens, and the screams of men and gun fire. At the beat of his heart he heard the distant pounding of war drums as artillery and mortar shells exploded across the jungle hills of Central America.
He croaked several words as he grappled. Shifting back and forward in his seat. Lieughen's watch held him firm to his position. He didn't want him to move. He could see it in his eyes as the shadows darkened in the room and he took on something like a distant ghostly specter. But his words were spoken with a clarity beyond anything he had heard before. “Take your time.” his voice said crystal clear and bright in the darkness, “Find the right place.”
Above, the air-conditioner sounded almost like a jet plane, flying from the darkness of the night to cut out the blight of life as rattling gunfire chased it through the night's sky.
He listened to the spectral sounds as they assumed a place in the world. The sterile coldness of the air grew steadily bitter. Things became frightening. The space greater, the chair colder and damp under his rump. His inner demons and the forces he had witnessed dragged him back. He leaving the Congo. He was going back. To a darker place. A hotter place. A wetter place.
His tour reversed to one of a nameless series of valleys. To mountain roads and trees stricken by so much defoliant that the chemicals used saturated the soil. Dripped from the boughs of twisted jungle browns and blacks in haunting shades of orange and red. The world lay stretched before him mangled like the corpse of a punished angle. Rocks rose from the black carcass as all of living life reached upwards as maggots and ants fought over the body of the world they once knew.
And at the foot of Caramel's seat, was the body of Central America. A kid perhaps no older than he was when he enlisted. Fair of face. And even as death sapped his colors he held a fair, caramel complexion. His eyes lay closed, as if sleeping. Spots of blood caked his face, where his head had not been torn open open into a wide cavernous hole. Gray matter and blood lay spread across the charred soil, fanning out to a wide radius, caking all the black with a deep drying red that soaked the ash and soot.
He looked almost peaceful. And Caramel spoke to it. He wasn't Caramel anymore as he spoke. But Carlos. Carlos Santomano.
Nicaraqua Highlands, 2032
Action Tiem
The sound of guns in the distance still echoed over the stony stripped crags that remained of the highlands. In the fury of bombing, and in the fierce counter-offensive against the army of Gran Colombia all life that has resided in the cloud forest had been burned out. Defoliant dropped in huge masses, leaving what trees still stood a barren skeletons. Much like the bodies that littered the ground at their bases. The skeletons of men and of animals lay clustered against the pillars of ash, reaching desperately for safety as the fled from a threat too fast to claim them. A soft glistening of orange dripped from the branches of the life-less trees, and chemical red.
The bitter smells of sulphur and of mercury clouded the air turning the fog a ghostly red as it rolled over the wasteland left behind. The thickness of the smoke clouded vision and the lower valleys below were shrouded in the discolored chemical mist that killed so much of the thick jungle. It was a necessity, command had said. The looming eyes of drones were otherwise blind with the trees. The thick, rich canopies and tightly knit underbrush making it impossible to find and destroy the enemy.
But now they had, but to how much else had to go with it for them to die?
Carlos Santomano sat on a burned out log. It was hard to tell if the slimy moistness of it was to the accelerant left behind by the bombs, or a residual effect of the herbicide. Tired and drained, the handsome, fair, young boy leaned against his assault rifle. His skin sapped and his eyes darkened with purple bags that sagged as he did. A simple gas mask covered his mouth, little more than a hospital face-mask. His bright eyes stung and itched with the aromas of war that drifted around him, and biting tears welled in the corners. Blood dripped down his brow from a superficial head wound, but that too was sore and burned like an enraged fire. Was it really all that superficial? That hopeful?
And looking at the two victims of the war at his feet, he felt the feeling of youthful immortality evaporate in painful fires as the screams that had bellowed all through the valley burned in his ears. This wasn't war. This wasn't anything. This was brutality. Brutality to the man at his feat, and brutality to the beast at his feat.
Sprawled naked in the ash, fire having burned away his uniform lay the corpse of his dearest friend from basic. The two had met on the bus. His name was Miguel. Miguel Torrino from Choluteca. He was a fair young man, with a smile full of life. He was a large man, and no amount of punishment put into him ever shed the fat that now hung limp from every part of his body. And his uniform burned away by Peruvian fire, the stark realities of dying lay before him. Down to the last shit from his bowls.
It was not an image Carlos hoped to ever see in his closest friend since his youth. But when he had found his body limp in the muddy ash he surrendered to himself there and then. Threw himself weeping against the log. He had volunteered to keep guard over his body. It was an arbitrary, useless decision on his part. But the sergeant didn't care. He let him go. Said he'd find the medics to collect Miguel’s shattered body.
It was evident on him that the fire was not what had claimed him, but merely stripped him to his bare unprotected flesh. No. It was the cavernous hole in his head that split him open from the edge of his right eye all the way back. Gray matter, blood, and harry scalp coated the burned mountain side in a thick coffee-brown and thick red soup. Clouds of perfect black hair floated in the coagulating pools of blood that fanned out from where he had died. For once in his short life, Carlos found the idea of death embracing, hopeful. He wished he was there, and not him. The world needed Miguel’s laughter. The world needed to be a brighter, better place.
Carlos' tears had dried. He had nothing left to shed. Emptiness consumed him and he felt like he was in a daze. There was nothing else in the world but the shattered and burned body of a human, and the deceased bird that had found a final resting place next to him.
Carlos couldn't say when the bird landed there to die. But it wasn't there on Miguel’s discovery. Twisted and bent, the formerly rich and vibrant quetzal had fallen from the sky. Mangled with burns and feathers pulling off its body. Its deadened eyes stared up into the sky, caked and clouded over with diseased oranges and reds. Perhaps a unwanted side-effect of the gas. There was nothing natural in the pose it lay in.
Its head was twisted up to the sky, as its body lay flat against the darkened dirt. Patches the size of an American quarter had pulled bare from its pink flesh, now dotted and flaked with cancerous sores and purple bruises and burns. The emerald feathers had died and faded, almost as if the war had drained them of as much life and vibrancy has the Bird of Paradise. And the stains of red made is impossible to tell where its ruby-red breast ended.
It was as much as a symbol of the War's effect as Miquel.
The voices of men echoed in the distance. Ghostly and faded, it wasn't as if they existed. But the thick discolored mist made it impossible to see if they even existed. But they were there. The dialog was distinctly American. The language English. To Carlos' shock their echoing calls and talk was jovial. Almost humorous. Cruel in the vicious humor they found in the desolated landscape.
And there was something else. Almost sobbing. Meek, distant, distressed. High pitched screams echoed in the hazy fog, only soliciting more laughs.
The sounds of the heckling and the laughing pulled up Carlos' eyes to where they cried in the abyss. Carlos knew Americans, he had marched with them out of basic. They had an air of confidence, pride that he wish he had. The way they moved, marched, and fought inspired an idea of being untouchable. Super human. He hoped so much to be as cool as the Americans. From the movies he saw as a kid, to the fields he trained and fought in now. There was an allure to being American, a spiritual one. And perhaps, well, they could help him. Help him get over his friend's death. Help him come to terms.
On shaking legs he sat up staggering at his weakened knees. Mourning had taken a lot of energy from him and his assault rifle hang weakly from his shoulder by a narrow strap. His numb hand held the rifle between his finger in a weak hold, as a ghost of the strength he had.
And as he walked, he didn't feel in control of himself. He felt like strings were pulling on him to lead him forward. He wasn't his own man. He was vacant of himself. Piloted like a drone, he watched from miles away through his own eyes as he staggered to the voices. He felt slack. Sick. Clamy.
As he got closer to the sources of the voice, so did their clarity.
“Bitch settle down!” screamed a deep voice. There was a unique inflection in it. Something he associated with the hip-hop of the north. Compton. Dr. Drey. It was hard, rough. 'Gangsta' as the Americans described it.
“I'd hate to slap me a bitch but I will if I got to. I'd hate to bruise a bitch.”
“No! No!” a woman pleaded in Spanish. She was full of panic and of fear. It was as clear as a light on in a darkened room. So why did Carlos keep walking? Why was he lured to the wriggling bait before his eyes. He could feel the mounting dread inside himself. But it mounted curiosity, and it fueled him.
“Dude man, I don't think she understands you!” cackled another voice.
“Fuck man, you speak this beaner shit yo? Why don't you fucking tell her to take off her clothes. They're obstructing my view, yo!”
“Me no hablo la deutschee, yo.” jeered the other voice.
“No, Americans, let me go. Please have mercy, by God!” pleaded the woman. There was a loud wet smack. Brush and brambles broke as he voice cut off, replaced by soft sobbing.
“Now you done bruised her you fucking cracka.” Dr Dre roared, half angry, half laughing.
“Apperantly I didn't say it clear enough, yo.” his friend laughed.
They were coming in view now. The fog fading them to black silhouettes on putrid white, and faint sickly sherbert orange. At the base of a tree lay a girl, leaning against the tree as she sat curled in the ash. Hovering off to the side stood two large men. Body armor defined their bodies at odd angles, and both their heads were shaved smooth.
“Shiet, what's she sayin' now?” Gangsta laughed.
“Hell if I know yo, I think she's trying to say she likes it up the ass.” his friend sneered.
“Shit, it be better than nothing.” Gangsta barked, “Go on, hold onto her for a minute.”
“The fuck man, I found her!” his companion argued, “I ain't getting' sloppy seconds, yo.”
“Shit you are cracka-ass. You owe me fucking money.”
Carlos drew close enough that the three came into view. Tossed against the side of a bombed, burnt tree sat curled a young Colombian girl. Her short hair stood up in messy rags as muddy ash and blood sharpened strands to wet points. Her round, soft, youthful face was mired with a frown stained with tears and caked with blood as she looked up at Carlos, pleading him to help her. Her uniform hung from her shoulders in dirtied, sweat and soot stained rags. Leaning over her back the other, a white man with short blonde hair tore through her battered uniform, tearing from her back her bra and casting it aside as she tore at her pants.
His partner, a black man the size of a tank with the face as attractive as a buffalo stood watching, loosening the buttons and zippers of his uniform.
With a hateful grunt, the blonde threw the surrendered and beaten body of the soldier towards his friend. Looking up he spied Carlos, and his eyes went wide. Brows furrowing he rose angrily, shouting: “Yo, fucking Beaner fuck WHAT THE FUCK!?”
Carlos froze stunned in the open. Shocked, the black man turned about. His fat pig lips frowned, showing yellowed fang-like teeth he bore when his eyes fell on Carlos.
“The fuck you fucking want, cunt?” he barked in a low gravely voice, “This bitch is fucking mine. You back the fuck off before I load enough caps in your bean-picking ass I can pick you up with a magnet.”
At his feet, the stripped and torn woman turned to Carlos. Tears streaked down her face as she cried silently, biting at her lips. On her eyes Carlos could see she wanted him to save her. Raise that rifle of his. Shoot them both.
But, he hesitated. Seeing the two gods standing over her, Carlos backed off. Taking a pair of shocked drunken steps back as he turned back blindly into the chemical fog. Roaring laughter echoed in the afternoon. And the last words of that poor girl screamed pained in his ears as she fought. Struggled for freedom.
“No! No! NO!” she pleaded to deaf ears.
Mbandaka, Congo, June 11th, 2040 – Present Day
“I-” Caramel choked. His heart felt strangled by snaked. His tongue tasted bitter. Almost as if he was back there. The chiming of the clock sounded haunting, like the cries of the woman he could have saved. The tears he owed her and Miguel came washing out. His hands held them back, but he didn't know if it was an appropriate dam against the river.
“You don't need to go on if you don't want to.” Lieughen said. His voice was warm, comforting. Kneeling down alongside Caramel he put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I think you did good.” he comforted.
“Shit doctor, this is why I don't talk!” Caramel sobbed, rubbing the tears from his eyes with one soaked finger, “The shit I've seen, could have done. I, I don't like it. And I don't know if anyone will fucking understand me. You know?”
“I think you might find others here might. If you know who to ask, or how.” Lieughen said.
“Who then?” Caramel said, his voice was cracked and dry. The brightness of the room was returning. Taking on a new human warmth to it.
“I'm afraid I can't say who.” Lieughen said, laughing a little.
“Well then doctor, what about you?” Caramel asked.
Lieughen nodded, standing up. “So you're holding me to my word.” he said with a smile.
“I am.” Caramel replied in a low tone. Watching the Dutchman walk around back to his desk.
Lieughen looked up to his series of photos on the wall. The pictures ringed around the room, showing off a number of silent deeds or places he had been. “I joined the Dutch army at the age of eighteen in 2010.” he started, “I did a single tour with them, before going to college to study psychiatry. I didn't see much action then, so I have nothing to say.
“But, on graduation I felt the pinch of my decision.” he continued somberly, “I found it hard to really find work, and I wasn't the type of person to try and establish my own practice. To be honest, I thought I could maybe get in with some older doctor and learn from him as I helped treat addicts in Amsterdam or something.” he shrugged indifferently as he sat down, “But I wasn't that lucky. I was working in a pot shop instead to pay my bills. Though can't say I was ever a fan of smoking, it makes me cough way too much, even with the weed.
“Anyways, I felt like I wasn't doing enough, and in 2015 I approached the United Nations as a volunteer, looking for adventure somewhere as a youth still, and with military training. I found myself in Iraq later that year.
“Some of the things there I thought were the worst I could ever see.” he stopped for a bit, laughing nervously as he looked up at the pictures, “But, I learned to love the Iraqis, for what it was worth. But I also saw my first real taste of war.
“All through the four years from 2014 to 2018 Sunni insurgents were trying to rip through the country to establish a Caliphate of their own. The US, and some elements of Iran felt the need to step in to protect both their interests and to crash the ISIL, the insurgents in question. Americans used drones as ISIL used terror.
“I was a part of a UN medical corp in the region to distribute medical aid to the civilians effected by both sides of the war ISIL was generous enough to allow restricted aid to some areas, and I ended up in Samarra learning how to do pediatric work under the tutelage of an American doctor. We both had a lot of respect for each other, and after a while we had our selves going in a sort of team work. He healed the physical wounds, and I healed the mental.
“Most injuries weren't terrible. Some minor shrapnel contusions and consultation to get over nightmares for a few weeks and most were good. Except for one day...”
Lieughen's face went colder as he looked up at the left-most photo of the wall to his right. Standing smiling alongside an older Grey-haired doctor was a younger and livelier Doctor Lieughen. Both had bright smiles, and had gathered around them an ensemble of beaming Iraqi children. “I don't know who it was from, who took the shot. But just outside of town an air strike hit and took out a convoy of trucks, loaded with men, women, and children. Somewhere in the chain of intelligence someone felt the caravan of civilians was ISIL and went to destroy it. Instead we got flooded with injured.”
Lieughen's face lowered, “And there was a girl that I had treated before in that. Sweatest, cutest ten year old you could ever meet.” he continued, his voice quivering, “And she could sing. She had the most wonderful voice when she had me listen to a song she could here. But she came into the compound, wrapped tight in her father's shirt to hold her belly closed as she bled in her father's arm.
“The missile I guess had struck just a foot in front of the car she was riding in. When we autopsied her we concluded the blast had thrown her against the front seat, breaking her shoulder. A piece of shrapnel, missile, or something had tore through the front. It killed her uncle in the back, but passed through her in doing so. She died only a minute after reaching out outpost, and neither me or my friend, Dr Connors could do anything.
“I remember looking down at her as we lay her in a bed. She'd lost so much blood she passed out. But she looked like she was sleeping. But she passed just as we took her to surgery.”
“I'm sorry...” Caramel said.
“I know. We all were.” Lieughen said distantly. With a deep breath he turned to Caramel and said, “We all lost a battle of our own, brother.” he said, giving him a weak sort of half-smile, “Have faith we'll understand.
“And I'd recommend talking to some of your squad mates.” Lieughen nodded, “You're more than likely to find support in them if you confide.”
“You can't tell me who though?” Caramel asked.
“I can't, but I can say there are.” Lieughen said, regaining composure. But his expression was still distant and saddened.
“This sort of thing is an ongoing process.” Lieughen added, “It's a community thing as well. It's a reason why the US has the American Legion. For a nation that has seen as much conflict as it has, I guess there's an engrained social need for veteran support outside of the federal sphere. But even that's never enough, and this past fifteen years has only risen the number of people like yourself to extreme levels.
“The ASN exists to save people like ourselves, Carlos.” Lieughen continued, “I want you to remember that. We're more than one of a few companies willing to take us in. We're more than a means to keep millions out of welfare and benefits. We're a community of similarly stricken people. We're rehabilitation. We're healing.
“I know it's easy to think of us in that sense. But trust me, please do. Things now can't get any worse anyways. There are far too many wounds to lick. Far too many deep ones.”
Caramel nodded, “I see.” he said. And for a change, he felt better. He was still nagged and gnawed from within having woken the ghosts. But to have it off his shoulders felt reinvigorating. Better.
“And doctor...” he said, “Thanks.”
“It's my pleasure and duty, brother.”
There a uncomfortable feeling of alienation and exposure in the room. Even alone. Its entire air was something that Caramel had not come to known to be a soldier's environment. All the features incorporated into the office by Doctor Lieughen just didn't feel right. And far removed from the area's base, it was difficult to believe and to accept the Dutchman was an employee to ASN.
The softly ticking clock that hung alongside the door set a slow timely tempo for the softly trilling air-conditioning. The soft rattling of the fans and the vents was distinct to the Congo. Even in the finestly decorated quarters. The foil rattling warbled and scratched like a den of furious mice, as the soft gentle breath of cold air fell into the room like a flow of cold water. Less could be said of the town outside.
Alone in the office Caramel had to wonder if he was early to his appointment, or Lieughen was again late. The passing minutes in the decorated office ticked away at the constant tempo of the clock. An expectation that he had perhaps had the wrong date or time filled the vessel of his conscious as the cold air continued to circulate.
There was a nagging sensation that for whatever issues he had, what Lieughen saw in him that needed to be addressed, could be attested to in some other way. Impressions of the long dead suggested that he didn't need a doctor. Maybe if he kept his head low, kept silent, learned to deal with whatever he'll carry through. Images of American Veteran types in the movies, sitting slouched over bars throwing back shots of whiskey or gin crawled up. What movie had he seen these in? He couldn't recall, it must have been before The War.
And he was Ok. Physically at least. Unlike the armies of the crippled that trudged through the streets at home. Arms and legs replaced with skeletal replacements to their legs. Or surrendered to their having only a single arm. But he couldn't fit in there. He hadn't lost anything. Not anything that could be seen.
Caramel jumped, his heart skipping a beat as the slow languid rhythm of the room was disrupted by a sharp click from behind. Caramel's breath held as he instinctively almost grabbed for a nonexistent weapon. Turning to face the door. Finding Lieughen.
“Goedemiddag.” the doctor said smiling, closing the door behind him. Held under his arm was the plain, simple folder holding Caramel's medical and psychiatric papers. Tucked under, the clear crystalline, plastic shine of a tablet computer sat cradled between the cardboard folder and the side of the doctor's hip. The glow of the plastic suggested it was on and running.
“Same to you...” Caramel replied uncertainly.
“I'm sorry, that's right,” said Lieughen, laughing politely as he walked to his desk, “you don't speak Dutch. What languages do you speak then, brother?”
“Spanish and English, sir.” the soldier nervously replied.
“I suppose English is a given.” Lieughen said, “Where'd you learn your English?” he asked.
“Movies, sir.” said Caramel with a shrug, “And a bit in the war, working alongside some American soldiers... time to time...”
“So, you think you're ready to start?” Lieughen asked.
“For what?” asked Caramel. He knew what it was, but he felt somehow if he played dumb this would be over quick and he could go back to do whatever. But the Dutch doctor wasn't taking it as he leaned over his deck, giving him a stern impatient look.
“Look, I can tell you don't like to do this.” he said. His voice was hard, but warm. Fatherly almost. “But it's for the best we confront things, what at a time. This thing we all suffer, Shellshock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is malignant to our own mental health if we keep it bottled up like many war fighters like to do. For the sake of your health and our peace of mind should open up.
“Not much, just a bit at a time.”
“Well how the Hell do you know I got a problem?” Carlos cursed.
Lieughen leaned back in his chair, rocking it back as he opened his arms. “This is a start.” he said, “And a severe case of hyperarousal, quite well after the fact. Though I don't know if this is a lingering case given you're a active duty member of our family. We also got the insomnia and nightmares...”
“How'd you hear of that?” Caramel sneered.
“I'm not obligated to say.” Lieughen said, “I have my policies. Heavier so the policies set from higher up in the human resources chain. There would be no way I can tell you, even if I wanted to.”
“God dammit, I don't want to do this!” Caramel shouted.
“Many don't.” Lieughen responded.
Caramel shook his head, throwing himself further back into the chair. Slouching back into the hard cushion of the back. “I don't suppose I'll be let out until you get what you want.” he said defeated, rubbing the corners of his eyes.
“Not at all.” Lieughen said.
“Can I ask a question then?” Caramel sighed.
“You may.”
“Just how serious is all of this, to everyone?”
Lieughen nodded. Laying his head back against the rich black leather of his office chair he recounted in a dry factual tone, “Not everyone.” he said, “But all of us, given we're all war veterans in some form, develop PTSD as a fierce side-effect of our job. Some of us get over it, as we all do. Sometimes they'll face the trauma for all but a couple months. But serious conditions a year after The War means there's serious conditions. Pierre and the Board is not interested in loosing anyone to the effects of Trauma, or anyone outside the organization without need. They're very serious on this.
“So any suggestion of what lingering trauma remains a year after will need to be addressed by myself, or the Psychology Department. I'm obligated to do this.”
“I see.” Caramel grunted, “Alright, fuck it. Where do you want me to start?”
“Where do you want to start?” Lieughen asked.
“I was hoping you'd know.” Caramel hissed aggressively, “So where do I start? My first engagement!? Want me to go through them all in order!?”
“I'm sure we could both be here a very long time.” Lieughen smiled, “But whatever is easier. How about we begin there?”
Caramel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The room took on a darker feel. More distant as the air grew colder. More so than it was. Feeling clammy and sick he leaned forward into a slouch, holding his head low as he danced his thumbs, sitting in silence.
There was many things he could open up about. But, what was there to talk about. The sights and sounds of his demons swam in his head. With vivid clarity he could see what he had seen. The fires of Costa Rica, the blood in the Panama Canal. Howling sirens, and the screams of men and gun fire. At the beat of his heart he heard the distant pounding of war drums as artillery and mortar shells exploded across the jungle hills of Central America.
He croaked several words as he grappled. Shifting back and forward in his seat. Lieughen's watch held him firm to his position. He didn't want him to move. He could see it in his eyes as the shadows darkened in the room and he took on something like a distant ghostly specter. But his words were spoken with a clarity beyond anything he had heard before. “Take your time.” his voice said crystal clear and bright in the darkness, “Find the right place.”
Above, the air-conditioner sounded almost like a jet plane, flying from the darkness of the night to cut out the blight of life as rattling gunfire chased it through the night's sky.
He listened to the spectral sounds as they assumed a place in the world. The sterile coldness of the air grew steadily bitter. Things became frightening. The space greater, the chair colder and damp under his rump. His inner demons and the forces he had witnessed dragged him back. He leaving the Congo. He was going back. To a darker place. A hotter place. A wetter place.
His tour reversed to one of a nameless series of valleys. To mountain roads and trees stricken by so much defoliant that the chemicals used saturated the soil. Dripped from the boughs of twisted jungle browns and blacks in haunting shades of orange and red. The world lay stretched before him mangled like the corpse of a punished angle. Rocks rose from the black carcass as all of living life reached upwards as maggots and ants fought over the body of the world they once knew.
And at the foot of Caramel's seat, was the body of Central America. A kid perhaps no older than he was when he enlisted. Fair of face. And even as death sapped his colors he held a fair, caramel complexion. His eyes lay closed, as if sleeping. Spots of blood caked his face, where his head had not been torn open open into a wide cavernous hole. Gray matter and blood lay spread across the charred soil, fanning out to a wide radius, caking all the black with a deep drying red that soaked the ash and soot.
He looked almost peaceful. And Caramel spoke to it. He wasn't Caramel anymore as he spoke. But Carlos. Carlos Santomano.
Nicaraqua Highlands, 2032
Action Tiem
The sound of guns in the distance still echoed over the stony stripped crags that remained of the highlands. In the fury of bombing, and in the fierce counter-offensive against the army of Gran Colombia all life that has resided in the cloud forest had been burned out. Defoliant dropped in huge masses, leaving what trees still stood a barren skeletons. Much like the bodies that littered the ground at their bases. The skeletons of men and of animals lay clustered against the pillars of ash, reaching desperately for safety as the fled from a threat too fast to claim them. A soft glistening of orange dripped from the branches of the life-less trees, and chemical red.
The bitter smells of sulphur and of mercury clouded the air turning the fog a ghostly red as it rolled over the wasteland left behind. The thickness of the smoke clouded vision and the lower valleys below were shrouded in the discolored chemical mist that killed so much of the thick jungle. It was a necessity, command had said. The looming eyes of drones were otherwise blind with the trees. The thick, rich canopies and tightly knit underbrush making it impossible to find and destroy the enemy.
But now they had, but to how much else had to go with it for them to die?
Carlos Santomano sat on a burned out log. It was hard to tell if the slimy moistness of it was to the accelerant left behind by the bombs, or a residual effect of the herbicide. Tired and drained, the handsome, fair, young boy leaned against his assault rifle. His skin sapped and his eyes darkened with purple bags that sagged as he did. A simple gas mask covered his mouth, little more than a hospital face-mask. His bright eyes stung and itched with the aromas of war that drifted around him, and biting tears welled in the corners. Blood dripped down his brow from a superficial head wound, but that too was sore and burned like an enraged fire. Was it really all that superficial? That hopeful?
And looking at the two victims of the war at his feet, he felt the feeling of youthful immortality evaporate in painful fires as the screams that had bellowed all through the valley burned in his ears. This wasn't war. This wasn't anything. This was brutality. Brutality to the man at his feat, and brutality to the beast at his feat.
Sprawled naked in the ash, fire having burned away his uniform lay the corpse of his dearest friend from basic. The two had met on the bus. His name was Miguel. Miguel Torrino from Choluteca. He was a fair young man, with a smile full of life. He was a large man, and no amount of punishment put into him ever shed the fat that now hung limp from every part of his body. And his uniform burned away by Peruvian fire, the stark realities of dying lay before him. Down to the last shit from his bowls.
It was not an image Carlos hoped to ever see in his closest friend since his youth. But when he had found his body limp in the muddy ash he surrendered to himself there and then. Threw himself weeping against the log. He had volunteered to keep guard over his body. It was an arbitrary, useless decision on his part. But the sergeant didn't care. He let him go. Said he'd find the medics to collect Miguel’s shattered body.
It was evident on him that the fire was not what had claimed him, but merely stripped him to his bare unprotected flesh. No. It was the cavernous hole in his head that split him open from the edge of his right eye all the way back. Gray matter, blood, and harry scalp coated the burned mountain side in a thick coffee-brown and thick red soup. Clouds of perfect black hair floated in the coagulating pools of blood that fanned out from where he had died. For once in his short life, Carlos found the idea of death embracing, hopeful. He wished he was there, and not him. The world needed Miguel’s laughter. The world needed to be a brighter, better place.
Carlos' tears had dried. He had nothing left to shed. Emptiness consumed him and he felt like he was in a daze. There was nothing else in the world but the shattered and burned body of a human, and the deceased bird that had found a final resting place next to him.
Carlos couldn't say when the bird landed there to die. But it wasn't there on Miguel’s discovery. Twisted and bent, the formerly rich and vibrant quetzal had fallen from the sky. Mangled with burns and feathers pulling off its body. Its deadened eyes stared up into the sky, caked and clouded over with diseased oranges and reds. Perhaps a unwanted side-effect of the gas. There was nothing natural in the pose it lay in.
Its head was twisted up to the sky, as its body lay flat against the darkened dirt. Patches the size of an American quarter had pulled bare from its pink flesh, now dotted and flaked with cancerous sores and purple bruises and burns. The emerald feathers had died and faded, almost as if the war had drained them of as much life and vibrancy has the Bird of Paradise. And the stains of red made is impossible to tell where its ruby-red breast ended.
It was as much as a symbol of the War's effect as Miquel.
The voices of men echoed in the distance. Ghostly and faded, it wasn't as if they existed. But the thick discolored mist made it impossible to see if they even existed. But they were there. The dialog was distinctly American. The language English. To Carlos' shock their echoing calls and talk was jovial. Almost humorous. Cruel in the vicious humor they found in the desolated landscape.
And there was something else. Almost sobbing. Meek, distant, distressed. High pitched screams echoed in the hazy fog, only soliciting more laughs.
The sounds of the heckling and the laughing pulled up Carlos' eyes to where they cried in the abyss. Carlos knew Americans, he had marched with them out of basic. They had an air of confidence, pride that he wish he had. The way they moved, marched, and fought inspired an idea of being untouchable. Super human. He hoped so much to be as cool as the Americans. From the movies he saw as a kid, to the fields he trained and fought in now. There was an allure to being American, a spiritual one. And perhaps, well, they could help him. Help him get over his friend's death. Help him come to terms.
On shaking legs he sat up staggering at his weakened knees. Mourning had taken a lot of energy from him and his assault rifle hang weakly from his shoulder by a narrow strap. His numb hand held the rifle between his finger in a weak hold, as a ghost of the strength he had.
And as he walked, he didn't feel in control of himself. He felt like strings were pulling on him to lead him forward. He wasn't his own man. He was vacant of himself. Piloted like a drone, he watched from miles away through his own eyes as he staggered to the voices. He felt slack. Sick. Clamy.
As he got closer to the sources of the voice, so did their clarity.
“Bitch settle down!” screamed a deep voice. There was a unique inflection in it. Something he associated with the hip-hop of the north. Compton. Dr. Drey. It was hard, rough. 'Gangsta' as the Americans described it.
“I'd hate to slap me a bitch but I will if I got to. I'd hate to bruise a bitch.”
“No! No!” a woman pleaded in Spanish. She was full of panic and of fear. It was as clear as a light on in a darkened room. So why did Carlos keep walking? Why was he lured to the wriggling bait before his eyes. He could feel the mounting dread inside himself. But it mounted curiosity, and it fueled him.
“Dude man, I don't think she understands you!” cackled another voice.
“Fuck man, you speak this beaner shit yo? Why don't you fucking tell her to take off her clothes. They're obstructing my view, yo!”
“Me no hablo la deutschee, yo.” jeered the other voice.
“No, Americans, let me go. Please have mercy, by God!” pleaded the woman. There was a loud wet smack. Brush and brambles broke as he voice cut off, replaced by soft sobbing.
“Now you done bruised her you fucking cracka.” Dr Dre roared, half angry, half laughing.
“Apperantly I didn't say it clear enough, yo.” his friend laughed.
They were coming in view now. The fog fading them to black silhouettes on putrid white, and faint sickly sherbert orange. At the base of a tree lay a girl, leaning against the tree as she sat curled in the ash. Hovering off to the side stood two large men. Body armor defined their bodies at odd angles, and both their heads were shaved smooth.
“Shiet, what's she sayin' now?” Gangsta laughed.
“Hell if I know yo, I think she's trying to say she likes it up the ass.” his friend sneered.
“Shit, it be better than nothing.” Gangsta barked, “Go on, hold onto her for a minute.”
“The fuck man, I found her!” his companion argued, “I ain't getting' sloppy seconds, yo.”
“Shit you are cracka-ass. You owe me fucking money.”
Carlos drew close enough that the three came into view. Tossed against the side of a bombed, burnt tree sat curled a young Colombian girl. Her short hair stood up in messy rags as muddy ash and blood sharpened strands to wet points. Her round, soft, youthful face was mired with a frown stained with tears and caked with blood as she looked up at Carlos, pleading him to help her. Her uniform hung from her shoulders in dirtied, sweat and soot stained rags. Leaning over her back the other, a white man with short blonde hair tore through her battered uniform, tearing from her back her bra and casting it aside as she tore at her pants.
His partner, a black man the size of a tank with the face as attractive as a buffalo stood watching, loosening the buttons and zippers of his uniform.
With a hateful grunt, the blonde threw the surrendered and beaten body of the soldier towards his friend. Looking up he spied Carlos, and his eyes went wide. Brows furrowing he rose angrily, shouting: “Yo, fucking Beaner fuck WHAT THE FUCK!?”
Carlos froze stunned in the open. Shocked, the black man turned about. His fat pig lips frowned, showing yellowed fang-like teeth he bore when his eyes fell on Carlos.
“The fuck you fucking want, cunt?” he barked in a low gravely voice, “This bitch is fucking mine. You back the fuck off before I load enough caps in your bean-picking ass I can pick you up with a magnet.”
At his feet, the stripped and torn woman turned to Carlos. Tears streaked down her face as she cried silently, biting at her lips. On her eyes Carlos could see she wanted him to save her. Raise that rifle of his. Shoot them both.
But, he hesitated. Seeing the two gods standing over her, Carlos backed off. Taking a pair of shocked drunken steps back as he turned back blindly into the chemical fog. Roaring laughter echoed in the afternoon. And the last words of that poor girl screamed pained in his ears as she fought. Struggled for freedom.
“No! No! NO!” she pleaded to deaf ears.
Mbandaka, Congo, June 11th, 2040 – Present Day
“I-” Caramel choked. His heart felt strangled by snaked. His tongue tasted bitter. Almost as if he was back there. The chiming of the clock sounded haunting, like the cries of the woman he could have saved. The tears he owed her and Miguel came washing out. His hands held them back, but he didn't know if it was an appropriate dam against the river.
“You don't need to go on if you don't want to.” Lieughen said. His voice was warm, comforting. Kneeling down alongside Caramel he put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I think you did good.” he comforted.
“Shit doctor, this is why I don't talk!” Caramel sobbed, rubbing the tears from his eyes with one soaked finger, “The shit I've seen, could have done. I, I don't like it. And I don't know if anyone will fucking understand me. You know?”
“I think you might find others here might. If you know who to ask, or how.” Lieughen said.
“Who then?” Caramel said, his voice was cracked and dry. The brightness of the room was returning. Taking on a new human warmth to it.
“I'm afraid I can't say who.” Lieughen said, laughing a little.
“Well then doctor, what about you?” Caramel asked.
Lieughen nodded, standing up. “So you're holding me to my word.” he said with a smile.
“I am.” Caramel replied in a low tone. Watching the Dutchman walk around back to his desk.
Lieughen looked up to his series of photos on the wall. The pictures ringed around the room, showing off a number of silent deeds or places he had been. “I joined the Dutch army at the age of eighteen in 2010.” he started, “I did a single tour with them, before going to college to study psychiatry. I didn't see much action then, so I have nothing to say.
“But, on graduation I felt the pinch of my decision.” he continued somberly, “I found it hard to really find work, and I wasn't the type of person to try and establish my own practice. To be honest, I thought I could maybe get in with some older doctor and learn from him as I helped treat addicts in Amsterdam or something.” he shrugged indifferently as he sat down, “But I wasn't that lucky. I was working in a pot shop instead to pay my bills. Though can't say I was ever a fan of smoking, it makes me cough way too much, even with the weed.
“Anyways, I felt like I wasn't doing enough, and in 2015 I approached the United Nations as a volunteer, looking for adventure somewhere as a youth still, and with military training. I found myself in Iraq later that year.
“Some of the things there I thought were the worst I could ever see.” he stopped for a bit, laughing nervously as he looked up at the pictures, “But, I learned to love the Iraqis, for what it was worth. But I also saw my first real taste of war.
“All through the four years from 2014 to 2018 Sunni insurgents were trying to rip through the country to establish a Caliphate of their own. The US, and some elements of Iran felt the need to step in to protect both their interests and to crash the ISIL, the insurgents in question. Americans used drones as ISIL used terror.
“I was a part of a UN medical corp in the region to distribute medical aid to the civilians effected by both sides of the war ISIL was generous enough to allow restricted aid to some areas, and I ended up in Samarra learning how to do pediatric work under the tutelage of an American doctor. We both had a lot of respect for each other, and after a while we had our selves going in a sort of team work. He healed the physical wounds, and I healed the mental.
“Most injuries weren't terrible. Some minor shrapnel contusions and consultation to get over nightmares for a few weeks and most were good. Except for one day...”
Lieughen's face went colder as he looked up at the left-most photo of the wall to his right. Standing smiling alongside an older Grey-haired doctor was a younger and livelier Doctor Lieughen. Both had bright smiles, and had gathered around them an ensemble of beaming Iraqi children. “I don't know who it was from, who took the shot. But just outside of town an air strike hit and took out a convoy of trucks, loaded with men, women, and children. Somewhere in the chain of intelligence someone felt the caravan of civilians was ISIL and went to destroy it. Instead we got flooded with injured.”
Lieughen's face lowered, “And there was a girl that I had treated before in that. Sweatest, cutest ten year old you could ever meet.” he continued, his voice quivering, “And she could sing. She had the most wonderful voice when she had me listen to a song she could here. But she came into the compound, wrapped tight in her father's shirt to hold her belly closed as she bled in her father's arm.
“The missile I guess had struck just a foot in front of the car she was riding in. When we autopsied her we concluded the blast had thrown her against the front seat, breaking her shoulder. A piece of shrapnel, missile, or something had tore through the front. It killed her uncle in the back, but passed through her in doing so. She died only a minute after reaching out outpost, and neither me or my friend, Dr Connors could do anything.
“I remember looking down at her as we lay her in a bed. She'd lost so much blood she passed out. But she looked like she was sleeping. But she passed just as we took her to surgery.”
“I'm sorry...” Caramel said.
“I know. We all were.” Lieughen said distantly. With a deep breath he turned to Caramel and said, “We all lost a battle of our own, brother.” he said, giving him a weak sort of half-smile, “Have faith we'll understand.
“And I'd recommend talking to some of your squad mates.” Lieughen nodded, “You're more than likely to find support in them if you confide.”
“You can't tell me who though?” Caramel asked.
“I can't, but I can say there are.” Lieughen said, regaining composure. But his expression was still distant and saddened.
“This sort of thing is an ongoing process.” Lieughen added, “It's a community thing as well. It's a reason why the US has the American Legion. For a nation that has seen as much conflict as it has, I guess there's an engrained social need for veteran support outside of the federal sphere. But even that's never enough, and this past fifteen years has only risen the number of people like yourself to extreme levels.
“The ASN exists to save people like ourselves, Carlos.” Lieughen continued, “I want you to remember that. We're more than one of a few companies willing to take us in. We're more than a means to keep millions out of welfare and benefits. We're a community of similarly stricken people. We're rehabilitation. We're healing.
“I know it's easy to think of us in that sense. But trust me, please do. Things now can't get any worse anyways. There are far too many wounds to lick. Far too many deep ones.”
Caramel nodded, “I see.” he said. And for a change, he felt better. He was still nagged and gnawed from within having woken the ghosts. But to have it off his shoulders felt reinvigorating. Better.
“And doctor...” he said, “Thanks.”
“It's my pleasure and duty, brother.”
