SNAFU: Heroes: An Anthology of Military Horror

I leaned against the fender of the ATF agents’ Crown Vic and watched it burn. They both yelled at me, demanding to know what happened, threatening to arrest me, trying to get me to react to them in any way. But all I did was watch the place burn.

When the firemen and cops asked me how it started, I spun a bunch of lies.

I was taken in an ambulance to the hospital where they had to do surgery to repair my arm. The doctors had a lot of questions about my arm. I told them that there had been a moray eel in a tank and that I was dumb enough to put my arm inside. They didn’t believe me. Mostly because they weren’t stupid enough to accept that story. And because the wound signature was wrong for an eel. Then Mr Church showed up and people stopped asking me questions.

The only one who heard the real story was Church.

He listened the way he does – silent, without expression, cold. When I was done, he used his cell phone and, with me sitting right there in the ER, ordered a full battery of physical and psychological tests for when I got back to Baltimore.

Even a lie detector test.

Our forensics people lifted blood samples from my clothes. Dark brick-red blood from my shirt. The blood of the Mermen.

And brighter red blood from my sleeve.

Her blood.

They also lifted a full handprint from the back wall of the bathroom. The techs promised DNA and other lab work back as soon as possible.

Dr Hu spent days picking through the ashes of the Koenig building, his face alight with expectation, hoping to find something he could play with, but I’d built a very hot fire.

He finally gave it up, defeated and mad at me.

The doctors and the shrinks ran their tests.

I passed them all. No hallucinogens or alcohol in my system.

The shrinks ran and then re-ran their tests, and when they got the same answers they began looking at me funny. Then they stopped making eye-contact altogether.

On a warm summer evening ten days after the fire, Mr Church called me into a private meeting. There was a plate of cookies – Nilla wafers and Oreos – and a tall bottle of very good, very old Scotch. There was also a stack of folders colour-coded from different departments. I didn’t touch them, but I could see that some folders were from other agencies.

After we sat and ate cookies and drank whiskey and stared at each other for too long, Church said, “Is there anything you would like to add to your report?”

“No,” I said.

“Is there anything about the report you would like to amend?”

“No.”

He nodded.

We sat.

We each had another cookie.

Church picked up two FBI fingerprint cards and handed it to me. I looked at them and read the attached report. The conclusion was this: “Both sets of prints are clearly from the same source. They match on all points.”

I sighed and set the report down.

“Fingerprints can be faked,” said Church. “There are various polymers which can be worn over the finger tips, and even the whole hand, that can carry false prints.”

“I know.”

“The FBI report is therefore inconclusive as far as we’re concerned.”

“Okay,” I said. He studied my face but I was giving him nothing to read. My face has been a stone since the fire. I didn’t want to show anything.

Church removed a report from a DNA lab that we often used. He studied it for a moment but didn’t pass it to me.

“The lab says that the blood sample from your sleeve was contaminated. They pull two blood types from it, one human and one animal.”

“Which animal?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

“Halichoerus grypus,” he said. “Commonly known as the Atlantic gray seal.”

I said nothing.

“The blood was thoroughly mixed,” he said.

“Yes.”

“So thoroughly mixed that they were unable to pull entirely separate DNA strands. In fact the only complete DNA they’ve recovered is an even mix of human and seal genes.” He placed the report on the desk and laid his palm on it. “The scientists are floating various theories that could account for that level of genetic degradation. The leading theory is that the heat somehow fused the DNA.”

“Is that even possible?” I asked quietly.

He smiled. “No.”

We sat there.

The wall clock ticked away two full minutes before he spoke again.

Church said, “There’s a legend in Ireland and elsewhere about a magical creature called a selkie. They’re mysterious women who are actually seals.” He selected a cookie but didn’t eat it. Instead he rolled it back and forth on his desk top. “But that’s myth and legend.”

“Yes.”

“This is the real world.”

“Yes.”

“And we don’t – or can’t – believe in the impossible,” he said. “Can we, Captain?”

I said nothing. Three more minutes burned off the day. The office was absolutely quiet. Beyond the big picture window, the brown waters of the Baltimore Harbor flowed and churned as boats passed by.

“She’s dead,” murmured Church after a while.

“I know.”

“As much as both of us want her back, as much as each of us wants it to be untrue, Grace is dead.”

“I know,” I said.