11-20-2017, 10:44 PM
Hours later.
"Hey, it's Carp. I know I said i'd be there, man, but I just can't make it next weekend. Now that I'm home, I can see the family really needs me. You and Morgan look great. You'll have a kickass honeymoon. You deserve it. I'll see you around, man. Good luck."
He disconnected the call, relieved it went to voicemail. If there had been an answer, he wasn't sure he could have gone through with it. Then again, going to one of his oldest friend's weddings sounded like a special kind of torture he couldn't endure. Another marine, the ceremony would have been in dress blues. He couldn't take it. Hell, he was suppose to be a groomsman, one of six military men standing up there. They couldn't have him in the bridal party now. Morgan was a cool chick, but Jay wouldn't blame her for breaking up the party. It was better to save her the awkward conversation and bow out. Besides, his family needed him home. There were things to do. Like chop firewood. And uhh, taste Aunt Sarah's new fried chicken recipe. It was gluten free too. Never would have known it.
Now that task was done, Jay shifted the pillows behind his head. Any fluff that was once stuffed within were long ago flattened, and the twin mattress was something he'd had since middle school. He went through puberty in this bedroom, on this mattress. God they should really throw it out.
Pillows adjusted, he stared at the ceiling. Countless nights he stared at these textures in the walls. He knew their labyrinthian lines by heart now. There was one swirl that he swore looked like a dollar sign and another that looked like a dead tree. All those nights he hated this cheap old bed, but how stupid he'd been. He'd ached for this bed when he was in infantry training. Compared to a cot, or a floor, or a metal chair, this thing was downright kingly. And pillows? Forget about pillows. He lived the life of luxury as a teenager and had no idea. Hell, the bed was almost too comfortable for him now to sleep at all. Almost.
As he laid there, he contemplated whether he wanted to dig out another bottle of tequila or not. He only had one left. The nearest gas station was thirty minutes away and forget about an actual liquor store. He'd stocked up when his plane landed in Des Moines three days ago. Hell, he sat a mile down the dirt road and drank the first bottle before even knocking on the front door. He could still remember the look on his mother's face when the door opened and there Jay stood, bags slung over his shoulders, hat on, shades obscuring his eyes. The look on her face was enough to make him smile at the time. Of course, he couldn't tell anyone why he was home. Later that night he admitted to his father that his Discharge was Other than Honorable, but he couldn't explain why. Nor would he if he was free to do so. Since then, he holed up in his old room and did things around the house to keep busy. Like chop firewood that nobody needed and sweep out perfectly clean barns. He cleaned all of his father's pristine rifles and shotguns - he had a decent collection. Out in the country like this, the family had what it took to protect themselves and their livestock. Not to mention the myriad weapons for hunting season. Maybe he could take up the bow again. It'd been years since he shot one. The marines, even special forces, didn't have much use for a compound bow.
Deciding he was too lazy to get up for a fresh bottle, he sighed and opened the next email in his account. It was a newsletter of international events that he subscribed to. Some of the other guys gave him shit for keeping up with that kind of thing. But call Jay a pessimist, he liked to have some idea of what was happening in the countries they were visiting night to night.
As he scanned the links, one in particular caught his attention. It was on the death and aftermath of a drug cartel lord in Nicaragua, nicknamed El Tiburón, the Shark.
Of course, Jay knew his real name. He smiled faintly and opened the article.
As he read the contents, his smile faded. The article was obscenely incorrect. The aftermath was likely accurate. El Tiburón's factories were destroyed, his compound raided, and the man himself killed. His lieutenants were scattered, but it was his brother that was quoted to seek revenge on those that murdered him in cold blood. Actually, all that sounded about right. The scarily wrong part was that the murderers were said to be rival cartels. That would have been Jay's first guess, excepting, of course, that he'd been there. Seals and Raiders took down the fortress and dismantled the factories. And it'd been Jay himself that put a bullet in his brain. The motherfucker tried to use his own blood relative as a hostage? Jay would have killed him for less, but something snapped when he saw her face welled up with tears. She had reminded him of Cayli, his little sister. He killed the motherfucker and sliced up his chest with a bayonet just to make sure he was dead. That last bit might have been over reacting, but the guy was definitely dead.
He looked at the picture of El Tiburón's brother. They resembled each other, but this one was clearly the younger. Seeking revenge for his older brother's death. Jay tried to imagine what kind of relationship the two had. Suppose it didn't matter now. But the brother wanted revenge. He likely wasn't the only one. Their orders had been plain as day. Tiburón was to be taken alive. Under no circumstances was he to be harmed. Whatever piece of bullshit intel the American government wanted out of him was above Jay's pay-grade, but who cared. Someone in the higher ranks was screwed because Jay killed their man. Hence why he was booted in less than a week later. Suppose he was lucky someone wasn't sent to "permanently retire" him instead. He wasn't just lucky to be out of jail. He was lucky to still be breathing.
Whoever it was that he screwed, between the government and a vengeful little brother, Jay was going to keep his eye out. Nobody could possibly know he was involved, let alone that he was the killshot. Nobody outside the marines, anyway. Or the Pentagon probably. Okay, so there were probably hundreds of people that had access to his record. But he had nothing to worry about. Those kinds of conspiracies only happened in the movies, right?
He was about to switch to a new article when a noise outside perked his ears.
His entire body tightened. His breath caught in his chest, then came swift and shallow. He sat up, kept his head low so a shadow didn't cast across the window. The only light in the room came from his Wallet screen and the fireplace from the family room across the house. Nobody was home except him and Cay. Their parents would be back any minute, but they'd come through the front door, not sneak around the back.
He carefully peered between the window blinds into the back yard. Someone was walking slowly along the house. Their footsteps were careful in the snow, just deep enough for tufts of grass to peek through the top. The light on the barn across the yard cast an eerie luminescence that elongated the shadows and sparkled the powder to diamonds.
Jay caught sight of the figure ducking around the back of the shed. He dropped the blinds and moved stealthily to the family room. Cayli and the cat were still curled up asleep on the couch. So as quietly as he could, he pulled a shotgun from the gun cabinet, snatched some shells, and went to the garage.
He loaded the shotgun, stuck the extra shells in a pocket and slipped into the back yard. He smelled nothing of gasoline or explosives. There was no sound of a running engine in the distance. Even the dog must have been asleep in the warm barn.
But there were footprints in the snow. Large ones, male-sized, boots. Jay followed them, shotgun cradled at the ready. He was quiet as the snowfall since he'd gone out without any shoes himself. Hell, he didn't even take the time to put on a shirt let alone a pair of shoes.
As he rounded the shed, he heard a grunt and he paused, eyes darting, ears focused. The intruder's breathing was growing more labored. Then there was a thud and another grunt. Jay frowned. Did that sound like a log?
Headlights flashed, drowning him in blindness. He gasped, jumped out of the beams, ducked and came up to one knee, shotgun aimed at the truck that just flashed him. That's when he heard a voice call, "JAY!"
His father's voice. The headlights went out and he blinked, holding the shotgun steady, peering down the line of sight at the figure of a man climbing out of the truck. It was his father's truck. Then there were footsteps again. Hurried ones. The figure behind the shed rounded the corner, gasped at the sight.
"Jay for God's sakes put the shotgun down!"
By then, he was shaking. That was his father's voice. He approached carefully like he was afraid of what he'd do. Still on one knee, shotgun perched against his shoulder, he checked the other figure. "Who are you!"
He demanded. Never point your weapon you're not intending to fire, said a voice in the back of his mind, but his finger was straight alongside the trigger. He was in control. He was in control.
"WHO ARE YOU!"
He demanded a second time, staring down the figure, but he was met with stammering. Again, it was his father's voice piercing the cold.
"That's Pastor Mayson. For God's sakes boy put the gun down."
Jay blinked. Pastor Mayson?
He lowered the weapon and slowly rose to both feet.
"What the hell is he doing here?"
"His electricity went out. We were getting him firewood."
His father answered, coming close enough make sure his son wasn't going to raise the weapon again. Jay handed it off to him anyway.
He swallowed, looking between the stunned faces between them. The Pastor was a large man, stout enough to pass for the figure of a soldier in his gear. But Jay was seeing ghosts where there were none. Nobody was coming for him. El Tiburón and his brother were thousands of miles away. This was Iowa. Nothing happened here.
"I'm sorry. Next time text me before you sneak up on the house."
He returned inside to find his hands shaking.
He slumped on the floor in front of the fire. His toes were blue. His chest numb. He put his head in his hands and sat there, absorbing the warmth when the thump of four paws landed on the floor next to him and a quiet voice behind broke the spell. "What was that noise all about?"
Cayli asked as she reached for the tv remote.
Heart beating, Jay clenched his teeth and forced his voice to steady. "Nothing. I'm going to go help Pastor Mayson load some firewood in the truck. I'll be back when we're done."
This time, he went outside wearing boots and a coat, but the truck, his father and the pastor were already gone.
Jay didn't blame them.
Edited by Jay Carpenter, Nov 21 2017, 09:58 AM.
"Hey, it's Carp. I know I said i'd be there, man, but I just can't make it next weekend. Now that I'm home, I can see the family really needs me. You and Morgan look great. You'll have a kickass honeymoon. You deserve it. I'll see you around, man. Good luck."
He disconnected the call, relieved it went to voicemail. If there had been an answer, he wasn't sure he could have gone through with it. Then again, going to one of his oldest friend's weddings sounded like a special kind of torture he couldn't endure. Another marine, the ceremony would have been in dress blues. He couldn't take it. Hell, he was suppose to be a groomsman, one of six military men standing up there. They couldn't have him in the bridal party now. Morgan was a cool chick, but Jay wouldn't blame her for breaking up the party. It was better to save her the awkward conversation and bow out. Besides, his family needed him home. There were things to do. Like chop firewood. And uhh, taste Aunt Sarah's new fried chicken recipe. It was gluten free too. Never would have known it.
Now that task was done, Jay shifted the pillows behind his head. Any fluff that was once stuffed within were long ago flattened, and the twin mattress was something he'd had since middle school. He went through puberty in this bedroom, on this mattress. God they should really throw it out.
Pillows adjusted, he stared at the ceiling. Countless nights he stared at these textures in the walls. He knew their labyrinthian lines by heart now. There was one swirl that he swore looked like a dollar sign and another that looked like a dead tree. All those nights he hated this cheap old bed, but how stupid he'd been. He'd ached for this bed when he was in infantry training. Compared to a cot, or a floor, or a metal chair, this thing was downright kingly. And pillows? Forget about pillows. He lived the life of luxury as a teenager and had no idea. Hell, the bed was almost too comfortable for him now to sleep at all. Almost.
As he laid there, he contemplated whether he wanted to dig out another bottle of tequila or not. He only had one left. The nearest gas station was thirty minutes away and forget about an actual liquor store. He'd stocked up when his plane landed in Des Moines three days ago. Hell, he sat a mile down the dirt road and drank the first bottle before even knocking on the front door. He could still remember the look on his mother's face when the door opened and there Jay stood, bags slung over his shoulders, hat on, shades obscuring his eyes. The look on her face was enough to make him smile at the time. Of course, he couldn't tell anyone why he was home. Later that night he admitted to his father that his Discharge was Other than Honorable, but he couldn't explain why. Nor would he if he was free to do so. Since then, he holed up in his old room and did things around the house to keep busy. Like chop firewood that nobody needed and sweep out perfectly clean barns. He cleaned all of his father's pristine rifles and shotguns - he had a decent collection. Out in the country like this, the family had what it took to protect themselves and their livestock. Not to mention the myriad weapons for hunting season. Maybe he could take up the bow again. It'd been years since he shot one. The marines, even special forces, didn't have much use for a compound bow.
Deciding he was too lazy to get up for a fresh bottle, he sighed and opened the next email in his account. It was a newsletter of international events that he subscribed to. Some of the other guys gave him shit for keeping up with that kind of thing. But call Jay a pessimist, he liked to have some idea of what was happening in the countries they were visiting night to night.
As he scanned the links, one in particular caught his attention. It was on the death and aftermath of a drug cartel lord in Nicaragua, nicknamed El Tiburón, the Shark.
Of course, Jay knew his real name. He smiled faintly and opened the article.
As he read the contents, his smile faded. The article was obscenely incorrect. The aftermath was likely accurate. El Tiburón's factories were destroyed, his compound raided, and the man himself killed. His lieutenants were scattered, but it was his brother that was quoted to seek revenge on those that murdered him in cold blood. Actually, all that sounded about right. The scarily wrong part was that the murderers were said to be rival cartels. That would have been Jay's first guess, excepting, of course, that he'd been there. Seals and Raiders took down the fortress and dismantled the factories. And it'd been Jay himself that put a bullet in his brain. The motherfucker tried to use his own blood relative as a hostage? Jay would have killed him for less, but something snapped when he saw her face welled up with tears. She had reminded him of Cayli, his little sister. He killed the motherfucker and sliced up his chest with a bayonet just to make sure he was dead. That last bit might have been over reacting, but the guy was definitely dead.
He looked at the picture of El Tiburón's brother. They resembled each other, but this one was clearly the younger. Seeking revenge for his older brother's death. Jay tried to imagine what kind of relationship the two had. Suppose it didn't matter now. But the brother wanted revenge. He likely wasn't the only one. Their orders had been plain as day. Tiburón was to be taken alive. Under no circumstances was he to be harmed. Whatever piece of bullshit intel the American government wanted out of him was above Jay's pay-grade, but who cared. Someone in the higher ranks was screwed because Jay killed their man. Hence why he was booted in less than a week later. Suppose he was lucky someone wasn't sent to "permanently retire" him instead. He wasn't just lucky to be out of jail. He was lucky to still be breathing.
Whoever it was that he screwed, between the government and a vengeful little brother, Jay was going to keep his eye out. Nobody could possibly know he was involved, let alone that he was the killshot. Nobody outside the marines, anyway. Or the Pentagon probably. Okay, so there were probably hundreds of people that had access to his record. But he had nothing to worry about. Those kinds of conspiracies only happened in the movies, right?
He was about to switch to a new article when a noise outside perked his ears.
His entire body tightened. His breath caught in his chest, then came swift and shallow. He sat up, kept his head low so a shadow didn't cast across the window. The only light in the room came from his Wallet screen and the fireplace from the family room across the house. Nobody was home except him and Cay. Their parents would be back any minute, but they'd come through the front door, not sneak around the back.
He carefully peered between the window blinds into the back yard. Someone was walking slowly along the house. Their footsteps were careful in the snow, just deep enough for tufts of grass to peek through the top. The light on the barn across the yard cast an eerie luminescence that elongated the shadows and sparkled the powder to diamonds.
Jay caught sight of the figure ducking around the back of the shed. He dropped the blinds and moved stealthily to the family room. Cayli and the cat were still curled up asleep on the couch. So as quietly as he could, he pulled a shotgun from the gun cabinet, snatched some shells, and went to the garage.
He loaded the shotgun, stuck the extra shells in a pocket and slipped into the back yard. He smelled nothing of gasoline or explosives. There was no sound of a running engine in the distance. Even the dog must have been asleep in the warm barn.
But there were footprints in the snow. Large ones, male-sized, boots. Jay followed them, shotgun cradled at the ready. He was quiet as the snowfall since he'd gone out without any shoes himself. Hell, he didn't even take the time to put on a shirt let alone a pair of shoes.
As he rounded the shed, he heard a grunt and he paused, eyes darting, ears focused. The intruder's breathing was growing more labored. Then there was a thud and another grunt. Jay frowned. Did that sound like a log?
Headlights flashed, drowning him in blindness. He gasped, jumped out of the beams, ducked and came up to one knee, shotgun aimed at the truck that just flashed him. That's when he heard a voice call, "JAY!"
His father's voice. The headlights went out and he blinked, holding the shotgun steady, peering down the line of sight at the figure of a man climbing out of the truck. It was his father's truck. Then there were footsteps again. Hurried ones. The figure behind the shed rounded the corner, gasped at the sight.
"Jay for God's sakes put the shotgun down!"
By then, he was shaking. That was his father's voice. He approached carefully like he was afraid of what he'd do. Still on one knee, shotgun perched against his shoulder, he checked the other figure. "Who are you!"
He demanded. Never point your weapon you're not intending to fire, said a voice in the back of his mind, but his finger was straight alongside the trigger. He was in control. He was in control.
"WHO ARE YOU!"
He demanded a second time, staring down the figure, but he was met with stammering. Again, it was his father's voice piercing the cold.
"That's Pastor Mayson. For God's sakes boy put the gun down."
Jay blinked. Pastor Mayson?
He lowered the weapon and slowly rose to both feet.
"What the hell is he doing here?"
"His electricity went out. We were getting him firewood."
His father answered, coming close enough make sure his son wasn't going to raise the weapon again. Jay handed it off to him anyway.
He swallowed, looking between the stunned faces between them. The Pastor was a large man, stout enough to pass for the figure of a soldier in his gear. But Jay was seeing ghosts where there were none. Nobody was coming for him. El Tiburón and his brother were thousands of miles away. This was Iowa. Nothing happened here.
"I'm sorry. Next time text me before you sneak up on the house."
He returned inside to find his hands shaking.
He slumped on the floor in front of the fire. His toes were blue. His chest numb. He put his head in his hands and sat there, absorbing the warmth when the thump of four paws landed on the floor next to him and a quiet voice behind broke the spell. "What was that noise all about?"
Cayli asked as she reached for the tv remote.
Heart beating, Jay clenched his teeth and forced his voice to steady. "Nothing. I'm going to go help Pastor Mayson load some firewood in the truck. I'll be back when we're done."
This time, he went outside wearing boots and a coat, but the truck, his father and the pastor were already gone.
Jay didn't blame them.
Edited by Jay Carpenter, Nov 21 2017, 09:58 AM.
Only darkness shows you the light.