by E Kay Sims
“Sydney, mate. And then onto Oregon.”
“Oregon?” Gary wrinkled up his nose in confusion.
“The U.S.A.,” I explained.
“America? You’re going to America?”
“I am,” I said with a smile.
“How long for?”
“Permanently, I hope. I’ve got a job there.”
“Hm. Alright for some. Me? I’ll stay right here in Deep Lake. Not a bad place, I don’t reckon.”
I gazed out at the body of water that gave the town its name as we drove past it. It wasn’t that deep, in reality—two meters at the most. But it was full of fond memories of us three kids spending our summer days there swimming in the water, having water fights, making mud castles and mud pies, having actual fights—which would usually end up with Daveo dunking me and a swat on the arse for all of us from Dad.
Speaking of Daveo, there he was wandering along the footpath with a beer in his hand. He paused and wiped his arm across his sweaty brow as we passed him and watched us with a dumbfounded expression on his sunburned face.
Shit. Was I doing the right thing? Was Kylie right? Was I being selfish by leaving town and leaving Mum and Dad to their own devices? Kylie would pick up the slack, wouldn’t she? I knew she would, but she’d moan and groan about it endlessly. She wasn’t like me. She couldn’t keep her emotions in check as easily.
I closed my eyes and swallowed deeply. I pulled out my mobile phone and shot Eric a text message.
Fucking hell, mate. I’m leaving home for good.
His response was classic Eric:
Fuck, dude! It’s ‘bout time you cut the apron strings.
Kylie said to say g’day. ;)
Did she say she wanted to blow me? Cuz the answer is still NO!
I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. So hard, that Gary scrutinised me in the rearview mirror. I cleared my throat and sunk lower into the seat, feeling self-conscious. I didn’t utter another peep the entire trip to the bus station.
I was exhausted. I forgot how long a flight to the U.S.A. was despite my short, sixty-minute stop in South Korea. It was forever since I’d been on a long-haul flight. Twenty-nine years old and I felt like my body was crumbling to pieces after that trip. The way the customs officer was studying me sternly right now did nothing to ease my mood.
Yeah, mate. I’m a fucking international spy here to take all your ice cream back to Australia and set up shop in some tiny Australian town you’d never even be able to find your way to. You’d better watch your back. Everyone got lost on the way to Deep Lake. It was just the way it was.
Finally, he handed my passport back to me, and I was allowed to pass through the gates to the luggage carousel. I pulled my mobile phone out of my pocket and dialled Mum and Dad’s number. Fuck, I couldn’t wait to get a phone stateside so I wouldn’t have to pay such exorbitant international fees. This call was going to come back and bite me in the arse, I just knew it.
“Hey, Mum,” I said when the phone was finally picked up on the other end.
“Gilbert? You made it, darl?” Her voice sounded groggy.
“I did. I got here safe and sound… and perhaps a little bit stiff.” I tried to work out the kinks in my neck. “What time is it over there?”
“Almost two in the morning.”
I knew she’d be craning her neck to see the clock that hung on the kitchen wall opposite the fridge. It was an ancient retro clock from the 1960s, a tacky plastic thing made to look like gilded gold that was passed down when my gran passed away.
“Righto, well, get some sleep, okay? I can see my bags coming through, and I have to let Eric know I’ve arrived. That bugger is going to pick me up, whether he likes it or not.”
“Oh, of course, he is! He’s a lovely young man; I’m sure he’d do anything for you,” Mum gushed.
I sniggered. Yeah, right. Including making me catch a fucking taxi from Portland Airport to our new place all the way down in Eugene. If he did that to me, I’d wallop him with the cab charges… plus interest.
“Eric’s driving down from Ft. Lewis. I’m going to hit the sack in one of the hotels around here until he picks me up. I’ll catch you later, Mum.”
“Call again soon.”
“Mum,” I sniped.
“Sorry. Have a good sleep. Love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.” I hung up quickly, not wanting to prolong the sense of guilt that began to seep its way into me again. I turned to the carousel to collect my bags.
ERIC
I
logged out of my account after shooting Gil an instant message. Back to business. Today was my last day on deployment in this shithole. Just one more mission tonight and then I was out of here. I couldn’t wait! Once I got back to the world, I’d have about two weeks of debriefings, paperwork, and bullshit to take care of, then I’d get about seventeen days of leave. The anticipation was building by the minute. I was already planning for my days off. Gil and I were going to meet up and celebrate his birthday. Vegas, baby! Here we come!
I finished cleaning my weapons and getting my kit ready. I have this ritual I do before every mission, packing everything just so and checking off the items on this list in my head. I had to do it in the same exact order every time because I’d developed this fear that if I didn’t, then I wouldn’t make it home. Some may think it’s stupid, but I’m not the only one. Javier had to put his socks on the right foot, then left foot, same with his boots before every mission. Any other time it didn’t matter to him.
I guess it was common for guys to start developing idiosyncrasies after surviving a few deployments. This was my fourth. I’d been lucky the last three. Shit, I couldn’t even think that ‘cause I’d end up jinxing myself. Now that’s fucked up. I couldn’t help but think, What if these are my last hours alive? It could happen at any given moment. I double-checked my advanced directives and my living will, making sure everything was in order in the envelopes marked with my dad’s name, my letter to him––my final goodbye in case I didn’t survive this mission. I’d been here three months already, so it would suck balls if I didn’t make it home now. As a Ranger in the Special Ops, we typically did three-month deployments at a time. I would take those seventeen days leave coming to me, and I’d have to decide whether or not to reenlist or go to the regular Army, which would mean I would no longer be able to stay a Ranger in the 75th. There was the possibility of becoming an instructor and remain with the Ranger Regiment. I’d like to try to get my twenty years in for retirement, but I couldn’t see myself surviving at this pace for much longer. I didn’t want to press my luck any more than I had already.
I’d finally tossed the letter marked Lynda just before the last mission. I’d received her ‘Dear John’ letter the deployment before last—almost two years ago—and for some reason, I’d held onto it. Our three-year relationship went down the drain, and I had nothing to show for it. Literally. We’d been together for three years. We’d finally gotten engaged before I’d left for the Army during our last year of college. I came home every chance I had between training and deployments. She’d known when I’d met her that I was going into the Army. She’d said she was so proud of me and couldn’t wait to be my wife.
After we were engaged, I’d sent her half my paycheck every month for two years while she lived in my apartment finishing her master's degree at U of O in Eugene. I was saving for a down payment on a house. Last time I’d checked our joint account, there was zero balance. I should never have agreed to the joint account. Fucking bitch cleaned me out. I’d had to get ahold of a buddy of mine who was stateside to check on my place and settle up with the landlord. It turns out, Lynda took all the furniture––that I’d bought, by the way, except the bed. I guess I should be grateful she’d sent me back the ring, which was worth four grand when I’d purchased it. No telling what I’d get for it now. I still have it, unfortunately.
Before emailing Gil, I’d finished booking the hotel, and I paid for the yoga workshop I s
igned up for in Vegas. I didn’t tell Gil that I was planning to go to this workshop that was designed for veterans and active duty personnel with PTSD. Technically, I was still on active duty. Wasn’t sure if I was even going to go, yet. I could hear it now, ‘Yoga? Are you a fucking pussy now, Thorsen?’
Sure, I’d be out the money––four hundred and fifty dollars for a two-day workshop—but I reserved the right to back out. Who was I kidding? I had to do something. I could no longer deny even to myself that I have all the symptoms of combat-related PTSD. My squad leader finally pulled me to the side after the last mission and told me to get help or don’t come back after my current enlistment ends, which would be this year. He would leave it up to me, but if I didn’t do something about it, he would put it in my file. That’s all I needed, to be deemed unfit for battle, a ‘high-risk soldier.’ That would kill my career and any chance at a promotion. I’m a fucking Ranger for fuck’s sake. I’m a killing machine! Dealing death to the enemy makes my blood sing! Or so I kept telling myself. I could not have my Army record ruined at this stage after all that I’d been through, all that I’d survived in the last six years.
But, lately, I’d woken up in a cold sweat just thinking about going outside the wire. I’d been drinking myself to sleep every night. My heart started to race for no apparent reason at odd moments and the flashbacks were getting worse. In fact, the minute I put in my earbuds, I’d started seeing Rico’s cold dead eyes staring up at me. We’d both listen to the same song when on target or working out at the gym––Way Down We Go by Kaleo. Fuck! It was his favorite song. It was still on my playlist. For some reason I couldn’t bring myself to delete it.
I remembered that day had started out like every other day in this shithole. The stench was overpowering. There was a certain smell, like rotting, burning garbage mixed with human waste. After a while, your skin and clothes carry the smell and no amount of washing gets rid of it. It embeds into your olfactory system, and there’s no getting away from it. Even when you go home, it lingers for months. After four deployments, I didn’t think it’d ever fade away.
The day we got word that we were going outside the wire on target was that night. That’s what we called it when they gave us our mission. ‘We’re on target.’ It was usually some jihadist fuck who’d made it onto our radar either through intercepted cell phone transmissions, or one of his neighbors ratted him out, or it could be Intel of suspicious activities gained by visual surveillance via drone, satellite, or the good old-fashioned human eye. Majority of the time, we used some very sophisticated technology to go about gathering viable Intel.
That day we’d gotten word of the next target, Rico broke out in a cold sweat and started to shake like it was twenty below outside instead of a hundred and twenty plus degrees. It was like he knew the Reaper had his number. After a while you develop a sixth sense. It’s spooky, but it comes with the territory, I guess. You lived with death or the prospect of death all around you, twenty-four hours a day, every day. I saw many, many deaths––our side and their side––and after four deployments you start wondering, not if, but when your number will come up. I guess Rico knew his time had come.
Rangers in Special Operations go out after targets at night in the cover of darkness, usually in teams of eight, sometimes less or more depending on the job. We’d gotten some bad intel––it happens––and we were ambushed. Rico died in my arms that night, and the battle raged on for five hours before air support could come in and give assistance. I’d had to lay next to his dead body for four of those hours while we took fire from the enemy. I was covered in his blood from his wound that had soaked the ground beneath me––half his face was gone, but his eyes were intact. Staring at me, staring through me, begging me to save him. He hadn’t died right away, and that was what haunted me the most. I tried to hold his jaw in place as he choked and gurgled on his blood. It would have been better if I’d shot him and ended it sooner. I knew that’s what he’d wanted. Mother fucking hell! Get out of my head, Rico! I’m sorry man, I really am! I tried to save you!
The next day I’d gotten on the plane, grateful I’d survived another deployment and another successful mission the night before. At last, I was leaving the shithole! Several hours and a few layovers later, I’d be landing at JBLM––Joint Base Lewis-McChord, south of Tacoma, Washington. In two weeks, I’d be on my way. I’d booked a rental car so I could drive the two and half hours or so to Portland to pick up Gil at PDX. We were going to drive to Vegas for a bro trip to celebrate his thirtieth birthday.
Gil, my best friend from high school. He was like a brother to me. We’d always been close; ever since the day I’d met him. In fact, it was at PDX the first time I’d ever laid eyes on him. My parents had decided to host a foreign exchange student, and we got Gil. We’d driven up from Eugene to pick him up at Portland International. Not gonna lie, at first, I thought he was a nerd––well, he is a nerd, but he’s a cool nerd. But actually, if the dude could gain some confidence, he’d be a fucking stud. When I first met him, he was tall and lanky, but he had potential. I think we were best friends before we arrived back home in Eugene that night.
I settled into my seat on the flight to Germany. I may as well try to sleep during the long, boring flight. I prayed the nightmares wouldn’t come. Please, Rico, leave me alone. Just this once, let me sleep for a few hours.
GIL
I
hauled my jetlagged arse out of bed and yanked my jeans on as a loud bang sounded on the door of my hotel room. Fuck me, did I even catch any shut-eye? It felt like I’d only slept for five minutes, but on checking the radio clock beside the squeaky bed, I realised I’d slept for nearly ten hours.
Stretching and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I took my time ambling across the ugly grey carpet that covered the floor. When the knocks became more incessant, I grumbled under my breath, “Yeah, alright. Jeez.”
I pulled the door open to find Eric standing there, impatiently glaring at me. “What the hell, dude? I texted you! Move it, move it! We’re on a tight schedule. It’s time to party!” he said in his drill instructor voice.
It took a moment for my brain to catch up and realise it was Eric and not the maid coming into the wrong room again. “Oh, fuck! G’day, mate! How are ya?” I scratched my bare chest and pulled him into a bro-hug.
“I just got off a three-month deployment! How the fuck do you think I am? I’m fucking horny as a horny toad. The wind blows and my dick gets hard. I need to get laid,” he said, squeezing me in his massive arms and pounding my back fiercely.
I quickly and awkwardly pulled away. Turning back into the room, I ushered him in and tugged on a blue T-shirt. I glanced at his biceps. “You been taking ‘roids or something?” I teased.
“Aww hell no! I don’t touch that shit.” He stepped into the room. “These are all hard earned, unlike some others I know.” He waved his hands to indicate his solid muscles, flexing his biceps for me.
“Fucking hell, how am I going to compete with that?” I mumbled as I gathered my luggage. Chicks had always flocked to Eric. I always felt like the third-wheel in a lot of situations. It was like the only women who showed me any interest when we were together were the ones he sicked on me, like I was a fucking charity case or something.
“Are you serious right now? Do you remember that chick under the bleachers back in high school? The one you thought I paid to blow you?”
“Destiny Wilmington,” I grumped.
“Yeah, that one. She begged me to set her up with you. She fucking paid me to make it happen. So quit your whining and get your shit packed so we can hit the road. You’re my lucky charm, and I plan on winning in Vegas!”
“Fuck, yeah, Vegas! I’ve been waiting for this for months. Let’s go, mate!” I tossed Eric my backpack and dashed past him and out of the room.
“Hold on, dude! I’m not getting in the car with you till you brush your teeth. Get rid of that dragon breath. It’s a long ass drive.”
I stopped an
d groaned. He sounded like my fucking mother. I turned and snatched my backpack from him again, fished out my toiletry bag, and made my way to the bathroom.
“And for Chrissakes, comb your hair.” He grabbed my comb and tossed it at the back of my head. “How the hell do you expect to pick up chicks looking and smelling like you just rolled out of a homeless camp?”
I glared at him through the mirror. I let the comb hit the tiled floor and dragged my fingers through my hair in defiance. I spat out the toothpaste. “Women dig the tousled hair look, mate. It’s sexy.”
“You should’ve seen mine down range. It was glorious until I had to cut it before I reported back to the States. We get pretty lax out in the shit, ya know? I even had a full beard,” he said as he scratched his clean-shaven chin.
I studied him. “What was it like out there?” I knew I probably shouldn’t have pushed the issue. I’d heard stories about how some old war veterans never talked about what they had seen, opting to suffer in silence. I didn’t want Eric to suffer in silence. All joking aside, I wanted him to know that he was still my best mate and I would be his sounding board if he needed me to be.
His face had become a dark mask which made me think perhaps I had asked too soon. “You know I can’t talk about shit, top secret stuff,” he paused, then forced a smile, “or I’ll have to kill you, bro.” He turned toward the window looking out at the Portland city view, hiding his face from me.
I thought as much. I chuckled and let it slide. “Then who would provide you with the best damn ice cream you’ve ever eaten in your life?”
“Ha! You and your ice cream! You’re going to make me fat. I gotta watch my girlish figure, ya know?” It was his turn to chuckle and it seemed sincere, his mood lightened.
