The Good News

Content warning- The beginning of this story is set in a warzone and contains a few glib descriptions of the dead; this could potentially be sensitive.

Shep Mercier’s father had warned him against enlisting, and Shep always assumed that time had softened the old man too much. How could he tell him not to enlist when he’d fought in the last war and come home with so many stories? Shep still felt a twinge of disappointment in the look of horror that had been on his father’s face the first time he’d come home in uniform. I’ll be just fine, he’d thought. Even if something breaks out, I’ll get by remembering what I’m defending.

           As he fled from his company a year later, he could not, for the life of him, remember what it was he was here to do. There were no countries to defend or boarders to enforce; the world existed entirely in increments of five feet. Each shallow step he took betrayed him with the trail of dirt it kicked up. Behind him, the others lay on top of the hill, mauled by mortars, more of which made fast Swiss cheese of the earth on which he came too close to tripping. The few men that remained fired aimlessly toward the other side of the green expanse.

           “Goddamnit, Mercier!” bellowed Lt. Cuttler. “Get your ass back here!” Shep reeled around to face his commanding officer. He had just made out the glare poking through the mélange of organic and inorganic glut caked over the lieutenant’s face when all of it burned away. Cuttler stood bolt upright, flames dancing about his head. Shep swore that he could see his mouth open, as if to say something, before he toppled over and spilled down the hill.

           A rifle shot railed past the back of Shep’s neck as he started running again. Maybe it was lucky that he’d dropped his pack when the firing started. Had he been held back even an inch, he’d now be showing off his extra mouth to the rest of the company. Ducking into the tall brush bordering the clearing in which the two sides volleyed, he considered what nicknames the lieutenant would have given them if he still knew what a name was; he had always been one for nicknames. Shep wasn’t sure what had become of everyone, but already, there was Norman “The Torso” Tenaga, Faceless Fred Adams, Ashy Allen Moses, and Sgt. McCann, the Melty Man. Yeah, those sounded about what Cuttler would have called them. Lt. Sam “the Candle” Cuttler. Shep chuckled without meaning to as he dove downwards over logs and roots.

           Some time later, Shep realized that he had been running through a stream. He remembered entering the woods but couldn’t recall where the green water had begun. He didn’t notice that his socks had all but slipped off from the weight of it until he felt his finger slipping against the trigger guard of his rifle. Once again aware that he was carrying it, he stepped out of the stream and sat between a set of bushes, examining how wet it had gotten. Seemingly, nothing had seeped into its inner mechanisms. Pouring water from his boots, he became aware for the first time that he hadn’t heard a shot in some twenty minutes. Had it been twenty minutes? Had it been more? He had checked his watch when the company had walked into the clearing, and a few seconds before the mortaring had started, it had been a quarter to four. Checking it again now, it was still a quarter to four.   

           Oh, hell, he thought. I knew I should have fixed this damn thing.

           It was impossible to tell how late it really was; the late afternoon yellow which warmed the trees before had cooled to an apathetic grey. Shep had missed the moment when the landscape had become so flat. Before, he’d been running up and down hills without noticing the ache which now weighed down his legs. With the exception of the stream, the place where he sat was completely flat with no paths in sight. The ground was sprinkled with pine needles and leaves, and there was a tree to every few feet. The sky still held a hint of blue, but the sun was nowhere to be found. Shep squinted into the distance, looking for any end to the indifferent landscape. None to be found.

           How far had he run? He listened for a few minutes for anything and heard little, just the leaves rustling in the barely existent breeze. A bird flew silently and microscopically overhead, disappearing behind a branch. The sound of shots travelled a long way; how many miles had he run if none were audible now? At least far enough that his legs, which had made him a star athlete in school, felt as if they had entirely clotted on the inside.

           Feeling how soaked his clothes had become, Shep remembered that he had a partially written letter in his coat. With muddy fingers, he felt it over and let out a sigh of relief that only the edge had gotten damp. It was for Jaqueline, the girl to whom he was engaged to be married. They had met in school, had been together, had ended things, gotten back together, repeated. Shep had proposed shortly before graduation. Two months later, he’d proposed again. And when he proposed one final time, just before leaving for basic training, she had said yes. Her reaction to his enlistment had initially been the same as his father’s; she said everything she could think of to sway him out of it. But Shep’s father had cried the day he had left Shreveport for training. Jaqueline didn’t say much of anything; she simply watched Shep roll off from the station with crossed arms. Maybe she’d been quicker to accept it.

           The letter wasn’t anything very out of the ordinary. It mostly consisted of the goings on between Shep and the other men and updates on where he was. Until a quarter to four that evening, Shep’s time with the company had been generally uneventful, just like his father said it would be. Jaqueline had answered his first several letters, letting him know of the humdrum goings-on of home. It had been about a month since he’d received one of her letters.

           Shep placed a hand on his canteen, which was lighter than it should have been. Had he really drunk that much from it? He had to get moving soon; darkness was descending quickly, and the wind had picked up enough to make him shiver. Shep had surely been warned about such situations as this, but he had forgotten a good deal of his survival training already. What would he ever need that much training for? If he ever found himself in the wilderness alone, he would simply continue in one direction until he found someone else. After splashing his face in the creak and laboriously standing up, he elected to do just that. One direction was as good as another with the forest enveloping him like a circle of mirrors.

           A slow mile from the stream, Shep noticed for the first time how muddy the ground was. He hadn’t encountered another body of water and figured that it must have rained. He kicked himself for having dropped his pack during the volley; it had a spare set of socks in it, which he longed for now that the bottoms of his feet felt as if they’d been through a butcher shop.

           If anyone survived, he thought, Maybe they can at least put them to good use.  Of course, if anyone had survived, they would also know that Shep had fled the fight. His stomach sunk at the thought of being put in front of a tribunal upon his arrival back in America. He thought about his father. Would he have the same look on his face as the day he’d left, or would he look down on Shep the way Cuttler had? No, it isn’t like that, I didn’t kill anyone. He huffed. Any one of those men would have done the same thing; there was no living through that fight. Dumb bastards should have followed my lead.

Four miles or so into that line of thought, Shep began to count every tree he could see. Left to right, spanning his entire field of vision. Five trees, twelve, twenty-seven… Considering how much like a child he felt, counting things just to keep his mind moving, he fell face-first into the mud, having tripped over a divot obscured in the now full darkness.

           “Goddamn,” he breathed, clutching his ankle. His own voice was the first sound he’d heard in hours other than the steadily strengthening wind and his crunching footsteps. He got up again, and each step he took shot needles through his left leg. It was no more than twelve seconds before he doubled over again. He rolled over to face the sky, which was torn to dark tatters by the trees. If there were stars, they weren’t visible.

           Even if Shep didn’t want to fall asleep here, his body was beating him to it. His blood had become cement, and he could practically feel his throat splintering. His left leg felt partially amputated. As the back of his helmet sunk partially into the sod and his eyes narrowed, he gave one last listen for any sound. Somewhere in the distance, a loon called. Had he heard any birds in the past several hours? He raised the canteen to his lips, and just before he could drink, he coughed heavily, which sent pain through his stomach. The canteen slipped from his fingers, spilling the scant remainder of its contents into the dirt.

           Shep mouthed the word “no;” he had meant to speak it out loud, but his throat was so dry that no words could slip from it. By now, it had gotten rather cold, and while Shep’s coat offered some warmth, it wasn’t enough to stop him from falling asleep shivering. Even back home, he never could stand the cold. He dreamt of the ground on which he slept and of frost biting the fulcrums between his fingers.

           Goddamnit, Mercier!

           Shep’s own shaking woke him up. How could it be so God-forsakenly cold? Cuttler’s last words continued to echo through his ears as he rubbed his eyes. Heavy wind gusted through the trees, and tall grass blew against Shep’s hands. Beneath it, he could faintly make out the sound of a guitar. He tilted his head to the right, and his eyes widened. Somewhere between the trees was the faint flicker of a fire.

           He propped himself up, using his rifle as a crutch. He advanced a few paces before it fell to the ground, and Shep’s back ached so badly that he didn’t bother leaning down to pick it up. If whoever this was wasn’t American, he was willing to surrender; anything to keep from falling silently in the woods. Each step was like broken glass to the bottoms of his blistered feet, and his twisted ankle made him grunt involuntarily, further burning his throat.

           The flicker grew into a more pronounced flame, and the guitar’s melody grew louder. Moving closer, Shep realized that the fire was set at the center of a perfectly circular opening in the forest. The pines bordered the clearing smoothly on all sides, and there were no blades of grass or pine needles on the ground. It was as if this circle had been thoroughly salted.  Beside the fire were two small logs, one of which seated a man dressed in black, strumming the directionless melody. Not stopping, he turned to face Shep and smiled. He had on the vestments of a preacher.

           “Why, hello there, Shep. I hope I didn’t wake you; I was just playing an old favorite of mine.”

           Shep approached. “No,” he whispered.

           “Ah, I suppose you’ll be needing some water. Here, take this.” The preacher set down the guitar, reached into his pocket and produced a flask. He handed it to Shep, who drank greedily. At once, his throat was as smooth as it ever was.

           “My God,” he said, “Thank you. But how do you know my name?” He tried to hand the flask back, but the preacher waved it away.

           “Oh, keep it. I can always spare a little water. And as it so happens, I know just about everything. But that isn’t important just now; here, why don’t you sit a bit? You’ve been walking an awful long time.”

           Too exhausted to understand or care what the man was talking about, Shep approached and took a seat on the other log.

           “That’s better, isn’t it?” said the preacher, smiling.

           “Yeah. To be completely honest with you, I don’t know where I’m going.”

           “Does anyone?” The wind had stilled, and the stillness of the woods around them was enough to make one forget that there had ever been sound.

           “What was your name, anyway?”

           The preacher shook his head. “My name isn’t of much consequence,” he said matter-of-factly. “What really matters is His name. I’m just a humble servant of His, put on this Earth to spread the good news to folks who need it.” He grinned. “I’ve come across a lot of folks in need of some good news, but probably none so much as you.”

           Shep took another sip. “I’m sorry, Father, I appreciate your help. I really do. But I ain’t religious.”

           “Oh, it don’t matter whether you believe in Him,” he said. “He brought us together for a reason. That reason being that you’re in desperate need of answers.”

           “Answers to what, exactly?”

            “Well,” laughed the preacher, “That’s really up to you. I’m here to offer something of a trade.”

           “What kind of a trade?”

           “I can answer one question for you with complete certainty,” he said, holding up one finger, “But only one. Any question you ask, I can give you the answer to.”

           “Alright,” said Shep, rolling his eyes, “And in return?”

           “Your dog tags.”

           Shep’s eyes narrowed. “My dog tags? What do you want with those?”

           “Nothing much. Just want them for safekeeping. But in return for those, I can tell you anything you’d like. How your father’s doing, whether you’ll survive the war, whether Jaqueline’s been with another—anything you want.” The stranger knew who Jaqueline was, and judging from the look in his eyes, he now knew that Shep had realized it. “That’s right, Shep. I know all about your fiancé. And I know all about you. And for a couple little dog tags, I can tell you whether sending that letter of yours is a waste of time.”

           Shep swore that he had gone insane. This man could not be here in front of him, knowing these things. But he was; the warmth from the fire and the relief from the water were both things he could feel, and they had both come from him. Shep sighed. “Alright. Deal.” He produced both dog tags and handed them over to the preacher. They disappeared into the pocket of his black coat.

           “Alright then. What answer are you looking for?”

           “Can I think about it for just a minute?”

           “Of course! Take as long as you need.”

           Shep thought about his question for a long while. What was the right one to ask? He had never fully considered the Jaqueline might have been unfaithful, but if the preacher knew who she was, what else did he know? On the other hand, where were the nearest people? Would they shoot him on sight? Would the preacher even tell him what direction they were in? Shep’s eyelids grew heavy, and he struggled not to slump forward.

           “You getting sleepy there, Shep?”

           “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he chuckled. “My God, what time is it, anyway?”

           The stranger produced a pocket watch. “It’s a quarter to four.”

           “Huh.”

           “What is it?” asked the preacher, getting up.

           “Nothing. Just a coincidence. Hey, where are you going?’

           He had taken up his guitar and walked a few feet away. “I have to be getting off,” he replied. “You’ve asked your question, I’ve given my answer.”

           Shep gasped. “Wait, no! That wasn’t—you can’t—” The wind picked up once more, and the flames wavered.

           “I’m sorry, Shep, but a deal’s a deal.” Another strong gust, and Shep shivered. The preacher chuckled. “You never could stand the cold, could you? Old Shivering Shep.” The stranger advanced into the trees, his form growing less distinguishable. Before disappearing entirely into the greenery, his voice echoed back: “Whenever you see Cuttler next, give him my regards.”

           “Wait!” cried Shep, dashing from the log. “Come back! That wasn’t my question! Please!” The burning in his feet brought him to his knees. “Please—who are you?” The forest gave no response. The winds grew stronger by the second, and faster than Shep could return to the fire, it was out. Dark clouds moved steadily overhead, and the tops of the pines surrounding the clearing blew wildly in all directions. A light rain began to fall.