Captured

by Jasinda Wilder

  My back hits the wall. I’m gasping.

  “Yeah. You remember, don’t you?” His voice is raspy from thirst, low, evil. He only ever spoke English when he wanted to make a point. “Bet you like to kill me, huh? Try. Kill me.”

  He’s the one who broke my finger, tortured me. Never asked questions, just the torture for the fucking pleasure of it.

  I’m unaware of moving, but somehow I’ve got my sidearm out and the barrel pressed to his temple. I’m gasping, sweating, seeing double. He’s laughing. He knows the effects he’s left on me.

  Brutally strong hands pull me away, and I let them strip me of my sidearm. The hands shove it into my holster at my chest. I’m pushed out the door into sunlight so bright it hurts. Dust blows, grit crunches in my molars.

  “So that’s him.” The guy in civvies. The spook.

  “Yeah.” I turn away, back to the wind, spit, try to breathe.

  I vomit, and when my stomach is done heaving, I straighten. Wipe my mouth on my sleeve. He hands me a bottle of water, and I rinse my mouth. Drink. He hands me the bottle of whiskey, and I take a slug. Chase it with water.

  “He ever tell you his name?”

  “No. He was the one who did all of the torturing, though. Let others do the beating. But he saved the fun stuff for himself.”

  Spook nods. “He’s a sick fuck.” He drags on the whiskey, then digs in his hip pocket for a pack of Reds. Lights one, hands it to me.

  I was one of the few in my unit who never picked up the habit. I’d smoke one every now and again when we were all drinking, but it was never a habit. This is a unique circumstance. I inhale, cough, and the thick, unfiltered smoke stings my throat and burns my lungs. It makes me lightheaded, but the nicotine pushes the flashbacks down, down.

  “Done with me, sir?” I crush the butt under my heel.

  “Yeah.” He blows a stream of smoke out of his nostrils. Turns away from me, takes a few steps, then stops and glances at me. “Sorry to bring you all the way the fuck out here for that. But we had to know for certain.”

  I can only nod. But it’s not okay. I’m not fine with it. “Good luck with that fucker.” It’s all I can think to say.

  “I’ll make a call when I get back to Kandahar. See if I can get you rotated out sooner.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “I’m sure you would. I read the debrief reports.”

  “The reports.” I laugh, a bitter bark. “I couldn’t bring myself to talk about half of what he did to me.”

  “Figured as much. Most of what we know about this piece of shit is from the bodies he leaves behind. You’re still alive. Says something.”

  “Yeah. Its says I was fuckin’ lucky.” I scuff my toe in the dirt. “Or unlucky.”

  “You’re breathing. You’re going home. Got a girl. A piece of dirt to call home. Makes you lucky in my book.”

  I just nod, give a two-finger salute, fit my balaclava back over my nose. I hop into the helo. I just traveled eight thousand miles to look into the eyes of the man who spent three years torturing me.

  The flight out of the desert and through the mountains passes in a blur. I’m lost, trying to keep the flashbacks from surging up like hot puke. It’s not working. I keep seeing his face, the scar, the lip curling, the absurdly white teeth and the beard, the evil dark eyes. The lighters burning me, his fist snapping my finger again and again, just for the joy of watching me suffer.

  “INCOMING! INCOMING!” The pilot’s frantic voice over the headset jerks me back to reality.

  The helo is banking hard, the rotors whining to full pitch as we accelerate. I catch a glimpse of a white trail, a dot of yellow. It feels like everything is in slow motion. The first trail streaks by, and the helo rolls, nose slewing around, rocking us in the opposite direction. I don’t see the second trail, but I hear the pilot yelling “mayday!” and feel the chopper banking so hard we’re almost tossed out, and then the craft jerks, judders, spins. I feel a blast of heat past the open doors, flames billowing. There’s a deafening roar, so close and so loud my ears can’t fully process the noise.

  We go into a flat spin, dizzying, smoke black and thick following us in circles as we plummet. Sharp ridges and vertical rock faces flash past. I’m disoriented, and all I can see is ground-sky-mountain-flames-smoke-mountain.

  Our impact is sudden and so deafening it’s almost silent. I feel forward momentum and pain. I’m thrown clear, tumbling. Hit the ground, feel something break in my leg. The pain is like the noise, too intense to process.

  CRUMP—SILENCE—BOOM

  Heat crashes into me as the Huey explodes somewhere close. A god-sized hammer hits my right leg, the one I felt break when I hit the ground. I catch a glimpse of something black and metallic whirling away.

  The force of the detonation sends me rolling across the ground, rocks ripping at my face, elbow, and knees. I feel the ground beneath me tilt, vanish, and I’m falling again.

  I wanted to make it home. The thought flits through my head in an instant of weightlessness.

  SLAM. Breathless, wheezing agony. The sky above is a peaceful blue, a wide bowl of endless blue the exact shade of Reagan’s eyes.

  Reagan. Looks like I’m breaking my promise.

  I’m lying on my rifle. I can’t breathe. Right leg is starting to hurt. I can’t move.

  Quickly the pain becomes a hurt so bad words are useless to convey the enormity of it. I think I’m screaming, but I can’t breathe, so it can’t be me. Breathing hurts. Moving hurts. My ribs feel broken.

  A bloody face appears in my line of vision. American, at least. My ears ring, and I can see his mouth moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. He points, emphatic gestures at the mountain face above us. He lifts me, pulls my rifle out from beneath me. Unclips it from my webbing. I feel my hand being lifted and a pistol is put into my palm. Gotta fight? Shit. I look blearily at the weapon and thumb off the safety. I peer in the direction indicated. Searing pain lances through me at each twitch of muscle. I can see no movement, and I glance at my companion. He’s one of the guys from the fire team. Young fella, probably was a handsome sonofabitch once, except now he’s missing the left side of his face. Ear gone, skin…not skin anymore. I can see the bone at his jaw. Fuck, that’s gross. How the hell is he upright? Jesus, he’s a tough motherfucker.

  Crackcrackcrack. He’s firing. The sound of my M4 in his hands breaks through the ringing in my ears. I follow his aim; puffs of rock dust spurt from the mountainside. Then I see a turban, white against the stone. I squeeze off a single round, and I miss. I try to get my other hand around the butt for a better grip. Can’t shoot for shit one-handed under the best of circumstances. I see movement; I fire again. Blood sprays.

  I’m dizzy.

  God, the agony. I don’t want to look at my leg. It’s so, so, so fucked.

  And then…the welcome sound of a helo, the distinctive rotor signature of a SuperCobra. Rockets flash and whoosh. The hillside crumps and bellies out in fire and smoke and rock chunks. A disembodied leg flies past us. The AH-1W angles sideways, hovering, sliding horizontally, and raking the mountainside with M197 rounds.

  Thank you, sweet baby Jesus.

  He rotates in midair, floats toward us. He pivots, and I can see him looking at us. Reporting our location, hopefully.

  Finally, I make myself look down at my right leg. It’s gone from the knee down. Just gone. I let my head thunk back to the dirt, wheezing, moaning. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I lift up again to make sure I didn’t imagine it. Nope. Still missing half my leg. Why isn’t it bleeding? I should be dead from blood loss by now. And then I remember the piece of metal flying by after the explosion. If it was hot enough and sharp enough, it’d just pinch and sear the vessels closed instantly. Or maybe I am bleeding out, and that’s why I’m so dizzy. So cold.

  The sky narrows, a squeezing cone of darkness closing in upon me. What’s happening to the sky?

  I’m passing out, I realize. Good. That’s good. It hurts t
oo bad to be awake right now.

  Then darkness.

  When I wake up, the sky is rotating. Helo rotors dopplering overhead. A helmeted head peering down at me, lifting me up. The jolting on the floor of the helo hurts like fuck. Someone is doing something to my leg. I look around me. My buddy, the one missing half his face, he’s there, getting a shot of something to the upper thigh, then treatment to his face, or what’s left of it. I manage to lift my hand toward him, fist closed. He touches his knuckles to mine. Our eyes meet. He nods. I fumble at my stomach, my chest. I locate my pocket. Cubby. Where’s Cubby? There it is. I clutch the plastic figure in my hand. I can’t even form the thought, the prayer, the hope to go home. All I can do is hold the toy and cling to life.

  Darkness again.

  Reagan….

  CHAPTER 20

  REAGAN

  San Antonio Army Medical Center, October 2010

  I stand with my back to the wall beside the door to his room and gather my courage, my strength. I can do this. I can do this.

  I can’t do this.

  But I have to.

  I breathe again, deeply, and let it out. Then I open the door, trying for a smile. He’s awake, sitting up in the bed with the sheet across his waist. Dressed in a black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and molded to his thick arms. Stubble darkens his jaw. Hair is grown out a little. He’s watching Sports Center, replays of the Cowboys losing to the Vikings. At the sound of the door, he glances up, sees it’s me, shuts off the TV, and tosses the remote onto the bed beside him.

  Staff Sergeant Bradford told me what had happened, injury-wise. Derek lost his right leg from the knee down, and he’s got broken ribs and a concussion. There’s some hearing loss, temporary, they think. He was in a hospital over there for several weeks before he was stable enough to be moved to the States. He’s only been here a few days. He called me, and the conversation was short and tense. It amounted to me assuring him I was on the way, and then we hung up. Too much between us to say any of it over the phone. So I packed a bag and drove to San Antonio.

  He looks healthy. Gorgeous, vital. But the sheet…I can clearly see the outline of his left leg, thigh, knee, toes. But, beneath the sheet, his right leg ends abruptly. My heart seizes at seeing that.

  “Reagan.” His voice is hesitant, soft.

  “Derek.” I whisper, finding it hard to speak. I cross the room, arms hugging my waist.

  I stand beside the bed and look down at him. His green eyes search mine. I feel wetness, stinging tears, vision blurred. I reach down and touch his cheek with my palm. He cups his hand over mine and sucks in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing.

  His lips move, press thin, then open. “Reagan, I—”

  I cover his mouth with my hand, lean down over him, and put my head to his chest softly. “You came back.” I find his jaw with my palm. Slide it up past his ear, thread my fingers in his hair, the way I know he loves. “That’s all that matters.”

  “I made it back. Close one, but I made it.” He holds me for a long moment. Then nudges me up. Twitches the sheet down. “Wanna see my leg?”

  I don’t. I really don’t. But of course I do. He kicks the sheet off with his left toe. He’s wearing khaki shorts. His left leg is thick and muscular and hairy. His bare toes wiggle. The right leg? No knee, just the rounded end of his thigh, scar-pinched, sewn shut. I touch his thigh, just beneath the hem of his shorts and slide my fingers down the muscle and short dark hair. I touch the end. He just watches, wiggling the toes of his left foot.

  He goes for casual, but I can tell he’s nervous, emotions roiling deep. “Funny. I wiggle my toes, and I still feel like I should see my right foot moving. I can almost feel it still.” He looks up at me. “Pretty ugly, huh?”

  I sit beside him, perched on the edge of the bed. I leave my hand on his stump and touch his cheek. “Derek. Every part of you is beautiful.”

  He just smiles. Then the smile fades and looks at me. “I read the letter. Soon as I sat down on the jet to Kandahar. I read it so many damn times.”

  My heart pounds, beating so hard it almost hurts. “Yeah?” It’s hard to breathe or swallow, let alone speak.

  “Yeah. And you know what, it felt like you hadn’t finished it. That’s the thought I had anyway. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  Not here. I don’t want to do this here. “I—yeah. I hadn’t finished it. There was too much—too much I wanted to say, and—and…I just couldn’t write it all down.”

  A doctor comes in just then, and I’m given a brief reprieve. The doctor is short and wide and balding, and bustling with busy efficiency.

  “Corporal West. Or, rather, Mr. West, I should say. How are you?”

  Derek shrugs. “Ready to get the hell out of this hospital, doc.”

  “I know, I know. You need months of physical therapy, though. You have to relearn how to walk, essentially, using the prosthetic. It’s going to take time.”

  “I know. I’ll do it. Can’t I just go home and find somewhere to do the therapy closer to there?”

  “Well, you’re healthy, aside from that. Ribs seem to be on the mend, although I’m assuming you’re still a bit stiff and sore?”

  “Yeah, nothing too bad. Had worse playing football on base.”

  “Any headaches? Dizziness?” Derek shakes his head, and the doctor continues to examine his chart. Finally he nods, and does a thorough examination of Derek’s leg. “It’s looking good, and I think you are in decent shape there. I suppose you’re ready to go, physically, if that’s what you want. We have a list of doctors who can provide the post-care you’ll need.”

  Derek just nods. “Got it. I just need to be out of here. I can’t stand it.”

  “I suppose that’s understandable, son.” He closes the chart and whacks the file with his pen. “I’ll get your papers together, have you out of here in no time.”

  Another nod from Derek. The doctor leaves, and silence settles over the room. Our conversation has been put on hold, it seems, an unspoken agreement. I just hold his hand and rub my thumb on his knuckles.

  Eventually, he reaches to the other side of the bed and produces a prosthetic leg, one of those metal, curving ones you see the athletes using. Derek rolls a type of sock over the end of his leg, fits the cup of the prosthetic over the stump, fastens the blade in place. He pivots on the bed and sets his foot on the floor, then moves so he can get the foot portion of the prosthetic on the tile. He takes my hand, smiling at me gratefully as I move to help him.

  “Been practicing a little. It’s hard.” He shifts forward, tries for his feet, pushing on the mattress.

  He gets up, wobbles, and then falls back. He tries again, and makes it. He stands, balancing uneasily. I stand in front of him, both of his hands in mine. He takes a step with the prosthetic, frowning in concentration. Another step. He grins at me hesitantly, I’m doing it! clearly written on his face. And then loses his balance and topples backward. I pull him forward over his center of gravity again.

  Now he’s focused. Step, step, step, pause, step, step, step. He’s sweating; his lips are tight.

  “Derek, do you want to sit down?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Been lying down or sitting for a fucking month and half. Fuck that. I want to walk.” He makes his way to the corner of the room, where a pair of crutches lean against the wall. He takes them, fits them under his arms, and tries walking again.

  I follow him step by step around the room, seeing the pain on his features, the stubborn determination. I think he thinks he can master this right now, here, and be running PT again in a few days. I watch him carefully, aching for him with each step. He sets one of the crutches aside and tries a step with only one. He stumbles, falls, and he’s too heavy for me to catch him. He lands against the wall, clutching my hand in a crushing grip, his good foot braced out wide and the prosthetic sliding out in front of him. He regains his balance and gets his feet under him. Feet, or foot? I don’t know.

  He bumpe
d his head against the corner of the bedside table, and he’s bleeding from his cheek.

  “Goddammit, Derek.” I help him to the bed, snatch a Kleenex from the box, and touch it to the cut on his cheekbone.

  “I’m sorry,” he grunts, easing down into a lying position, gasping, sweating. “Harder than I thought. Overdid it. I guess I wanted to impress you.”

  “You have to take it easy. Take it slow.”

  “I know. That’s not how I do things, though.” He wipes at his forehead, smearing the sweat away.

  “Well, now you do.”

  A nurse must have heard the racket, and she comes in, sees Derek’s cut, and tisks at him. “If you’re trying to leave, Mr. West, this is not the way to go about it.” She puts antiseptic on the cut, and a Band-Aid. “Now, stay off the leg, or you’ll be stuck here for that much longer.”

  “All right, all right,” Derek growls. “I get it. Damn.”

  The hours pass. Derek turns on the TV again, and I sit close to him, my hand in his, content for now to simply be near him. Eventually a nurse returns with the paperwork. Derek signs, takes a folder full of informational brochures and packets, and a list of doctors and physical therapists and support groups. It all takes another hour before I can bring the truck around to the front entrance. I set Derek’s crutches and personal things in back, and then help him in.

  I point us toward Houston, and we settle in. He twists the volume knob on the radio, and “Smoke a Little Smoke” by Eric Church comes on. We listen in silence, Derek staring out the window.

  There’s tension.

  Finally, he turns to me. The volume goes down, muffling Gary Allan. “Reagan? The unfinished letter. Was there…was there more?”

  I keep driving and don’t answer. I sniffle. Bite my lip. A little dirt side road forms a T-intersection, with a wide shoulder at the apex. I pull over. I crank the window down and hang my hand out.