Battle Cry

by Dustin Stevens

  No more than twenty years in age, her tan skin is smooth, lined only by the frown framing her mouth. The breeze riffles her dark hair and the collar of the denim shirt thrown on over a floral bikini top.

  “Thanks.”

  Twisting his hipbone a few inches higher, Sven examines the wound. Again, the thought of how fortunate he is occurs to him. Not only for the placement, but for the fact that the man across from him was only firing a six-shot revolver chambered for a .38 round.

  If he’d been carrying an actual weapon, the damage would have been far greater.

  Lowering his hip back into place, Sven reaches out toward the medicine kit nestled in the sand before him. Raising the plastic grid folded down on top, the metal support slats stretch backward like an accordion.

  Tracing his fingers over the offerings squirreled away in various cells, he takes out a pair of alcohol swabs. One he drops into the sand. The other he places between his teeth, ripping away the top of the paper packaging.

  A bitter tang crosses his tongue. A whiff of the antiseptic scent plays across his nostrils, lasting only a moment before being pushed away by the breeze.

  Gritting his teeth, Sven pulls out the swab and places it just beneath the wound. His exposed flesh screams in protest as he moves in long, even rows, the clear fluid burning like acid.

  “Do you want me to do that?” Maile whispers.

  Barely do the words even register as Sven keeps his focus on his ribs. Molars clamped tight, he draws in even breaths, his features glacial as he works.

  To call the night before a disaster would be an overstatement. He did get what he was there for. And he went up against six members of a motorcycle gang and made it out the other side.

  Even if knowing all that does nothing to calm the animosity within him.

  By the time he is finished, the swab and the tips of his fingers are stained pink. The faint early morning light reflects from his damp skin.

  The cool air kisses the fresh alcohol, his side prickling with sensation.

  Tossing aside the used pad, Sven reaches for the second one. Clamping it between his front teeth, he extracts a pair of forceps from the bottom of the medicine kit.

  Repeating the process of a moment before, he tears the swab open, using this one to wipe the tips of the forceps clean. Body clenched, a single muscle twitches in his neck as he stares down at the polished steel.

  Braces himself for what is to come.

  His flesh offers no resistance as he dips the tips of the steel instrument beneath his skin. His breath catches, held tight as he adjusts the forceps, blood beginning to stain the metal.

  And finally locks on, wrenching the unwanted intrusion free.

  Chapter Three

  For the first time since our initial meeting together, Lieutenant Commander Lisa Botkins is seated at her desk as I walk in. Fingers laced atop a file I presume to be mine, she rests on the front edge of her seat. Her posture has her leaning forward slightly, her lips pulled into a tight line.

  A look that does nothing for the myriad emotions roiling within me.

  Both those that pertain to my being here this morning, and the infinite more ascribed to everything else happening at the moment.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant Commander,” I say.

  “Petty Officer,” she replies, dipping her chin just slightly. Per usual, she is dressed in her tan uniform. Creases are sharp and fully aligned. Her dark hair is cut short, tucked behind her ears so many times it has begun to naturally curl that way.

  Up to this point, these mandatory evaluations have been just short of perfunctory. Boxes to be checked off prior to my mustering out of the Navy.

  Plausible deniability on the part of the government should I somehow go off the rails at any point in the future.

  An eventuality that seems to now be happening in real time, facilitated by the unexpected murder of my Mira last week.

  In our previous sessions, I have made a concerted effort to keep all of that buried beneath the surface. I’ve used half-truths and misdirection to keep from having to expose the full breadth of all that has taken place.

  Hell, my last session I showed up still wearing the ash and soot and tears of standing and watching my house burn to the ground.

  Anything to avoid putting a magnifying glass on myself. In time I’m sure, but not just yet. Not with so many questions still left unanswered, my wife’s body still in a freezer at the coroner’s office.

  Based on the current stance of Botkins across from me though, I can’t help but think things are about to take a turn.

  Openly assessing me for a moment, her gaze lands on my cheek. “What happened there?”

  The question doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. A remainder from an encounter with the group responsible for pulling the trigger on my wife, I was able to obscure it on my last visit.

  The additional three days have done wonders for the bruising. No longer is it a mottled mash of blue and purple, what remains having receded to light green.

  What can’t be hidden are the half-dozen stitches, tiny spider legs extended from my skin.

  “The fire,” I reply simply.

  I can tell the answer both surprises her and reminds her of our last discussion. There is no doubt she would rather press on how exactly a fire led to stitches, though fortunately she opts for the route of social grace.

  Just as I’d hoped she would.

  “How’s that going?” she asks. The requisite concern creases her brow.

  I sigh, letting it relay some tiny bit of the emotional weight I’ve been carrying these last couple weeks.

  Even if only a fraction of it has to do with the house.

  “It’s hard,” I reply. “Not just for the past and everything that was lost, but all the plans we had moving forward.”

  The poignance of the response isn’t lost on me. The answer works in this context, but it also applies to almost everything else I’ve been through recently.

  “And your wife?”

  I don’t know if the question is a test or an unfortunate accident, but I can feel palpitations rise through my chest. Ripples that seem to clench my lungs tight, making it difficult to breath. Calling on every bit of training I’ve received, I force my features to remain neutral.

  “My wife?”

  “Yeah,” Botkins replies. “How is she handling all this?”

  Again, the thought of it being a trap occurs to me. As far as I know, she has no idea that my wife has been murdered. Certainly not that it was performed by a motorcycle gang operating out of El Cajon, the very same one responsible for the bruising on my face.

  I can only imagine what she would think if she knew I almost skipped this session. That instead of sitting here, I would much rather be out in the desert speaking to someone I hope will be able to give me some of the answers I’ve been desperately seeking.

  “Bout like you’d expect,” I reply. Raising a finger, I point to the stitches lining the side of my face. “An accident that happened when I tried to console her at the wrong moment.”

  Her eyebrows rise as she again takes in the bruising and stitches. It seems there is infinite follow up she would like to ask, though no questions cross her lips.

  Instead she leans back, folding her hands in her lap.

  “I guess that kind of serves as a good jumping off point then,” she says. “Today, I’d like to dig into some things.”

  Initial pitfall dodged, I feel a bit of the trepidation bleed from my system. Careful to keep all external cues the same, I match her pose.

  “About?”

  Pressing her lips together, Botkins glances down to the file before her.

  “I’m curious,” she begins, “what is it you plan to do once you leave here?”

  Raising her focus, she stares directly at me. Her gaze is so intense it practically bores into me, imploring me to answer the question.

  One that is just vague enough, I have no real clue how to.

  “Meaning, t
his morning-”

  “In general,” she says, cutting me off. It is the first time I can ever remember her doing so, or even showing the tiniest bit of frustration. Whether that is through my continued evasiveness or if she really does know more than I realize, there is no way to be sure.

  “When you take off that uniform for the last time, how do you intend to spend your time?” she adds. Without waiting for an answer, she continues, “I was going through your file again this morning before you arrived, and I noticed a few things.”

  Every syllable she utters raises competing thoughts within me. On the positive side is the fact that she seems to be settling in on the future rather than the recent past.

  At the same time, it feels like there is something more.

  On that first morning after Mira’s death, not mentioning it had seemed like the prudent thing to do. Barely had I even realized she was gone, let alone having begun to process or accept it.

  In no way did I want to discuss it, nor did I want the doctor to be aware of whatever thoughts I was having.

  Namely, that I was going to find the man responsible and introduce him to a very sudden and painful ending.

  Once that was done, there didn’t seem to be any way I could bring it up. Not without potentially drawing scrutiny to myself or – even worse – my friends for what happened to Mira’s shooter.

  Or casting an unwanted spotlight on what I still felt I needed to do.

  “Four deployments,” she says. “Three of them in some pretty unfavorable conditions.”

  Despite the host of thoughts and emotions roiling through me, my pose remains the same. Aside from the warmth on my skin, there is no outward reaction at all.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

  Pausing a moment, she waits to see if I will continue before adding, “That’s a long time, in places most people can only dream of.”

  She’s right in that it is a long time. A very long time. Too damn long, in fact.

  But she’s wrong on the back end. A lot of what we saw was the type of thing most people’s minds aren’t capable of conjuring up.

  Attempting to piece together what she is telling me, what I think she wants to hear, I reply, “And so you’re asking how I deal with that? If I’ll be able to offset that against an office job somewhere?”

  “No,” she answers, “I didn’t say that. A lot of guys leave here knowing they could never sit behind a desk. Or stand in front of a classroom of high schoolers. Or work anywhere that might have the occasional truck backfire.”

  Her gaze again flicks to my file. “The stuff in there, it leaves marks. Scars, even. And I think that needs to be considered when looking to the future.”

  Chapter Four

  For my friend Chief Petty Officer Jeff Swinger, most free days don’t begin before eleven. The last of our original group that came into the SEALs together to remain single, the man has made it his mission to continue living life to the fullest for us all.

  Even if nobody ever asked him to.

  During deployment, there is not a better sailor to be found. Dedicated and tireless, I’ve seen him persist for days under the harshest conditions, long outlasting others half his considerable size.

  The minute he is off the clock though, he attacks the local scene with equal zeal, the combination of time in the base gym and a full sleeve of colorful tattoos making him quite a hit around town.

  Taken together, I don’t expect him to pick up the phone when I call a few minutes before ten. Even less do I expect him to sound awake and alert.

  Not that anything has gone as expected these last couple of weeks.

  “How’d it go with the doc?” he asks by way of opening, picking up after the second ring. No grog in his voice. No springs squeaking as he extricates himself from whoever might be joining him in bed.

  There are a dozen ways I can respond to the question, Botkins having come at me in a way I haven’t yet experienced.

  Still, for now, my attention has to be on the next few hours.

  “Damned sure not lobbing softballs anymore.”

  Shifting my focus back to the road, I drop the turn signal and ease up on the gas. Fifty yards later I make a left, turning into the parking lot of the Valley View Inn & Suites.

  Never has a sadder structure existed, the low-slung motel first constructed in the mid-sixties and somehow managing not to see a single renovation since. In another life, it would be the type of spot my Mira and I would drive past and crack jokes. Wonder aloud how much per hour or if we could contract venereal disease from breathing the air.

  Now, in the wake of all that has happened, it has become my temporary home.

  Apparently, not only is the universe cruel, but it also has a sense of humor.

  “Think she suspects anything?” Swinger asks.

  What thing in particular he is alluding to, I can’t be sure. The list of transgressions I have performed seems to be growing daily. Any one of them would be enough to get me in trouble with the Navy or the police or both.

  A fact that – outside of possibly implicating my friends – I am perfectly at ease with.

  Just as I’m reasonably certain they all the feel the same.

  “A little,” I reply, rolling across the parking lot that was once paved but has long since crumbled into a combination of sand and gravel. “But she’s looking in the wrong place right now.”

  To try and delve into the full breadth of that will take more time than I have. More patience than I can really spare.

  Pushing ahead, I say, “Just wanted to call and make sure we’re still good for today?”

  “Definitely,” he replies. “You sure you don’t want me to just stay there?”

  Pulling to a stop, I put the car in park. Killing the engine, I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror, checking the parking lot around me.

  Save for a single minivan a couple nights ago, there haven’t been any other vehicles in the lot besides the owner’s since I arrived. Unsurprisingly, not a single lost soul has wandered in on foot, looking for refuge.

  How the hell the place even stays open is beyond me.

  One more thing I don’t have the gumption to be delving into at the moment.

  For my purposes, the isolation is perfect. Just my room and the Ogos beside me, the two women being the reason I’m on the phone now.

  Yet another thing that has been pulled into the jet wash since the death of my wife last week.

  “All good,” I reply, “Place has been pretty silent since I moved in. Just wanted to let you know I’m going to give her your number, so if you see an unknown call-”

  “I got you,” Swinger replies, his tone letting me know that he is in full deployment mode on this one.

  Just as I knew he would be.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Chapter Five

  The air smells of rain as I step back out of my motel room just eight minutes after entering. Damp and heavy, it promises that a storm is imminent, despite what the clear sky above might indicate.

  The symbolism is not lost on me.

  Pausing for a moment, I lift my chin and draw in the scent. The sun is warm on my face as I do so, my lungs expanding, my shoulders rising.

  Three weeks have passed since it last rained. Since I stood on the wooden deck overlooking the swimming pool in our backyard and breathed in the smell. Just home from work, I wasn’t even fully out of my uniform yet. Boots and camo trousers on the bottom half, a plain undershirt up top.

  Drawn outside by the sight of dark clouds rolling up the Tecolote Canyon, I’d stood with my face raised to the sky. Relishing the momentary respite from the omnipresent heat, a smile cracked my features as the first drops splashed against my cheeks.

  Soft and fat, they’d rolled across my features. Saturated my shirt, the thin cotton sticking to my chest.

  How long I stood there, I can’t remember exactly. Long enough that my hair and clothes were soaked. That the wooden planks around me changed color and
the top of the pool churned with the rain slapping against it. That I could hear my Mira chastising me to come inside before eventually giving in and walking out to join me.

  Laughter gave way to dancing. Dancing gave way to us both stripping to our undergarments, falling sideways into the pool.

  A tangle of limbs and wet skin. Sloppy kisses and damp hair.

  Happiness. Pure and unadulterated.

  As fast as the memory arrives, it is gone. Nothing more than vapor, dissipating with the slightest puff of warm breeze. Yet another reminder of how the world was, and how it can never be again.

  When out on deployment, ranking officers always warn us to be on the alert. To anticipate the outliers. Seek out the unexpected.

  For ten years, my friends and I have done that. We have survived and even thrived by studying the patterns around us. Recognizing dangers before they became threats.

  Never would I have thought that I needed to be doing the same thing here at home.

  If this morning’s conversation with Botkins had occurred the morning after that night in the rain, the answer to every one of her questions would have been easy. No matter how many inquiries she peppered me with, the response would have always been the same.

  It’s not like what I did tell her were outright lies. Every word was carefully selected, the point being to maintain at least some tiny strand of plausible deniability if ever I am pressed on the matter.

  But she and I – and most any other reasonable person out there – know what she was getting at. She was asking what I planned to do for work. If I had thought about relocating or staying nearby. If my wife and I had discussed starting a family soon.

  The normal things people in the front half of their thirties do, especially those exiting the military and regaining their autonomy.

  That night in the rain, I might not have had bulletproof answers to every one of those questions, but I at least knew where to find them.

  I had Mira.

  Everything else would have fallen into place.

  Now, I’m not sure what the future holds, or even what normal is supposed to look like. All I have is the ten inches in front of me. The need to keep driving, sifting through things, figuring out why she was taken from me.