October's Children: A Marlowe Gentry Thriller

by Dallas Mullican

  I wanted to join up at sixteen, even tried to lie my way in, but Dad was adamant and insisted I graduate high school first. Couldn’t get into the Army without a GED anyway, so the day after graduation I marched down to the closest recruitment station and enlisted. My girl got knocked up before I deployed, guess I helped with that some. It took a bit of the shine off my leaving. I didn’t like the idea of abandoning her, but it wasn’t my choice at that point, Uncle Sam put his foot down. The thought of not being there and holding her hand when our baby came into the world made me sick. I consoled myself, and her, with the belief I would be fighting to make a better world for them, and I’d be home before we knew it. Prophetic, that last bit.

  The first few months in Afghanistan, I spent acclimating to the fucking sand and boredom. And no shortage of either. The sand got into everything, every scrap of food layered with the shit. Grains worked into my eyes and felt like razors slicing my eyeballs to shreds. It got up my ass, and worse of all, between my thighs and nutsack, rubbing the skin raw. I waddled like a duck for weeks.

  Boredom, I didn’t count on that one. No big battles, didn’t fire a shot or see a bad guy. Rico, that’s what we called him—not terribly clever on our part, called him that ‘cause he was Mexican—well, actually he hailed from Jersey, but Mexico from somewhere back in the family tree, and not too distant at that. We did basic together and hit it off right away. Odd though, since we had nothing in common, but clicked all the same. Guys took to calling us the Bobbsey twins ‘cause wherever one showed up, the other wasn’t too far behind. Rico kept me sane. We played enough hands of poker to set a record or something. On leave, we’d go into the towns together. People eyed us with suspicion or hatred. Some masked it with a smile, but we could feel it in their eyes. Fuck ‘em. We were US Army! We owned the place, or believed we did. Yeah, Rico made the boredom bearable. Only knew him for a few months, but he was probably the best friend I ever had.

  “You ever get scared?” asked Rico. “You know, like when the shit hits you’ll freeze up or something?”

  Sitting around camp waiting for orders, tried everyone’s nerves, especially us new guys. We heard the stories about squads out in the hills and reports came back from fighting in the towns. House to house clearing sounded like some scary shit, but me and Rico, and most of the newbies, had yet to see any action. Oh, we did our shifts on guard duty at the fences and gates, but nothing too hairy.

  “Yeah, I guess a little,” I said.

  “Me too. Just sometimes.”

  We’d never admit it to anyone else, but me and Rico got close enough to share those secrets. I bet everyone felt it, even the guys who talked the toughest. Them probably the most. How could you know what you’d do until in the thick of it?

  “Ever read The Red Badge of Courage in school?” asked Rico.

  Everyone settled into the barracks, stored our gear, and got ready for some rack time. Long, hot days wore me out worse than any back home. Growing up on the farm, baling hay and working the fields, I didn’t think I’d ever meet days so rough again. I was wrong. The Army knew how to bust your ass, and Afghanistan added a big boot to go with it.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Teacher made us read it, but I liked it. About the Civil War. A soldier for the north side, named Henry, a lot like us, scared he’ll run when the fighting starts. And he did, first time out. When he got a second chance he kicked ass.” Rico rolled over onto his back in the cot and stared up at the ceiling. “We don’t get a practice run, though, no second chances. They’d throw us in the brig.”

  “I’m not too worried. When the bullets start flying, I’m staying behind you,” I said with a chuckle.

  “I’m more like Henry. You’re like his buddy Jim.” Rico glanced over with a sly expression. “Jim got himself killed.”

  “Ouch, thanks a lot.”

  We settled in, ready for some shut-eye, another long day ahead of us tomorrow. About twenty minutes after lights out, Rico whispered, “Hey, you awake?”

  “Yeah, barely.”

  “I was just kidding. You aren’t gonna be like Jim. I got your back, bro.” He sounded all serious, and I admit, it got to me some.

  “Go to sleep, Rico.” I threw my pillow at him, and we both laughed.

  We didn’t talk about it much after that. Played cards, shot hoops, and stayed busy. Diversions, anything to keep our minds occupied. None of us knew exactly what to expect, even though they trained us well. In a strange place, knowing why we were there, the imagination could mess with a guy, worse than any real enemy. I can’t say how many times I got shot in my nightmares, or how many times they woke me in a sweat. But in my good dreams, I was goddamned Rambo, ready for anything.

  We drew convoy duty about two months in, riding Humvees escorting tankers from Camp Eggers to Camp Blessing in the Kunar Province, which supplied Fire Bases Phoenix, Vegas, and California, as well as several FOBs and COPs in the Dara-I-Pech and Asadabad Districts. Nine out of ten trips were cake. But that tenth one…a real shit-kicker.

  “Keep your eyes peeled boys. We ain’t out of it yet.” Sgt. Russel called back from the lead escort seat. A real hard ass, the Sarge, but he looked out for us greenhorns.

  Already past Kabul, not far to go, we figured smooth sailing the rest of the way. The Taliban rarely hit close to the bases, so if we were going to see trouble it would’ve been miles back. Standard deployment—Humvee in the back, transport in the middle, lead Humvee in the front—Sarge, a gunner, spotter, and support in the lead, same in the tail except with Corporal Jenkins in charge, driver and co-driver in the transport. Sometimes we did big escorts with two or three tankers and a lot more firepower, but this was more the norm.

  We set in, braving the jolts and bumps as the Humvees barreled along. Rico was telling some tall tale about hanging with the gangs back home. Real macho shit to impress the other grunts.

  “You think this is tough?” Rico shouted over the roar of the vehicle. “Driving Ms. Daisy across the desert in an armored car? Shit! Try walking down the street in Newark in nothing but a t-shirt, jeans, and an ancient pair of Air Jordan’s surrounded by Crips, Bloods, Red Dogs, Trinitarios, now that’s some scary shit.” Rico held up his rifle. “But me and my homies knew how to handle that shit.” He nodded to the lot of us. “Stick with me boys, I’ll get you home safe. No problemo.”

  Corporal Jenkins huffed from the front seat. “Homies, my ass. You was hiding behind yo momma’s skirt. And if we see any action, you’ll be pissing those greens, Sunshine.”

  I knew Rico was full of BS, wearing a bandana around his neck the closest he ever got to being in a gang. Yeah, he had it hard at first. His mother OD’d, his pop in the state pen for life long before that. Rico grew up with his grandma in Livingston. Not well-to-do, but much better off than his situation in Newark. From what I could figure, his grandma would have jerked a knot on his noggin if he tried messing with anything hardcore. Hell, he didn’t even speak Spanish.

  “Fuck you, Corporal…huh, sir. All’s I’m saying’s this is a cake walk compared to…”

  When the lead Humvee hit an IED in the road, it blew the fucker into outer space. Mangled, burning metal hit the ground so hard I could feel my bones shudder. No chance anyone survived. Small arms fire riddled the side of our vehicle and the semi’s cab. The passenger side door opened and the co-driver of the transport flopped out dead as dead gets. Rico, me, Corp. Jenkins and a surly gunner we called Pike for reasons I never learned, roared around the jack-knifed semi and pulled up between it and the wrecked Humvee. Pike took to the crow’s nest and opened up on the enemy descending the hill. Looked to be a good three dozen of them, though I didn’t stop to count.

  “Goddamn,” said Rico, shaking his head.

  My head felt caught in a vice, ears ringing, all the shouting voices muffled and distant. A cloud of dust stirred up by the explosion obscured most everything. Me, Jenkins, and Rico hustled out of our ride, getting something between u
s and the hillside, just knowing the towelheads would be down on us. Not ashamed to say it, I was shitting my pants.

  Rico got on the horn, screaming into the mic for some fucking backup. “Whiskey Bravo Zero Niner, Whiskey Bravo Zero Niner…”

  Nothing but static. That bit drew a long slew of profanities from each of us.

  “Must be interference from the mountains. This is fucked up, Sir.” Rico had turned from a milk chocolate to paler than me, and doesn’t get much pastier than me.

  Up ahead, the lead Humvee lay wheels-up, still spinning, like a beetle trapped on its back. Faint moans and a shrill scream came from somewhere beyond our line of sight on the far side of the wreck.

  “Shit. We got survivors.” The corporal was now in charge and none too happy about it. He took a peak around the fender and nodded forward. “See if you two can get up there. Drag our guys to cover. If all the enemy has is small arms, the Humvee should be able to get us the fuck outta here. Get ‘em safe and stay put. I’ll lay down suppressing fire with Pike. We’ll wheel around to get you.”

  We hunkered down and moved real quick like toward the wreckage. I heard the double whooshes, but didn’t realize what they were ‘til they hit. An RPG struck the tanker dead center. Goddamn thing went up like a Roman candle, stories high, reminded me of those the Los Alamos films—big ass mushroom clouds blacking out the sky. Me and Rico dove for the side of the lead Humvee, opposite the hill where the RPGs came from. I made it, he didn’t. The concussion of a second rocket turned my insides into steel balls ricocheting around my gut. Every organ seemed to tighten then expand, way too big to remain inside. My ears rang, everything went all blurry. A glance back—Corporal Jenkins and Pike nothing but a spray of crimson drifting on a hot wind, the vehicle toast with a side of jam. I followed Rico’s screams on my belly and found him a few yards from the front of the Humvee. Wasn’t much left of him. Both legs gone, his left arm in ribbons, and his face…my God, his face. Charred beyond recognition, one eyeball flopping out on a bloody string. But that wasn’t the worst. No, the worst was the other eye staring up at me.

  “Hold on, man. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be fine. Just hold on,” I said.

  The words sounded hollow in my own ears, but I doubt Rico heard them. I guess I said them to make myself feel better, nothing else I could do but hold him in my arms while he died, quarts of blood all over me and none of it mine. The smell of burnt flesh and metal filled my nostrils, smoke stinging my eyes, but the tears streaming down weren’t because of that.

  We lost the entire convoy’s crew—two squads, the semi’s driver and spotter. The towelheads moved down the dune toward me. With the sun at their backs, they looked like shapes made of smoke wavering in the heat. Why they didn’t come down and grab me I can’t say. I reckon they thought they did the job and all of us were fini. Sometimes, I still wish they had come down and finished me off.

  I spent a month in the base hospital with some pretty good bumps and bruises. Yeah, maybe it messed up my head a little, but for fuck’s sake, who would come out of that without a screw loose? It’d tighten up in time, if they would’ve let it. Doctors said I had Survivor’s Remorse, PTSD, TBI (traumatic brain injury), and a bunch of shit I couldn’t even pronounce. Medical discharge for the good of the Army or some bullshit.

  Pissed me off royally, and guess I stewed on it for a while. But fuck it. I got to go home, marry my girl, and see my daughter for the first time. Me and dad would get the farm back up to full speed. I was looking forward to it. Looking forward to leaving that shit heap behind me. If I couldn’t be a soldier, I’d be a fucking cowboy.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Rosser County High School, located in Carrolton, educated kids from three feeder elementary schools—Red Weed, Elda, and Kost. A small school, grades seven through twelve numbered about nine hundred students, laid out in a horseshoe, the gymnasium behind and to the left with RCHS stadium, home of the Rebels, to the right. Lori and Spence arrived as the final bell rang and waves of students filed out the doors in a mad rush for cars and buses. A flash of badges slowed the stampede and held up a group of sophomores long enough to learn Sarah Harmon and her friends had often hung out after school at Poppa’s Pizza in town. Not a difficult place to find, the blare of rap music competed with punk and metal from a dozen cars lining the parking lot heard from two blocks away. Amidst necking sessions and raucous horseplay, they finally coerced a freckled face kid with a fiver to point them toward Sarah’s clique.

  A small collection of outsiders stood well apart from the main throng—goths if Lori recalled her high school factions correctly. Leaning against an older model Nissan hatchback, five kids in black head-to-toe smoked cigarettes while listening to a graveled voice sing something about the beautiful people to an industrial clamor. Upon seeing two suits walking their way, three of them bolted. Spence could not run in his condition, and Lori had no desire to set off on a chase in pumps. Luckily, two remained behind, eyeing their approach with lackadaisical expressions—one, a girl with dyed black hair, a purple streak down one side, and a boy with multiple piercings through his nose and ears. He worked the last, a gold ring, through his left nostril, the jewelry obviously not allowed on campus.

  “We understand you were friends with Sarah Harmon.” Lori waved smoke from her face. “Mind putting those out?”

  They made a show of their displeasure with an ample helping of rebellious aplomb, but flicked the cigarettes to the ground and stomped them out.

  “Sarah Harmon?” repeated Lori.

  “Another misfit toy.” The girl flipped her hair over her shoulder, a smirk curling on her lips.

  “Excuse me?” said Spence.

  “She means Sarah was a member of the dumb bunch, like the rest of us.” The boy fingered his earrings, a glaze to his eyes suggested he had smoked more than cigarettes recently.

  “We aren’t dumb.” The girl snapped. She paused, considering. “We’re…different.”

  “What’s your name?” Lori focused on the girl who appeared more malleable.

  “Kim. This blockhead is Cory.” The boy grinned, losing a bit of his bluster.

  “Kim, how are you different?” asked Lori.

  She shrugged. “They put us in special ed and treat us different, like we’re stupid. The other kids pick on us, call us names and stuff.”

  A boy in a football jersey, number twenty-four on the chest and sleeves, strutted past. His fan club, following in his shadow and cool by association, snickered and pointed.

  “You freaks got busted, huh?” Football Player placed his hands behind his head, mimicking an arrest. “You belong in a cage anyway.” While he and his friends had their laugh, Cory flipped them the bird, but his face said it did little to lessen the sting.

  “I rest my case,” said Kim. “They treat us like shit, then everyone’s shocked when we act messed up. Sarah was like us, once you got to know her.”

  “How so?” asked Spence.

  “They thought quiet meant stupid with Sarah. She didn’t talk to people much—people she didn’t know, or adults and stuff.” Kim watched the group of kids saunter away, pure venom in her stare.

  “Did she ever mention problems? Anything that might make her runaway?” asked Lori.

  “When her sister left home, they were real close, she started talking about it.” Kim leaned against Cory, the two obviously a pair. He put his arm around her in a protective manner.

  “Her sister? Summer?” Lori glanced at Spence who mirrored her confusion.

  “Ha. No, her older sister, Emily.” Cory scoffed and Kim butted his chest with her shoulder.

  Lori ignored it. “Do you know where Emily went?”

  “Sarah said she lived in Tuscaloosa. Said she was gonna live with her.”

  “Her father thought she tried to go to New York.” Lori braced against the Nissan, the music boring into one ear, a headache nudging against her temples.

  “She talked about that, too. Especially aft
er her ol’ man took her book away. The one Emily gave her. She hated him for that and for making Emily leave. I read some of it. Pretty cool. Really dark stuff. Sarah loved it.”

  “How did her dad make Emily leave?” asked Spence.

  “Dunno. Sarah said they were always fighting. One day I guess they had it out and Emily up and left.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police Sarah might have gone to her sister’s?” Spence eyed a girl sashaying through the parking lot. A senior, likely eighteen but looked twenty-one, complete with breasts larger than Lori’s. With a sigh, Lori gave him a disapproving glare. He grinned and shrugged.

  “I wouldn’t rat on Sarah. If her dad found out, he’d bring her back.” Kim seemed offended by the mere suggestion she’d tell on her friend. Her shoulders rose like the fur bristling on an irate cat.

  “Has Sarah ever contacted you? I mean since she left?” asked Lori.

  “Nope. Not a peep. Out of sight, out of mind, ya know? She’s moved on to bigger and better things,” said Cory.

  “That doesn’t bother you? You were friends.”

  “Nah, good for her. That’s the goal. Get out of this redneck hell.” Cory lit up another cigarette with a peak out of the corner of his eye at Lori. When she did not object, he took a long draw and blew smoke away from the detectives.

  “Okay, thanks for your help.” Lori took a step, but turned back. “Being different isn’t a bad thing. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  Cory and Kim looked at her as if she had told them they possessed super powers. Spence grinned at the kids and followed Lori to the car.

  “Nice touch. You building up good will in case we need them again?” asked Spence.