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562 pages, Trade Paperback
First published January 1, 1988



Here was what was left of the war...For Poole, the actual country of Vietnam was now just another place...many thousands of miles distant, with an embattled history and an idiosyncratic and inaccessible culture. Its history and culture had briefly, disastrously intersected ours. But the actual country of Vietnam was not Vietnam...Straub empathetically captures Poole's alienation, his feeling even more than ten years later that he's returned to a country that's never really understood what he's experienced, and in fact doesn't want to understand- and that this has forever altered his sense of belonging to that country. At any time he can mentally slip into a different country, not Vietnam but Vietnam, a place that only his fellow veterans have been. Somehow, neither post-war mythologizing nor congratulations from the Coca-Cola company in his hotel lobby seem to offer much in the way of comfort or edification. Was this what he'd spent so much time wanting to get back to?
During his first surreal eighteen months back from Vietnam, Poole had been able to tell if a man had been in Vietnam just by the way he held his body. His instinct...had faded since then, but he knew he could not be mistaken about this group.The aspect of the story that might sound more reminiscent of a 90s cable miniseries is that the four of them have also come together to discuss a string of killings in southeast Asia; the killer has been leaving their regiment's distinctive playing cards as his signature, and it would follow that he is someone they know, or knew. No, more than that; like it or not, they share an intimacy with him. I have a feeling that the ingenious serial killer with the occult signature is more common in fiction than in reality; but soon enough I was nodding along, won over by the uniquely foreboding and uncanny atmosphere, the sharp and economical dialogue, the story's understanding that violence inevitably echoes over the course of years, as well as the feeling that Straub had genuinely managed to channel these characters from his unconscious, getting their voices on paper and then carefully arranging them in a labyrinthine plot that always seems to be on the verge of splintering apart or capsizing like a lifeboat in a maelstrom.
'Hello, sir', said a clarion voice at his elbow.
Poole looked down at a beaming young woman with a fanatical face...she held a tray of glasses filled with black liquid.
'Might I inquire, sir, if you are a veteran of the Vietnam conflict?'
'I was in Vietnam', Poole said.
'The Coca-Cola company joins the rest of America in thanking you personally for your efforts during the Vietnam conflict. We wish to take this opportunity to express our gratitude to you, and to introduce you to our newest product, Diet Coke, in the hope that you will enjoy it and share your pleasure with your friends and fellow veterans.'
Poole looked upward and saw that a long, brilliantly red banner...had been suspended far above the lobby. White lettering said: The Coca-Cola Corporation and Diet Coke Salute the Veterans of Vietnam! He looked back down at the girl.
'I guess I'll pass.'
Before Michael could turn off his light, he was dripping with sweat, carrying his copy of The Dead Zone through an army base many times larger than Camp Crandall. All around the camp, twenty or thirty kilometers beyond the barbed-wire perimeter, stood hills once thickly covered by trees, now so perfectly bombed and burned and defoliated that only charred sticks protruded upwards from powdery brown earth. He walked past a row of tents and at last heard the silence of the camp- he was alone...He trudged past the deserted building into a stretch of empty land and smelled burning shit. The camp had been abandoned, and he had been left behind...then he knew that this was no dream, he really was in Vietnam- the rest of his life was the dream...
Wait a second, he thought, if this is reality it's no later than 1969. He opened The Dead Zone to the page of publishing information. Deep in his chest, his heart deflated...the copyright date was 1965. He had never left Vietnam. Everything since had been only a nineteen year-old's wishful dream.