And We All Fall (Book 1)

by Michael Patrick Jr. Mahoney

  “Yes. I’m actually quite familiar with Master Sergeant Mills. I’d love to have a chance to meet him. To tell you the truth, since he is in town, he may end up with orders to post at the front entrance of your building. Please extend my apologies to Dr. Mills. Jamie needs to be on that call, no matter what.”

  “I understand, sir. She’ll be there. We both will.”

  “Make sure she is briefed on the critical nature of this, Frank, but don’t share any of the details with her over the phone. Talk to her in person. We can’t afford any leaks. It will be mass hysteria if that happens. Home Depot will be looted. Every piece of wood on the shelf carved into a stake. Every decorative samurai sword on every wall in America will be in someone’s hand. All of humanity gravely depends on our discretion now, Franco. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. I understand, sir.”

  There was silence on the line for a moment, neither man saying anything.

  “Doug, is there any chance we are jumping the gun on this?”

  “I hope so. I really do. But we can’t afford to wait and find out. That’s how we serve this country, Frank. Are you ready to do that?”

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything else for now? I need to get started making calls.”

  “Yes. There is one more thing. I know you’re a man of God.”

  “I am.”

  “That will serve you well as you watch the white pestilence gallop through your neighborhood.”

  Franco sighed, so tired of the endless doomsday speak. “Sir?”

  “Intel suggests that people should stay indoors unless it is absolutely necessary to go outside. For God’s sake, Frank. Don’t even go into the woods near your house without wearing PPE. Sign sets out of supplies for you and your family.”

  “PPE gear? What for, sir?”

  “We haven’t isolated the original source of the contagion, but the latest intelligence suggests some type of bite is the mode of transmission.”

  Frank hadn’t worn a protective suit in ten years. He wasn’t sure there was a PPE in the building that fit him anymore. “Okay, sir. Will do.”

  “You may want to run to the store and pick up a few boxes of bug repellant and rat poison too. Any kind of spray for anything else that bites. Spray yourself all over every time you go outside. Cover every inch of your exposed skin.”

  Franco rubbed the spot where that mosquito bit him that day at the crash site with that memory reignited. “You’re serious?”

  “As that heart attack you had, Frank. I have my Glock in my left shoulder holster, and a can of OFF in the right. Do you still carry, Frank?”

  “Yes, sir.” Franco patted the small revolver holstered at his waistband. “Always.”

  When he was a much younger and thinner man, he was an Atlanta police officer. He became accustomed to never walking out of the house without a weapon.

  “Good. Let me know if you need anything at all. I have the President’s ear.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Keep your weapon loaded and ready at all times. Find time to pray tonight, Frank. Pray with your team when they get there. Pray you don’t have to use that gun on any of them someday.”

  “What?” Why would that ever be necessary?

  “Pray for containment,” the retired general continued, ignoring Franco. “If we don’t grab tightly to that, this thing is going to be over before it begins. Keep that gun under your pillow the next time you get to lay your head on it, assuming you ever do. I’m afraid we may never get to sleep through the night again.”

  Chapter 2

  Glowing amber rays from the rising Georgia sun beamed majestically through the spaces between the wooden shutters over the bay bedroom window. They looked hot enough to scorch the white sheets that furrowed at the waist of thirty five year old Jackson Mills’ barely covered muscular body.

  An ugly scar stretched between his chest muscles, coming to an end at the top of his desert-tanned, six-pack abs. It was by far the longest mark on his body, and a constant reminder of the day that changed the course of Jackson’s life forever, exactly eleven years ago today.

  Other scars covered the soldier’s body, though they were far less prominent. Nevertheless, just like that foot-long war story carved in the middle of his torso, they couldn’t be disregarded. They all chronicled one painful tale of his life or another, some more painful for Jackson to live through than others, just like the stories they told.

  “I’d trade it for this one in a heartbeat,” he once said about the small knife scar on his right shoulder as he caressed the small mark with his finger while staring at it. It was less than a tenth the length of the one that ran down the centerline of his body, but it hurt him more than that one or any other ever could, especially when he saw it looking back at him in the mirror.

  The name Jax was etched in black ink over a purpled colored heart that was tattooed just to the left of that long scar on his chest muscle. ‘Jamie’ was inked in black in the flesh of Jackson’s left forearm near the elbow. The words ‘Semper Fidelis’ along with the image of the Marine Corps Eagle, Globe and Anchor were inscribed on the outside of his right forearm, stretching the full length of it. An artist was responsible for all of those purposeful scars. Jackson was proud of them.

  His left leg hung down beside the bed. Jumper, Jackson’s fourteen-year old German Sheppard, had been nestled under Jackson’s left foot all night, half asleep but always alert even in retirement, exactly the way the United States Marines trained him to be so long ago. Jackson himself could rarely sleep any other way. Peace had been hard to find for the man who many described as the epitome of calm.

  “They call you peacekeeper.” The reporter with Leatherneck Magazine that had interviewed Jackson after the commendation for his 100th battlefield kill months earlier said it mockingly.

  “That’s right.” app

  “An interesting name for such a prolific military sniper. A dichotomy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not really,” Jackson plainly shared. She had quoted that phrase in the article. “You can’t appreciate peace without knowing violence.”

  “Heat without cold?”

  “Joy without misery.”

  “Sun without the rain.”

  Jackson laughed. “You got it.”

  A different magazine, one with a close up picture of a green walking stick bug on the cover, sat on the bedside table next to Jackson’s military grade G-Shock watch, his keys, wallet, dog tags, cell phone and used plane ticket stub. He wouldn’t have purchased that magazine ten years and a day ago, but now, as this point in his life, it was the obvious choice.

  Right next to that magazine was a greeting card with multi-colored spiraled confetti and balloons on the front cover. The words ‘Happy Birthday To The World’s Greatest Dad’ were printed in giant gold letters. The Hallmark message printed inside was sweet, and while there was plenty of room inside the card to handwrite one, no pen had yet left its mark on the pristine, white cardstock.

  Jackson bought the nature magazine yesterday in the Istanbul airport while waiting to board his commercial connecting flight. He was surprised how many American magazines filled the shelves. He read it cover to cover during the flight to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport.

  The cover flapped all night long on the table, in harmony with the rickety ceiling fan that rotated above. The motion almost brought the giant green ‘Phasmatodea’ on the cover to life. That is what Jackson called the insect when the older woman that sat on one side of him on the flight to Atlanta asked about the ‘awful’ looking creature.

  “A what?” she asked.

  “Phasmatodea. That’s the scientific name for it, ma’am,” Jackson said to her with a proud smile as he turned his phone to airplane mode with the magazine lying on the tray table. “The order of stick insects. It’s a harmless stick bug.”

  “It’s creepy,” she replied.

  Jackson nodded with a smile, conceding to that. “I used to play with t
hem all the time when I was a kid. Never got hurt.”

  The man sitting to the right of Jackson offered his opinion too, while sipping his venti-iced-half-caff-ristretto-four-pump-sugar-free-cinnamon-dolce-soy-skinny-latte he bought at the airport Starbucks. Jackson noted that his colorful outfit would make any runway model jealous: a pink polo shirt and rainbow cotton beret.

  I bet that would be fun to play with,” the colorful man continued between two happy sips.

  “I would smash it dead with the newspaper if I found it anywhere near me,” the woman continued.

  “Aww!” Jackson grimaced. “That would be tragic.” She offended his great fasciation and respect for insects. “It’s totally tame,” he continued, respectful and soft spoken, as he always was with everyone.

  “I bet that wasn’t the only stick you played with as a kid,” the crusty woman said to the man with the fancy drink.

  Rick lifted his chin to her and scoffed as he stared out the window. “You aren’t very nice,” he said.

  “Be glad you aren’t that horrible bug.”

  Rick looked back at her shaking his head.

  “You know, ma’am, he would rather be outside blending into your garden plants then be anywhere near danger.” Jackson said. “That’s why he looks like this. Blending in and hiding is really his only chance for survival against the apex predator.”

  “Apex predator?” the woman asked.

  Jackson nodded. “Oh. Yes, ma’am. You.”

  It was a long flight.

  Jackson was exhausted when he finally arrived by taxi to his modest home in the Atlanta suburbs late last night. The hodgepodge of his son’s things blocking his path to the front door was a welcomed sight for his tired eyes.

  “Good to be home,” he said to himself aloud with a grin as he picked up the expensive metal detector, but leaving everything else where it was on his way into the house.

  A minute later, he tiptoed into his bedroom where Jumper, who couldn’t hide his excitement, greeted him with a lick to the face as the Marine squatted.

  “Good boy. Good boy,” Jackson whispered loudly as Jumper soaked his face with his own distinguished Purple Heart medal dangling from his dark brown collar, along with his own military dog tag and the plethora of tags issued by his veterinarian.

  “Okay, okay. Settle down now.” After a few more strokes to old Jumper’s head, his wounded war buddy, Jackson slid into the bed, trying not to wake the naked woman lying there, sound asleep, just before midnight. He was sure she tried so hard to stay awake, but she had texted him during the last leg of the flight apparently that she hadn't slept at all the night before, so anxious for the love of her to be back home. She didn't want him to think she wasn’t happy, but she texted when she could no longer keep her eyes open.

  Jackson stared at the hypnotic, spinning, brown fan blades above, again contemplating what happened all those years ago. He has done this so many times before on this anniversary eve. The phrase that haunted him crept into his thoughts again.

  And we all fall.

  He could see the words behind his eyelids. But unlike last year, this annual exercise in shame wouldn’t keep the weary war hero up all night. He fell asleep in less than a minute after his six-foot, two-inch frame hit the bed.

  Now, as the sun began to lift higher in the horizon, Jackson stirred. Feeling his wife next to him, he opened his eyes and turned his body toward the rising rays. He gently laid his left arm over her, pushing his body against hers, unable to feel close enough to the soft-skinned beauty to feel satisfied.

  He cupped her breasts with his left hand as he stared at her name tattooed on his arm. The couple always slept in the nude when they were together. They never liked to feel a barrier of clothes between them. In addition, Jackson’s skin radiated heat like a furnace.

  This was the first time in almost a year that Jackson could feel her. He moaned as he pressed his body into her body. He tangled his legs in to hers, melted into her.

  Jamie had instinctively worn her pajamas when she got into bed last night, but then wildly pulled them off without getting out of bed, haphazardly tossed them on the floor knowing her husband would be next to her again late that night. She fell asleep smiling, despite the aggravating, late night call from her boss, Franco Accossi.

  No longer feeling the comfort of his master’s leg now, Jumper marched slowly with a limp, always more pronounced in the morning, to the closed bedroom door. He would have spent the night there, as he always did, but he missed Jackson too much, needed to be close to him.

  He now sat like a statue and stared straight ahead at the eggshell paint with his ears up like antennas. He wouldn’t move until receiving further instruction from his best friend, and former commanding officer. That was the best way to protect Jackson, and protecting Jackson and the family was, and always would be, the graying soldier’s number one priority, despite his official tour ending long ago.

  Jackson felt strange being in bed in the daylight. For the last nine months, his rigorous workday began at Camp Rhino in the Registan Desert of Afghanistan at 0430 hours, long before the light of day.

  Every morning started with a five mile run with the other members of the elite Marine Corps Special Operations Command, or MARSOC. Those desert runs were lonely without the four-legged retired soldier that used to run by his side so long ago. Jumper had not left Atlanta since his retirement.

  The Marines offered to let Jackson train another dog for his second tour, but he declined.

  “No dog could ever measure up to Jumper,” he said. He beamed with pride. “Besides, Jumper’s still going strong back home. It would almost be like cheating on him.”

  At fourteen, Jumper had outlived most of his breed already.

  Jamie slept soundly on her right side, snoring beautifully and loud, facing the window. She didn’t move all night.

  Jackson’s smile widened as he caressed her breasts and gently stroked her nipples under the covers with his finger, instantly arousing him. Nine months away from her ensured that nothing less than that would happen.

  So good he thought as he squeezed her whole body tighter into his, consuming her, feeling himself become harder.

  The clock on Jamie’s bedside table read 6:38.

  She would be waking to the alarm and rushing to the office in two minutes.

  “The briefing starts at nine,” Franco had said to Jamie last night when he called in a panic. “I need you here by eight.”

  “What the hell, Franco? I requested tomorrow off over a month ago,” Jamie said moments after she had tossed her pajamas all over the bedroom. “Jackson’s going to be here.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to. I have no choice, Jamie. It’s an order from D.C.”

  “Screw D.C.”

  “Jamie. Please.”

  As usual, Jamie didn’t bother to hide her exasperation with the government. She had loved working in the private sector, and missed it most days as she often found herself now entangled in bureaucracy. Research didn’t pay much, and she loved paying her bills more than she hated the government.

  Just barely.

  “I’m supposed to have a nice lunch with my husband, whom you know I haven’t seen in a year.”

  “Nine months.”

  “You want to split hairs, Franco? Really?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  “Porca miseria, Jamie. It’s not my fault.”

  “I get it, Franco. Washington.”

  “I’m really sorry. You need to be here. The whole world is depending on you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s what the General said. It is all going to be explained in the morning on the call. That’s all I can say for now. I have to make some other calls now. Get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

  With that, Franco hung up.

  Jamie hung up her cell phone and slammed it on the bedside table i
n disgust. She picked it up again and set the alarm for six-forty. She fumed for a minute before she drifted off to sleep.

  Jackson now began to glide his hand slowly up and down Jamie’s smooth legs. He slid his hand all the way down her left leg and gently grabbed and caressed her foot. He tickled the skin under her foot and around her ankle slowly with his fingertips, stopping briefly to play with the colorful string anklet he bought her on the street in Mexico in what seemed like a lifetime ago, on their honeymoon.

  “Is good. Is good,” the street peddler insisted that second day of the honeymoon in Acapulco. “Very bueno. Only wan doolar. O ten peso. You buy señor. Yes? For the lady,” he continued, speaking fast, with his smile getting bigger at the prospect of a sale. “Muy bonita.”

  “Si,” Jackson replied. He couldn’t take his eyes of his wife’s face. “Si. Muy bonita.” Jackson laid a dollar in the peddler’s hand. The peddler handed the anklet to Jackson with a smile. Jackson squatted down and tied it around Jamie’s ankle as he dreamed about his next opportunity to have some part of him between her tan legs.

  Now, as Jackson played with that little anklet with his fingers under the covers, he was amazed it was still around. He never thought that cheap string anklet would last this long. Without the unbreakable connection he and Jamie had, not to mention some finely timed luck, he didn’t think their life together would have lasted either.

  He was once again drifting on thoughts about being between her legs.

  He slid his hand slowly up her smooth lower half. The tips of his fingers activated every nerve ending in her body as he stroked her neck and then the soft skin behind her ear before he sucked on it. The diamond heart shaped earrings he gave her for their tenth anniversary almost three years ago brought him back to that day, though he didn’t let that distract him for long. He was on a mission now, despite being thousands of miles from his base assignment in the Middle East.