“Go. We got you,” I whisper over my shoulder.
Jensen and Barker abruptly sprint across the road, kicking up dust with their boots and reaching the other side without incident. They raise their barrels, scanning either end of the road like Sanchez and I are doing, and enabling us to lower our weapons and cross the road after them.
I take a deep breath, looking toward Sanchez. He passes me an assured nod and I count off, “One, two, three,” before we take off toward the other side simultaneously. We reach the others without issue, and I breathe out a sigh of relief, wiping the dirty beads of sweat from my forehead.
Motioning behind us, I order, “Sanchez, you get the rear. Jensen, Barker, keep overwatch.” I cup a hand to my mouth and, in a whisper-yell, call out, “Callahan … Callahan!”
He turns, finally hearing me, and I wave him forward.
After a few deep breaths, Callahan lowers his machine gun and takes off. He’s nearly halfway to us when I hear it—the piercing sound of a sniper round echoing down the empty road. My heart lurches in my chest as I see Callahan’s face go pale, blood spurting from the side of his neck. His weapon tumbles to the ground with a clatter before he falls over on top of it.
“Nooooo!” I yell, charging forward, but I’m stopped by Jensen and Barker before I can make it very far. They hold tightly, inching me back toward them.
“Sarge, it’s not safe,” Jensen pleads, a ragged hoarseness to his voice.
“Fuck safety. We ain’t leavin’ him there to die!” I yell back. “Y’all cover me. I don’t care if you see somethin’ or not, you spray bullets down that fuckin’ road, so I can get him out.”
“Roger, Sarge,” Jensen says as he begins squeezing his trigger in indiscriminate bursts down the road as ordered. Barker does the same as I creep my way out onto the open road, my rifle up and ready to fire, but my eyes locked on Tommy.
Once I reach him, I yell, “Callahan … Callahan…” prodding him with a stiff hand.
There’s no response. I can only hear the gargle of blood in his throat as he struggles to breathe.
“Fuck, Tommy!” I scream, my entire body shaking. Slinging my weapon over my shoulder and squatting down, I grab him by his protective vest and walk backward in slow, meticulous steps, pulling him along with me. He’s much bulkier than I am, so the process takes longer than I’d like, considering I’m completely exposed, but I would do anything for this man. I will do anything for him.
As the sweat runs into my eyes, stinging them with relentless fury, the explosion of friendly gunfire erupts from behind me. I hear Barker yell at the top of his lungs, “Sarge, watch out! Rooftop. Three o’clock!”
There’s more eardrum battering gunfire as I look to my right while still dragging Callahan. I spot an insurgent with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher sitting on his shoulder, his head no more as he goes tumbling over the side of the building, hitting the dirt road below with a bone-cracking thud.
“Nice shot!” I yell, just as Sanchez comes to my side to help, grabbing Callahan and pulling along with me to pick up the pace.
“Look out!” Barker screams.
By the time I’m able to look up, all I see is a fireball streaking its way toward us, trumping the evening sun in its burning intensity. And then, pitch-black takes hold. I see nothing. I hear only a steady, piercing ring between my ears and the faint, desperate cries of my men. I taste the distinct iron of my own blood as it fills my mouth. I feel what must be my teeth in small oblong pieces like Tic Tacs against my tongue.
I gasp, rising from my sweat-soaked sheets in a panic, throwing a pillow I had clenched in my hands across the room. I don’t initially know where I am, my heart thumping in my chest like a bass drum. The pillow hits the desk and topples a mess of empty beer bottles to the ground with a clatter. The sound snaps me to the present and I take a thick swallow, shaking my head as I breathe a sigh of sweet relief.
Two weeks I’ve spent in this prison disguised as an apartment. My roommate never leaves his room; he just plays video games all day long. The few times I have run into him, we’ve gotten into some military chitchat, which tends to happen when you bring veterans together. Come to find out, much to my dismay, the guy was dishonorably discharged for two DUIs. He was a shitbag in the Army, and now I have to share an apartment with the asshole for a semester. It’s almost a blessing he’s addicted to video games since he’s still the only person I know here. I’d much rather pass the time with Jerry Seinfeld or Doug Heffernan than some idiot with no deployments under his belt who couldn’t hack it in the Army.
It does get lonely, though. Yeah, there are about fifty people in each one of my classes, but I’m always the oldest, often the quietest, and how does one strike up a conversation in that kind of environment anyway? You sit down, a professor teaches (if you’re lucky. More often than not, it’s a teacher’s aide not much older than me.), time runs out, and you make your way home. That’s about it. Between the lectures, my scars, and my social anxiety, it hasn’t been an ideal environment for any type of human bonding.
My laptop sits just beside the TV on the dresser where I left it, trying to keep it away from me. The screen pulls at my attention anyway. I should’ve just closed it. I should’ve been stronger.
The rush page for BSU fraternities sits on the screen, as it has been for the past few days while I mull over my options.
I’d always wanted to be in a fraternity before joining the military—the brotherhood aspect always appealed just as the military did—and after watching all seven seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia in a span of two days, I’m drawn ever closer to the possibility of rushing. As old as I am, I can’t help but envision them laughing as I approach the house, wondering what such an old man is doing at a frat party. They’d probably bring attention to my eye right off the bat. And what the hell do they even know about the real world? What it feels like to have your whole life turned upside down in a matter of seconds? What true pain really feels like?
I scowl at the computer screen.
“Fuck that,” I grunt, directing my anger toward the laptop. My words are strong, but my thoughts are in revolt. No matter how much denial I’m in, I know I’m fighting a battle I just can’t win. I refuse to live like I have these past two weeks, suffocating under the weight of regret and loneliness. I refuse to wallow in the pain of losing the only thing that ever meant anything to me in this life. I refuse to sit here pining over a woman I probably never loved to begin with.
I have to rush. I knew it from the moment I first pulled the website up. No matter how much I deny it to myself, the brotherhood of a fraternity—hopefully a suitable replacement for Army camaraderie—is too strong of a desire to fight. I just don’t think I can do this on my own.
THEY SET ASIDE THREE DAYS for Rush Week and I manage to burn through the first two with anxiety and indecision. As the last day winds down, and five o’clock comes around, I find the self-doubt creeping back in, telling me I don’t need these guys. Telling me I’ll make friends some other way, but I know that’s a lie. And as strong as the pull of anxiety is, I’ve always combated challenges head-on. I did it when I signed up for the Army, all those years ago, to escape a life I despised; the feelings then, much like they are now, are a deep-rooted anxiousness that takes hold when I’m in the uncomfortable position of meeting new people. I did it again when the rocket-propelled grenade sent rock, metal, and dirt into my face and chest, leading to a medically induced coma, and killing Sanchez and Callahan, changing life as I knew it in a way I never thought possible. The weight of losing them still sits heavy on my soul.
I didn’t let the prosthetic eye keep me down, though, nor the scars etched across my cheek and the one running wide and straight from my collarbone on the right side to the middle of my pec. Not the persistent, crippling nightmares, nor the things I could’ve done differently. Not the survivor’s guilt and the dead men whose places I’m desperate to trade.
I’ve always kept pushing forward
, and that’s what I intend on doing today. It’s why I’ve willed myself to this road, parked along frat row, observing the houses that line it. Greek symbols sit above each house’s doorway.
My palms sweat as I climb out of the vehicle, one slow, hesitant step after another. I shut the door and take a deep breath, scanning the houses for the first one I’m set to visit; perhaps the only one I’ll visit, Delta Iota Kappa, which was the only fraternity to email me back. They said they have other veterans in their ranks, which was a nice surprise, so they’re the only one on the docket for now. I can visit any of the other houses I’d like to, but if I don’t need to, I won’t.
The Delta Iota Kappa house is situated at the top of the road, which is a steep hill leading down to Main Street. As I cross, I focus my nervous brain on the keg they must have there—it’s a frat party, after all—and I figure, after a few beers, the nerves should be well numbed.
How stupid of me to not have killed a few beforehand to begin with.
The three-story house is expansive like the others, but unlike the others, it’s run down, a sore sight on the otherwise picturesque road. I chuckle, spotting beer cans littering the front yard and the wraparound porch out front. Through the parking lot, there’s a sign with an arrow pointing toward an open side door that reads, “Rushes enter here.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I inch my way toward the open door, rap music soundtracking my arrival from the inside. Just as I reach the door, a guy steps out with a broad, toothy smile. He’s tall and muscular, with a mop of disheveled blond hair on his head—messed up in a purposeful way—and piercing blue eyes. Sporting a pair of skinny jeans and the Delta Iota Kappa letters in red scrawled across his black tee, he looks like he belongs in the fraternity recruitment catalog.
Putting out a hand, he asks, “How’s it going, man? Are you here for rush?”
I take his hand and give it a quick, but firm, shake. “Yeah. The name’s McKenzie. But everyone calls me Bishop or just Bish. I emailed one of you guys last night.”
“Oh shit, the veteran, right?”
“Yeah, did I talk to you?”
“No, that would’ve been our Social Chair, Brady. I’m the President of Delta Iota. The name’s Trevor. Did Brady tell you we’ve got some other veterans in the fraternity, too? Including two of our officers.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that.”
“We’ve got the most out of any fraternity on campus. A few ROTC guys, too. None of the military guys are here tonight, but you’ll get a chance to meet them soon. Come on in and make yourself at home,” he says, gesturing toward the door for me to enter. “Drinks are in the back by the bar. We’re all just hanging out for a few minutes, getting to know each other before we start interviews. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Alright. Sounds good. Thanks.”
“I’ll see you in there.” He smiles again—a practiced, superficial smile—before heading around to the front of the house.
I make my way inside and descend a small set of dusty stairs down into the basement. There are people scattered throughout the sizeable room, some on a sectional around a big screen TV at the far-right end of the room, others standing near the bar at the opposite end. None of them seem to notice my approach. The music blaring from the speakers set into the ceiling at each corner of the room makes a welcome distraction. Heading toward the bar, I spot three particularly young guys leaning with their backs against the filthy wood top, no letters across their chest, unlike most of the others in the room. They’re each clutching a can of soda, which I assume means they’re underage. No surprise there, as I reckon not one of them could grow a decent beard.
I nod toward them as I make my approach, but my focus quickly shifts to the cooler atop the bar. A neon Bud Light sign on the wall casts a red glow over it.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim upon reaching the cooler and examining it further. I look toward the first wallflower; a young, rail-thin kid, paper white—the Irish type who freckle tans in the sun without SPF 1000. He’s got messy red hair, a wild look in his eye, and he’s the only one even attempting a beard, which is patchy at best. His bohemian-ish threads and Bob Marley t-shirt let me know he’s probably my guy to score some herbage.
“There’s only soda in here. No beer?” I ask.
The ginger shrugs, looking over to the others, who pass shrugs of their own.
“I was surprised myself,” the one furthest down the bar says. He’s fit, veins with dark hair and an innocence to his features that is offset only by a thick scar running along his cheek, and a thicker one trailing down his neck, which shocks me a little, and intrigues me. I make note of this, so I can ask him about it later, when there’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, you’re the veteran, right? McKenzie?” a voice asks from behind me.
I turn to see a pretty boy type leaning against the bar behind me, flashing his envy-inducing smile and flipping a mop of pin straight dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. He’s wearing a black polo with the collar popped, which I force my eyes not to roll at, fraternity letters neatly printed in red over his right pec, and an offensive pair of red shorts I wouldn’t be caught dead in, but, I must admit, the guy somehow pulls them off.
I shake his hand and say, “Yeah, but call me Bishop.”
“Right on. I’m Brady. I was the one you were emailing yesterday.” He runs his fingers through his hair, motioning his head toward the cooler. “Sorry about the selection. The university has a strict ‘no alcohol’ policy during Rush Week.”
“I was wonderin’ about that. It said ‘rush party’ on your website. I’m thinkin’ frat party … shit’s gotta be fun.”
He smirks, shaking his head as if he can understand the confusion. “Not much fun to be had during Rush Week. That comes after you get a bid.” He stops himself, putting a hand up. “If you get a bid, that is. Not that I think you’ll have any problem with that. But we’ll have to vote on it tomorrow.” He motions to the three guys behind me and continues, “Have you met these guys yet? They’re rushing too.”
“No, not properly.”
“Let me see if I can remember this correctly,” Brady says, pointing to the ginger first. “Charlie, right?”
The ginger nods and shakes my hand. “Yeah, but everybody calls me Mac.”
“Nice to meet you, Mac.”
Brady points to the one in the middle, a tall, gangly fucker with long black hair and a brooding expression on his face. He doesn’t look as if he even wants to be in his own skin, let alone at a fraternity house.
“Sorry, bro. What was your name again?” Brady asks.
The tall man tries to hide his annoyance but to no avail. “Jamie,” he mutters, his voice barely loud enough to overcome the music.
I shake his hand and notice right away he has a feeble grip, his hand soft and underworked.
“Nice to meet you, Jamie.”
Finally, Brady points to the young guy with the scar on his face and says, “This is Carter. He’s a legacy, so he’ll be getting a bid no matter what.”
“Carter. How’s it goin’?”
He shrugs and replies, “Can’t complain.”
“You guys get to know each other a little while we wait on the others, and then we’ll get this shit going,” Brady says, turning and making his way to the door where Trevor waits.
Carter motions to my prosthetic eye, a slight smile and look of relief on his face. “Can’t help but notice I’m not the only one with the face stamp.”
“Yeah, that’s always a sight for sore eyes.” I chuckle, motioning to my prosthetic. “Or should I say, sore eye.”
“No shit, that’s a fake?” Mac asks, leaning in to get a better look.
“A prosthetic, yeah.”
“Can barely tell,” Mac says, straightening as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, I’m pretty lucky.”
“That happen in the war?” Carter asks. “If you don’t min—”
“No wor
ries. I’m used to talkin’ about it,” I say, cutting him off. “It happened over in Baghdad. RPG attack. Shrapnel went through my cheek and into my eye socket. Caught some in my chest as well. Punctured a lung.” I point to the scar on my cheek.
“Fuck,” Carter mutters, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is what it is. Occupational hazard.” I shrug.
“What’s an RPG?” Mac interjects.
“Don’t you play Call of Duty?” Jamie asks, a scrutinizing tone to his voice. “It stands for rocket-propelled grenade.”
Mac shrugs. “I got better things to do than shoot fake people with a bunch of twelve-year-olds,” he says.
“Yeah, rocket-propelled grenade. Only the real kind.” I laugh, making an explosion gesture with my hands.
“Crazy shit,” Carter says, his eyes wide.
“You ever kill anyone?” Jamie stares at me intently, his words lingering in the air.
There’s always some asshat who has to ask that stupid fuckin’ question.
“A few, but I don’t really like talkin’ about it.”
“My bad,” Jamie says, though with no sincerity in his voice.
“No worries. It was my job. I’m not bothered by it. I just don’t like talkin’ about it … out of respect for the dead.” I shift my focus to Carter, hoping to change the subject. I motion to the scars etched on his cheek and neck. “What about you? How’d you get those bad boys?”
Carter’s finger trails the length of the scar on his cheek slowly; it’s thick and a few shades off from his light complexion. “Car wreck for me. Nothing too exciting.”
“Shit must’ve been bad,” I say, my eyes tracing the scars, appreciating the commonality between us.
“Yeah, it was. Really bad. I was young, though. Don’t remember much of it.”
I can tell by the way he says it, and the touch of sadness shrouding his features, that he remembers more than he’d like to … and more than he’s probably willing to admit to himself. How easily I can remember that age—eighteen, nineteen years old with the whole world at your feet, but also sitting squarely on your shoulders. When you’ve been through a trauma, it increases tenfold. The pressure to be ‘okay’ or ‘normal’ becomes unbearable.
Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel) Page 3