The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy)

by T. S. Seley Elliott

  What was happening?

  Despite the aberrant events of her life lately, Johnnie still hadn’t added alien abduction to her list of experiences. Now lying flat and immobile, the hard cold surface she lay upon moved slowly, sliding her head-first into the pure white tube of the M.R.I. mechanism. It was easy to imagine a small bodied, bulb-headed creature on the other side of the glass wall rather than the middle aged, tired looking attendant. As long as this extraterrestrial exam didn’t involve the rumored “anal probe,” which seemed to appear in most abduction accounts, she was more than willing to volunteer the time.

  Regardless of who was at the controls, Johnnie was committed as her head, last to enter, glided into the tubular canal. No going back, unless she wanted to wiggle wildly upward while clawing her way out, that is.

  The random knocking had an echoing quality, accompanied only by a loud hum. Lying very still as instructed, Johnnie scanned the bright concave surface just inches from her nose, realizing why they’d ask repeatedly prior to the procedure if she was claustrophobic. It was a sad state of affairs when an experience like this could be deemed as escape, which was exactly how Johnnie saw it, closing her eyes and hoping it would go on for quite some time.

  Although she rarely sought medical attention, this week she was oddly grateful for the many procedures lined up to address her condition. This appointment had been scheduled last week, but now she would also receive more blood tests, another CT scan as well as an EEG to check again for damage from the accident which could account for her behavior, or more accurately, her lack of awareness of her behavior. The doctor had explained to her, again, that the memory loss was indicative of brain trauma, using many terms he could have made up, for all she knew. What she did know was, she was certain they’d find nothing. She was never surer of anything in her life, but needed this time away from work, the captain…and Jason, who was increasingly anxious to speak with her alone.

  Literally locked in her own world, Johnnie forced herself to play through the last two weeks’ bizarre happenings. No matter how hard she pushed her mental muscles, she simply could not remember anything during the missing times. Although she flatly refused to buy off on the crazy witness accounts, she used the details they’d offered to jog her memory. But it was no use; she drew a blank.

  She would be subjected to a substance abuse exam tomorrow and if her evaluators were competent, she was sure it would amount to little more than “alcohol awareness” education since she simply did not possess any factors that would lead to a diagnosis of alcohol abuse. Although she would sincerely love the effects of a stiff drink right now, she wouldn’t add fuel to the smoldering fire that her career was becoming.

  The isolation, humming and almost ethereal knocking sounds had a hypnotic effect as she lay unmoving. Johnnie’s mind released the facts and she floatingly sifted through possibilities and options.

  Even with no more incidents, her superiors would have to address her absences from duty. She could get paperwork, mar her record. But who cares, she thought in the compact stillness. Deep down, she had a gnawing need to know what was happening to her, but on the surface, in desperation, she would take any trade offered to stop the episodes. To have her life back. Her best life ever.

  So tired. Bone tired. Her relaxed state gently pulled her mind away from the pressing considerations and need for answers. The knocking became something else…music?

  She was running and the music in her headphones provided the perfect beat for her foot falls… Nothing made her feel better than running... feet moving forward, but mind involuntarily drifting backward to the older shadows.

  Funny how running now was better than running was then… constantly leaving. Running away. Moving again.

  Sounds of her mom hastily packing. Boxes dragging, hard covered suitcases smacking against the dresser.

  “Got to go! Come on, now, James…Pack now, we leave tonight… Johnnie, come back to me, Girl, wake up, come on….”

  A child again, she could hear her mother’s voice as she had so many other times. From the other side of the sleep. Close, but sooooo far away….Coming out of the tunnel, she could feel reality grip her stomach. Knowledge that she had done something wrong and they had to go. Again. Maybe if she pretended to still be asleep…

  “Wake up, Ms. Carter!” That was definitely not her mother’s gravelly voice and Johnnie felt as if she was sucked into a soft wave, back into “now.”

  Vaguely awake, she’d been automated out of the real tunnel, the tube thing, and she was shocked at how quickly and thoroughly she’d fallen asleep on that cold hard table.

  “Wow…” She blew through dry lips, rubbing her face. Looking blurrily up at the non-alien technician, she rambled, by way of explanation.

  “Haven’t slept well lately.”

  Suddenly feeling vulnerable and silly, she scrambled to get back in her comfort zone, sitting up stiffly, but quickly. She looked at the harried woman who was apparently a lot more interested in getting Johnnie out of the room to prep the next patient than she was in an explanation for the impromptu nap.

  “Been thinking about getting one of those sleep number beds… maybe I just need one of these gizmos…”

  Johnnie gestured toward the sterile, uninviting machine. She received a totally noncommittal stare in return for her clever suggestion. She either needed to rework her material, or get better audiences. She was clearly more impressed with her quip than Miss Personality here, whose only tangible response was grasping Johnnie’s arm to assist her off the exam table.

  The abduction business must be booming these days.

  Feeling like a live pin cushion and lab rat notwithstanding, the week went without event for Technical Sergeant Johnnie Carter. Although the flurry of appointments kept her from the office for the most part, she checked in by phone before and after every appointment at the insistence of the man who’d apparently possessed her captain. The new version of her supervisor was very guarded and encouraged no excessive conversation.

  Johnnie had a large sphere of acquaintances in the Air Force and many casual social relationships. It surprised her that she was hurt by Jerod Stass’ distance. Aware that their many shared experiences allowed him to breach the typical self-imposed boundary she maintained, it hadn’t dawned on her before now that he may have been closer to a friend than she’d realized, regardless of his position over her. And she didn’t sense things changing any time soon.

  After her final appointment Friday afternoon, she reluctantly notified him that she was finished and would report to the office. She was puzzled when he told her to take the rest of the day off, but to call or text him of her whereabouts throughout the weekend. Unsure whether to be grateful for the release or irritated that he may be just as eager to be away from her as she was to stay clear of him, she thanked him and headed home.

  Driving with her truck windows down, warm air wafting against her face and gently grazing her hair, Johnnie deliberately took in the beautiful day. She felt as though she’d been held an emotional hostage lately and wanted badly to feel free. To feel right in her skin.

  She breathed deeply and became instantly lightheaded by the effort. How far gone had she been? Her natural rebellion to any inhibiting factor energized a small spark in her stomach. She pulled her sunglasses from their perch on top of her head to their intended spot, which compelled her hair to loosen in the insistent breeze.

  With a sudden and satisfying resolution, she then opted to take a detour home, driving toward the edge of town, closer to foothills and away from traffic. Traffic caused by people. And she wasn’t calling anyone to report her decision; wasn’t that what time-off was about? It wouldn’t take long anyway; no one would be the wiser.

  High on a hill, the rounded contrast of a perfect emerald layer of grass against the deep blue sky was interrupted only by irregular forms of slate-colored stone. Looking like gray cutouts against the cloudless sky, some of the headstones were rounded vertical rectangles, others w
ere in the form of crosses or pillars. Their appearances were mostly predicable, except one that seemed misshapen on one side. There was a break from the uniform color, and the side was definitely softer in appearance to his old eyes. As the gentleman labored up the hill, he could see a young female G.I. sitting on the grass, leaning against the stone, her head back. Although he walked closer, she appeared to be so deep in thought he didn’t think she noticed him. Feeling as though he’d come across a kindred spirit, he dared to break her reverie.

  “Someone you know?” The deep voice startled Johnnie, and she jumped from her sitting position into a perfect two point stance. She’d thought she was alone.

  “No! Um, how about you?” She was mortified that she could be sitting on the grave of this old fellow’s father, friend or child. She furtively glanced at the year of death to try to narrow down the options.

  He chuckled at her obvious surprise and attempt to recover, relieved he hadn’t interrupted a private moment with a loved one. As she quickly leaned over to retrieve her uniform cap from the ground, his amusement became more audible. She must not have known the grass was wet when she settled in; her backside displayed a large dark wet impression which significantly detracted from the military appearance. Following his eyes, her free hand found the source of his entertainment and she smiled foolishly. As much as she’d enjoyed her time alone, this, somehow, did not feel like an intrusion and she extended her damp hand.

  “Sergeant Johnnie Carter, Sir, and you are a veteran as well, I assume?”

  “Roger Sanders. Colonel, U.S. Army, retired. And it’s my pleasure.” He came to the veteran’s cemetery often; it was the only place he experienced the sorely missed camaraderie with his brothers in arms. His wife had long passed, as well as most of his friends. This was his sanctuary, but it was still lonely at times. He hadn’t laughed in a long time and there was something about this woman he trusted; he was drawn to her more than the uniform.

  As he took her hand, she was surprised at how comfortable she was with this man.

  His kindness and humor had warmed her and they fell into a comfortable pace as they walked over the carefully manicured lawn, respectfully working their way around markers, but both feeling completely at home among the fallen heroes. The peacefulness of the place was absolute, perfectly reinforced by the calm, beautiful weather.

  They started gently poking each other with inter-service rivalry, then settled into more serious and personal conversation. He told her about his service and he asked about hers. They exchanged career tidbits and points of view that can only be appreciated by fellow veterans. He was candid about the absence of women in the military in his day and she was equally forthright about the fact that her time in the armed forces had been the most natural and best part of her life. He shared his losses with her and inexplicably, without displaying desperation or neediness, expressed his sense of isolation in this world. It had less to do with being the “last dinosaur” among his friends and family than his helplessness as an old warrior in a world racing uncontrollably toward more war.

  At one point she glanced at this person who was easily a half century her senior. She felt as if she had discovered the kinship of Forrest Gump and Jenny; she and Colonel Sanders were like peas and carrots. Yet, there was nothing she could do to put her new friend, a man of great effectiveness in his day, at ease about his impotence in this tumultuous world, but listen. That’s what she thought, anyway. But at some point during their encounter, she ceased to think at all.

  “I don’t know, Margie, what are the odds. I mean, two girls with a guy-name like Johnnie?” Byron held the phone to his shoulder while cooking dinner in his miniature apartment kitchen. Fortunately he rarely prepared complicated meals, so he often spoke to his wife for their at-least weekly phone calls while scraping eggs from a pan bottom or stirring spaghetti noodles.

  She was exhausted and preoccupied, but with practiced effort, demonstrated interest in her husband’s comments.

  “It could be, I guess. I just hate to see you disappointed after all these ye…uh…” She stifled a yawn. “Sorry Honey…after all these years. I know this is why you took the job, but sometimes hope can just set you up.”

  Her voice echoed of tired experience. Margie Hoffstedder, also a retired teacher and the love of her husband’s life, was now engaged in the full time care of her elderly mother, Margeret – or Marg Senior, as Byron affectionately called her. In the later stages of Alzheimer’s, the effects of that insidious disease along with other health issues, Marg Senior required 24-hour care. When the dogged, devoted daughter refused to admit her mother to a nursing facility, the childless couple made a temporary compromise which met both of their desires and needs. She moved in with her mother and he moved to the city to test his theory of working for a major tabloid in search of angels, miracles and the likes. Only Margie knew Byron had one “angel” in particular in mind from a years-old indirect experience.

  “Hope sets you up for fulfillment. Disappointment only comes when you accept defeat.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, every crease in his lined face gave in to full blown wince. He tossed the spatula down and his hand instantly found its place on the oily track along the side of his head.

  “God, Honey. I’m sorry,” he said lowly, with clear regret.

  It was a constant rub in their relationship that he was a natural optimist and she was, as she put it, not a pessimist--but a realist. And reality had taken a significant toll on her during the five years of their “temporary” arrangement as she watched her mother lose all semblance of the dear woman she knew and loved. He held his breath, wanting with his whole being to take back the statement that was more like a pompous chastisement than – well, than any acceptable comment to his saint of a wife. She was quiet. Finally, she replied softly.

  “I have hope for you. I do. And maybe I had that coming.”

  She often wished she could be more like him, but more often, she wished he could have some concept of how difficult and helpless her life seemed. Her generous words only served to make him feel worse.

  “Margie, I’m a dog. You know it, I know it.” His voice changed from matter-of-fact, instantly raunchy; “But my tail wags only for you, Baby!”

  The words were so ridiculous and definitely classic Byron, Marg offered the shining gift of a reserved laugh.

  “I love you too…look, I need to give Mom a bath. It was good talking…e-mail tomorrow?” She was already fading back into her bleak world.

  “Of course, Sweetie. I love you.” Then she was gone and he was left to contend with his scorched eggs. And his thoughts.

  Johnnie, the “soldier angel.” Right-ish age. And he had a pretty good shot of finding her if he could get to Nevada to see this Lisa person. He would see the editor tomorrow to obtain approval for the trip. He hoped to find her and if he found her, he would never exploit her existence to a rag like the Constellation. He just needed to know it was real. And if so, he also had a personal favor to ask.

  ________________________________________________________________________

  Johnnie’s eyes flew open the exact instant she felt the deep wet cold on one side and dry wind on the other. No delay, this time; her mind had apparently been reprogrammed in its reactions to the unexpected. Her perception and senses worked more quickly to bypass first conscious expectations, past the initial bump of confusion directly into analysis.

  She was outside, it was night and the last thing she remembered was … Colonel Sanders! Where was her friend? Ignoring the wet stiffness and cold, she stood and tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness around her. If not for her urgent concern about the old man, she may have been freaked out over, in essence, waking up in a grave yard. It may have been the dignified location of a veteran’s cemetery, but, still…

  Wait. As she slowly focused on her surroundings, lit only by moonlight, she realized she was well outside of the cemetery, nearly to her truck, which she had left in a public parking lot
earlier before deciding to hike about a mile to the resting place of service men and women.

  As far as she could tell, she was totally alone and the only way she could recon the area was with her truck lights. And her truck had heat. She stiffly walked, slowly moving into a slow run till she got to the old Ram, a lonely sentinel in the lot. She drove at a crawl back and forth from the park to the cemetery entrance with her lamps on high beam. She could see no signs of anyone standing...or otherwise. The cemetery gates were closed for the night. Reasoning that the state employed ample grounds keepers, she couldn’t believe her new friend would have been left alone in a bad way in broad daylight on the actual grounds.

  She reluctantly headed home. It was late, she hadn’t reported in to the captain, but then, she was only supposed to call if she left her house to go somewhere. It was Friday night… her thoughts froze and she slammed on the breaks. Again, experience had reframed her assumptions. Digging out her phone, more recently her compass for time and date, she pressed the LED light and was flooded with relief when she saw it was Saturday, 1210 A.M. No missed work, no missed calls. She eased the accelerator, relaxing somewhat knowing that this time she was left with no need to explain herself.

  But adding to her growing list of questions was one that had risen to the top; what had happened to…or with the colonel?

  __________________________________________________________________

  Saturday, Johnnie stayed as physically occupied as possible to try to draw the energy from her brain. She went for a long run through the neighborhoods by her home, making the obligatory calls to Captain Stass before she left and after returning. She was indescribably relieved when he didn’t inquire about her activities Friday night, and of course she didn’t mention anything either. She wouldn’t lie, but she didn’t have to offer information that she couldn’t clearly define anyway; information that would certainly be one more nail in her coffin, so to speak.