The music was back again, drifting through the humid jungle air, dancing between twisting vines and groves of palms, sending a railroad spike of fear into my guts. It’d been a good long while since I’d heard a decent set of tunes—and the band, whoever they were, were way past decent—but I’d been hoping, praying even, that there would be no music tonight. The music meant death was coming.

Tonight it was a feisty up-tempo number, a big band piece from the 40s—the Andrew Sisters’ “Bei Mir Bist Du Shein.” The fat horns blared their brassy call, tones bouncing back and forth like a smooth-dancing zoot suit man. The trombone, in turn, squawked and warbled while the player worked his plunger. A clarinet, just a skosh off-key, cried and wailed like a caged songbird in time with the tinkle of black and whites. The sound was oddly distorted as it floated through the Vietnamese bush. And underneath it all a bass thumped out a steady rhythm, like the pumping of some giant heart. I could feel that bass all the way into my bones, like the noise came right up from the ground below me.

Yeah, the Andrew Sisters, at least I think that was right, it was hard to tell though. I’m a musician at heart, a bluesman, and the tune sounded right, at least in an off kilter kind of way. But the voices singing? It wasn’t Vietnamese, and it sure as shit wasn’t English. All the sounds were wrong, the consonants too slick, too elegant for any human tongue I’d ever heard. A trio of females sang, the sound as smooth and smoky as a good cigar, their voices working in a way that didn’t seem possible. Their voices were hypnotic, beautiful like a piece of sharp, glittering glass, digging right into my friggin’ ears, making my guts boil and writhe.

The music was never the same. This was the third night, and so far we’d heard slow waltzes, gritty blues numbers, hard bopping rock and roll, and strange oriental stuff with far too many stringed instruments. Each night a different set that went on until the sun broke the horizon and cast the darkness back down for another day.

“Music’s back,” Greg muttered into my ear. “The daggon music. Dammit all to hell.” His stocky shoulders hunched and knotted with tension as he peered into the trees—the visibility was nearly zilch now that the sun had dipped below the horizon. Not like he could find the music by looking anyways.

I bent over and vomited into some tangle of jungle greenery, before dropping to my ass and pressing the palms of my hands into my eye sockets, trying to relieve the pressure building up inside my head. The pain was worse every night, the weight inside my skull growing heavier with every note the band played. It was that bass riff, bum-bum-bum-bum, working its way up from the ground, then bouncing around inside me like a bullet. The sickness would pass soon—it came in waves—probably wouldn’t last more than another ten minutes. I just needed to wait it out.

I clutched my M-16 tight to my chest, hugging it like a drowning man might hug a life raft.

Greg turned and looked at me, running the back of one hand across his brown face, mopping away the sheen of sweat lingering on his brow. “Yancy, you’re gonna be alright, we can beat this. Just hold it together, brother. Tonight is not your night. You hear me? Tonight is not your night.” He sounded cool, composed, self-confident, but then Greg Chandler always sounded that way. He was sorta unflappable, had been since we met back in high school.

He couldn’t hide the fear in his eyes though, the tightness around his mouth, the creases of worry marring his forehead. Despite his reassurances, he was afraid that tonight was my night, that tonight I would lose my shit just like Moody, Wilson, and Lewiston had. That I would turn my rifle on the other Marines in the squad, murder one of my friends—maybe more than one, even—and then be murdered in turn.

None of the others had gotten sick like me, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. No one had any experience with anything like this before. It could be me.

Shit, it probably was me. After all, I was already seeing things, had been for a couple of days now. I was seeing the music. It floated on the breeze in streaks of silver and gold, snaking strings of muted light like vines with wicked barbs. The visions would come and go, but I was sure they were real. When we first heard the music, it seemed to come from all around us, like the jungle itself was bleeding out the noise. It was impossible to tell what direction to head in, but I knew where it was coming from, because I could see it, even then.

Eventually, I told Corporal Stanton. At first he didn’t believe me—why would anyone believe that shit?—but every day I managed to lead us a little closer to the music, and every day it grew louder, more clear.

I clutched my M-16 tighter. If it was my time, I hoped I could do what Ox had done: turn the rifle on myself, a round right up under the chin would do the trick. Better that than laying into my buddies. I’m not exactly a pillar of moral strength and conviction, but the thought of turning my weapon on Greg made my blood run cold.

“We have to get a move on,” he said, slinging his rifle and gently pulling me to my feet. “Corporal Stanton’s gonna wanna track the music again, and that means you.”

He pulled me along, one arm wrapped around my shoulders, supporting my frame while giving me direction. We clomped through thick vegetation, pushing aside plants and long hanging creepers, stumbling through foliage underfoot. After a minute or two we found the rest of the squad—or what remained of it. Just six of us now: me, Greg, Stanton, Rat, Wrangle, and Phillips.

When we started on this assignment, we’d been twelve. Jackson and Cortez had both been murdered, one by Moody, the other by Lewiston. Naturally, Jackson and Cortez were our communication bubbas, and, of course, all the comm gear had been destroyed in the attack, so we couldn’t even radio back to Company. Moody, Wilson, Lewiston, and Ox had all gone mad—the music was behind that—and we’d had to put ’em down like rabid dogs …well, except for Ox. He’d done himself.

We’d taken care of the other three as cleanly as possible—wrestled ’em to the ground, held ’em down flat on their faces while they fought and raved, then put one right in the back of the brain stem. As clean as such a thing could be, but still messy, dirty. Corporal Stanton actually took the shot, said it was his responsibility as the NCO, which I was grateful for. I’d watched Martin come apart at the seams after he stepped on that 105 round, and I’d even shot a VC kid right in the chest. But none of that was near as bad as holding down Moody’s arms while Corporal Stanton put a round in his noggin. Thinking about it made me want to vomit again.

The remaining four Marines twirled on us as we came through the bush, muscles tense, rifles tracking on us, fingers a little too close to triggers for my comfort. Everyone seemed to utter a collective sigh of relief, their muzzles dropping back down. Except for Phillips. His muzzle stayed on us for just a handful of seconds longer than the others. Probably nothing. But he’d bear watching. I could see the music, and it was wrapped around Phillips like a boa constrictor, entwining about his arms and legs and neck. If anyone was going to go tonight, I had my money on him.

“There you two knuckleheads are,” Corporal Stanton said, voice gruff, unamused, and filled with the twang of Kansas farmland. He was a burly white guy—stateside, he’d been a gym rat, practically slept on the weight bench—with a thick growth of beard obscuring his jaw. “You still sick, Lazarus?” he asked me.

I nodded my head, then doubled over and puked again as though to illustrate the point. Thankfully I was running on empty at this point, so it was mostly a dry heave with a bit of stomach bile thrown in.

“Can you still see it?” he asked, apparently unconcerned by my illness.

I pushed myself upright. The swirls of gold were dancing around us, moving to the beat of the music, circling our squad, pressing in from every side, trying to get inside us. All of us. Digging at our noses and mouths, probing at our ears, forcing itself into our lungs with every breath. Like toxic gas.

“Yeah, I’m still seeing it.”

“Good. Good.” He paused, staring into the bush as if he too might be able to see the music if he just looked hard enough. Who knows, maybe he could. “We need to find ’at fuckin’ music. This is big. No way the VC are doing this on their own. They don’t have the technology for it. The Russians, maybe. Some kind of psychological warfare program or some other shit like ’at. I heard the Nazis were experimenting with some weird shit. It’s the only thing ’at makes any sense,” he said, more to himself than to us.

“With all due respect, Corporal”—Greg came respectfully to parade rest—“I think we should turn back. This wasn’t our mission. We aren’t a recon squad. This is supposed to be a daggon forward listening operation. Set up our bivvy, put up the radio equipment, and listen—that’s the whole of it. Well, I’d say we’ve heard plenty, so I think we should head back and report. Leave this mess to someone with the paygrade for it, call the higher-highers and make it their problem.”

“Oh is ’at what you think?” Corporal Stanton’s forward hand clamped down on the rifle guard, while his rear hand strained against the pistol grip, his knuckles going white.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe it’d be Stanton who broke tonight. This really wasn’t like him. He was a tough guy, kind of an assbag, but underneath he was alright, a cool head—cared about people.

“Last time I checked, Lance Corporal, I’m the squad leader here. Not you. Any more insubordination from you and you’ll be lucky to make it back to the rear at all. You tracking with me? Now, we are not goin’ back until we find the source of this music. How we ever gonna explain what’s happened without the music? We need to find it.” He talked about finding the music in the same way a junkie might talk about their drug of choice.

“Roger that, Corporal,” Greg said, his finger subconsciously edging toward the trigger of his M-16. I could see the streaks of music pressing in at Greg, trying to wriggle in deeper.

Stanton swiveled, spreading his hard gaze around the rest of us. “We’re moving out. I want a single column, and remember to keep your interval.” That meant he wanted us to spread out so that if a bomb went off it would only kill the unlucky son of a bitch who stepped on it. “Rat,” he said, “you’re on point with Lazarus and Chandler. I’ll take middle, then Wrangle. Phillips, you’ve got the rear. Everyone keep your shit together here. I want everyone to make it back, clear.”

“Yeah, right,” Rat mumbled as he moved to comply. Neither Wrangle nor Phillips said anything at all as they moved away, taking up staggered spots ten or so feet apart. Greg guided me forward, carrying the bulk of my weight. My knees were wobbly, my legs threatened to give out at any moment, and my head pounded away in time with the music. Rat glanced back, saw Greg and I struggling through the snarls of green, and trotted back to give a hand. He slipped up on my other side, taking a bit of the stress off Greg. He was a wiry little shit, maybe 5′4″ and a buck thirty-five, but he could hold his own.

“You guys believe this shit?” Rat asked. “I can’t believe he’s making us push on. Five dead, Lazarus might as well be holding hands with the Reaper, and still we’re pushing.” He shook his head in disbelief and readjusted his hand on his rifle’s pistol grip. “Grade-A clusterfuck. You guys know I’m not yellow—I’m a tunnel rat, for shit sake—but this is a suicide mission. Stanton’s a muscle-headed moron. Too bad he ain’t got a little more muscle up between his ears.”

If there was anyone who knew about suicide missions, it was Rat. The VC had a huge underground system of tunnels—winding passages that were often times only a few feet in diameter—and Rat’s job was to go in first, armed only with a .45 pistol, a bayonet, and a flashlight. He’d clear the tunnel, plant a shit-ton of plastic explosives, and bring the passageways down. Most dangerous job in country. A thousand things could go wrong, and more often than not they did. Tunnel rats had a notoriously high turnover rate; their motto was non gratum anus rodentum, literally not worth a rat’s ass. If he had that many reservations, it really said something.

We trudged on, in silence for a bit, the clomping of our boots lost amidst the ruckus of nightly jungle noises: the drone of unseen insects, the ruffling of leaves, and the snapping of branches off in the distance, accompanied by the occasional yelp of a monkey, and, of course, the music. Every few feet I glanced up, caught sight of the drifting strings of music, and redirected our course. After a solid ten minutes of walking, the sickness slipped away and the nausea diminished, while strength returned to my arms and legs.

I shrugged free from Greg and Rat, staggering for a moment before I got my balance. “I’m alright,” I said over my shoulder. “It’s passing again, should be solid for another couple of hours.” Something warm and wet ran over my top lip, so I reached up and ran a hand across my mouth. Even in the low light I could see the red. I dabbed at my lip with my tongue and immediately tasted coppery blood. The nosebleeds were getting worse, but at least the blood wasn’t coming from my eyes anymore. A day ago, I’d literally shed bloody tears. Scared the great good bejesus outta me.

We moved on for a few more minutes, Greg and Rat both much closer than they should’ve been. The VC liked to put out land mines, and at this range, one mine could take us all out. But no one wanted to be alone, not with that music still thumping and pumping unabated.

“So can you really see it?” Rat asked me after a time. “Back before the Corps I used to trip acid and listen to Pink Floyd—thought I could see music too. You sure you aren’t just holding out on us?” He smiled a little, a strained expression, a failed attempt to lighten the mood.

“Go blow yourself, asshole,” I wheezed out, too tired and sick to say anything clever. I was getting my steam back, but my head still felt like it might crack right down the middle, a balloon filled to its utmost capacity. “It’s like looking at a string of Christmas lights floating right through the air. It’s right there”—I waved a hand out in front of me—“right in front of your face.”

“You think we’re gonna make it outta this?” Rat asked after a long pause, his false smile gone now, fear making him grimace. “Whenever I go into the tunnels I wonder the same thing, but there’s a part of me that kinda knows it’ll be alright. Like getting out is just in my cards. I can feel it, y’know? Not this time, though. This time … this time, I feel like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Quit your bellyaching,” Greg said, “and keep your voice down. Charlie could be out there anywhere. Remember Charlie? The VC’ll be more than happy to put a bullet right down your Chatty-Cathy throat. I’m sure we’ll be fine. We just have to keep our heads on right, stay cool, and keep our voices down.” The last was a muted growl.

“Yeah.” Rat shrugged and grinned, his pinched face and overlarge teeth making him closely resemble his namesake. “Yeah, I know it. I was just joking around a little. Everything’s gonna be alrig—”

A crack of gunfire split the air, the ambient jungle sounds growing still as someone wailed and cried into the night, a holler of agonized pain. The frantic shouts of Corporal Stanton followed, and then another round of chattering weapon fire.