Darkside

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The ashen-faced cook was close to hyperventilating. He was sitting at the first table inside the mess hall, hands clamped down on spread knees, eyes bulging wide open, staring straight ahead, as if not wanting to see the red stains all over his whites.

“Hey, man, it’s okay,” Jim Hall said. “Just take it slow. Breathe. No, slower. Deep breaths. Slower. Yeah. That’s it. Take a minute. It’s gonna be okay.”

The cook, a pudgy white guy in his forties, didn’t respond, but he began to get his breathing under control. Jim looked at his shoes. He, too, did not want to dwell on the cook’s gore-spattered uniform. He imagined he could smell it, and felt his stomach do a small flop. Finally, the cook looked up at him.

“‘Okay’? Okay? Hell it will,” he croaked. “It was like…like he was trying to fly.”

“Say what?”

“The guy? It looked like he was trying to fly. I saw him. One split second. Arms wide, like one of those high divers, you know? His eyes were closed, though. Like he knew.”

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