Judgment

© 2004 SS Hampton, Sr.
All rights reserved.

...Black twisting shadows, soft rich smelling earth, and whispery deep green leaves...

...Earth-caked nylon boots tread slowly, silently along dusty paths and across rocky shale...

...Dark bloody boot prints soaked up by the thirsty ground...

...Narrow black eyes flicker hungrily...

"There," a voice whispers. "There."

Judge Fred Hocking woke with a start, brown eyes wide with surprise as he realized he had fallen asleep at his cluttered desk in the chilly, drafty chamber of the ancient courthouse. He rubbed his burning eyes with cold, pudgy hands and smoothed his silvering hair with its small ponytail in back.

He stared morosely at a large deep-orange pumpkin perched on the corner of his desk next to a large, messy stack of legal manila folders. The pumpkin was carved with evil slanted eyes, a triangular nose, and a crooked, gap-toothed grin. It had been a gift from several children of the courthouse staff a few days before.

Fred hated pumpkins.

When he was nine years old he'd wanted to scare his sister, so he'd messily cleaned a pumpkin, carved a horrible face on it, and cut the bottom out. He'd struggled to get his head inside and had immediately discovered he hated the cold, soft, slimy interior. When he couldn't get it off he panicked and ended up rolling across the floor, bawling until his parents had freed him.

His general well-being wasn't helped by arthritis and lack of sleep.

The dreams had started several weeks before, after a law conference in Denver. Though he didn't dream every night, he now regarded the setting sun and the onset of creeping darkness with dread.

It wasn't so much the dreams that bothered him as the feelings they stirred within. The feelings recalled his short service with a reconnaissance team of the Studies and Observation Group, SOG, which had been responsible for observing and raiding the Ho Chi Minh Trail in southern Laos during the Vietnam War. Feelings of intense fear, of being alone, of being hunted by shadowy stalkers among rugged ridges, mountains, and deep shadowy valleys where comrades vanished without a trace.

Or worse, enough of them was found to indicate a lengthy, very unpleasant death.

Fred had quickly realized he wasn't suited for SOG missions. After being the only survivor of his third mission, he'd tearfully begged not to be sent back into Laos.

It was a period of his life he rarely thought of or referred to. Even so, when it served his interests, he cultivated a low-key image of a special operations war hero, without providing details, in his judicial district in the high mountain valley west of Denver.

At the conference in Denver he'd ended a 35-year silence to embellish his SOG experience and to eulogize his decades-long Missing in Action comrades.

On that stormy fall afternoon, as thunder had rumbled like distant artillery and lightning had cracked like sharp explosions outside, he'd spoken about Staff Sergeant Darren Varrone, their four Chinese Nung mercenaries recruited from the Central Highlands, and the last running fight with pursuing North Vietnamese Army troops. The dark image he'd painted of the silent fear, exhaustion, and sudden savage explosion of close combat had contrasted with the bright, stately beauty of the old conference center.

When he'd concluded with how he searched for his missing comrades until returning alone to the extraction landing zone, the lights flickered and popped in a shower of sparks that had plunged the intense room into darkness.

He'd received a standing ovation.

After he'd announced his impending retirement, the governor's office had asked if he would be interested in being the newest justice of the Colorado Supreme Court. Not only was his long legal experience a factor, but also his status as a war hero. And there was the unspoken image of a wise old country boy from a small town to offset the smoothly polished big-city boys on the bench.

He kept putting the decision off. He wasn't sure what he would do after retirement, and he was reluctant to leave his comfortable, cluttered chamber of 20 years. His chamber was a second home, a place where local courtiers and fawning supplicants sought his attention.

Fred turned on the desk lamp in the growing gloom of early evening and gazed out his window at the small mountain town, established in 1850, known as Heaven's Acre. The town square, off-limits to cars, was a large park dominated by old leafy trees, bushes and a gazebo in the center, surrounded by a variety of tourist shops. Like most mountain towns, Heaven's Acre relied on summer tourist money to make it through the winter.

His two-story courthouse sat at the east end of the square.

Small children with green fluorescent lights pinned to their coats and costumes ran excitedly across the square and down the sidewalks with their Halloween bags, prepared for a chilly night of trick-or-treat. Old-fashioned street lamps flickered as if struggling to light, and the faint shadows of bare tree limbs reached toward him like demented skeletal fingers in the misty twilight.

On the other side, to the west of the square, was a large grassy mound, the town cemetery, known as Big Boot Patch. The name came from the 1800s, when hangings and shootings in the region were relatively common. A little to one side behind it was a smaller dusty mound called Little Boot Patch. A lone huge tree more than a century old occupied the top of the mound. Criminals had been hanged from the thick gnarled tree limbs, then carted across the way to Big Boot for burial.

Fred spotted shadowy figures gathering on Big Boot against the reddish setting sun, and he chuckled. Big Boot was a favorite haunt on Halloween night due to its colorful history, which made for great ghost stories.

Ghost stories!

He knew real stories from Vietnam and Laos that would send grown men whimpering back to their mommas. Not that he had witnessed the events, but he knew about them.

With a sigh, he returned to the stack of folders next to the pumpkin. Though he was expected at a Halloween party, he knew he should read through the pending cases to prepare for the coming week of being a 'riding judge.' He was one of the few left in the country who traveled a circuitous route among remote small towns to hear cases such as domestic violence, cattle rustling, land disputes, and local water rights.

Regardless of whether he went home or to the party, after hearing a forecast of snow, he hadn't bothered to buy any Halloween candy for the night.

He felt his cold nose, rubbed his hands together for warmth, and cursed the ancient, smelly, coal-burning furnace the courthouse still used. He decided to take the folders home instead of going to the party, read what he could, and finish the rest while he was on the road.

A faint musty odor filtered into the chamber, and he sniffed the air. It smelled like fresh earth mixed with cool rain, floating gunsmoke, fear and sweat, all crushed by a heavy, humid heat. It was the smell of Laos and Vietnam.

He glanced uneasily out the window at the darkening square. At the edge of the square in front of the courthouse he saw a shadowy figure with a fluorescent tube pinned to one shoulder, standing motionless by a tree among thick bushes. There was something familiar about the bulky figure's stance. After a moment he turned away. He'd always disliked sitting with his unprotected back to a window, and it had grown worse after the dreams had started.

With a tired, pensive sigh, he eased his considerable bulk out of the comfortable chair, turned off his desk lamp and recoiled with shock as the chamber flickered in a pale light emanating from the pumpkin. He trembled and bit his lower lip as he stared at the flickering light streaming from the pumpkin's eyes.

Finally he bent over cautiously and peered through the eyes into the pumpkin. A bright yellow flame, without candle or hidden wick, danced defiantly above the lumpy orange bottom. The mysterious flame hissed and sputtered loudly, as if whispering ghostly secrets. Stringy orange strands inside the amateurishly cleaned pumpkin hung like spider webs from the top and along the curving walls. Pale seeds lay within the fleshy strands like doomed prey wrapped for a future feast.

"There."

Fred jumped back from the pumpkin's eyes, which glared at him with terrible intensity. He grabbed his heavy wooden gavel to smash the pumpkin, to beat it to a shapeless orange pulp, to put out the flame and silence the whispery voice, when the hair rose on the back of his neck. A chill ran down his spine and his heart raced wildly.

He looked over his shoulder and saw shadowy figures with bouncing fluorescent lights dash across the night-blackened square from tree to tree toward the courthouse.

He jumped as a loud boom echoed through the silence from the heavy timbered door at the front of the courthouse. He looked at his closed office door, then back at the pumpkin that sputtered at him. He stepped forward and raised the gavel over his head. Another boom echoed through the silent courthouse. With a faint whimper that threatened to erupt into a scream, Fred went to his office door, passed through his clerk's office, and peered into the dark hallway.

Another boom erupted from the front door and echoed throughout the courthouse. Then another and another, until it became a slow tattoo.

"Hello?" he shouted between the tattoos as he looked up and down the hallway. A part of him screamed for silence. Silence meant safety. Perhaps he wasn't the only left in the courthouse. Perhaps someone else would hear the pounding and come to investigate. "Is anyone else here? Hello?"

A sharp crack of splintering wood and the screech of torn door hinges exploded from the thick front doors. A hot, humid wind that smelled of foul earth, decayed flesh, and sour blood blew into the hallway, along with a blossoming dirty white mist.

Panting, moaning with fear, Fred darted into a dark side hall that led to the heavy wooden back door. There was a final boom, a clatter of splintered wood skidding across the walls and floor, and the ripping of a door torn from its hinges.

As he fumbled with his key ring, he heard the old polished wood floors creak under the tread of soft footsteps. The humid wind swept over him as he jammed the old-fashioned metal key into the lock and flung the door open.

He cried out and stepped backward. In the empty parking lot behind the courthouse he saw three husky figures kneeling with M-1 carbines raised to their shoulders. A fourth figure lay on the ground with a huge Browning automatic rifle trained on the doorway. In the faint glow of parking lot lights, he recognized SOG tiger-stripe camouflage uniforms.

As the dirty white mist swirled around him, Fred, choking and gasping, slammed the door shut. The wood floor creaked loudly near the corner of the hall. Moaning, he hurried on slow arthritic knees up the ancient wooden stairs to the second floor. Shafts of pale moonlight and town light, almost lost in the darkness of the hall, filtered through the windows.

The steps at the bottom of the stairs creaked loudly, and the hot wind swept up the stairs around him.

He hurried down the hallway toward the wide main stairs, whimpering as he pulled at locked doors along the way. The back stairs creaked. He backed up against the wall, sweat dripping down his face as he stared at the top of the stairs. A black shadow, dimly lit by a fluorescent light pinned to its chest, stepped into the darkened hallway between the shafts of outside light.

"Hi, Fred." The familiar, husky voice echoed faintly, as if coming from within a deep cavern.

"Oh my God!" Fred gasped, as he spun around and hobbled toward the main stairs.

The polished wood of the main stairs creaked beneath him. The shadowy figure, lit from behind by town light pouring through the torn and splintered front doors, advanced up the steps toward him.

Fred staggered painfully, as if punched in the stomach, as he recognized the lean, wiry figure of Sergeant First Class Darren Varrone. Varrone wore a filthy olive-drab scarf wrapped over his head with the ends hanging on one shoulder. He carried his favorite weapon, a silencer-tipped Swedish 'K' submachine gun, slung from a shoulder. His filthy nylon boots left bloody prints on the highly polished wooden steps.

Darren still looked as he did 35 years before, when he'd disappeared on their last mission. His deep black eyes ripped away the years of enforced forgetfulness, finishing what had started when Fred's distant memories were first awakened at the conference in Denver. His familiar small, crooked smile crept onto his face.

"Darren," Fred gasped as his shoulders sagged and he backed up against the wall. "It can't be! You're missing! You're dead! You're dead!"

Darren's hollow, sunken face was grayish white, as if drained of blood.

"I'm dreaming, that's it, I'm dreaming," Fred stammered. He cringed against the wall as Darren walked toward him.

"No."

Darren leaned toward him, staring intently into Fred's eyes as a muddy, bloody hand gripped him painfully by his shoulder. Fred looked into the pale, narrow face with its lifeless black eyes, and his mouth quivered wordlessly as strong fingers pulled him toward the stairs. He saw their Chinese Nung mercenaries waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.

"Darren?" Fred's mind spun wildly in a screaming, terrified emptiness as he looked sideways at the silent figure whose friendly, heavy, wet arm draped across his shoulders. He glanced at the curled fingers and saw drops of blood gather at the fingertips before dripping away into the darkness.

He recoiled before his pumpkin-lit chamber, but Darren shoved him through the doorway. He backed up against his desk. The muddy figure studied him silently. The light from the pumpkin grew stronger and flickered and hissed angrily.

The Nungs in bloody tiger-striped uniforms filed in behind Darren, loaded down with their equipment and weapons held ready. Their expressionless faces were blood- and mud-caked.

Death hadn't changed Darren that much. His eyes had always been black and lifeless within their narrow slits. Whether he smiled or laughed, it had been with the grim mockery of an evil, triumphant spirit. He was a MIKE-force veteran who'd made 60 border-crossing insertions, a hitherto unheard-of number, into southern Laos.

Darren lived to run effortlessly through the horrific nightmarish shadows, being the hunted before turning the tables to become the hunter. In a civil society he would have been a demented threat, but in a savage hidden war he'd been a demi-god who'd enjoyed killing.

The NVA knew Darren: they'd been afraid of him, and they'd wanted him alive.

"Our team is complete again," Darren said as he walked slowly around the chamber, casually examining a lifetime of military, law, and vacation mementos. "You knew we were coming. You knew as soon as you spoke about us."

"The dreams," Fred whispered, with shocked recognition of his lost opportunity. He could have fled elsewhere if he'd recognized the prophetic dreams for what they were. Except ... all of this was impossible.

The dead didn't return on special nights, or any night, to wander the earth again. The dead couldn't be called back simply by speaking about them. That was superstitious legend, lying ghost stories to scare people, a product of the Western mind adding evil overtones to a Celtic festival celebrating the harvest and preparing for the beginning of cold, dark winter.

Darren leaned across the desk toward Fred. Blood gathered in small pools around his hands before the dark rivulets ran across legal papers, notepads, and file folders like lazy streams.

"You owe me."

Fred's mouth trembled as he retreated behind the chair.

"I, I, no," he shook his head wildly. What could he say? What could he offer? He looked around his chamber helplessly.

"Our Nungs, they died fighting. Do you know what the 'ants' did to me?" Darren hissed angrily, using the nickname for the tens of thousands of NVA who guarded and kept the Ho Chi Minh Trail in operation despite the worst American bombing. "After you ran off and left me when I was wounded?"

As he slowly removed his combat pack, equipment-bearing suspenders and STABO extraction rings, flecks of damp, bloody earth silently rained on the thick, comfortable carpet. He laid his Swedish 'K' submachine gun, grenades, spare ammunition magazines, canteens and combat knife on the paper-strewn desk.

"They skinned me. They hung me by my ankles from a tree and they skinned me like you'd skin a deer." Darren removed his shirt and Fred backed up against the window. The soldier held his arms out from his sides and turned in a slow circle. Thin strips of skin, like shreds of a bloody curtain, hung loosely from Darren's arms, shoulders, chest, stomach and back. Huge areas were covered by no skin at all. Revealed by the strips of skin, and in the large open areas, was a whitish fleshy layer, pale and spongy looking like beef fat, from which blood leaked in a constant stream.

"Do you know what it feels like to be skinned? Do you know how it burns, how your body jerks and every nerve screams on its own while knives slice thin, bloody strips of your flesh like you'd peel an apple? Do you know what it's like to scream until you're too hoarse to scream anymore?"

"Darren, Darren, I can't take back what happened." Fred's eyes welled with tears. "I don't know what happened! What can I do?"

"You ran! You left me! They skinned me! That's what fucking happened!"

Fred didn't know if he were going to laugh or cry hysterically. Retirement or Colorado Supreme Court Justice? Lazily pass the days in a rocking chair on the front porch of his home or issue legal decisions that ruled the people of the State of Colorado? Both possibilities were shriveling in the flickering orange-yellow light of the grinning pumpkin and the lifeless black eyes within the pale, sunken face.

"Darren, please." Fred shook his head. The dead never returned. It was impossible. The dead were dead.

"Our team fought and died like soldiers. But I shouldn't have died that way. No soldier should die that way."

"Darren." Fred shook his head helplessly.

"I didn't have to die."

"Please!"

"I could have lived if you hadn't run out on me."

"Darren, what can I do?"

"I could have lived, like you," Darren glanced around the chamber again.

"Darren!"

"You owe me."

"Yes! All right! What is it you want? What?"

"Life. You owe me life. And, your skin looks so soft...."

Darren's crooked smile returned as he studied Fred, who shook as if in the beginning of an epileptic fit. The dark eyes seemed to study his face, then trailed across his large bulk.

"Darren! No! Forgive me! Please forgive me!" Fred sobbed as he looked around the dimly lit chamber, at his lifetime of mementos and the silent, watchful Nungs.

"Ready?" Darren pulled his combat knife from the sheath.

"Wait!" He screamed like a panicked child.

"No."

With an incoherent howl, Fred grabbed his gavel and attacked the window. Spidery cracks raced outward from the impact. A portion shattered and fell away. He threw himself through the window with a cry of pain as jagged shards ripped through his flesh.

He rose on shaking legs, trembling from fear, cold and pain. He looked around in surprise at the small, dusty hill of Little Boot, crowned by the huge hanging tree. Across the way, Big Boot was flecked with pale white gravestones, crosses, and sculptured angels of marble and granite, and enclosed by a black wrought iron fence at the foot of the mound.

Below him he saw the flickering old street lamps of the square and gleeful running children, followed by their slower-moving parents. Many of the tourist shops were still brightly lit as their owners prepared to hand out candy to the excited children.

The hot, humid wind and mist swirled around him, driving away the cold mountain night air.

He heard the swift pad of boots and screamed as the Nungs lunged out of the darkness. Despite his bulk and age, he sent two of them tumbling against the creaking tree. He staggered down the slope toward the square, arms stretched out as he screamed wordlessly. The Nungs, renowned jungle fighters that SOG troopers could always count on, swarmed over him, pulling his arms behind him, kicking his legs out from under him, and punching him in the stomach and head as they snarled.

Fred kicked and howled as the Nungs dragged him to the foot of the hanging tree. Darren stood below the tree, bare-chested, his spongey body fat continuing to seep blood. He held the bright pumpkin in both hands.

Darren studied the pumpkin, its flickering flame hissing as if whispering to him; then he cut it. Its bottom dropped to the ground with a soft plop. Stringy orange tendrils slowly unfolded from inside the flickering interior and swayed brightly in the chill night air like the deadly tentacles of a jellyfish.

Darren turned toward him with the glowing, grinning pumpkin.

"I didn't mean to leave you! I didn't," Fred whimpered. "Forgive me. Forgive me." He shook his head from side to side as the Nungs pulled him to his knees. Darren smiled, and the smile was more terrifying for the cold brooding vengeance hidden behind the pleasantness.

"You know we never leave our wounded." Darren waited patiently with his crooked smile while Fred struggled against the Nungs until they kneed him in the chest several times. Darren slowly worked the heavy, cold pumpkin over Fred's head. "But you left me."

The interior of the pumpkin flickered a bright yellow-orange as it settled onto his shoulders.

The cold, slimy webs caressed his face and coiled across his unseeing eyes as the pumpkin gripped his head in a bitter, possessive embrace. Hoarse, agonized screams tore from his throat and echoed in his ears as stringy tendrils flowed forcefully between his lips, into his nostrils, into his ears, and under his eyelids.

Through his muffled screams he heard excited voices, the crash of brush, the rattle of small-arms fire, and smelled the decay of dead flesh and rotten blood as a hot, humid light brighter than the sun burned into him....

"Hi," the scantily clad cocktail waitress at a popular Denver nightclub cheerfully greeted the wiry man with large glittering black eyes. "What can I get for you?"

"You," the man answered in a strangely echoing husky voice, smiling crookedly as he eyed her shapely figure and long, high-heeled legs. He rubbed his hands together, then rubbed his wrists and looked at them as if seeing them for the first time. He looked back at her. "And a beer. I feel like celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" she asked, intrigued by the stranger who unabashedly admired her. She sensed something sexy, exciting, and even dangerous about him, all of which excited her. "Halloween?"

"Life," he chuckled as he considered the earthly pleasures that a firm-bodied woman could offer. "A long-denied life that I'm finally reclaiming."

Darren smiled with anticipation as he watched the waitress's sexy stride. She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled.

He smiled with grim satisfaction at the memory of Fred's haunting, agonized shrieks, the creak of a heavy tree limb in the humid jungle, hissing knives, the whispering drip of bright red blood on thirsty ground, and the soft, wet splats of strips of fresh skin, like a bloody offering for frantic ants swarming hungrily across the jungle floor....

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