A Journey of Souls

by Michael McKinney

  War for Tom Crosby is always something that happens in foreign lands, with its horrific trauma inflicted on other people, other families and other neighborhoods. He wonders how all this can be happening. He slowly walks over to the sleeping cot and sits. Slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees, he tries to understand what he's experiencing. His drifting thoughts keep returning to Richmond. He remembers driving there, an appointment, and a call on his cell phone, then walking somewhere toward an intersection.

  His muddled recollections are cryptic and indecipherable. Was he traveling on a train going through a long tunnel, or maybe walking through a cave toward a sunlit opening ahead? He can't remember. What Tom Crosby does clearly remember is what his family was like before he made his trip to Richmond. Can it really be since this morning that things have so radically changed? It seems like a lifetime away. Everything was normal, sane and predictable.

  He remembers talking to his wife, about their children, about John's piano music and Sara's ballet lessons. He remembers his gentle, elderly neighbor, Benjamin Keely stopping by for a friendly visit. Tom Crosby intuitively knows that safe, orderly world with everything in its assigned place is now gone forever. A life, a world, a future once rich with promise and expectation has been hideously transmogrified into a grotesque caricature of its former self. The full meaning of what the strange woman named Brianna meant is now terribly clear. Lying back on the cot, Tom Crosby reaches an impasse in his thoughts and surrenders to an impulse of weary resignation.

  As he tries to relax, he looks up at the ceiling and in a tone of sober determination says, “This is crazy. I have to stop these people somehow. I have to stop this.”

  Minutes later, Tom Crosby hears a knock on the door and the sound of his daughter's voice.

  “Sir, dinner's ready in five minutes.”

  Shaking off his distracted thoughts, he opens the bedroom door, but his daughter is already half way down the stairs and apparently not interested in spending a private moment with her father. The cold rebuff is not unnoticed by Tom Crosby. After following his daughter downstairs, he sees only his wife seated at the other end of the dining room table. Seeing that particular dining room table kindles warm recollections for Tom Crosby. He recalls the happier years of his marriage before he was deployed overseas when he was home for every holiday and the family meals that were served and enjoyed around that table. Its beautiful wooden finish is still in pristine condition. ‘At least the table is still here,’ he thinks to himself. Tom Crosby will use the opportunity of a family meal to sort out this strange reality and somehow get things back to normal.

  The smile on Heather's face seems encouraging as he sits opposite her. Though plates and utensils are placed and ready, the dishes are empty and no food has been served. Tom Crosby looks at his wife and thinks this is the time to press her for answers but before he can say anything Heather intercepts his speech.

  “I want you to do something,” she says.

  “What's that?”

  After pulling a forty-five caliber service revolver from under the table and pointing it at him, she answers his question.

  “Keep your hands away from the edge of the table so I can see them.”

  As he hears these threatening words, Tom Crosby sees movement off to the side and looks up to see his son, John, enter the room pointing an automatic weapon at him. Then his daughter Sara, enters with her weapon also pointed in his direction.

  “What is this? What are you people doing?”

  “We're placing you under arrest.”

  “What?”

  “Cue up the video Sara,” Heather tells her daughter.

  Tom Crosby watches as his daughter opens the sliding cabinet doors mounted on the wall fifteen feet away and sees no less than twelve contiguous viewing screens. Each one is providing a live camera view that continually monitors both the exterior and interior of the house.

  “As you can see, we maintain surveillance twenty-four seven, including upstairs.”

  With Sara operating the remote, he sees one screen descrambling its picture. The image he then sees is himself when he was lying on the cot upstairs minutes before.

  “You had me under surveillance?“ he says in disbelief.

  “That's right and here's why. Turn up the volume, Sara.”

  Tom Crosby sees and hears himself saying the words he spoke only twenty minutes ago when he was lying on the cot, “This is crazy. I have to stop these people somehow. I have to stop this.”

  After hearing his recorded words, his wife asks, “What did you mean when you said, ‘I have to stop these people'? That's what we need to know.”

  Glowering at her husband while still pointing the forty-five caliber revolver, her icy stare dispels any hopes he may have had about resolving this inexplicable enigma.

  “What's happening here? You're all insane. Look at you, ready to shoot your own husband, and you,” Tom Crosby says turning to his son, “ready to kill your own father. You're all sick. This is insanity.”

  “You're the one who's behaving erratically. Ever since you've returned, your behavior's been strangely atypical. We'd like to know why. See, here's the problem We don't know who you are, and until we do, we must keep you in a secure place.”

  “This is ridiculous. What are you people doing?”

  “I want you to stand up slowly and keep your hands on the table, now.”

  Tom Crosby looks around and sees the cold staring eyes of his wife and children looking back at him with weapons poised and ready.

  “Keep your hands on the table. Back up two paces and spread your feet apart. Are you carrying any weapons?” Heather asks her husband.

  “You people have all the weapons, not me. I can't believe this.”

  “Search him,” Heather tells her daughter.

  After the added indignity of being frisked by his own daughter, Tom Crosby is led downstairs to the basement. As he enters, he sees the space has been converted to four detention cells for holding prisoners. When he looks inside one, Tom Crosby is shocked at who he sees.

  “Mr Keely, Benjamin Keely, what are you doing here?”

  “No talking.”

  “But he's our neighbor.”

  “I said no talking.”

  Seconds later, the jarring sound of hearing the cell door shut behind him, sharply underscores the incomprehensible madness of what's happening. After his captors go back upstairs, Tom Crosby looks across and into the cell that's holding his elderly neighbor, Benjamin Keely, who looks drawn and weak.

  “What are you doing here, Mr Keely?”

  “I have no idea. Someone accused me of giving information to the insurgents. It's all a pack o’ lies. They want me to confess to things I've never done. They want me to sign a confession, but I won't. I won't do it. I'll never do it.”

  “What's happening here? Why are they doing this to you?”

  “Why don't you ask them? They're your children. I looked out for your family Tom when you were deployed overseas. I was the one who checked in on your family, treated them as my own, and now they do this to me. If I had a gun, you know what I'd do when they come back for me later? I'd blow their cursed brains out right in front of you. I would. That wouldn't bother me at all after what they've done to me.”

  “What do you mean, when they come for you later?”

  “They come every night, always at the same time. They want you to expect it. That way it wears on your mind.”

  “What do you mean, expect what?”

  “What do you think? Torture, that's what.”

  “What?”

  “They've water boarded me seven times now. They call it ‘enhanced interrogation'. I guess they learned that from you. I'd kill them all if I could.”

  Stunned into silence, Tom Crosby turns away in disbelief and wonders when this bizarre nightmare will end. Was
n't it only this morning when his family and the world were normal? Before he can ponder the question, he hears the approach of someone coming downstairs and moments later, sees his son and daughter walk over to Benjamin Keely's cell door.

  “Okay Ben, you know what time it is. Why don't you tell us what we wanna know and we'll leave you alone?”

  “I told you, I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Come on, Ben. We know better.”

  At this point Benjamin Keely breaks down and sobs. “Why can't you leave me alone? I'm just an old man.”

  “And you're also an informant, Ben. We know that. Just tell us who your contact is with the insurgents and what you told them. That's all we wanna know.”

  “I told you, I never spoke to anyone.”

  Tom Crosby watches as his son walks behind the chair Mr Keely's sitting in and sees him quickly slap his open palms against the old man's ears from both sides causing him to grimace in pain.

  “What the hell are you doing? Keep your hands off him. You bastards. If I had a gun, I'd shoot both of you.”

  “Really? I'm sure you would. That makes you the enemy and a traitor doesn't it?” Sara says to her father. “Sit back and enjoy the show, traitor, cause you're next.”

  With an automatic weapon trained on him, Benjamin Keely is strapped into a chair and his arms and legs are bound. After the chair is tilted back far enough, the old man hears the sound of water being filled into a bucket. He knows what's coming next.

  “Okay Ben, this is the last time I'm asking you. Who's your contact?”

  “I told you. I don't have one,” Mr Keely blurts out.

  “Wrong answer, okay, you wanna do this the hard way.”

  Tom Crosby watches as his son wraps a towel around Benjamin Keely's face and lifts the bucket of water while his daughter holds his head securely. Mr Keely's body becomes taut as he braces himself in panic and as the water pours over his face, he gags and arches his back, writhing in agony.

  “Stop! You're killing him. What good will he do you then?”

  “Shut up, traitor.”

  More water is poured and a steady stream fills Benjamin Keely's mouth and nostrils. His convulsive gags and frantic desperation are unpitied as he chokes and struggles for air. His body's instinctive reaction to clear his airways provokes a reflexive and violent regurgitation response. Still choking and gasping for air, Benjamin Keely is now drowning in his own vomited stomach fluids.

  Every skilled torturer knows the art of bringing his victims to the edge and then pulling them back before they go too far. Sara raises her hand, signaling to her brother to let the old man momentarily recover. Then John refills the water bucket. Tom Crosby looks on the scene in stupefied disbelief. A numb, muted incoherence seizes his thoughts as he wonders how this can be happening. The malevolent surrealistic intensity of the moment is too extreme to be real, he tells himself. This must be a dream. Then, as if to assure him it's not a dream, Tom Crosby hears a spray of gunfire coming from somewhere in the house above him.

  He sees his children grab their weapons and rush upstairs, leaving Mr Keely still bound and choking for air. Violent commotion and another round of automatic weapons being discharged, followed by the sound of people rushing through the house is heard. Seconds later, four soldiers with weapons ready, storm down the stairs and find Benjamin Keely still choking and strapped to his chair. Then another soldier descends and the demeanor of the others indicates that he's in charge.

  “What's here, lieutenant?”

  “This man's been water boarded, sir.”

  “Those bastards, he's an old man. We got here just in time. Cut him loose and take him upstairs. Do what you can for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We have another man over here, sir.”

  After walking over to his cell, the officer sees Tom Crosby looking back at him through a dazed expression of shock and confusion.

  “You're lucky,” he says to Tom Crosby. “Looks like you were next. Bring him upstairs.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Within minutes Benjamin Keely is carried away. After Tom Crosby is freed and led upstairs he's immediately confronted with a grisly sight. His wife and both children have been shot to death in the living room and their freshly bleeding bodies are sprawled on the floor. The appalling scene evokes no reaction from him. Tom Crosby no longer has the capacity to reason through the violent mayhem surrounding him and is emotionally and psychologically bereft. He sees the same man as earlier giving orders in the basement, directing his men.

  “Lieutenant, get two or three others, take these bodies out back and bury them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where's the old man?”

  “Medics are looking after him sir. He has water in his lungs but they said he'll make it.”

  “Good, that's good. ... So who are you?”

  “My name is Tom Crosby.”

  “Why were they torturing the old man?”

  “They said he was giving information to the insurgents.”

  “And what about you?”

  “They said I was a traitor.”

  “Well, any traitor to their cause is a friend to ours. Do you have any military experience?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should join us, for protection if nothing else. Think about it.”

  “Those three bodies.”

  “What about them?”

  “Let me bury them.”

  “That's a strange request after what they were ready to do to you.”

  “Please, it's something I need to do.”

  “Is that all you wanna do to those bodies?”

  “That's all.”

  “Are you sure you have the strength to do that?”

  “Yes, I'm sure.”

  “Why do you wanna do this?”

  “I have my reasons. Let me bury them.”

  “I guess there's no harm. Go ahead, if it means that much to you, but you need to know, we're movin’ out in a few hours. I advise you to come with us. The enemy's completely infiltrated this area. It's not safe. You do what you have to, but we're movin’ out at nineteen hundred hours, with or without you.”

  Minutes later, Tom Crosby is standing in the back yard looking at the corpses of his wife and children. Their lifeless bodies still covered in blood with their shoes removed, have been unceremoniously dumped to the side of the yard. After dragging them one by one to their resting place, he begins the dreadful work of covering their bodies. With grim resolution, he tries not to look as shovel by shovel each one of his family members disappear from view.

  Several hours later, his work is complete, and he stands in silence looking at the place where his wife and children are buried. Tom Crosby has given up any attempt to make sense of what's happening around him and doubts his own ability to separate what's real from what isn't. To dismiss this place as no more than a horrible nightmare seems trivial and incredulous. The blister forming on the palm of his right hand from digging suggest that this place is anything but a dream. The sound of gunfire crackling in the distance forces the question to the forefront of his thoughts as he asks himself, “if this is not a dream, then what is this?”

  Tom Crosby unexpectedly hears a woman's voice.”

  “This is war, Mr Crosby. That's what it is, ... my condolences on your recent loss.”

  After turning to see who's behind him, he sees a face he recognizes.

  “You, I remember you. You were at the intersection with that boy from Iraq. You're the reason I'm here.”

  “I'm not the reason you're here. You made that choice Mr Crosby.”

  “What is this place?”

  “You should know the answer to that question. It's a battlefield, or as you call it, ‘a theater of operations’, which is a nice tidy euphemism to describe a place
where people get killed, usually civilians. This is your new home Mr Crosby, a place of endless war and human conflict. This place is governed by the force of arms. Softer things like reason, amity, domestic peace, have no place here, but a man like you with your skills will fit right in.”

  “So you think I deserve all this because I'm a soldier. Is that what you're saying?”

  “No, not because you're a soldier; a soldier is someone who sees war as a temporary interruption of normal life. A soldier wants to do his duty and get back to that normal life as soon as possible. You're something different Mr Crosby. You're a warrior. A warrior prefers the chaos of armed conflict. It becomes intrinsic to his identity. He feels a hypnotic exhilaration in the violent mayhem of war. That's who the warrior is, Mr Crosby, and that's who you are.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “Because you've molded yourself to this world and so now, this world has molded itself to you.”

  “I didn't choose to be here.”

  “You didn't?”

  “No, I didn't.”

  “Do you remember the reason you drove to Richmond? It was to sign up for another overseas tour and go back to a life and world that you apparently prefer. This is that world.”

  “Why did my family have to be part of this? They had nothing to do with the things I've done. Why involve them?”

  “Because that's what war does Mr Crosby. It rips families apart with death and slaughter, but in your world and by your logic, that only happens to other families in other places. You need to learn that those who light fires in other neighborhoods shouldn't be surprised when they come home and find their own homes have been burned to the ground.”

  “I didn't burn anyone's house down. All I did was engage the enemy. I followed orders.”

  “There's that word again, that toxic word that war mongers love to hear. They know if they get enough people to call others ‘the enemy’ then a slow inevitable tilt toward war will follow. Fear driven psychology will always need an ‘enemy’ to validate its paranoia, and you're no different.”