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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v113) (the December 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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Corporal Finn

P. Keith Boran

I
    A car is parked; its windows fogged over, its occupants are engaged in illicit maneuvers, movements punctuated by an occasional moan or groan. To be blunt, they’re distracted; they are in the moment, focused on the present exhilaration of one body connected to another. They’re perspiring, hands clasped tightly, aspiring to reach the summit together.
    They had just shared a meal; it had been platonic at first, just two interested parties hoping to collaborate on a merger of sorts; it was a first date. They shared little in common, but loneliness pushes you to take risks, initiate mistakes, and then live amongst your regrets. And so, naturally, since both where of age, had a pulse, and gave consent, copulation commenced in a rural stretch of land outside of town.
    With both parties preoccupied with their ascent, they were unaware that the neglected grass surrounding them had begun to rustle, for they were no longer alone. And just when the two had reached that treasured climax, the passenger side window was shattered. The girl screamed. It was no longer laced with hints of physical pleasure, but with fear. She wasn’t just startled; this was a realization that her life was concluding. She was pulled through the window, her recent romantic interest yelling her name all the while.
    He heard one last scream before something bumped against his car, resulting in her complete silence. “Jessie,” the romantic interest yelled once more, “you okay?” He tried to start the ignition, thinking he’d received his due for the evening. When the engine turned, he flipped the lights on, expecting to see sweet Jessie naked save for that pretty smile. Instead, he saw what had become of his recent conquest, his betrothed, his beloved. He screamed too; his pitch exceedingly higher, he wasn’t pulled from the car at all. Instead, a confused hiker found him days later upright in the driver’s seat, still naked, his skull fractured.

II
    “We figure they were engaged in a heated sexual situation,” the Sheriff continued, “leaving him unawares of the danger surrounding them.” Having knelt beside the car, Finn took a moment to look at the wilderness around her. “I can see that, dear Sheriff,” she replied, “but where is the beauty that did ensnare this young man; if my understanding in biology is correct, it does take two to commit the act, does it not?” The sheriff hesitated. “Well, ma’am,” he whispered, “we have yet to find the lass responsible for such a crime; it must have been something he said during the thick and heat of it all; my boys and I have a theory upon it, a wager of sorts; we’re betting he called her by another’s name, and thus enraged her past the boiling point; no one can blame her for such an act as this under such emotional distress.”
    Surveying the car, Finn felt the indentation upon the rear passenger door. “Sheriff, I’m sorry to disagree, but I think your theory incorrect; the girl was killed just here, her body then dragged away.” Removing his hat, the Sheriff wiped his brow with a folded handkerchief. “What proof do you offer, Finn,” he asked, “Can you communicate with the man deceased, and speak the events that took place here?” With her one remaining arm, Finn felt the grass and dirt near the passenger door before she shook her head no. “This man has left; he’s gone home, and I shall not force him back; we can learn everything if we invest in the investigation of this gruesome scene some more.”
    Slowly standing, Finn pressed against her cane as she recovered herself. “Would you care to fetch my things from the car,” Finn asked, “perhaps I could conjure a rendering of where her body’s awaiting our discovery.”

III
    The hummer roared down the road. And in the dry tan sand, everything seemed to fade into the limitless collage spread out before them. Checking her weapon, Finn searched the beige exterior again for any tiny change, a movement that signaled impending acts of violence from the hidden edges of the collage, and the people who hated her because she was given a gun, as well as an opinion. But the landscape sat motionless, whispering “safe and sound” through its quiet inaction.
    Finn knew when the collage lied, as it so often did. In her first months, Iraq had been a deceitful ally, whispering untruths into the ears of a naîve soldier, one who had not seen much of the world outside of her rural home in Georgia. Finn had trusted the voice at first, thinking many attacks a result of a misunderstanding, poor planning, or some other reason rational and noble. But after several friends had been rendered dead, maimed, or mentally disabled, Finn became jaded and bitter, a natural reaction to such hostile environments. She grew too loath it, the supposed ally she’d been sent to save.
    She’d also hear voices, just whispers, while on patrol. “I’m losing it,” she’d whisper as she’d rock back and forth in the shower, “I’m coming unglued.” The whispers were inquisitive, always asking something of her, wanting to know a secret. Deciding it all a delusion, Finn has since stopped listening to the whispers that surround her, whispers of folk deceased, seeking advice on how to find eternity, on how to find some rest, some peace.
    And in a reaction to the collage’s insistence on remaining still and motionless, Finn’s attention had wandered to an inaudible whisper just beside her; it grew louder with Finn’s every attempt to blot it out, to pretend it didn’t exist. That’s when she heard the familiar echo in the distance, one known to herald the arrival of artillery shells. Finn gripped her weapon tightly, contorting her body in anticipation of the initial impact, hoping if she dies, it might be quick.

IV
    Handed a notepad and pen, Finn flipped the cover open. She stood listening, waiting for her instructions to begin. She limped towards one direction, then another, then another, and when she approached the southern line of the scene, she heard the whispers become murmurs. Carefully, Finn sat down, closed her eyes, and began to draw. No longer avoiding them, the murmurs became voices, for Finn had finally allowed herself to listen. She sketched. Details the voices gave her, things they felt important, needed to be seen, they all came to life upon Finn’s notebook.
    Her strokes, both frantic and absurd, frightened those around her. They became uncomfortable. “Is this some poor attempt at humor, Sheriff,” one deputy asked, “because I do not find Ms. Finn’s routine to be entertaining in the least.” The sheriff lifted his finger to his mouth. “Give her the opportunity to assist,” he whispered in reply, “for we have no clue as to where the broad may be, or what commenced precisely at this present scene, perhaps one may lead us to the other; they’re funny that way.”

V
    The first shell missed wide, creating a crater some thirty yards to their right. A private in the passenger seat laughed in relief, but it was short-lived, for everyone knew they were now recalculating. They heard another echo, and braced themselves accordingly. “We’ve got incoming,” her Sergeant yelled into a radio, “it’s coming from that ridge, concentrate all fire on that ridge.” The Sergeant turned to the private beside him. “Mount it,” he said as he gestured to the .50 caliber machine gun up top, “and push them back.” The private began his ascent, but failed to fire a round, for the second shell struck too close, causing the hummer to wreck.
    The man next to Finn opened his door, but was shot before he could make his way to cover. The Sergeant said a few things unpleasant as he opened his door to return fire. But he didn’t last too long, taking several rounds before he went down. Finn strapped her body armor down tight as she crawled from the jeep. Several soldiers followed her lead. “Corporal Finn,” one whispered, “what do we do now?” Taking cover behind the wreckage, Finn began to return fire. “Spread out, and return fire,” she replied, “We need to hurry up and wait; help’s inbound.”
    After several minutes, one of the soldiers was killed instantly, for another shell struck close to home, but still another lingered on. He had been shot in the knee, and could not keep himself calm. He screamed in agony. After a few minutes more, only he and Finn were left. “Suck it up, Smith,” Finn yelled between rounds, “just a few minutes more.” A light hiss interrupted her; a bullet had struck her chest. Her grip loosened upon the rifle, for the unexpected pain forced a flinch; it was almost unbearable. Dropping to a knee, Finn retrieved her pistol to return fire. Another echo erupted. But Finn didn’t see any explosion; she only heard a soft roar before it all went black, like an awkward fade from a film homemade.

VI
    “Sheriff,” Finn yelled out, “three hundred yards to my left, that’s where her body was laid; she’s waiting for us now, and we mustn’t be late.” Ripping the drawing from her notepad, Finn stood up slowly. Limping towards the sheriff, carrying her sketch and cane in hand, Finn gestured in the body’s direction. “Make haste, Sheriff,” Finn said, “set your boys loose, have them expand this scene; there is much more to see, and not just a body.”
    And the Sheriff’s boys begrudgingly complied, marching at the advice of a disfigured marine. They felt themselves emasculated in some insecure way, and unwilling to assist the maimed consultant through the wilderness she’d drawn with eyes wide shut. Finn understood; her talents were strange, hard to understand, and caused others to question her sanity as she once did. But now, Finn embraced it, listening to the voices still demanding to be heard, demanding advice. No longer did they seek secrets from her; they whispered them to her, telling her things she’d never want to know before her injury. But now, they made her useful despite her appearance.
    It wasn’t long before a deputy yelled out, letting them all know he’d found her; she was not far from the spot Finn had sketched in her notepad, only her head and arms were missing. As one deputy proceeded to vomit, another one removed his hat to cross himself. “Who would do such a thing to another,” the Sheriff whispered, “and why dissect the body just to leave her torso scattered so?” Finn took a quick peek. “A monster, I’d say,” Finn replied, “one that would prefer this one not be identified.”
    Squinting, the Sheriff appeared frustrated. “And I suppose you unable to draw a quick sketch of this monster with your insufferable crayons, eh Finn?” Reaching around her back, Finn removed the daypack from her shoulder. Setting her cane aside, Finn reached inside, and fiddled about for the notepad. “I could always try,” she replied, opening her notebook; she waited for whispers, the type she’d grown to trust and love.

VII
    Finn awoke briefly, she awoke with a shock, as the surgeons bustled and busied with reviving her dying body. “I think we have a pulse,” she heard one man say excitedly. “But that’s impossible,” another answered, “there’s too much of her gone.”

. . .

    When she awoke again, she tried to move. Reaching for the railing along the bed, she felt her hand clasp tightly around metal; she tried to shift her weight and failed. With her left eye, she tried to sneak a peek, but was unable to locate her left arm. She moved it slowly, hoping to bring it into view, enabling her to survey the damage, to see what had become of her appendage. Feeling it in sight, Finn looked, and found only ceiling and bright lights before her. “Where’s my arm,” she whispered, before the pain kicked in and forced her out again.

. . .

    Finn awoke again later, and managed to lift her head slightly. She saw a man in a white coat; he held an X-ray to the light, using his free hand to point something out to an older colleague beside him. “Have you ever seen a case like this,” he whispered. “No,” the older doctor answered, “I’ve never seen a tumor like this before; it’s a wonder she’s alive at all.”

VIII
    As Finn began to sketch, the voices suddenly changed. Something was amiss they claimed, and advised her to leave. “What could be amiss,” she thought, “when I’m surrounded by officers of the law?” But as she sketched, she began to see, for something was growing just beyond the clearing, planted between some trees. Turning, Finn took a brief gander at each, hoping someone might be nervous, and therefore easy to read. Most of the deputies seemed despondent, some more than the rest. But the Sheriff looked bored, as though he was bothered to be there, be patient, and just wait. “Sheriff,” Finn called, motioning with her head for him to come along. Straightening his hat, he smiled as he commenced, for he was anxious to see what she’d drawn at last. “What have we here,” he said, taking the sketch. “Pot,” the Sheriff laughed, “planted just down the hill, beyond the clearing, between some trees; you mustn’t be serious?” That’s when Finn heard the familiar hiss she’d heard before, as a deputy fired his gun, wounding the Sheriff as Finn began to run.
    Coming to the treeline, Finn knew what to do, the voices had told her, and she obliged. She jumped, fell, and rolled, making her way down the hill. “I might not last long,” she thought, “but I can still start a fire.” Finn recovered as quickly as she could, and proceeded to run; it was awkward at first, but she ignored the pain, and crossed the clearing to the spot where the pot was hidden, along with the woman’s severed arms and head.
    Finn could hear them coming; they were shouting her name. They issued violent threats, and promised to inflict pain, like killing her so slow just to enjoy watching her face. Finn paid no heed; she reached into her pocket, procured the lighter, and produced a flame. She smiled as she held it to the treasured plants, watching them whither in the heat before melting away.
    Finn heard them again, so she spread herself flat. She waited until they were close, before she began to crawl. Finding more plant to light and burn, Finn had created a growing fire that separated them all. She kept crawling, and she had almost gotten away, when a deputy found her and began to scream. Finn tried to run, but it was no use; her accident rendered one leg too weak to hold much weight.
    When they caught her, she punched, she screamed, she yelled, scratching several deputies before they finally got her on the ground. “Corporal,” they yelled as they held her down, “relax, you were hurt, but you’re safe now.” Finn felt a warm sensation pierce her arm, forcing her body to give up and go limp.
    She kept trying to run, but her body was no use to her now. And as she looked around, everything had changed. She was not in some forest, trying to burn some pot. Finn was on a hospital floor, surrounded by men in coats of white. “It’s okay,” one whispered, “you’re fine now.” But in a rare moment of sanity, Finn knew she’d lost it, and it would only get worse.

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