by Schow, Ryan
Now all he saw was the scar angling down from just above his eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, three inches down his cheek. He still didn’t know how he got it only that he was found that way after the IED ambush. At least the stitches were small enough that he didn’t look like Frankenstein.
He tried to go easy on himself, for he died twice in Afghanistan only days before he was set to return home. But that was a lie. In the desert, with everything going on, you didn’t have a choice to re-up. They re-upped you on a volunteer basis where you volunteering was mandatory. Four tours. That’s how long he was there. If he hadn’t died once on the battlefield, and a second time while he was being Medevacd to Camp Leatherhead, he’d still be pissing in the sand, volunteering against his will for another three years.
His eyes dropped to his body. Lines, nicks, several bullet holes, a burn patch. All this for the USA that was no longer United. The President gave away the west coast. Now he was gone. MIA.
He’d only been back a few weeks, most of it spent in an OCONTUS facility in Hawaii before being transferred to Northern California where he was retired out due to the recommendation of the brain surgeon who put his head back together, the doctors who determined that his prefrontal lobe was maybe damaged, and the psychiatrists who said he had all but been lobotomized and wouldn’t feel the same levels of compassion as before, or the distinct ability to discern the difference between right and wrong.
They’d been wrong about him. He could feel. He didn’t know this, but things like short and long term memory were returning, some of the brain fog was wearing off mid-day, and he knew the difference between right and wrong. Where the doctors were right was that knowing something was wrong didn’t stop him from caring if he did wrong. There was no value in doing the right thing either. He simply knew the difference and chose what suited his moods best.
What he wanted now was to see his brother.
He’d arrived early that morning—when it was still cold, dark and a long ways from dawn—with an arrow in his shoulder. Boone had taken it out and Miranda treated the wound, thinking it would need stitches.
He pulled a shirt over his head (which hurt like hell), eased up his pants (yep, that hurt, too), then plodded barefoot out into the living room where he saw his nephew, Rowdy, in an old pack-n-play and his sister-in-law, Miranda, reading a book on the couch nearby.
“How are you?” she asked, looking up.
“Miserable, but happy that I’m here,” he said. “Thank you for letting me stay the night. And thank you for working on my arm.”
“How is it?”
“Hurts like there might be problems in there.”
“Can you move it?” she asked.
He could. It hurt like hell though. He figured that out getting into his shirt. Still, he wasn’t one to lament physical pain. His father wouldn’t allow it as boys.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can move it.”
“You gonna throw some dirt on it?” Miranda asked with a knowing smile. His and Boone’s father used to make them throw dirt on their cuts, or he’d slap their injuries if the skin wasn’t broken.
“Maybe,” he grinned. “Where’s Boone?”
“At the high school. Community gathering there to figure out what’s what.”
“What is what?” he asked.
“There’s a Chicom convoy that rolled in here. Someone high up the ladder, you know? Top brass, ball buster, walked into town swinging his dick around like he owned the place.”
“I know the type,” he said, surprised at Miranda’s choice of words.
“Yeah, well according to Boone, the Sheriff gave up the Madigans so the Chicoms wouldn’t burn the town to the ground.”
“Sounds nice,” Clay said. “Who are the Madigans?”
“Five Falls’ problem children,” she said. “Orbey is sweet, but they’re all that way. Except Stephani. She’s got no filter. And their niece, Skylar. But she’s supposedly dead.”
“So why are they a problem?” he asked.
“I guess they killed some guy hunting on their land. They’ve got a hundred acres and apparently aren’t into sharing their game.”
“I don’t blame them,” he said.
She looked at him.
“There’s more than enough animals to go around,” she said.
“At a time like this?” he said, shaking his head. “Not likely, depending on the population, or people’s desperation.”
“They aren’t desperate,” she said.
“Not yet.”
“If you want to go down to the high school, that’s the quickest way to plug yourself right back into the social circuit. Might even meet a few young ladies who have a thing for local heroes.”
He laughed and said, “I’m not sure that’s so likely.”
“Let me look at that wound,” she said.
“It’s okay,” he replied. “Really.”
“C’mon,” she said, marking her page in the book and getting up to face him. “Take off your shirt as best as you can.”
He started to take it off, but there was a point where his arm froze, the pain instant and crippling. He pushed through it, pulling the shirt over his head, while managing to keep every ounce of expression from reaching his face or his eyes.
Holding his shirt aside, he looked at her.
“How do you do that?” she asked, amazed. “Not show an ounce of pain when I know for a fact that you’re hurting.”
“It was beat into us as boys,” he said. “Both me and Boone. I hated my father for the way he raised us, but if he’d have raised us any other way, I’d be dead or in the looney bin.”
“Boone says the same thing,” she said, studying the arrow’s entry wound. “It actually looks good.”
“Do you have some super glue?” he asked. “That should do the trick.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Better than stitches,” he said. “I heal well.”
“I tried to start the truck outside,” she said, changing subjects. “I was going to move it around back where it wouldn’t be seen, but the thing stalled out on me.”
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
“You showed up looking like you were in a war,” she said. “A domestic war, not an overseas war.”
“It wasn’t easy getting here from Salem.”
“Like I said, it wouldn’t start.”
“I think I’ll go to the school, see about meeting up with Boone. Maybe reintroduce myself into society.”
“That’s a good idea, but like I said, the truck won’t start.”
“There are other ways to travel,” he chided.
“Before you go,” she said, with a slightly flustered grin, “do you want me to fix you something?”
“I’m not really hungry,” he said, putting on his shirt, “but thanks.”
“How are your legs?” she asked. “You were limping a bit last night.”
“My feet have blisters, my legs are sore from the IED and walking, and my back’s still a bit wrecked from sleeping on the ground the night before. Other than that, I’m right as rain.”
“Why don’t you ride Boone’s bike over there?” she said. “It’s a mountain bike. Although you’ll have to check the tire pressure. Boone’s great at maintaining cars. Other stuff…not so much.”
“I saw the bikes out the window this morning,” he said. “I was going to ask. I think it’ll help my knees, knock down the scar tissue a bit. But first, do you have any super glue?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, having forgot he asked. She went through two of the kitchen drawers, found a bottle near the back, then said, “Will this work?”
He looked at it, nodded and said, “I think so. Do you think you could give me a hand?”
“Of course,” she said. “Hang on a second.”
She got a wet wipe for her hands, then dried them on a clean towel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She left and came back with gauze and some rubbing alcohol. He lifted up the corner
of his shirt, to which she said, “It doesn’t look infected, but it really should get stitches.”
“The glue will be okay,” he said.
“It might not heal right.”
“Look at my face, Miranda. Do you think I’m really that worried about what a hole in my shoulder will look like?”
Embarrassed, she said, “I suppose not.” Then looking up at him, she said, “You know, the scar doesn’t change your looks. You should know that.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, dumbfounded by the statement.
“I mean you have some scars, but you shouldn’t let them define you. Women care less about how you look. Don’t get me wrong, they appreciate good looks, for sure. But it’s who you are in here”—she said, patting his chest—“that grabs and holds a woman’s attention, and eventually earns her affections.”
“If anything,” he said, “my life will eventually prove your theory right or wrong.”
“I’m right,” she said. “Now hold still, let me look at it first, then lay down a bead.”
“Thank you, Miranda,” he said, sincere. With this brief interaction, something inside of him that was tight and rigid and restless settled down. It was as if the broken parts of himself were given permission to start to heal.
“The good news is the skin naturally sets together. I was worried about the pull of it when you move,” she said, looking up at him after having pushed on the wound a bit. “And you’re welcome. Hold still now, I’m going to glue it.”
She ran a bead of glue down in the area that needed it most, moved the skin in the right place as best as she could.
“Wow, that came together easy,” he said.
“It’s better than I thought,” she said. “How do the muscles feel?”
“My entire shoulder feels like someone’s been hitting it with a sledgehammer all night. It’s stiff, things feel torn inside, and if it gets infected for any reason, it could be a big problem, especially with things being what they are.”
“We have a good doctor in town,” she said. “Let’s keep an eye on it, maybe reach out to her tonight or tomorrow, if you feel like you need it.”
He nodded, let go of his shirt, then stepped forward and gave her a one armed hug. “I know I’ve already said it a bunch, but thank you, Miranda. I’m not used to people being nice to me, or generous, or even hospitable.”
She nodded her head, hugged him back, then stood back. “I wasn’t that excited about you being here at first. I never had a good impression about you. I think I was wrong. I hope so, anyway.”
He smiled and said, “My dad’s death hit me hard. He was a difficult man, but he gave us a jumpstart in life, made us who we are today. Now that I’m older and more experienced in adversity and disappointment, now that I’ve had the kinds of tests in life he warned us of—and then some—I wouldn’t have changed a thing about my childhood. I just wish I could tell that to the old bastard. And now that mom’s gone…”
Something strange happened to him, an unusual loosening of his mind, his heart, even his physical countenance. The backs of his eyes prickled a bit, his vision slightly blurry as tears moistened his eyes. Whatever it was that made him cold, hard and relentless gave way to a surge of emotion that had long ago been closed down, locked and forgotten. The doctors were wrong about his brain. He could feel.
Miranda hugged him again, but he was able to pull himself together. In that moment all he wanted was to be with his brother.
“Boone missed you like crazy,” Miranda said, her own voice choked up. “If you can help it, please don’t leave him again.”
He nodded into her shoulder, then pulled back and said, “I’m going to go see him now.”
She wiped her eyes, her gaze softening into a smile. “It’s strange, feeling happiness with everything going on. After the Chicoms came in…nothing has been the same, or easy. I think life is about to get really bad, even harder, darker. But right now I’m happy you’re here.”
He nodded, then said, “Me, too.”
“Do you have a weapon?” she asked, leaning over to pick up Rowdy in the pack-n-play. He seemed like a good kid. Clay felt bad for him, being born into this world.
“I’ve got a Chicom pistol, and a little throwaway,” he said. “Nothing I’ve gotten used to yet.”
“Come here,” she said, Rowdy balanced perfectly on her hip. “Boone likes his guns clean and ready to go.” She opened the gun safe, handed him a pistol and two spare mags.
“It’s a high school,” he said, Clay and Rowdy looking at each other. He felt himself smile. Rowdy smiled back.
“You didn’t see what we did to the Chicoms two days back. But you will. Right before you turn to go to the school, on I5 in front of Sheriff Hall’s station, well, the late Sheriff Hall,”—she said, crossing her heart—“you’ll see what I’m talking about and know why I’m insistent.”
He took the gun, and she said, “The gun sights are on point, the recoil is light and those are hollow points, so what you hit is gonna get hurt.”
“If I’m shooting at someone,” he said, “I don’t want it to hurt. I prefer permanence.”
“I was being polite,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about M U R D E R in front of the baby.”
“Murder?” he asked.
“Shhh!” she said, making eyes at the baby, as if Rowdy could spell, let alone not crap his diapers every three hours.
“Oh,” she said, “this, too.”
She took out one of several blades, a fifteen inch Mossy Oak all-purpose knife. It was a fixed blade with ten inches of steel and five inches of soft rubber handle.
“It’s sharp enough to split hairs, so be careful.”
“Roger that,” he said.
“It’s part of Boone’s low-cost collection,” she said with a frown. “He says the blade is solid though, enough to skin a buck, or drive through ribs. I swear, you boys, what your daddy put you through—”
“Like I said, he saved my life,” he said, finishing the sentence. “He was a real son of a bitch, but no one who ever reared their son with kindness raised up a real man.”
“Do you really believe that?” she said, visibly saddened by the statement.
“I have to,” he said.
She seemed to understand that.
“I’ll be back,” he said, fixing the blade to his belt. He opened the front door, stopped and thought about it, then turned before leaving and said, “Thank you.”
“You’ve already thanked me like five times,” she laughed.
“I know,” he said, his face going red. “I appreciate you not holding my past against me. And I appreciate you taking care of me last night and this morning, and for your gracious hospitality.”
“Like I said,” she said, “you’re not who I expected you to be.”
With a smile, he closed the front door, then walked around back and hopped on Boone’s bike, checking the air pressure in the tires and adjusting the seat.
“Good to go,” he said. “Now if I can just not fall.”
He took off and found the cadence fairly quickly. There were some wobbly spots, and some uncertain turns, but by the time he reached the turn off for the school, he was as comfortable as he’d ever be on the bike. That’s when he saw the freeway ahead, and all the burned vehicles sitting in the middle of it.
“Holy crap,” he said, coming to a stop.
Yeah, they were in real trouble. He started pedaling again, and when he rolled up on the high school—just as it came into view—he saw the heavy Chicom presence and stopped flat, his nuts taking refuge up in his belly.
The sound of gunfire broke out. He stashed his bike in the woods and got moving, treating the visit now like an op. The rattle of gunfire cut through the silence. It was coming from inside the school.
“Dammit,” he said, his heart suddenly alight with worry.
Several Chicom Jeeps surrounded the entrance to the high school. He moved quickly, eyes roving, seeing two men outside the Jeep, smo
king and talking. He snuck up on them fast, gun out, tightening the range between them.
More gunfire erupted inside, making the men stamp out their cigarettes and prepare to join their brethren.
Close enough and slowing to a rolling heel-toe walk, he aimed the weapon like he was trained, prayed it shot better than the Chicom pistol and the throwaway that got him from Salem to Five Falls, then fired off two rounds.
Both men dropped dead, never having seen him coming.
Miranda was right, the sights were dead on, the recoil so light his wrists felt pampered. He secured one Chicom gun and left the other. Each man had spare mags on them, enough for him to collect three in case he had to really dig into this fight. When the bodies were clear, he scanned the scene, determined it to be clear, then fired another round into the back of each man’s head.
Standing up, gun ready and moving at a cautious trot, he crossed the lot, heading for the side entrance. Slipping inside, the gunfire persisting, he hustled down the empty hallway toward the gym, rounding a corner, stopping fast, then quietly pulling back.
The high school had a short hallway leading to the gym door. In the cove were six Chicoms with their guns out, ready to advance. Why were they just standing there? Was there resistance on the other side? Boone?
He couldn’t wait.
He closed in quick and silent, removing his blade on the way in. He hit the first man with the knife. Just drove it straight in. A frenzy of violence followed. He stabbed kidneys, trenched open necks, stuck armpits and gouged eyes. He was ruthless and efficient, like he was taught, but the front two men drew down too quickly, so fast he knew he couldn’t close in quick enough. That’s when he went from the knife to the gun. He was prepared for that. He put three rounds in them, then used the blade to finish off the others.
Well, all but one. This guy was still alive, his eyes desperate, his face radiating an incredible amount of pain.
Standing over him, his blade dripping blood from the massacre, Clay said, “You picked the wrong town, asshole.”
And with that, he sunk down and drove the blade into the Chicom’s sternum, twisted hard one way, then the other. The man’s neck arched, his mouth open in a dying gasp.
