Even though I sucked at poker, I still played. Every Friday night, the boys and I got together for a weekly game. Beer, chips, sports, and cards. It was a good way to end the week—and a good waste of time.
Most Marines I knew just drank away their issues. They spent a lot of time in bars, throwing around the money they worked for all week and then waking up in some stranger’s bed the next morning.
I wasn’t opposed to drinking or sex.
But getting so drunk I couldn’t remember my own name and having a one-night stand with someone I would likely never see again wasn’t my idea of a good time. Not that I hadn’t tried those things. I had. Drinking and sex was only a temporary solution, a Band-Aid over a wound. In the morning I would just wake up, the wound would still be there, and I would only feel worse about myself.
I drained the Red Bull, crushed the can in my hand, and tossed it into the trash. Flashes of last night’s dream played through my head like the opening credits of an action movie. The sound of gunfire and screaming drowned out the sound of the rock music and caused me to grip the edge of the table in my hands.
My heart rate kicked up a bit and I felt a flush of sweat break out across my forehead. I took a couple deep breaths and forced away the images.
It was over.
I was in Pennsylvania now.
I was stationed at an Inspector/Instructor unit (we call it I & I) where there was no war, no violence.
I sat down in my chair as the sound of gunfire echoed through my head. “Nate,” a voice yelled. The sound of the explosion had me pushing back my chair and standing up, staring off into space. I knew I was was just being haunted, but I was unable to shake the memories.
“Shit,” I muttered and blinked, focusing once more on the room around me.
I stalked around the table, the thump of my boots echoing off the linoleum floor. I leaned out the doorway to where Bronx and some of the others were working. Actually, they weren’t working; they were gathered around Patton’s desk, looking at a magazine, all of them laughing like teenagers.
“Put that shit away!” I snapped. They all jumped like they got caught smoking weed and Patton slammed the magazine shut and slid it into his desk drawer.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” I told them as they looked around nervously. Dirty magazines were a big no-no around here. Marines needed to be professional and conduct themselves like the representatives of this country they were.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Patton said.
“Get back to work,” I ordered, and they scattered like cockroaches in a well-lit room. “And turn that music up!” I barked.
“Did he say up?” I heard one of the guys whisper to another behind me.
I strode into my office and over to the table and stared down at the stripped weapon. Maybe the methodical cleaning and detailing was exactly what I needed.
The volume of the rock music rose a notch. The loud screaming of the band shoved its way into my head.
Good.
Maybe the sound would drown out my own thoughts.
3
Honor
Consciousness worked its way into my brain like a worm wiggling into a wild apple lying beneath a tree. Little by little, reality came back. When I thought about it later, I wondered if perhaps it was my body’s way of trying to protect me from what was happening.
The sensation of being dragged had awareness fully crashing over me. I felt like a tsunami swept me along, pummeling me with memories of what just happened, taunting me with whispers of the horrible fate that awaited me when I finally opened my eyes.
So I decided that opening my eyes could wait. I didn’t really need to see what was happening right this second… did I? I had no doubt that whatever I would see in the very near future was going to be more than enough.
I concentrated on what was happening around me. Someone—the perverse kidnapper, I presumed—was dragging me at a fairly quick pace. My feet and ankles were being ripped along the ground. I could feel little cuts and nicks stinging my skin near my ankles, and I bit my lip against the pain.
The man had me beneath the armpits, hauling me like a ragdoll. I wondered why he didn’t just carry me; he was big enough. I wasn’t a very large person (something I was seriously sorry for in that moment). All the running I did kept me thin, and I only stood about five foot three.
I was the perfect prey for someone like him.
God, I was so stupid.
What had I been thinking going out on a trail like that alone? Why hadn’t I ever been scared? Why hadn’t my overactive imagination cooked up scenario after scenario of all the vile things that could happen?
Maybe I should have gotten a dog. A big, mean one.
No. I didn’t want that. Because if I did have a dog and he was with me today… he might have gotten hurt trying to protect me. At least I was alone and the only person that would get hurt was me.