Harold and the Angel of Death

by Gary McPherson

  With his enemy destroyed, the rage seemed to evaporate and he collapsed. No matter how much oxygen he sucked in, it did not seem to be enough. The acrid flavor of blood, Haidar’s blood, emanated inside Harold’s mouth. He stuck his finger into the back of his throat and gagged, doing it again and again until Haidar’s flesh was flung from his stomach and onto the beach in front of him.

  “Harold!”

  It was Darla, but he couldn’t look up. He backed away from his vomit, repulsed by what he had given himself into. Ashamed and exhausted, he collapsed onto the sand and prayed for God to end his nightmare. He felt Darla’s body collapse onto his and heard her let out a short muffled cry as she winced from her wound.

  “Harold, please tell me you’re okay. Are you okay?”

  “I’m not hurt,” mumbled Harold. He was glad Darla missed seeing him bite into Haidar’s lifeless body. “Are you okay?” he asked through a dejected voice.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “There he is!” yelled Chuck several yards away.

  “Not now,” bemoaned Harold.

  “Please, honey,” whispered Darla into his ear. “Don’t show Chuck any regret. You’re not done saving our lives yet.”

  Harold gave a slight nod. Darla slid off of him. Every muscle in Harold’s body felt as though it had been punched by a large, powerful fist. Through sheer will, Harold forced his tightened muscles to give way, and he stood up.

  Chuck’s leg was tied off with a tourniquet. Although he should have been lying still, he hobbled towards Harold with his good leg and dragged Garcia along as his reluctant crutch. Blood still oozed from his wound due to his determination to get to Harold. “Boy, you saved my life.” Chuck released Garcia, and he collapsed into Harold. Chuck’s head turned up from Harold’s chest. “Where’s Haidar?”

  Harold pointed over his shoulder with his thumb as the current washed up some blood and bits of flesh. Chuck pushed himself off Harold, balancing against his body to take a look with everyone else. The sharks still swam among the remnants of blood and flesh floating a few yards from shore.

  Chuck grimaced. “I’d call that dead.”

  Harold only grunted in reply.

  Chuck grabbed Harold’s broad shoulders and steadied himself on one leg. He looked up directly into Harold’s eyes. “I owe you my life. Do you understand? Not that you need protection, but if you ever do, I will gladly give my life for yours.”

  Harold brushed off some of the sand from his head that he had gathered while collapsed on the beach. That was when he felt the dried blood clinging to his red locks. He worked to push the shame from his heart and replied to Chuck, “I believe Garcia put Haidar down.”

  “So, you remember everything?” asked Garcia.

  “Always,” he replied flatly.

  “You were the one who distracted Haidar,” Chuck said. “As sure as I stand here, we’d probably all be dead if you hadn’t dared him to shoot you. That reminds me, this hot girlfriend of yours was just as brave. My mind still can’t decide if I’m turned on or relieved that you tried to shield my body with yours.”

  Darla gave Chuck a dismissive look. “It’s nothing, just training.”

  “Pity.”

  “I don’t think you want to try to compete with my boyfriend,” said Darla, pointing to Harold.

  “You have a point. Well, will you both do me one more favor?”

  “What is it?” asked Darla.

  “Please carry me back to my boat. I’m not as tough as I used to be.”

  “I have him,” said Harold. He hoisted Chuck into a fireman’s carry and began trudging back up the path. “Where’s Nigel?” asked Harold.

  Chuck’s voice sounded like a low growl. “I have that coward prepping my boat.”

  Garcia pointed at Chuck’s wounded leg. “You know, I have people who can fix that for you. The sooner the better.”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo,” responded Chuck. “Tell your drone friend I expect to meet her next time we all get together. Now, get me to my boat.”

  Everyone arrived at the other side of the island. Harold lowered Chuck into his small craft. Chuck lay down on the side bench, and Nigel placed two life preservers under Chuck’s wounded leg. Nigel’s hands shook as he turned back and started the engines.

  “I’ll be in touch!” yelled Chuck to the sky as he waved a fresh, unlit cigar. “Make sure you bring Harold. Until we meet again.”

  Harold pushed the light craft away from the beach as Nigel increased the reverse thrust on the outboard motor. With a quick change in direction, the boat headed back towards the sea and out of sight. As the boat shrank towards the edge of the horizon, shadows began to form around the edges of Harold’s vision. He felt light and dizzy, and the darkness continued to overcome the light. His face felt warm, and a wave of light nausea swept over him as everything went black.

  The sour taste of seawater choked Harold’s throat and filled his nostrils. He coughed and sputtered. His world was still dark, and somewhere in his mind, he hoped it all was another bad dream. Harold tried to open his eyes, but the bright sunlight forced them closed again. He could feel the sand against his bare arms, and he feared his current memories were all too real. After he blinked several times, a shadow suddenly blocked the light from his face.

  Harold opened his eyes, and Alice stood over him. She quickly stepped away, and Harold had to shield his eyes once more. Looking down, he could see Haidar’s dried blood still stuck to his shorts, legs, and shirt. A shudder ran through his body, and a feeling of shame quickly followed.

  From behind, Alice barked, “Agent Hernandez, with me.”

  Harold heard footsteps. He rose up on his left elbow and turned to see Garcia running from the Kodiak and up towards the trail to the meeting tent. Darla came down the path and past Alice and Garcia without saying a word. Her shoulder was bandaged, and her arm was in a sling. She walked over, sat down, and began to gently rub his blood-speckled arm with her free hand.

  “How bad is your arm?” Harold asked.

  Darla looked at Harold with a gentle smile. There was no anger, judgement, or sadness in her dark eyes, only love. “The bullet passed through without hitting any bone. The tissue damage will heal. It’s nothing more than a flesh wound really. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Harold dropped onto his back. Darla took his other arm and slid her hand down it until she reached his hand. He gently grasped Darla’s elegant, strong fingers. Despite focusing on Darla, he could feel tears begin to trickle from the corner of his eyes.

  Harold whispered, “What have I become?”

  Darla bent over and kissed his forehead. She sat back up and said, “Dear, I have seen far worse than what happened today. My hands aren’t clean either. To be honest, I was afraid things would go far uglier than they did. You aren’t trained for these sorts of situations.”

  “I ate a man’s neck,” bemoaned Harold. “He was wounded, unable to do anything, and I lifted him by the hair and carried him around like a rag doll, and then I fed him to the sharks.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Darla. “In doing so you may have saved our lives and the mission.”

  Harold turned his head and looked at Darla. She stared back at him, almost like she was willing him to believe her.

  “When the gunfire starts, it doesn’t always stop once the target goes down,” she continued. “People like Chuck are paranoid. They must be if they want to stay alive. If you had not been there, it could have ended up completely different. Garcia could have thought Chuck set us up, and the two sides would have sat there pointing pistols until somebody fired or Alice flew in a drone, and then all hell would have broken loose. When you went berserk, the entire dynamic changed. Chuck was so enthralled with your performance that he forgot all about the possible threats around him.”

  “It wasn’t a performance.”

  Darla gently squeezed his hand. “You know that isn’t what I meant. Nevertheless, you not only changed the dynamic, you won over Ch
uck. He thinks we’re his new best friends. Maybe what happened was bad, but the outcome is good. Now that we have his trust, we have a good chance of capturing him. You’ve saved a lot of lives today.”

  Darla’s last statement made Harold feel better. He had avoided hurting anyone else. If he had not killed Haidar, perhaps Chuck would have kept the dangerous man around. They had all survived, and Darla was not seriously wounded. To make matters better, he and Darla had saved Chuck, and now he trusted them implicitly. Then he looked down at his shirt. The blood from Haidar’s neck wound was splattered about his chest. He still felt like he had taken things too far. Like an animal, he wanted to consume his prey. The thought made a chill shoot through his body. He sat up and pulled his knees to his chest then began to rock back and forth.

  “What is it, honey?” asked Darla as she played with the hair at the base of his neck.

  “I just need some time,” said Harold.

  They both turned at the sound of Garcia’s feet stomping the sand. “We’re leaving now,” he said before continuing straight for the boat.

  Harold rose and helped Darla to her feet. He helped her maintain her balance as she got into the small craft then shoved the nose off the beach, hopped in, and they headed back out to sea towards the yacht.

  Chapter 21

  Harold sat at the very front of the boat on their way back to the yacht. Nobody said a word on the thirty-minute ride. Thanks to calm waters and Harold’s location on the bow, the ride was mostly smooth. They all boarded the Sweet Revenge, and Harold headed directly to his cabin. He dropped his bloody clothes in the middle of the floor and walked into the steaming shower. He scrubbed himself down three times, and then stood under the hot water until his entire body was as red as a lobster.

  Feeling like his skin had finally been cleansed of the apostasy that clung to it, Harold got out, put on his swim trunks, and headed upstairs to the hot tub. He passed Frank the steward in the hallway. “Frank, burn the bloody clothes on the floor of my cabin. I never want to see them again.”

  Frank looked confused, but said, “Okay.”

  Harold continued his climb to the top deck. He made a beeline for the hot tub and eased his already warm body into the 104-degree water without bothering to turn on the jets. All he wanted was the water and the view. He drew in a breath as the hot water rose and fell against his chest. Stretching out his arms along the edges of the tub, he focused on slowing his breathing.

  The sound of someone walking up the deck steps quickly broke his relaxed mood. Garcia appeared carrying two rum runners.

  Harold laid his head back on the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. “Not now, I need some time to process what I’ve done.”

  Garcia appeared to ignore him. He kicked off his deck shoes and sank his legs into the water opposite of Harold. “Yea, that’s what everyone tells himself. Take it from someone who’s been where you are. This is not the time to be alone.”

  “Really? Then why didn’t Darla come up? Maybe she knows I don’t need the company right now.”

  “Darla didn’t come up because I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Harold scowled at Garcia. “Come on, man. You’ve never taken a bite out of a man’s neck. What can you possibly say to me?”

  Garcia sat there for a moment and then spoke, “No, I haven’t. The stuff I’ve done is so bad I won’t talk about it. But I’ve been there. I know what it feels like to destroy a piece of your soul. To do things you thought you would never do, and before you ask, yes, it was necessary, and it saved lives too.”

  “So,” said Harold, “you did some bad things, so what? Everyone tells me killing John saved lives, and you know what? I believe them. But this? What I did? You can’t possibly know what that’s like.”

  Garcia ignored his khaki shorts and linen shirt as he slid into the hot tub across from Harold. Garcia handed one of the drinks to him. “Drink this.”

  Harold took the drink. “Are you trying to dehydrate me?”

  Garcia gave a half-smile. “That’s ninety-nine percent fresh fruit juice.”

  Harold took a sip. Garcia must have been telling the truth because there was no perceivable rum flavor. Harold drank the rest of it down. The taste of the fresh fruit juice erased the horrible acrid flavor from his mouth. Garcia handed him the second glass, and Harold swallowed the juice and began to chomp on the ice.

  Garcia rested his arms on the back of the hot tub. “I won’t tell you what I’ve done, but let me tell you about my dad.”

  “Was he a spook too?” asked Harold.

  “No, he was a mechanic. The kind that works on cars. He had a little shop he ran out of a small garage at the back of our property, but before all of that, he was a young kid fresh out of college when he got drafted and sent to Vietnam.”

  Harold rolled his eyes. “Oh please, don’t give me one of the Platoon-style stories. If you don’t have anything real to tell me, let it go.”

  Garcia frowned. “I’m not here to bs. Just hear me out.”

  Harold nodded.

  “Dad was part of a platoon near the front. If you could say Vietnam had any fronts. Mostly, men would go take a point in the jungle, fight the Vietcong, fall back, and do it all over again. It was that way all over the country. His team was based out of a friendly village about five miles from the fighting. The men shared some of their rations with the locals to keep things amicable. A couple of guys in the platoon that grew up on farms helped the locals with their crops. It gave them a sense of normalcy before they’d return to fighting.”

  “Did they double cross them?” asked Harold.

  Garcia held up his index finger. “Listen.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Dad’s platoon came back after a nasty two days of jungle fighting. Instead of the village leaders greeting them, the place was dead silent, and when I say dead silent, I’m emphasizing dead. The Vietcong had flanked their position while they were fighting forward and destroyed everyone in the village to send a message about helping Americans. These guys were brutal and made ISIS look like amateurs. They had taken many of the young girls and then killed everyone else they didn’t want along with the livestock. Dad said it was like something out of a nightmare. Then, just to emphasize their point, they raped a twelve-year-old girl and hung her on a makeshift cross in the middle of the village. Dad said they guessed at least eight men must have raped her. I didn’t ask him why they thought that.”

  “That’s inhuman,” muttered Harold.

  Garcia stared down into the water and then looked back up. “Dad said they buried the little girl and then went to hunt the Vietcong who did it. According to Dad, everyone from the lieutenant on down wanted revenge. They left their radios in the village and began the hunt. They never stopped to rest. He said their rage kept them going, and they felt superhuman, like nothing could stop them. By the second night, they had caught up to the group’s camp. They saw one young woman dead on the ground and three men raping another. The rest were tied up to a tree. The lieutenant cut the women loose while the rest of the men came in firing. They laid waste to the entire camp of Vietcong.”

  “Good,” said Harold.

  Garcia raised his finger once more. “But they weren’t done. Dad said they wanted to send their own message. They hung every dead man by his neck from the surrounding trees, castrated them, and cut off their hands. They boiled the hands until the flesh came off the bones then ground some of the bones into dust and mixed that with a pot of coffee that they passed around. Then they left the entire mess behind and headed back to the village. When the platoon returned to the village, the lieutenant picked up his radio and reported the village had been attacked while they were gone. The lieutenant claimed they had gotten lost, and the radio was out of range. He said they maintained radio silence while they were busy trying to find their way back and avoid Charlie. All the men backed his story.”

  Harold rubbed his face with one of his hands. “Wow, that’s rough. How did they deal with it?
”

  “They didn’t,” said Garcia. “Most ended up putting themselves in front of bullets while fighting in the jungle. I guess they couldn’t live with themselves. Those that could live with it in Vietnam ended up drunk, addicted to drugs, homeless, or all of the above once they came stateside.”

  “But your dad didn’t, right?”

  “He was a drunk most of my childhood. My mom was a good woman. Maria reminds me a little bit of her. She would keep us kids away from Dad on his bad days. Dad managed to support us working on cars. I guess hiding out in the garage and working on those vehicles kept his demons at bay, at least for a little while. I eventually went off to college to study criminal psychology. One Christmas I came home to find Dad clean and sober. To top it off, he dragged us all to church while I was home.”

  “He got religion?” asked Harold.

  Garcia stretched his arms out along the edge of the hot tub. “And then some. He still liked working on cars, but he would take trips every couple of months to try and find anyone still living from his Vietnam days. He said he had to tell them the good news. I think he found a total of three guys. One guy liked what Dad had to say. The other two wanted nothing to do with it.”

  “What did your dad do?” asked Harold.

  “Dad was relentless. Even with his old buddies that told him to stick his faith where the sun don’t shine. He’d still go visit again and again. All three died before Dad, and he went to every funeral and mourned for every one of them.”

  “Wow, it sounds like your dad barely made it out alive.”