Short Stories

by Lanyon, Josh

  Vic let him sleep ten minutes. About seven minutes longer than he should have but he justified it as a power nap.

  Far down the mountainside he could see stealthy movement, hear the faintest scrape of boots on rock. Every sound carried in this cold, crisp mountain air. Taliban soldiers were slowly navigating their way up the uneven slope. They were being surprisingly cautious. Sean must have made quite an impact on them.

  He had a way of doing that.

  Vic said against Sean’s ear, “Rise and shine.”

  Sean’s eyes opened instantly. He nodded.

  The next two hours were a test of endurance. Somehow they made it across the scraggy face of the cliff, literally crawling at points, and then climbed with excruciating difficulty down a series of boulders. Vic knew he was going to have nightmares about that climb for weeks to come.

  Assuming he still had weeks to come and they didn’t end up in pieces on the mountain in the next half hour or so.

  By the time they shinnied down the final boulder, they were both shaking and soaked in sweat. Sean was needing more and more help although he never asked for it once.

  Reaching the bottom, they dropped on their bellies and tried to recover their breath.

  “Did you ever get married?” Sean asked suddenly, softly.

  “No. You?”

  Sean snorted.

  “I mean…did you find someone…?” Who appreciated you, who treated you like you should have been treated, who had the brains to recognize what you were worth?

  “Oh, sure. I found a lot of people.”

  Neither spoke for a time.

  Sean’s voice was abrupt. “I heard you did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Got married.” He sounded just faintly impatient.

  “No. Where’d you hear that?”

  “Specs Davis. I ran into him a couple of years back. He said you were engaged.”

  “No.” Stoney pointed to the tiny scar between his eyebrows. “As you can see, I’m still wearing your ring.”

  Sean stared at him and then laughed.

  Vic laughed too, threw him a look beneath his brows. “It took two stitches.”

  Bullets raked along the flat-topped stone and they rolled apart. Sean dropped over the side and Vic followed, hearing the crash of him landing in bushes. He pulled his M4 spraying the hillside behind them, hearing screams of pain. He turned and followed Sean whom he could hear scrabbling down another staircase of stone.

  The next few seconds were chaos. Vic kept moving and shooting — all the while aware of Sean less than a yard ahead. Bullets whined overhead. All at once the enemy was everywhere and the graying night was lit by muzzle flash and mini flares.

  “Down,” Sean yelled and Vic hit the frozen ground.

  He heard the whisper of a suppressed shot and knew Sean was using his MK23.

  He crawled into the brush. They both opened fire, ducking down as the Taliban opened fire again with machine guns. They shot, reloaded while the bullets buzzed and whizzed around them, hitting the rocks and ricocheting with lethal force.

  “We’ve got to move,” Vic yelled.

  He felt rather than heard Sean’s assent.

  They took turns firing and covering each other’s retreat the rest of the way down the slope in a run, crawl, walk maneuver.

  They were never going to make it.

  Vic felt a brief and furious grief that they were not going to have that second chance after all. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, but Sean sure as hell did. He determined to take as many of these murdering bastards with them as he could.

  But as they reached the ledge they heard the pound of chopper blades and looked upward to see the Chinook rocking into position above them. Time flies when you’re having fun — and Cheyney was not a girl who liked to be kept waiting. The door slid open and O’Riley was throwing down a line while Matturo and one of the door gunners laid a steady covering fire.

  Sean was turning to cover him and Vic shoved him toward the line. “Climb.” He turned his M4 on the hillside.

  Sean dragged himself up the line with what seemed to be agonizing slowness while the mountain fighters continued to fire between Vic’s bursts of fire — and the protective fire of the chopper gunners.

  When Sean had neared the top, O’Riley and Matturo leaned out and hauled him into the chopper.

  Vic ran for the line, climbing hand over hand. The chopper was already rising and swinging him away over the mountainside. He continued to climb as from behind the ridge the mortars were launched again. Vic hauled himself onto the cold metal flooring of the chopper and gasped.

  O’Riley and Matturo were beside Sean working fast to stem what looked like a gushing artery from his thigh.

  Seeing that fountain of blood Vic felt the strength go out of him. He dropped down beside Sean whose face was blanched of color in the yellow dawn, his breathing rapid and shallow.

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough,” Matturo said. The tourniquet he was trying to fashion was already soaked with scarlet.

  Sean’s eyes opened. They looked black. He tried to smile.

  “Don’t you dare fucking die on me, Sean.”

  Sean asked faintly, “How come you came back for me, Stoney?”

  Vic had to work to get the words out. “I was always coming back for you.”

  * * * * *

  Present day, 1750, The Craig Joint Theater Hospital at Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan

  “He’s asking for you,” the weary-faced surgeon said. “Five minutes. Don’t tire him.”

  Vic rose. “Is he —” He abruptly ran out of air, but the surgeon followed him easily enough — it was a question he was familiar with by now.

  “He’s still critical but…that’s one tough sailor. We’re transporting him to Germany tonight.”

  Vic stepped into the trauma bay. There were four beds and a hell of a lot of state of the art equipment, and then he spotted Sean. He lay in a bed that looked like a miniature space pod and he was hooked up to a confusing web of monitors, an IV and oxygen. He looked very brown against the bleached sheets.

  Vic leaned over the railing. He said softly, “Hey.”

  Sean’s lashes flicked and rose. His pupils were huge with whatever drugs they were pumping into him. “Hey…”

  “You okay?” Vic asked anxiously.

  Sean’s face twisted a little and he bit his lip. “Please don’t…make me laugh.”

  “I just mean…”

  “Yeah.” Sean’s eyes closed again, his colorless mouth formed the word. “Stoney…”

  “I’m right here,” Vic said, leaning still closer. He was aware of the medical personnel but only as so much equipment — stuff useful for keeping Sean alive.

  “Thanks.” It was so soft he barely heard it. “For coming back. I mean…you know.”

  “I should have come back a long time ago.” Vic said with sudden fierceness. “I was too big a coward. Not — not the way you think. I got over worrying about all that bullshit a long time ago.”

  Sean’s face was so still. Was he even listening? It didn’t matter. Vic had been waiting a long time to say it.

  “I was ashamed, Sean. I let you down. I let us both down. I didn’t think you’d ever forgive me, and I didn’t have the guts to face you. You’re such a tough sonofabitch.”

  Sean’s face tightened in pain. “I forgave you a long time ago, you jackass.” His eyes opened, starred with emotion. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” Vic said steadily and he didn’t give a damn who else heard it so long as Sean believed it.

  Sean gave a ghost of his old laugh. “And it only took you twelve years to figure it out?”

  “I never said I was fast. Just faithful.”

  “Mmm.” Sean was tiring, but he whispered, “You planning to do anything about it?”

  “You know it,” Vic said. He slipped his class ring off and gently slid it on the ring finger of Sean’s lax left hand. “The very next time we meet.�
�

  Heart Trouble

  Heart Trouble

  I discovered the rough draft of the story that is now “Heart Trouble” while digging through boxes of old files. It was scribbled down on notebook paper, which is how I used to write everything. There were a lot of arrows and insertions and scratch-outs, but the basic story was complete and, I thought, rather sweet.

  What was interesting to me about this 20+ year old effort was that so many of the themes and motifs I still write about are delineated here. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.

  “So what seems to be the trouble, Ford?”

  The emergency room doctor took a second quick look at the chart to make sure he hadn’t just called me by my last name. He didn’t look a lot older than me, light eyes, a smooth sweep of blond hair, tall and broad shouldered. Not handsome. At least, not in a TV Doc kind of way.

  Which was really the last thing I needed, being already at a considerable disadvantage. I was sitting on an examining table in E2 which was decorated by colorful posters of all the things that could—and probably eventually would—go wrong with you. My T-shirt was off and my skin prickled with goose bumps. The harsh light in emergency rooms is not flattering.

  “I’m uh…afraid I’m having a heart attack.”

  “Okay. Well, your blood pressure was a little high when you came in. We’ll try it again in a minute. Meantime…” He whipped his stethoscope around his neck and moved in closer. “Can you describe your symptoms?”

  “My chest hurts. I’m having trouble getting my breath. My left arm keeps going numb…”

  He placed the cap of the stethoscope over my heart and listened. “Are you having trouble getting your breath now?”

  “Not now. No. Earlier. It comes and goes.”

  He smelled clean. Soap, unobtrusive aftershave, and antiseptic. His breath was cool and zingy with mouthwash. He had a tiny scar over the left side of his upper lip. You’d have to be close enough to kiss him to see it. I closed my eyes.

  “Is your chest hurting now?”

  I opened my eyes. “It feels tight.” Tighter still with him leaning into me, so close we were exchanging breaths. What was his name? If he’d said, I’d missed it, and I couldn’t read the plastic ID hanging from the ribbon around his neck. J-A-something. Jack? James? Jacques? Probably not Jacques.

  “Pain?” His lashes flicked up and his serious gaze met mine. Serious and kind. Which was a relief because I felt like an idiot sitting there half-undressed with no visible signs of illness or injury while down the hall someone was yelling his head off.

  “Not now.”

  “But earlier?”

  I felt myself turning red. “Not pain. Not like that. Just pressure. Tightness.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. Take a deep breath.”

  I sucked in a deep breath.

  “Exhale.”

  I exhaled.

  “Again.” He moved the stethoscope slowly over my chest, listening intently. His expression gave nothing away. He straightened, moved away, out of my line of vision. I jumped when he touched my back.

  “Sorry. Are my hands cold?”

  Cool. Not unpleasant. I shook my head.

  “Inhale.”

  The same routine. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  “That’s good.” He stepped around, put his hands on either side of my head and gazed into my eyes. His own were blue. Very blue. Maybe he wore colored contacts. I gazed uncomfortably back and I thought he made a smiling sound though his mouth didn’t move. He kneaded his way down my throat and rested his hands on my shoulders for a moment, then stepped back and draped the stethoscope around his neck once more.

  “Well…your blood pressure is up and your heart rate is a little fast, but everything sounds normal. I think we’ll run an EKG to be on the safe side.”

  I nodded humbly.

  He smiled. He had a very nice smile. Patients probably felt better just seeing him smile. “Relax for a minute, Ford.” Then he was gone, striding out of the room, white coat flapping. I heard him talking to someone in the hall.

  Relax? Yeah, right.

  A few minutes later I was taped up to an intimidating machine which measured out my heart beats in tidy, green blips. I watched the screen nervously. Were the blips big enough? Steady enough?

  “What’s that doctor’s name?” I asked the technician.

  She smothered a yawn. It was close to midnight now. I was tired too. Panic will only take you so far. “Who? Oh, you mean Dr. Hoyle?”

  “My doctor.” Well, not my doctor. Although…I considered that and there were a couple of quick blips on the screen.

  “Yeah, that’s Dr. Hoyle.” She didn’t seem concerned by the double blip on the screen. She was checking her watch. A moment later she excused herself.

  I was left alone with my unhappy thoughts. It was cold in the little room and it felt dehumanizing lying there all hooked up to machines. I could hear voices in the cubicle next door. I thought I could recognize Dr. Hoyle’s voice. Same tone of voice, anyway. Calm, deep, slow. Reassuring.

  He was probably about ten years older than me.

  After a time the technician returned, took the EKG readings, untaped me, told me I could put my shirt back on.

  I put my shirt on and waited.

  More screams and yells from down the hall.

  I could see my reflection in the glass front cabinets. I looked insubstantial, transparent, ghostly. They probably got a lot of that around here. I frowned at my defensive posture. Even as a ghost I looked like I needed a shave and a haircut. I picked at the rip in the knee of my Levis, unraveling the denim further.

  Dr. Hoyle was reading my chart as he pushed open the door. “Everything looks normal, Ford.”

  “Great.” I know I sounded uncertain.

  He glanced up, caught my gaze and smiled. “You’re twenty-three, Ford?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has anything like this happened before? Chest pains? Numbness in your left arm?”

  “No.”

  “What did you have for dinner tonight?”

  “Nothing. It’s not indigestion.”

  His brows rose. They were darker than his hair, a lot darker when they formed that forbidding line. He inquired coolly, “Did I suggest this was indigestion?”

  “No, but I know people can mistake heartburn for a heart attack.”

  “Yeah. Not usually the other way around. So you skipped dinner?”

  I nodded. Offered, “I had a few cups of coffee.”

  “Is there any family history of heart trouble?”

  That lever threw open the floodgates. “Yeah.” I felt winded again just thinking about it. “My grandfather died when he was thirty-five. Suddenly. They thought it was his heart. My uncle died of a coronary when he was forty. My dad has a bad heart.”

  Dr. Hoyle frowned and made notations on my chart. “What do you do for a living, Ford?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Yeah?” Was that a flash of genuine interest? “What do you write?”

  “Oh, books. Novels.” I hadn’t got to the point where I could say it casually. I still only half-believed it myself.

  “So you’re published? Would I find your books in a bookstore?”

  “Uh…maybe. It’s just one book.” A gay book. So it would have to be a gay bookstore. And he probably wasn’t… No wedding ring, but he probably wasn’t.

  “What’s your book about?”

  “It’s about a boy. About a boy’s life. Kind of a coming of age thing.” Coming of age and coming out.

  Dr. Hoyle was flatteringly interested. He said he wished he could write. He said he loved to read but all he seemed to read these days were medical journals. He asked all the right questions, and I stopped worrying about whether I was giving the right answers. Or that I wasn’t letting Dr. Hoyle get a word in edgewise. I told him all about the reviews and the worry of living up to those reviews and how the next book was going—or wasn’t going—and the
writer’s block. No, capitalize it. Writer’s Block. Last known address.

  “So, safe to say,” Dr. Hoyle managed to interrupt at last, “You’re under a fair amount of pressure?”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Are you sleeping okay? Eating okay?”

  I shrugged.

  “Getting any exercise?”

  “Some.”

  “Like?”

  “I swim. Nearly every morning.”

  “Swimming’s good. How do you feel after you swim?”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Dizzy at all? Weak? Any chest pain?”

  “No. I feel good after I swim.”

  Dr. Hoyle made another note. “How’s your health in general? When was the last time you had a complete physical?”

  “It’s been a couple of years.”

  “Any other stress in your life? Get along with your family okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “How are things going financially?”

  I wondered if he was worried I couldn’t pay my emergency room bill, but then I understood where he was going with this line of questioning, and all that worry came pouring out too. I told him about the advance I’d spent, and the rent that had just doubled, and the buying groceries on credit cards which had turned out to be just as bad an idea as everybody always said. It was a relief to get it off my chest, to info dump it all on this attractive, attentive stranger with the kind eyes.

  Dr. Hoyle let me run until I was all out of words, and then he said, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your heart, Ford. But because there’s a family history of coronary disease I’m going to order some tests. Just to put both our minds at rest.”

  “Okay.” No way. Not without health insurance. He was trying to be helpful, but what I didn’t need were more bills to worry about. Even I knew that.

  “Do you have a regular family doctor?”

  “Yeah. Up north.”

  I’d wondered what the full impact of his smile would be like. It took him from attractive to downright handsome in nothing flat. It also shaved about ten years off him.