Fade to Black - Proof (26 page)

“Come on, man!
Get the fuck over here!” McIver hollered beside him.

Bennet.

Jack looked
out into the clearing street, an eerie purple-orange hue from the fading sunset
surrounding the running figure of Bennet as he dashed towards them. His face
was set with determination and without fear. He looked like a Marine, Jack
thought. He might have been a poster for a World War II movie about the
fighting leathernecks.

And then it
all changed. The reality of war erased any Hollywood image as Bennet’s neck and
upper chest exploded in a thick red cloud of blood. The high‐velocity bullet
spun him around. He fell to the ground, arms and legs splayed out, his momentum
plowing him towards them through the dirt like a sled on his back.

Without
thinking, Jack was on his feet, rifle raised, set to sprint to his friend’s
side.

“Bennet!” he
hollered as he stepped out into the street.

Jack kicked
off his sprint. Immediately the air around him came alive with whistling rounds
and bright tracers. As his second boot hit the sand, a tremendous impact in the
center of his chest knocked him backwards off his feet, his helmeted head
smacking the corner of the wall hard enough to set off white explosions of
light in his vision. Then he thumped hard on his back in the dirt. Dazed and
deaf to the gunfire around him, Jack lifted his head and looked down in horror
at the center of his chest where a charred hole smoked eerily in the brown
canvas of his body armor. He probed the hole with a shaking left index finger
and felt a hot piece of metal burn his fingertip. The round had not penetrated!
Hands grabbed at him from the corner and dirt kicked up in his face as the
enemy adjusted fire. With a burst of strength from some unknown source he
pushed away the hands clawing at his load-bearing vest and pushed himself up to
a squat, intent on starting again on his sprint to Bennet’s side. When he made
it to a low crouch, he felt a violent burning pain explode low in his throat
and he was again driven backwards into the dirt.

Jack could
hear nothing, but felt hands again on his vest and arms. He was dragged roughly
back behind the corner wall, his terrified eyes staring up at a hazy purple
sky. He became aware that the rough hands on his throat were his own, and that
they were hot and wet. His view of the sky was suddenly blocked by a dark shape
that slowly cleared into the image of his friend’s face. What was his name?
McIver?

“Sergeant
Stillman! Sergeant Stillman!” The voice was like an old recording playing way
too slow in another room. He tried to speak but instead coughed and felt warm
stickiness flow down both his cheeks. Then the face was gone for a moment and a
tremendously large shadow blocked out the darkening sky. A helicopter?

Jack heard
gunfire again, close‐by he thought, but couldn’t make sense of what was going
on. He heard a familiar voice hollering very nearby. He should be going home by
now. Where was his dusty tornado to take him home? He wasn’t sure what that
meant, but it seemed right. He felt the world get dark and he closed his eyes.
He saw his wife’s face, and Claire, little feet kicking as she smiled up from
her crib at Daddy.

My girls, he
thought. I have to get to my girls.

Then
everything went black.

Chapter

29

His back ached and he felt a
vague heartburn like discomfort in his throat. His mouth was dry, with a
hangover‐type dryness that made it impossible to focus on anything but a tall
glass of water. He felt himself waking but kept his eyes closed and shifted his
position, with some difficulty, to ease the pain in his back. Jack heard the
farting noise that had embarrassed him a few days (or was it a thousand years?)
before, and realized where he was. Still he kept his eyes closed, knowing he
was afraid, but unable to remember why.

“How are you
feeling?”

 The soft but
strong voice of Dr. Lewellyn was familiar but not really comforting. Jack could
almost see him, even though his eyes were closed, sitting in his comfortable
chair, legs crossed at the knees with his little notebook full of Jack’s mind
open in his lap. Jack cleared his dry throat with more than a little pain and
remembered that feeling from his childhood—the burning pain of strep throat
when you were so afraid to swallow that it made you cry, which hurt even more.

“I’m good,
now, I think,” he answered, his voice raspy.

 His eyes were
still closed and he realized with some surprise that he was still afraid to
open them. He couldn’t remember what it was he thought he might see, but chose
to trust his instincts and kept them closed anyway.

“I hope so,”
Lewellyn answered softly. There was a sadness in his voice. “You’re a good man.
I mean that. Is there any last thing you want to talk about?”

“Is this our
last session?” Jack asked. His voice trembled and he thought he was starting to
remember why now, why this might be more of a goodbye than a therapy session.

“I think you
know it is,” Lewellyn answered. His voice held that now familiar patience that
Jack thought he might have come to love a little.

He sighed
deeply, held his breath a moment, then let out a trembling exhale. Any last
thing he wanted to talk about?

“Who the hell
am I?” he asked. His voice quivered and he felt warm tears flow down over his
hot cheeks. There was a long pause and he waited, crying softly.

“I think maybe
we’re all just whoever we choose to be,” Lewellyn said softly. “It is more
about what in life we use to define ourselves, I think. How do you define who
you are?”

“I’m Pam’s
husband,” Jack answered without thinking. “And Claire’s daddy,” he added, his voice
cracking. Jack wiped away his tears with the back of one dirty hand. Then he
opened his eyes.

The ceiling
above was green and dirty. The light was harsh, coming from a single bulb
hanging from its yellow cord above. Jack shielded his eyes with a hand that he
saw, without much surprise, was filthy and caked with dry blood. He raised his
head and looked down at his filthy desert cammies, out of place against the
clean brown leather of the couch. With some pain, Jack turned his head on a
stiff neck and the burning in his throat throbbed for attention.

Lewellyn sat
in a clean leather chair, as always. The chair was the only other piece of
furniture in the small tent whose flaps were rustling softly in a dusty breeze.
Lewellyn had his notebook in his lap, but his hands were folded neatly on top
of it. Nothing more to write, Jack realized. Lewellyn wore his own brown cammies
and dirty desert boots. A brown leather shoulder holster held his Marine Corps
issue nine-millimeter Beretta under his left arm. The rank insignia on his
collar announced that he was a captain.

Of course.
Captain Lewellyn, his company commander. Lewellyn smiled sadly back at him.
Jack closed his eyes again and laid his head back down, exhausted.

“What else?”
the patient voice asked.

“A Marine,”
Jack answered simply.

“No argument
there.” Jack could hear the smile in his voice. “Some would say a hero as well,
Sar’n.”

Jack felt his
throat tighten.

“I’m sure as
hell not that,” he said with a cracking voice. “I had two chances at it, and
still lost a lot of men.” Jack’s eyes squeezed tightly as he fought to control
his emotions.

“Let’s let the
historians decide that kind of shit,” Lewellyn said. Now he sounded like a Marine
captain, Jack thought.

“Let’s let
Rich Simmons decide,” he answered.

“Yes,”
Lewellyn agreed. “Let’s do that. We’ll let Simmons decide.” There was an odd
smile in his words. Jack realized he was too tired to care.

“So what does
this all mean?” Jack asked.

“I really
don’t know, Casey,” Lewellyn answered. “I think maybe we all deal with death in
our own way. Your love for your girls bound you so tightly here.” The officer
sighed heavily, a deep sadness in the sound. “I know what I believe.”

“What’s that?”

“Well,” Lewellyn
shifted in his seat and Jack could picture him leaning forward, elbows on his
knees, taking care of one of his men, as he always did. “I believe that death
isn’t an ending. I believe that for sure. I think it’s just a transition for
us. For you it was harder because of your fear for those you’re leaving behind.”

The tears ran
down Jack’s face in warm rivers now; his chest heaved painfully.

“You aren’t
losing anything, Casey,” Lewellyn concluded softly. “You will live forever in
the hearts of those two girls.”

“Thank you,”
Jack said. He felt so weak, so tired.

“I hope I
helped you, Sar’n.”

“You did.”

Jack felt a
hot wind wrap around him like a dusty blanket. Slowly he felt himself rise
above the couch, spinning gently this time. The wind caressed him almost
soothingly and he felt, through closed eyes, that the light was fading.

*   *   *

Jack inhaled
deeply of the scent of his girls. The bed was warm and soft, and he knew it
wasn’t real. He also knew he didn’t care. He kept his eyes closed and explored
Pam’s face by feel, gently caressing her cheek lightly with his fingers. She
mumbled something soft, incomprehensible, and perfect. Between them Claire
stirred, and Jack felt her little hand on his chin. He dropped his face and
kissed her ever so gently on her fingertips. She cooed softly beside him, still
sleeping.

“I love you
both so much,” he said.

The exhaustion
overcame him and he drifted off, arms around his whole world.

*   *   *

He woke from a
short sleep, but long enough that his neck felt stiff again. There was a
burning in his throat, and for a moment he thought maybe he was getting the
flu.

Then he
remembered.

There was a
droning noise that irritated him. He lifted his head from where it lay atop his
folded hands on the table. He felt an ache on his forehead and realized that if
he had a mirror, he would see a little red crescent on his face where he had
slept with his forehead on his wedding ring. The droning noise took shape in
his mind and solidified into a woman’s voice.

“
…for the
Town of Al Fallujah. The fierce fighting continued yesterday, but not without
casualties on both sides. Marines have met stiff resistance from the terrorist
insurgents, but have inflicted casualties numbering perhaps as high as 50
killed and hundreds wounded or captured, according to several military sources.
Coalition forces suffered yesterday as well, with three Marines reportedly
killed and another seriously wounded during a brutal firefight in the city’s
war-ravaged streets. The names of the killed and injured Marines were not
released, pending notification of families here at home. Although military
authorities report that coalition forces now control nearly half of the city,
they caution that the violence there is far from over.”

Jack opened
his eyes. He sat at an empty table in the faculty lunch room, his tray with
Sheila’s cold double cheeseburger pushed to the middle. In his right hand was a
balled up paper napkin.

Three Marines
killed. That would be Kindrich, Bennet, and Simmons. He, of course, was the
seriously wounded Marine. Soon he would be the fourth death. Jack was a little
startled to realize that was not at all terrifying. He felt a deep, almost
paralyzing grief over how this would devastate Pam and how Claire would grow up
without her daddy. Competing with that was his remorse and guilt that he had
saved none of his friends. He had gone back, had tried so hard, and nothing was
different. Jack squeezed his palms into his eyes until white spots filled his
mind’s vision like fireworks.

“
Elsewhere
in Iraq, a car bomb has reportedly killed one soldier while four others were
wounded in an attack near the town…”
The reporter’s voice announced with
little emotion.

That would be
Hoag, Jack supposed.

“You did a
helluva a job, Casey,” said a familiar voice, thick with a Chicago accent.

Jack looked
over and saw Chad sitting beside him. The fact that he had appeared from
nowhere didn’t bother Jack in the least. He was way past any reaction to such
things. Chad no longer wore his cool-teacher black T-shirt and sports coat.
Instead he was in the more familiar, dirty cammies that Jack realized he also still
sported.  Chad still munched away on his half gone double cheeseburger,
however.

Jack had the
sudden thought that he was Dorothy, waking in her bed on the farm after her
crazy dream in Oz.

And you were
there, and you, and you were there, too!

Get off the
ride, Dorothy. It ends badly
.

Jack
considered his friend for a moment, burger juice dribbling down his chin, then
handed him the napkin he had been clutching in his hand.

“I’ll ask
Simmons if he agrees with you when I see him,” Jack said bitterly.

Chad wiped the
grease from his chin and then smiled a mysterious, knowing smile.

“You do that,
Casey,” he said. Then he took one last giant bite of his burger, tossed the
remaining chunk on Jack’s tray and rose to his feet. “Come on,” he said.

Jack rose and
followed him to the door.

The hall was
dark, and moments after stepping through with his friend he realized it wasn’t
a hallway at all. The familiar smells and dusty air told him immediately where
he was. Jack stopped.

“I don’t think
I’m ready yet,” he said to Chad. He turned, but Chad was gone.

Jack stood
there a moment, unsure what to do. The door he had passed through was no longer
there. He could hear the sounds of gunfire and the thump-thump of an
approaching Blackhawk. He felt anxious but not scared. He felt a stirring at
his feet and looked down. By his right foot the tiniest little swirl of dust
started circling around him. As he watched, it collected more and more dust,
running circles around him that got thicker and rose rapidly to his waist and
then his chest. Jack sighed.

One last ride
I guess.

Things faded
quickly again to blackness.