Red Lenses was one of two specially commended runners-up in the MAN’S WORLD 2024 Pulp Fiction Prize. 

Captain Richards stood on the flight deck of the USS Harnett County listening to the sounds of the river. Storms crackled on the far horizon, swelling and pulsing with an amber light that reminded him more of gunfire than electricity. Monsoon season was starting, and already the muddy waters of the Mekong Delta swelled, bloating with shit and sewage. He hated the smell of the river. The whole country smelled like that. He missed West Virginia. Nothing smelled clean like the mountains.

His eyes searched the darkness, his ears alert for the telltale sound of the choppers returning from their mission. They should’ve been here already. It had been radio silence for an hour, and no one had been able to raise them. This mission was routine, drop some Marine scouts off in the jungle where they could perform reconnaissance ahead of the larger push the Army was making. The bombers had already cleaned out most of the anti-air guns in the area, roasted it good.

Richards pulled a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes from his breast pocket and removed a cigarette. It was the last one. His stomach knotted. Not much made that happen anymore. Granted, his bar for contentment had swung pretty low; all he needed most days was a pack of new smokes.

The slow rythmic flup, flup, flup of a Huey broke the silence. His ears perked, and he sighed in relief. Then he caught his breath.

He only heard the flup of one chopper where two should be. His stomach knotted again. He’d lied. Everything made his stomach knot. Leading men was a game of white knuckles. The flup grew louder, and he hoped and prayed the two choppers had somehow intertwined themselves in perfect synchrony, because if not, he would be writing letters home tonight.

A single chopper swung into view, catching the glare of the LST’s lights as if to answer all his questions. It was “Spike’s” plane. It came in erratically, pitched into a choppy hover, and landed hard, too hard. Its tail was smoking, a string of bullet holes strewn across its jolly green body.

Fuck.

The Crew Chief and the rest of flight maintenance were on it immediately. Richards flicked the cigarette off the side of the ship and strode forward, steeling himself for the inevitable. He was taking his time, praying that he heard another chopper before he got there.

“Medic!” the Crew Chief called out. “We need a medic.” He sounded terrified.

A maintainer unleashed a fire extinguisher on the chopper’s tail.

Richard’s broke into a run.

The bodies were damn near falling out of the back. Blood everywhere. Mangled flesh and bone. Charred uniforms that said the fighting had been up close and personal. He absorbed these details rather than consciously considering them. They were things that did not need thinking about. Things known from experience. Split second impressions that—

“Help me,” the Crew Chief shouted. He was hauling Spike out of the Pilot’s seat. Richards grabbed an arm. The Co-Pilot still hadn’t moved. His helmet cracked and the window behind him painted red.

“They were everywhere,” Spike said. “Demons. Oh God. Please. We have to leave.”

Richards dragged him away from the helo, but Spike was fighting him. “They were out there. All around us and we couldn’t see them. We can’t see them normally, I tell you. But they are there.”

Richards pulled him upright and held him at arm’s length. He was wild eyed, and shaking, literally trembling. So much so, that Richards had no idea how he was still standing. He’d seen men crack before, but not whatever this was. This wasn’t Spike. This wasn’t even Spike after an especially hairy rescue. This was a man so destroyed by fear that he became unrecognizable.

Spike’s eyes glassed over and he stared blankly past Richards. “Behind you,” he said.

A chill swept through Richards even as he glanced behind.

A thundering horizon. The night sky. The stars that travel over Vietnam.

But nothing else.

Nobody… nothing… was there.

“Who is?” he asked, but Spike was already falling, going down in a dead faint. Richards caught him and hauled him up over his shoulder, before giving a last furtive glance behind.

***

Richards paced next to Spike’s bed. Every so often the nurse would push past him, give a slight humph at his being there, and then bend over to check on her patient.

She cut a fine figure. Brunette and blue eyed, the kind of soft baby blues that made one think of a diner, or their first kiss, or clotheslines and fresh linen.

Apple Pie.

“You need to go get some sleep,” she said. “We’ll get you when he wakes up.”

“I’m fine,” Richards replied.

“What happened out there anyways?” She asked.

“I don’t know,” Richards said. “That’s why I’m here. He’s the only one that survived.”

“There was nothing weird about the mission?”

Richards bristled then. At the basic questions, and the condescension he imagined in her voice. She was interrupting his thinking, horning in on his useless worry. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine. How’s that,” he snapped.

He felt bad about it immediately. He needed peace and quiet to fret.

She turned away, lips pursed, and he quickened his pace, covering the figure across from Spike’s bed that much faster.

She was right though…

After the mission brief, he’d been shooed out of the room. That spook, Mercer, if that was even his real name, had briefed them on something. He’d said it was “need to know.” Company business. Richards had thought nothing of it at the time. It was common enough, and never usually mattered. Usually, some mission to transport a khaki agent that looked like a hippie and talked like he went to Harvard out into the boonies to role play James Bond. Always with those stupid Nikons around their neck. Their cover was always journalist. If the agency was trying to win by being underestimated, they were certainly making the most out of the strategy.

Someone knocked on the door to the Medbay. It was Stone, the Crew Chief. He held a device in his hand, some sort of goggle.

“What’d you find?” Richards asked, pointing to the thing.

“Looks like a personal starlight scope,” Stone said. “They all had ‘em. Never seen them this small before.”

Richards took the object and turned it over in his hands. Red lenses in a bulky aluminum housing attached to a bit of webbing and a few straps. Red lenses that caught the flickering lights of the ship’s med bay. Red lenses that cast glittering beams.

“They were all wearing them,” Stone continued.

“I’ve never seen these either,” Richards said.

***

Richards pounded on the door to Mercer’s bunk and kept pounding even after the man shouted that he was coming. The door opened, and Richards bulled his way in. He was trying to knock him over, but Mercer was cat-quick and slid out of the way.

Richards yanked the light to the private cabin by its little chain, pulling so hard that the bulb rattled as it flickered on. The LST lolled gently to the starboard side, and trash slid across the floor.

Richards caught his balance on the smudged walls of Mercer’s lair. The man was a pig. If any of his other men kept their spaces like this, Richards would have their Sergeant’s hide.

Mercer staggered back to the rumpled bed and sat down. “Fuckin alright, just come on in,” he said. He was in his skivvies, pale hairy legs dangling over the side of his bunk, socks pulled halfway up to his knees, chest hair spilling out of the top of a wife beater that looked like it had been dragged through a trailer park, then got evicted, and then got drafted. His hair was long, but not hippie long, and he was sporting three days’ worth of stubble.

Richards shoved the goggles into Mercer’s hands and told him to talk.

“They’re back?” Mercer asked.

“One of them is,” Richards said. “What did you send them out on?”

Mercer looked up at him blankly, and for a second Richards thought he caught a flicker of feeling in the man’s eyes, but then it was gone, replaced with that cat-like stoicism he’d come to hate. Mercer was a cat, that’s why Richards couldn’t stand him. The realization came to him suddenly. That was their whole thing. He was the loyal dog, and Mercer was a three-legged cat on its sixth life. You couldn’t trust a three-legged cat on its sixth life, and you especially couldn’t trust it, if you were the family dog. The fact it had five different passports and had survived twice as many cases of the clap was all just supporting evidence.

“It’s just night vision,” Mercer said. “The agency has been developing them. They partnered with Navy Acquisitions to get units in the field for testing.”

“You said it was need to know,” Richards said. “Is this what you gave them when you kicked me out of the briefing?”

“Yeah,” Mercer shrugged. He turned to the mess of a nightstand next to him grasping for a rumpled pack of cigarettes that sat atop a water damaged Sharon Tate. That was actually a good issue, Richard’s thought, helluva centerfold.

“And now I need to know,” Richards said, answering his own question. “Only one chopper came back, Mercer. I got a man in Medbay, my friend, a pilot, who is comatose, and before that he was having the mother of all nervous breakdowns… and now I NEED TO KNOW. You hear me.”

Mercer shrugged again, cigarette dangling from his lips. He cupped hands around the flame from his lighter. “They’ve had reports. Nothing serious, but enough to raise eyebrows.”

“What kind of reports?”

“Psychosis, hallucinations, depression,” Mercer waved his hand. “They don’t know why though. Sometimes guys just have a freak out. The goggles had nothing to do with it, they would’ve had the freakout anyways. That’s what the lab coats say, and I believe them.”

“I want all those reports on my desk in two hours,” Richards said. “Everything you know, everything you have, and a list of everything you’re trying to get for me.”

“Or what?” Mercer asked, passing the goggles back.

Richards eyes flicked between Mercer’s own and the track marks that ran up the inside of his arm. “Or the next time you’re looking to get a fix, it’ll be in some back alley in Philadelphia, or Boston, or in whatever fucking shithole Langley sticks you, but it won’t be on my boat, and it sure as hell won’t be in country.”

Mercers insolent smirk was replaced with a single quick flash of fear. “Fuck off Richards, I’ll get it.”

“And give me those,” Richards said, snatching the pack of cigarettes. “Two hours, Mercer. Don’t be late.”

When Richards returned to Medbay he found Spike sitting up and lucid. “You back with us?” Richards asked. He tilted his head, scanning for any signs of the broken man he’d dragged down here.

“Enough,” Spike said. “Feel like I got hit with a train.”

“He’s heavily sedated,” the nurse cut in. “But he should be fine now.”

“Good enough to talk?” Richards asked.

“Just take it easy on him,” the nurse said. “I’ll be right outside.”

Richards dragged a chair up next to Spike’s bed, and sat down, knees on elbows. “Alright, I want you to tell me everything you can remember. Everything. Every detail, every thought, feeling, and flutter, even stuff you don’t think is important, but most importantly what you think happened. If it gets too rough, we can take a break.”

Spike nodded.

“Start at the beginning.”

***

6 Hours Earlier…

He passed out those Night Vision Devices. NVDs, saying, “This is an optoelectronic device. They enhance ambient visible light using an S-20 Photocathode. They work just like a starlight scope; except they are helmet mounted. Oh, and one more thing, nobody in a command position is supposed to wear them. We don’t want unnecessary distractions. That means no pilots are to wear them. When you get back, I will debrief you on how they worked. What you liked. Disliked. Potential areas for improvement. Any questions?”

“Yeah, I got one,” Mowgli said. “Mowgli” was only his callsign, he was Jack Kipling to civi’s.

“Shoot,” Mercer said.

“Yeah, um, we were just wondering if your boyfriend got you that shirt?” Mowgli asked as the rest of the room erupted in laughter.

“Has he cum in your ass yet, or are you saving yourself for marriage?” Ripper shouted.

“Can I be your best man?” Mowgli shouted.

“Fuck all of you,” Mercer said, making a straight line for the door.

After that everything was normal. The Marines double checked their gear, and Mowgli and I ran through pre-flight checks. Mowgli was my copilot. In the other chopper was “Ripper,” named for his serial killer demeanor, and “Tyger,” named after the negro stripper he’d blown his whole paycheck on when we were still stateside.

When everyone was locked and loaded, we took off. All was normal. Chill. The guys were making jokes. We took off about an hour before sundown, when the sun is golden, and it turns everything pretty, real pretty. The jungle looks like the Garden of Eden at that time of day.

It was when the sun set that things got spooky. We started flying by instrument, which was normal, but 30 minutes after dark the boys in the back started fucking with those goggles.

Thats when it happened. Our gunner started shouting about something flying next to us, a winged creature. He was pointing frantically out of the back, and the whole chopper swayed as the boys piled to the other side of it to get a look. I couldn’t see too much of what was going on as I was focused on the instruments.

The boys started hollering. Then I heard one of them shout that it was pointing at them. Then another screamed “it was coming,” and another shouted “shoot.”

Then all hell broke loose, the boys started shooting. It was just the door gunner at first, but then the rest of them were firing their rifles off out of the other side as well. Next thing I know, the other chopper’s gunner opens up on us. Either they were shooting at the same thing we were, or at us, I couldn’t tell, but as soon as I saw a tracer zip past my windscreen so close I could damn near feel its heat, I took evasive maneuvers and dropped us down a thousand feet.

This whole time the boys never stopped firing, and their war whoops had changed to panicked screams for me to get them out of there. Even with the ear protection on, it was louder’n hell, and my vision was all fried from the muzzle flashes. I was rattled alright. And it had just started to register that they weren’t firing at planes or SAMs or even VC, but something else. Something they could only see with those goggles.

I handed the controls over to Mowgli, and tried to raise Ripper on the radio, but there was nothing but static. Then he keyed his mic, and he came through garbled. That was when their chopper went down. I heard the explosion. Just nosedived straight into the jungle. We circled around, and the boys in the back really started to freak out then.

There was a brief lull in the shooting as the door gunner reloaded, but they were still terrified. I screamed at one of them to hand me their goggles, and then someone pressed them into my hand.

When I strapped them on, that’s when I shit myself. Lost all bowel control. Like I really shit myself.

They were all around us, giant humanoid creatures with batwings and spikes coming out of their heads. They looked like… gargoyles. Some of them had tails, while others didn’t. I could tell they saw me as soon as I looked at them, it was as if… the very act of me looking at them alerted them to my presence. One flew straight fucking toward me, and that’s when I ripped off the goggles. The whole chopper shook after that, like we’d just hit an updraft straight out of hell. I tossed the goggles back and tried to tell the others to take them off, but they wouldn’t listen.

Then one of the boys shouted that it was inside, and they all started shooting again, but that only lasted for a few seconds ‘cus they blasted each other all to hell. The chopper dived, and that’s when I realized Mowgli had taken a bullet.

I took the controls back and recovered it just above the trees, we would’ve been toast if we hadn’t just flown over a little gorge. I turned her around then, and we limped back here. Radio was fried but I didn’t know what did her in. But I limped her back, best I could. I don’t know how I did to be honest. I was scared all to hell, and shaking, but I just kind of zoned out. All I remember is staring at the dials as I was too scared to look anywhere else.

***

Richards was left speechless. He’d never heard such a story, and he wasn’t even sure he believed it. Well, that wasn’t true, the part of him that had gone to flight school, and before that, had gotten a degree in chemical engineering was struggling to believe it. The little boy that grew up back in the West County holler watching people reach their hands into a burlap sack full of rattlesnakes and scream hallelujah as proof of their faith—well that part of him had no struggle believing.

The lights on the LST flickered, then went out completely, plunging them into an inky blackness. A mechanical click and whir signaled that the LST’s backup generators were kicking on just as the ships’ safety lights flickered to life, bathing everything in a gentle red glow.

“Did any of those things follow you?”

“I… I don’t know,” Spike stammered. “Yes. There was one hovering above you on the flight deck. I thought I was hallucinating, because I didn’t have goggles on anymore.”

“I’ll be back,” Richards said.

The ship was a mad scramble. Everyone running through the lower decks to man their battle stations. They were calm and collected, but nervous. Doing their jobs the way they’d been taught to do them and following procedures.

Richards pushed his way past the men and made his way towards the flight deck. The air outside felt static, and the wind was whipping up good. All was dark outside, as the ship’s lights were still out. Richards slipped the goggles over his head and flicked them on. They made a slight pulsing buzz, and then his vision was filtered red, and to his surprise he could see quite well.

Then he saw them.

A lot of them.

They were flying around the ship. Large, winged creatures, with wingspans that dwarfed their well-muscled bodies. They looked every bit like the demons that Spike had described. One of them spotted him. It hung in the air for a second, heavy wings beating rhythmically, pointing at him.

Richards swore then that he heard it snarl. The thing alerted the others to his presence, and they all flew straight down towards him.

It was all Richards could do to stumble backwards down the hatch he’d emerged from, tear the goggles from his face, and slam the heavy steel door shut. There was a terrific bang from the outside, just as he got it closed, but the door showed no damage from the inside.

Richards knelt at the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily, and frightened out of his wits. His legs started to shake from the adrenaline dump. He focused on his breathing, transitioning from mouth to nose, and slowing it consciously. When he’d finally gathered himself, he stood up.

Three sailors came charging towards the top of the flight deck, he stopped them, and told them not to let anyone up top. Then he grabbed the red phone hanging on the wall and told the Bridge to send out a message over intercom.

“Tell everyone to clear the deck. Shelter inside,” Richards barked into the phone. “And tell them to secure all the hatches.”

They should be fine, as only himself and Spike had seen them. Breaking the barrier between the two worlds seemed to agitate them.

He saw the Chaplain in the hall then, just stumbling from his bunk, half dressed, and still groggy. Richards grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along as he made his way to the Bridge.

“Captain Richards, what is it? Where are you taking me.”

“You’ll see Father.”

“Can I get dressed?”

“No.”

The chaplain was a stout man, middle aged, and a bit plump from years of dodging PT in favor of doing the Lord’s work. How that translated to a beer belly, had less to do with the Lord’s work, and more to do with the Officer’s club stateside. But still, Chaplain Hall was a good man, even if he was Catholic.

If momma could hear him now.

On the way, Richards cornered Lee, part of the ship’s intel cadre. He was a small, wiry man, always smiling and always trading. He was a Viet, and spoke English, French, and Vietnamese, and the Navy had made him rich for it. Richards pulled both Lee and the Chaplain along, dragging them along behind him.

When they arrived, Mercer was already there, a manilla folder under one arm. The bridge was dark, save for the red lights and the dull glow of the ship’s radar displays. Heavy breathing, and subpar ventilation had turned the room musty with body odor, and fogged the LSTs windows. Lightning crackled amber just past the fogged glass.

Richards sat them all down on the far side of the room, out of earshot of the ship’s operators. Briefly, he ran through the story Spike had told him. Then he told them what he himself had just seen. Mercer seemed unconcerned. The Chaplain seemed spooked. But Lee was shaking.

“Very bad, very ancient.” Lee said. “It is very bad to see them. Once you do, they do not leave you alone. They protect the jungle. We must throw Spike and…” Lee had suddenly caught himself  “…or they will not leave us.”

“We aren’t throwing Spike overboard. Nor am I going overboard,” Richards said. “Do they have a weakness?”

“We are at their mercy!” Lee cried out. “We must appease them. I have family. I am finally very rich man. Oh no. Oh no.” Lee collapsed, sobbing into his hands.

Richards glanced at the others. Mercer looked slightly amused.

“Well?” Richards asked.

“It’s not unheard of,” the Chaplain started. “You know I believe in the supernatural. In powers and principalities.”

“And you?” Richards nodded to Mercer. “Where’s my information about those goggles?”

Mercer handed him the Manila folder.

“The cliff notes,” Richards said.

“This has happened before,” Mercer said. “The goggles use Dicyanin dye, first discovered by an occult researcher about 50 years ago. The Government confiscated all of his research after he published The Human Atmosphere in 1911. The Company believes the beings are real, off the record of course, but they have determined that until they can optimize for a different color on the visible light spectrum, the risk is worth the tactical benefit.”

“Well, I’m glad they felt comfortable making that call,” Richards said dryly. “Fucking lizards.”

“Then what? What should we do Captain?” Mercer said, putting his emphasis on Captain.

“I want you to get the rest of those goggles and hand them out to the Marines we have down below. The ones that are supposed to get dropped off upriver.”

“But–” Mercer started to weasel.

“Now. What happened to risk and reward?” Richards said. Then turning to Father Hall, he asked, “Chaplain, ever blessed a rifle?”

***

The Marines were lined up down the hall. Most were armed with M16s, just like Richards, but at the front of the hall, right next to the hatch that led to the flight deck, stood two corn fed boys from Nebraska, each toting an M60 belt-fed machine gun. The men had been affectionately nicknamed the Twins, since they were oddly similar looking, and both hailed from Nebraska, yet neither were actually related.

Richards watched Mercer pass the NVDs recovered from the chopper, and any extras he had on hand out to the line of men.

Father Hall walked up to each man and blessed their weapons, sprinkling both guns and ammo with holy water. From a small cardboard box, he passed out rosaries.

Richards felt someone bump his arm and turned to see Spike standing next to him.

“I’m going with, Captain,” Spike said.

Richards paused for a moment. “Fine, ask Taylor for another rifle.”

Father Hall finally reached them. Richards held out his weapon, and watched as the Chaplain blessed it. He smirked at the Father. “Think this’ll work.”

“I hope so,” Father Hall said. The Chaplain stood at the end of the hall then and projected his voice outward saying, “Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen.”

The Twins popped the hatch then, and the men barreled up the stairs and onto the flight deck. Richards had ordered no one to turn their NVDs on until he gave the orders. Once the last Marine was out, another ran up to the hatch and yelled down that the men were all set.

“Tell ‘em to light them up,” Richards hollered. He flicked his own goggles on, racked his weapon, and then charged up the steps with Spike following close behind.

They were already shooting when Richards got up top. To both his surprise and amazement, the creatures seemed to be taking damage. He knelt next to one of the twins, shouldered the M16 and let rip. He heard the dull thwap of holy lead as it turned seemingly immortal flesh mortal. The monster tumbled downward, its wings shredded, crashing into the river.

“It worked,” Spike yelled. “The boys couldn’t touch them before. Not like this.”

Somewhere down the line a man yelled. Richards turned in time to see a great beast, the biggest of the bunch, swoop down onto the deck and pick the screaming man up in taloned feet, the wind from its heavy wings sweeping across the deck.

The man screamed again, too terrified to shoot, his rifle dangling from his hand. Richards took aim at the beast’s head and fired… and missed. It was too late, it had already flown off, its victim dangling limp beneath him. Richards watched as the monster cleared the flight deck and dropped the Marine into the river.

Richards slapped the arm of the twin next to him and pointed out the big creature.

“That one, that’s the leader. Get that fucker,” Richards yelled.

The twin opened fire, and the big mouth of the “Pig” groaned as its tracers lit up the sky. Richard followed the stream of fire as it tracked the creature that had stolen his man. The stream of lead made contact, ripping through the beast, and it screamed, tumbling downwards towards the water.

That changed the course of battle, for the monsters, upon seeing their fallen leader, withdrew some distance, well out of range.

They circled then, as if deciding what to do. This dance lasted about thirty minutes, before the rain came. It came down in sheets, and the lightning that had once been on the horizon streaked overhead. The creatures disappeared fully after that.

***

Richards kept them up there long after the creatures had departed. Morning dawned, and the sun rose shining, lighting up the deck with bright yellow beams, and weaving gold in the fog rising off the Mekong. The creatures were nothing but a memory. Richards called the men off then, told them to go eat, and had each throw the goggles overboard. Mercer was pissed.

As the last filtered off the deck, Richards looked to Spike.

“Some night,” Spike said. But his voice was different somehow. It had dropped two octaves and turned into a growl.

“Yeah,” Richards said.

“But you didn’t win,” Spike said. His head snapped sideways, with a vicious crack.

Richards had begun to distance himself, as Spike’s movements became more erratic.

“It’s my ship now,” he continued, his voice like mashed gravel. “I’ll take it one by one if I have to.” It was then that his eyes flicked ink black, shiny like a frogs, and he covered the ten feet between them in a single bound.

Before Richards could react, Spike had his hands around the Captain’s corded neck. The grip was firm. And Richards grasped at his friend’s wrists. But nothing. Blackness was coming. His vision narrowed.

Then from the outside of him. He heard the familiar chunk chunk of Remington Model 870, and its definitive bark.

His vision came back. The demon at his neck gone. And the first thing he saw was Father Hall, beer belly hanging out of an olive drab jacket, cigarette in his mouth, and the black barrel of the Remington ready for round two.

At his feet lay Spike, or at least what was once Spike.

Richards palmed a cigarette then, thankful and sad.

What a fucking waste.