Fade to Black - Proof

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Three Marines killed. That would be Kindrich, Bennet, and Simmons. He, of course, was the seriously wounded Marine. Soon he would be the fourth death. Jack was a little startled to realize that was not at all terrifying. He felt a deep, almost paralyzing grief over how this would devastate Pam and how Claire would grow up without her daddy. Competing with that was his remorse and guilt that he had saved none of his friends. He had gone back, had tried so hard, and nothing was different. Jack squeezed his palms into his eyes until white spots filled his mind’s vision like fireworks.

  “Elsewhere in Iraq, a car bomb has reportedly killed one soldier while four others were wounded in an attack near the town…” The reporter’s voice announced with little emotion.

  That would be Hoag, Jack supposed.

  “You did a helluva a job, Casey,” said a familiar voice, thick with a Chicago accent.

  Jack looked over and saw Chad sitting beside him. The fact that he had appeared from nowhere didn’t bother Jack in the least. He was way past any reaction to such things. Chad no longer wore his cool-teacher black T-shirt and sports coat. Instead he was in the more familiar, dirty cammies that Jack realized he also still sported. Chad still munched away on his half gone double cheeseburger, however.

  Jack had the sudden thought that he was Dorothy, waking in her bed on the farm after her crazy dream in Oz.

  And you were there, and you, and you were there, too!

  Get off the ride, Dorothy. It ends badly.

  Jack considered his friend for a moment, burger juice dribbling down his chin, then handed him the napkin he had been clutching in his hand.

  “I’ll ask Simmons if he agrees with you when I see him,” Jack said bitterly.

  Chad wiped the grease from his chin and then smiled a mysterious, knowing smile.

  “You do that, Casey,” he said. Then he took one last giant bite of his burger, tossed the remaining chunk on Jack’s tray and rose to his feet. “Come on,” he said.

  Jack rose and followed him to the door.

  The hall was dark, and moments after stepping through with his friend he realized it wasn’t a hallway at all. The familiar smells and dusty air told him immediately where he was. Jack stopped.

  “I don’t think I’m ready yet,” he said to Chad. He turned, but Chad was gone.

  Jack stood there a moment, unsure what to do. The door he had passed through was no longer there. He could hear the sounds of gunfire and the thump-thump of an approaching Blackhawk. He felt anxious but not scared. He felt a stirring at his feet and looked down. By his right foot the tiniest little swirl of dust started circling around him. As he watched, it collected more and more dust, running circles around him that got thicker and rose rapidly to his waist and then his chest. Jack sighed.

  One last ride I guess.

  Things faded quickly again to blackness.

  Chapter

  30

  It was dark as he lay there, and he felt the ground begin to tilt. In the distance Jack heard the sound of gunfire, or maybe close and the distance was an illusion. He felt nauseated, tasted the bile mixed with blood in the back of his throat. There was a burning pain there, spreading out backwards over his neck. And there was a tightness that extended into his chest. With each struggling breath, there was a high‐pitched whistling and gurgling sound. He realized that the darkness was because his eyes were closed, and with great difficulty, struggled to open them. The sky above him was purplish and hazy, heavy with dust. A shadow passed over him and he heard the familiar thump, thump of a UH-60 passing overhead. A darker shadow enveloped him as someone bent over his face. He tried to force his eyes to focus on the features of the man looking down on him, but couldn’t.

  “Hang in there, Sergeant. You’re gonna be ok!”

  “How is he, Doc?”

  “I don’t know. He’s lost a shitload of blood. The left side of his neck is swollen tight. I think he might have gotten his carotid artery.” There was a pause and more light as the featureless face disappeared from view. “We got to get him the fuck out of here, Mac, or he ain’t gonna make it. He needs to be in the OR, like, 5 mikes ago.”

  It was painfully familiar. The horrible déjà vu was back, only now, lying on his back in the dirt he had no activity to distract him from it—only the terrible radio play that he had heard before. Doc White, the young Louisiana corpsman, would tell Mac about his tracheotomy next. God, please make it stop!

  “What is that in his neck? Shrapnel?”

  “It’s a tracheotomy, dipshit. I had to put it in so he could breathe. The bullet tore his windpipe nearly in half. He was drowning in his own blood.”

  There was movement around him, then another shadow, another featureless face. It had to be Ballard, or maybe someone from first platoon. Maybe even Chad. How weird. Hadn’t he just had lunch with him?

  Jack felt desperately short of breath and struggled to suck air into his lungs, which made the burning worse. He tried to raise an arm, to reach out for Mac, but his arms were dead weight by his sides. He felt a panic grow inside of him, and struggled to stay calm. Why the fuck couldn’t he move? Was it like that before in the dream?

  He forced his mind away from his burning pain, from the feeling like tight bands were wrapped around his chest, keeping him from getting air into his oxygen‐starved body. He forced his mind to Pam, to thoughts of her body moving against his, of their legs entwined, her breath on his neck. The way she liked to lick his neck and earlobes. He thought of Claire, lying peaceful and calm on his bare chest, rocking in the glider beside her crib—his big girl. He tried again to let his mind wander to his girls and away from his fear of his lingering death.

  He sensed more movement beside him and he blinked his eyes to clear them. He turned his head slightly to the left, forcing his eyes to focus on the dark shape beside him in the dirt. Slowly the image sharpened, like someone was fine‐tuning a pair of binoculars. Jack suddenly remembered what he would see when the image cleared. He closed his eyes tightly. He had no desire to see Simmons’ dead body again. He had seen that more than enough. Jack found himself wishing that, if he couldn’t fade away in his chariot of swirling sand, he could just fade away all together.

  Jack heard the horrible whistling and bubbling, just like in his nightmares, and then something warm and sticky poured out from the center of his neck. He felt the blood tickling down both sides of his neck and dripping off into the dirt.

  Jack realized he needed desperately to know that his girls were ok. If he could just know that, he thought he might be brave enough to finish his trip. He felt a gentle breeze on his face.

  * * *

  Jack sat on a bench, warm in the sunshine but not hot in that oppressive, ovenlike heat of Iraq. He leaned forward, knees to elbows, and rubbed his tired face with clean and soft hands.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  He was in the park near their house. He could tell from the green leaves and warm breeze that it was definitely not November anymore, but rather spring or early summer. He scanned the handful of people on the playground, searching for them.

  Pam stood behind Claire, pushing her in a swing. Jack saw immediately that it was not the little toddler swing, but a “big girl” swing, and the little girl seated there was much older than Claire-- at least four or five years old. She had the most beautiful blonde hair that trailed out behind her and reflected gold in the sunshine. Her blue eyes were wide and smiling. She pumped her little bare legs back and forth, her dress bunched up unceremoniously in the wind she created. The sound of her musical laughter grabbed his heart.

  “Higher, Mommy, higher!” she squealed.

  “High enough, Claire Bear,” her mother laughed back. Jack smiled, his eyes filling with tears. “You’re gonna give ol’ Mommy a heart attack!”

  Claire giggled and then Pam grabbed her around the waist, pulling her to a stop and then smothered her in kisses. Claire squealed again and then hopped from the swing and ran towards the jungle gym.

  “Cat
ch me, Mommy!” she shouted.

  Pam started after her then stopped. She hesitated a moment, and then turned slowly towards Jack. For a moment their eyes met across the park. Pam wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, as if she had gotten a chill. Her smile tightened a bit, but Jack noted with satisfaction that she still smiled. They stared at each other like that, motionless.

  Then Claire broke the moment.

  “Come on, Mommy,” she said with a five-year-old’s fleeting irritation. “Come and catch me!”

  Pam stood a moment, and then raised a hand to him in a small wave. She pressed her lips to her fingers, and waved again. Then she spun on a heel, laughed again as if the moment had never happened, and ran towards the jungle gym where her daughter climbed the wrong way up the slide.

  “I’m comin’ to getcha, Bear!”

  Jack caught the invisible kiss in his hand and pressed his palm to his own lips.

  Then the sunlight was obscured by swirling sand.

  * * *

  He struggled to open his eyes again, fighting the darkness and the sense of being buried alive. Thick clouds of dust and sand swirled around him, kicked up by the blades of the helicopter. The blackness continued to envelop him, although he felt quite certain that his eyes were open now. He was flat on his back, uncomfortable in his body armor. His Kevlar helmet was off, his head in the dirt, but he didn’t really care. He was only vaguely aware, in a disinterested way, of the sound of gunfire, like noise on a TV in another room. He could also hear voices and was aware of activity all around him. Someone held his hand. There was a horrible burning in the center of his throat and a raspy gurgle when he sucked in a breath.

  “They’re coming around this side.”

  “Clear that space as a path.”

  “Hold his head! Hold his head!”

  “Corporal light up that fucking window and silence that Hadji sniper!”

  Jack was pretty sure it was Captain Lewellyn’s voice. Not much patience in it right now. Jack wondered if Lewellyn knew what he had been to him.

  A burst of gunfire.

  Screams in the distance.

  “Dustoff in three minutes, sir!”

  “Casey! Hang in there, bud. Helo’s coming! ...Casey!!”

  Casey? He realized that felt truly right for the first time. All the times he had heard it now in this running nightmare, this was the first time it felt like him. A hand squeezed his own left hand and he tried to squeeze back, but couldn’t be sure if he had. There were spots of light in the dark. Small, but bright, spots of light. He felt that should mean something to him. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand and felt them move.

  “That’s good, Sar’n. I’m here, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

  Casey tried again to talk, but his effort brought only frustration and more pain deep in his throat. Casey thought of his wife. What would she be doing right now? What time was it there? Was it day or night at home? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that he wanted desperately to be there. Where was the dusty tornado that was supposed to take him home? He concentrated on picturing them in the park, running the wrong way up the jungle gym slide.

  Come and get me, Mommy!

  Casey smiled.

  “Bird’s on the ground.”

  “Great,” Doc’s voice. HM2 White, the Navy corpsman. “Doc Barton on board?” Barton was the physician from battalion.

  “He’s here.”

  Another squeeze on his hand. He felt so fucking weak, but was able to squeeze back. His mouth was so dry. He desperately wanted a drink of water. Casey blinked his eyes as he saw red lights approaching. Flashlights. Then there was a loud explosion, close this time, and he felt Doc White lean over him to keep the blowing dust from settling on his face.

  “Shit! Jesus, where did that come from?”

  “No! Goddamn it, no. Check left! Check left!” he heard short bursts of M16A rifles, then the loud burp as a squad assault weapon let loose a ten‐ or fifteen‐round burst. There was shouting as well, farther away.

  “Holy shit! How long has his neck been that big? Goddamn. Got the carotid for sure. If that thing lets loose we’ll sure as hell lose him.”

  “Doc, he’s awake. He can hear you.”

  “Sergeant Stillman? Casey? It’s Doc Barton. You’re gonna be ok, buddy.” He felt a squeeze on his left shoulder, but was not reassured. Casey felt a strong terror grow inside him. He didn’t want to die here in this shithole. He didn’t want to die at all.

  “Pam…Claire.” He mouthed the words but there was no sound. He was certain now that they knew how much he loved them. He pictured them again, playing and laughing in the park. Casey felt the world getting dark again, felt again like he was tumbling, falling to the left. It was nauseating and he felt a horrible sharp pain growing in his left temple. He could also feel tears, running out of his eyes and down his grimy cheeks.

  I love you, Baby. I’m so sorry, but I think I’ve got to go.

  Then he felt himself getting pulled down into a warm darkness, like the night was wrapping around him in a comfortable blanket.

  Chapter

  31

  The young woman walked slowly up the familiar path between the identical white headstones. Around her a mix of tourists and families milled about in quiet reverence, whispering to one another as they pointed to names, or stood quietly beside a stone. The quiet ones mostly stared fixedly at the stones, eyes far away and lost in thought. Some looked off in contentment, finding comfort in easy memories of better times.

  Though she walked slowly, she lost herself in thought of the man she never really knew. She walked with the steady pace of one who had walked this path many times. She pictured in her mind the strong face of her father, his easy smile, his hazel eyes which seemed to hold so much love and happiness. As she often did lately, perhaps as she grew older, she wondered whether the pictures in her mind were real memories of her father or just memories of pictures and stories, shown and told so often by her mother that they became real to her. She smiled softly. Just the kind of question her Dad might wonder. It didn’t matter. Her father’s memory was very real and alive for her, whether from her own very early memories or her mother’s loving portrait of the man. That was what mattered.

  Claire was unsure why today, this time, it seemed so important to her that she come for her visit alone. It was the first time she had ever been here without her mother, and she felt the same sense of purpose, of destiny, that had drawn her since last night. Her mother would arrive at the airport in just a few hours. Then they would come here together later this afternoon, walk this same path as they had every November for all the life her memory could share with her. But since last night, it had felt as if she were being called here. Crazy as it sounded, she knew in her heart that she was supposed to be here alone this morning. Claire pulled up the collar of her navy blue overcoat, as much against the chill the thought gave her as against the actual cold of the crisp morning. The leaves were gone from the trees—had been for nearly a month—which was a little early for Washington D.C., but the cold had come well before Halloween this year.

  Claire turned right, her pace slowing a little, both by her search for more memories of her dad and a little apprehension about standing at his grave alone. She had lived in D.C. for almost a year and a half now, since starting last year at George Washington University, and had never come here alone. She had thought about it a time or two last year, and of course had made the visit with her mother last November, but had never quite been able to make herself come alone. For some reason the thought made her feel better about this morning instead of more nervous.

  Claire turned left almost without thinking. Almost there. As she approached her dad, she suddenly stopped, surprised and unsure what to do.

  The man who stood at the foot of her father’s grave was tall and lanky. His hair was peppered grey on top and shaved skin-close on the sides. His face looked much younger than his grey hair suggested and he had the build of an athlete,
obvious even with his loose-fitting black leather jacket.

  Definitely a Marine. Claire had met more than her share of Marines over the years. They had come to her birthday parties and brought their kids to the park to play with her. All of her life she had been cared for by “the rest of our family,” as her Mom referred to the Corps. But she had never seen anyone else here on their visits. And she was sure she had never met this man, who stood next to her dad, his broad shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Curious, Claire approached.

  “Hi,” she said, unsure what else to say.

  The man jumped slightly, startled from some faraway memory, and then looked around nervously.

  “Um…uh, hi,” he said. His voice cracked the slightest bit, as if he had been crying. Then he looked Claire in the eyes, his own wet and sad. “I’m…uh…I’m sorry. You and Pam, I mean your mom, don’t usually come until the afternoon.” The man shifted nervously, the emotion out of place on a Marine. “You’re Claire, right?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Well, I’ll come back later,” the man announced and turned away from her to leave. Pam noticed the limp, slight and well adapted over sixteen years, but still easily visible.

  “Wait,” Pam said, catching the man by the sleeve. The Marine turned to her, pain in his eyes. “Did you know my Dad?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the man said simply, and he looked down at his feet. Claire saw tears running softly down his cheeks, weathered beyond his years by many deployments to harsh jungles and deserts around the world.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked. Her heart raced with excitement. It was as if a puzzle picture of her Dad, a single piece missing for all of these years, was finally going to be finished. Without thinking, she took the Marine’s hands in hers. “Are you Corporal Rich Simmons?”

  The man looked up, a half smile on his face.