Wassermann Gardens

By Milo Samardzija

Wassermann Gardens is the story of a group of young soldiers who have contracted a wildly contagious and fatal disease. The disease is considered so dangerous to humanity that the soldiers are declared Missing in Action and quarantined on an unknown and unnamed island in the South Pacific, where they must live out their few remaining years.  As living conditions on the island deteriorate, the men plagued by madness, blindness, starvation, deadly violence, and relentless hurricanes, they realize they have only one chance for survival, one last desperate mission -- escape.        

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hillcrest Media Group
• Release date: Dec 31, 1899
• ISBN: 9781634135337

Book preview

Epilog

Chapter 1

There is a legend that began in the South Pacific during World War Two. Nobody gave the story credence. It was simply too horrible in its implications and too grotesque in its vision to be believed. Still, the legend persisted, carrying over into the Korean Conflict and lingering until the fall of South Vietnam. Most soldiers refused to take the story seriously. It had to be the military’s version of an urban myth, a tale that lifers told to scare recruits. If the legend held any truth, it would undermine faith in God and human decency, and destroy the covenant between a soldier and his country. It would be the end of everything. The legend was simply more than the mind would accept.

And every word of it was true.

Hoffman hung himself during the monsoon season. Most of the suicides on the island happened during that wet, dreary time of year. Constant rain, chilling winds, and months without sunshine, all combined to weaken already weak men.

Marlowe had been looking for a fourth player for a game of hearts when he ducked out of the rain into Hoffman’s hootch and found him swaying from a beam. Hoffman must have just taken the leap. He was still alive. His body was twitching, grunts issued from his swollen and contorted lips, and his bulging, bloodshot eyes seemed ready to burst. He wouldn’t last much longer. Marlowe decided to have a smoke and wait for Hoffman to die.

Marlowe stood in the doorway, staring out into the rainy, starless night. He was concentrating on his cigarette, trying to keep it from falling apart. A year earlier the supply helicopter inexplicably stopped bringing manufactured cigarettes and began delivering loose tobacco in burlap sacks, along with cartons of rolling papers. The tobacco was vile and roughly cut. The rolling papers were flimsy, without glue. The cigarettes didn’t hold together very well in good weather. Rolling a decent smoke during the monsoon season was nearly impossible.

As Marlowe was finishing his cigarette, he saw someone approaching. It was Druliner, using the guide ropes to climb the slope to Hoffman’s hootch. Druliner stepped inside, shook the rain from his poncho and said, Wondered what was taking you so long.

Marlowe nodded toward Hoffman’s dangling body. Druliner looked up and grimaced. Ah fuck, is he gone?

Just about.

He was losing his eyesight. Druliner said. He was complaining about it the other day.

He mentioned it to me, too.

Should we take him down?

Give it a few minutes.

Druliner tried to roll a smoke, but his hands were shaking and he made a bad job of it. The cigarette fell apart. Marlowe rolled one for him, not a much better one, but it held together.

Finishing the smoke, Druliner looked up at Hoffman and said, Might as well take him to Easy Street. I’ll get the wheelbarrow.

Might as well.

When Druliner returned with the wheelbarrow, he and Marlowe cut Hoffman down. After placing the body in the barrow’s bed, the two men rested for a bit. They knew what was coming and dreaded it. They waited quietly for a few moments, listening to the rain splatter on the canvas covered hootch.

What was Hoffman’s first name, anyway?

Dan, Don, something like that, Marlowe said.

Druliner shook his head. I thought it was Doug.

Was he Army or Navy?

He could have been a Marine.

I suppose.

I guess we should get to it.

During the dry season the island could have been mistaken for a lush tropical isle. It was carpeted with waving sawgrass, ferns and shrubbery. During the monsoon season, however, the island took on a different character. With the coming of the rains the island became a quagmire, a miasmic swamp of clinging mud, rotting vegetation, and reeking pools of standing water that bred mosquitoes by the millions. When the winds weren’t gusting, the bloodsuckers made life miserable for the islanders. When the winds blew, they kept the mosquitoes at bay, but produced a razor-sharp cold that the islanders felt deep in their bones.

The monsoon lasted five or six months and in that time it actually changed the physical appearance of the island. The brutal winds and relentless rains flattened hillocks, created sinkholes, dug ragged gullies, and started mudslides that sometimes proved fatal.

Most of the islanders lived in the low-lying part of the island, the bowl of an extinct volcano, which they called Fat City. They believed that the shallow depression offered protection from the worst of the storms. In the dry season the incline leading out of the volcanic bowl was gentle and grassy, an easy stroll. During the monsoon, the slope became a treacherous obstacle course that was difficult enough to climb, even without the burden of a corpse and a wheelbarrow.

It was up that slick and dangerous slope that Marlowe and Druliner struggled with their burden. It was miserable work. Getting traction in the mud was almost impossible. The rain and wind had picked up and blew directly in their faces. Clumps of mud and clay stuck to their boots. The wheelbarrow had already tipped over twice, spilling Hoffman’s body into the muck. Wrestling the corpse back into the wheelbarrow took all their energy. They were exhausted before they made it up the incline.

What a rude bastard, Druliner said, trying to catch his breath.

Marlowe was bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. I can’t believe the asshole could be so inconsiderate. He knew what it was like. He’s made this trip before.

We should just leave him here, Druliner said. Maybe it won’t be so bad tomorrow.

We can’t do that.

Why the fuck not?

It wouldn’t be right. That’s not the way we do things.

Druliner shook his head in exasperation. Okay, I don’t want to argue with you. Let’s just do it.

As the men struggled up the slope, slipping and sliding in the ankle-deep mud, they noticed someone approaching. When the figure, hunched deeply into his poncho, drew closer, they saw that it was Kline.

Looks like you boys can use some help, Kline said, when he reached the two men. Who is it?

Hoffman, Marlowe answered. The fucker hung himself.

Good a way as any, I suppose. Damned inconvenient, though.

Inconvenient my ass, Druliner sputtered. Mean and spiteful is more like it. Never thought about the trouble he’d cause.

Kline peeked out from under the poncho. You can’t hold it against him now.

Hell I can’t.

Marlowe interrupted. I’m cold, I’m wet, I’m tired, and Hoffman’s dead.

So what’s your point?

The point is that he doesn’t give a shit anymore. Let’s just get this job done.

Working together, the three men moved the wheelbarrow up the slippery incline. It tipped over once, but they were able to get Hoffman back into the barrow with a minimum of trouble. Once they reached level ground the going got easier. Easy Street was about 500 yards away and the men took turns pushing the wheelbarrow, switching off every 50 or 75 yards.

On the way, they passed the old graveyard which, long ago, and for some unknown reason, had been named Wassermann Gardens. Five years earlier, the most violent hurricane the islanders had ever experienced destroyed the burial grounds. The murderous storm had turned the cemetery into a mire of shifting, unstable mud -- and eventually the mud began to move. As it gained momentum, the mudslide exposed dozens of the graveyard’s coffins. It gathered up the rotting boxes and carried them down the incline, right into the heart of Fat City. For days and weeks afterwards, Fat City was inundated with bones, skulls and decomposing bodies. The stench of rotting corpses lingered for weeks. Several men whose minds were slipping lost their sanity completely.

No bodies were ever again buried in Wassermann Gardens.

When the three men reached Easy Street, they stopped to rest. Marlowe stepped over to the edge of the precipice and looked down at the narrow, boulder-strewn inlet, more than 100 feet below. Even in good weather, waves rushed violently into the inlet, dashed loudly against the rocks, and retreated just as quickly.

Ever since the hurricane had destroyed the graveyard, the islanders had used Easy Street to dispose of bodies. At first, the islanders hauled the dead men down a winding path that led to the cove, laying the bodies on the rocks for the waves to carry out to sea. The path was steep and dangerous, however, and several men had been injured trying to dispose of corpses. Now the islanders just heaved the bodies over the side of the precipice.

Anybody want to say a few words? Marlowe asked.

Druliner said, How about rest in peace.

Marlowe said, That’s good enough. Then he grabbed Hoffman’s arms, Kline grabbed his legs, and they began swinging the body back and forth. One, two, three, Kline counted. On three, they swung the body as hard as they could and tossed it over the cliff. Druliner peered over the side to make sure that the body landed on the rocks below and didn’t get caught on a ledge or tangled in the shrubbery that grew on the side of the cliff.

Satisfied that Hoffman’s body had been properly disposed of, Marlowe brushed his hands on the sides of his wet fatigue trousers and said, Well, that’s that.

Chapter 2

Marlowe remembered the exact moment when his life was ruined, when he lost everything.

About a month before he was due to finish his tour of duty in Vietnam, his company was on a three-day stand-down at Division Headquarters in Chu Lai. Marlowe and two of his friends were relaxing, drinking beer and smoking weed, when they decided they wanted to get laid. They called in a favor and were given use of the company Jeep. They drove into the village of Chu Lai, looking for whores.

After driving aimlessly for half an hour, they spotted a Saigon Cowboy sitting on a Honda bike and asked him where the nearest whores were. They were directed down a narrow, twisting, dirt road, lined with shacks, open air stalls and lean-tos. For some reason, Marlowe remembered that it got darker and colder the farther they drove down the road, even though it was a warm and sunny day. He also recalled that deep, looming shadows fell across the road, though there were no structures tall enough to cast shadows. He knew, of course, that those perceptions were tainted by the horror of what was to come. Nevertheless, he sometimes woke in a heaving sweat, lost in a dream about driving down that dirt road.

Three whores were working that day – two were young girls, still in their teens, and an older woman, maybe in her 30s. At first Marlowe assumed the older woman was the mamasan, the madam who ran the place. He was wrong. The woman was for hire.

Of course, all three men wanted the younger women. Marlowe vaguely remembered a stoned, good-natured discussion on how to proceed.

I don’t want the old bitch.

Me neither, man.

Well, I don’t want sloppy seconds.

These are whores, man. The best you can hope for is sloppy eighths or ninths. And that’s if it’s been a slow day.

What have you got against sloppy seconds anyway?

Yeah, what’s the problem? It’s not like pussy wears out. It’s what they call a renewable resource.

The men finally decided to toss coins to settle the matter. Marlowe lost.

Shit, he muttered, unhappily. How about two out of three?

Marlowe was sitting in the Jeep, having a smoke, waiting for his turn, when the mamasan approached him and mimed a request for a cigarette. When Marlowe handed her a smoke, she said, "Merci, monsieur."

Marlowe didn’t speak French, so he just nodded. He was aware that the French once held the mortgage on Vietnam. Maybe the mamasan had whored for the French when she was young, spreading her legs for any Legionnaire with a few francs to spend. Maybe she had been a beauty, living the good life as some rich man’s mistress. Or maybe she was just a poor woman who had been widowed by the war and turned to whoring to support herself.

If she had once been a beauty, there was little evidence of it now. There were gray streaks in her long hair and her hands were rough, probably from working in the rice paddies. Her body was shapeless under the frayed pajamas she wore, but Marlowe thought she looked thin, as if she hadn’t been eating properly. She also emitted a strange, almost too-sweet odor that reminded him of spoiled fruit.

The mamasan smoked half of the cigarette, stubbed it out, and put the butt in a pocket. Then she reached out and put her hand in Marlowe’s lap. His first instinct was to push her hand away, but he didn’t. He let her manipulate him until he was fully aroused.

Marlowe had just turned 19. He was healthy, fit and in the prime of his young manhood. Sex was never far from his thoughts. Like most young men, he often found himself carrying a load at the oddest times. Anything could set him off – a gentle breeze, the memory of a girl he knew in high school, a few bars of music. Then, again, it could be nothing at all. Sometimes erections just appeared, unbidden and unexplainable, a magic trick.

Once lust entered the picture, however, it would not be denied. The sexual drive is, in the purest sense, a force of nature. A 19-year-old man with an erection is a heat-seeking missile, on a mission to find a target, make contact and explode.

With her hand still clutching Marlowe’s erection, the mamasan tilted her head toward the shack where Marlowe’s friends were rutting, and said, "Monsieur?"

"Yeah, why not. Oui."

Chapter 3

The great mystery on the island was its precise location. It was a question that plagued most of the sane men, and some of the crazies, too. It didn’t seem to matter as much to the blind. Their world had been reduced to a dark, mobile circle, extending an arm’s length in every direction.

The islanders had a deep-seated, almost irrational desire to place themselves in the world. They wanted to know where they were. Marlowe was the exception. He believed that knowledge of the island’s location might be dangerous information. If the men needed to know where they were, they would have been told.

It seemed everyone on the island had an opinion as to its location. Some opinions were well thought-out, based on observation of the climate, weather patterns and the constellations. A few opinions were based on wishful thinking. Others were products of ignorance. And several of the opinions were simply the ravings of madmen.

Abe Gilbert, for example, knew for a fact that the island was located in the middle of Lake Erie, not far from his hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. Before he understood how badly and how quickly Abe’s mind had deteriorated, Marlowe had tried to talk sense to him.

"Look, man, Lake Erie is in the Midwest, right? That means it’s in the temperate zone, like Chicago and Pittsburgh. You agree?

Abe nodded his head.

If it’s in the temperate zone that means there’s got to be four seasons. So, if there’s four seasons, how come we never have winter? How come it never snows?

Abe stared at Marlowe blankly.

If we were in the middle of Lake Erie, we’d know it, Marlowe continued. We’d see boats, people sailing and fishing. There’d be commercial traffic, too, like freighters and ore boats and trawlers.

Abe nodded his head again. "Come on, I want to