I woke up a couple of times after that, though my moments of awareness came as brief flashes—half remembered images that seemed to be indistinct and dim around the edges. In one, Rat looked at me as the fire raced up over his face, clinging to his skin like a sheen of oil, his cammies melting away into globs of fabric. I remembered him trying to scream for a few moments, an agonized thing that lasted forever. Over those images, I could hear Rat’s voice in my head: I never told anyone this, but getting burned alive, that’s my worst fear … I don’t wanna die—who the fuck wants to die, y’dig?—but getting burned up? That has to be the hands down worst way to go out.

I remembered the whirl of helicopter blades and the shouts of soldiers as I was loaded up into a Chinook and airlifted away.

I remembered seeing a medic bent over Greg’s body while another worked away above me.

I even remembered offering a delirious account to some higher ups, telling them about the music and the Leshy King. But it was all confused in my mind, just bits and pieces, like a fragmented quilt of memory.

When I woke up for real, it was in a hospital, a nice hospital—not one of those shitty medic tents they had in Nam. This was an actual building with walls and real beds and nurses. I found out not long after that it was Walter Reed Army Hospital in DC. That meant they thought something was seriously wrong with me—only guys with substantial injuries got a pass to Walter Wonderful.

Although, truth be told, I didn’t feel like I was in that bad of shape. First thing I did was check my body over, making sure all the important pieces were still there and intact. I was in a hospital gown, my legs tucked up under a thin white blanket, bandages running over my arms and face while IV tubing protruded from my arm and twisted away to a saline bag. But as far as I could tell, I wasn’t missing anything.

A shitload of scrapes and gashes, some ligature marks around my neck from that damned vine, and a bunch of minor burns, but that seemed to be it. For the first time in my life, I felt like I’d actually managed to catch a lucky break. I tried not to think too much on that though, because it invariably caused me to think about the guys who hadn’t gotten off so light: Wrangle—dead by my own hand—and poor Rat, right at the top of that list.

Since I’d officially come to, countless doctors and nurses had come and gone, taking blood, scribbling notes, and asking questions. For weeks that bullshit went on. I’d given my after-action report a dozen times over to officers from various branches and ranks, and not a one of them believed me. I knew because I’d also been evaluated by half a dozen shrinks, a couple from the military and several from the civilian sector.

I found out that Greg had made it too, and, apparently, in better shape than me. He was being kept somewhere else, though, and from what I could gather, he wasn’t talking at all—not about any of it. As tight-lipped as a frozen clam. Maybe he really didn’t remember, though I wouldn’t put money on it. Likely, he was just keeping his pie-hole shut because he was smarter than me and he knew just how ridiculous the truth actually was. Greg was a lifer; the Marine Corps was his future, so telling anyone about what had transpired down in that temple was akin to committing professional suicide. I just didn’t have two shits to give, though. Besides, someone needed to know the truth, someone deserved to know about Rat.

A gentle rap, rap, rap came from the door, which promptly swung open to admit a tall well-built guy in an immaculate suit. He stood maybe 6′4″ and had wavy brown hair, styled up in a 1920s do, which oddly reminded me of the otherworldly male musicians from the temple. His suit was light tweed—matching pants and dinner jacket with a waistcoat underneath and a spotless button up. He wore wingtips and stood with the air of a man who was better than everyone else and knew it. I’d never seen this guy before, but I knew he wasn’t with the military brass, which meant either a doctor or another shrink.

“Mr. Lazarus?” he asked, though it didn’t really seem to be a question. His eyes flashed over me, measuring me up to size, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Listen, guy,” I said, “I don’t want to be insulting, but I’m done talking to doctors and shrinks, especially if you’re just here to interrogate me about what happened down in the jungle. Everything I’ve got to say is already in a bajillion different reports, so just move along and get to reading. Put down that the ‘patient was uncooperative.’ I’ve been hearing that phrase a lot lately. Seems like the go-to sentence.”

The man shut the door behind him, ignoring me completely, and moved over to my bedside. He pulled out one of those rolly, backless doctor’s seats and carefully sat.

“Mr. Lazarus,” he said again, extending a hand, which I looked at for a moment, but made absolutely no move to take. He shrugged his broad shoulders, let his hand drop, then cast me a wide smile. “My name is James Sullivan. I’m not a doctor nor am I a shrink, but I am genuinely interested in hearing your story. I’ve already read the reports, of course, but I really would like to hear it from your own lips.”

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms across my chest. My patience for this bullshit had just officially run its course. “Fine, asswad,” I said, “I’ll tell you, just like I told everybody else. There was a temple down there in a jungle. A temple with some kinda evil tree spirit and a bunch of magic hotties who could sing music that turned people friggin’ crazy. Evil, murderous, shoot-your-friends crazy. Me and a few guys went in, shit got hairy, and I burned the whole place down.”

“With fire that came out of your hands, isn’t that right?” he asked, which made me want to punch him in the teeth.

“Yeah, asshole. With fire that came right outta my hands. Now if you’re here to commit me or something, just get it over with already.”

“Oh no, Mr. Lazarus,” the man said, holding up one hand. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all. In fact, the organization I work for is very interested in hearing your story more fully. I think we might just be able to help you make sense of all this.” There was a flare of light and a wave of heat. A ball of flame, about the size of a baseball, floated above his outstretched hand, spinning slowly, lazily for a moment, before vanishing in a flash, leaving only a faint afterimage behind. “Like I said, my name is James Sullivan, and we have a great many things to discuss, you and I.”