The Long Night
Page 21
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Sam was the only soldier on the bus, so far as he could tell. He rode the Greyhound north on I-95. The closer he got to Bangor, the tighter his guts twisted.
He had no words to describe the fear inside him. No sound that could release the anguish he'd held within for the last seven months.
Hope, that strongest of emotions, had abandoned him. He had felt nothing for the last seven months. No happiness. No sadness. He'd walked around in a haze of endless numbness.
Even the transitioning with the incoming unit hadn't lifted his spirits.
The tapping on his door that night all those months ago had crushed the tiniest bit of hope he'd clung to.
And now, riding north, through the trees and the flashes of civilization, he felt something.
It was fear. Curdled in his guts, it worked its way through his skin until he was slick with sweat.
The heat on the bus didn't help. It was May in Maine, still frigid by Georgia standards and downright subarctic by Iraqi. Still, the heat smothered him, coating his skin and making his clothes stick to his body as the miles rolled by.
He could do little but wait and stare out the window. An ancient, rusted-out Blazer that should have been scrapped long ago rumbled past the bus, going far faster than was probably a good idea.
No thoughts tumbled inside his head. He felt no racing anticipation, only dread at what he knew was waiting for him at that bus stop in Bangor.
The sun set into the wet Maine treetops. The winter had been hard, which meant that mud season was harder. Wetter and muddier, with a few floods along the miles of streams and rivers that ran through Maine's interior.
The trees glistened in the twilight, their boughs heavy and damp. The road was slick with sheen as they pulled into the bus stop.
Sam waited, unable to summon the energy to be excited. It was only when the last person left the bus that he stood, shouldering his assault pack before he took that first step to face the thing he'd been dreading since that awful tapping on his trailer door.
He stopped by the doorway. Light reflected on the wet bottom step. The cement too was wet. Fresh and clean. Free of the mud from the rest of the state.
He took that first step. Down, down, then off the bus.
The crowd had dispersed. A few stragglers here and there. A pair of lovers locked in an embrace beneath a shimmering streetlight. Something romantic and timeless.
That would never be Sam. Not for as long as he lived did he think he would ever feel that lust pounding through his veins again. Something had died inside him.
He might not have given up his soul. But then again, maybe he had.
He scanned the faces in the bus station.
He'd have to wait for his ride. He wondered if Tommy had gotten his message.
The clear glass door opened.
Faith stepped out of the darkness and into the light of a solitary street lamp.
Her hair was shorter than when he'd left, twisted at the back of her neck. Her cheeks were hollowed out from weight loss.
She had no bump beneath her belly, no baby on her hip.
He'd known what to expect after that dreadful tapping had destroyed his hope for the world.
But now, seeing her, seeing her real and whole and safe standing in front of him…for the first time in months, his soul leapt in his chest. Swelled with emotion and feelings he'd thought had died the night he'd learned their child had been born without a breath.
Tears filled his eyes, but his boots were rooted to the spot. She clutched her arms tighter around her belly. Her eyes showed fear. Uncertainty.
And then she was in his arms, her thin body pressed to his, and everything he'd thought had died in him was alive. He breathed in the clean, Coppertone smell of her hair, felt the soft warmth of her skin. He buried his face in her neck and he knew, he knew that Merrick hadn't won.
Faith was alive. He'd made it home from war, from the hell that he'd lived through.
"You're home. You're home." Her words were a watery chant in his ear, against his neck.
He buried his face in her hair and wept.
He was home.
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About the Author
Jessica Scott is an Iraq war veteran, an active duty army officer and the USA Today bestselling author of novels set in the heart of America’s Army. She is the mother of two daughters, too many animals, and wife to a retired NCO. She and her family are currently wherever the Army has sent her.
She's also written for the New York Times At War Blog, PBS Point of View Regarding War, and IAVA. She deployed to Iraq in 2009 as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF)/New Dawn and has had the honor of serving as a company commander at Fort Hood, Texas twice.
She's a Phd candidate in Sociology at Duke studying morality in her spare time and she's been featured as one of Esquire Magazine's Americans of the Year for 2012.
Jessica is also an active member of the Military Writers Guild. Photo: Courtesy of Buzz Covington Photography
Find her online at http://www.jessicascott.net
For more information,
@jessicascott09
jessicascottauthor
www.jessicascott.net
jessica@jessicascott.net
Also by Jessica Scott
HOMEFRONT SERIES
Come Home to Me
Homefront
After the War
Forged in Fire
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FALLING SERIES
Before I Fall
Break My Fall
If I Fall
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NONFICTION
To Iraq & Back: On War and Writing
The Long Way Home: One Mom’s Journey Home From War
COMING HOME SERIES
Because of You
I’ll Be Home For Christmas: A Coming Home Novella
Anything For You: A Coming Home Short Story
Back to You
Until There Was You
All for You
It’s Always Been You
Copyright © 2016 by Jessica Scott
All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.
Printed in the United States of America
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First Printing 2016
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ISBN: 9978-1-942102-20-5
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Author photo courtesy of Buzz Covington Photography
Cover Design by Jessica Scott
For more information please see www.jessicascott.net
ISBN: 978-1-942102-20-5