Death by Facebook

by Everett Peacock

  I could also sense something completely new as well. For want of a better word I had to call it “nature”. I felt like I was actually a piece of it now. In school, science class I believe it was, the teacher told us that people were animals as well, a part of nature, etc. etc. No one ever bought that, though. We were Humans. And Nature was a place we lived in, or exploited, or avoided. Two different worlds.

  But now, I felt like I was actually integrated right into the fabric of this thing. It was very much alive. As I quit moving, several hundred feet from the cabin, I listened, like a hunter might in the woods. Something was going on, everywhere. It was not just a silent stand of trees, or a few moss covered rocks some poet might write about. It wasn't just a volcano, a tourist attraction, or a place Rangers and scientists make a living trying to monitor.

  It was something like I was standing outside of a window of the Lava Lounge on free beer night. Lots of activity going on, like people talking excitedly, singing karaoke. You might not understand any of the many conversations going on inside, but you could tell they were all having a big time.

  The river of stars above was humming, billions of Lava Lounges, all full of voices and songs and storytelling. It was almost too much to focus on, so I followed the trees to the overlook of Halema'uma'u crater and it's steaming lava pools. The glow was immense, lighting the plume from below like a Hollywood spotlight turned red.

  Deep inside the canopy of Ohia trees and impossibly prehistoric ferns towering everywhere I stopped. Just beyond, a few feet actually, were the cliffs and the march of devastation leading to the pit. Here the jungle was teaming with sounds, the sounds of souls. Sounds from things that were never human though, things that were quiet different from me. Sounds from the sort of things you would expect from a world without people. It reminded me of a time I was alone in the forests of Montana, hunting deer. I must have been the only person for a hundred miles. I was young then, and a bit afraid, and as I clutched my rifle I felt vastly outnumbered. It was then that I first experienced what I know knew to be true: the world, the universe, is not human centric.

  As I listened to the cacophony of sounds flowing around me, through me, rising and falling with some sort of pulse I heard something above the din. A voice. It was clear and distinct, easily rising slowly above the chatter all around. It was getting louder, and, I assumed, closer.

  “Jimmy! Jimmy Turner!”

  I turned all around, trying to find the source, but it seemed embedded in the flow, like a flower floating in a mountain stream.

  “Yo Jimmy, it's Tommy! You must be close by dude!”

  He sounded very close now and he sounded familiar.

  “Tommy?” I mumbled. I tried to look around, but I didn't see anything but the jungle and the glow of the lava some distance away.

  Suddenly, I felt him next to me. But I saw no one there.

  “Hey Jimmy, good to catch up with you again,” Tommy said, his voice gentle and confident.

  I couldn't figure out why I couldn't see him. I knew I could see Janet and the tourists, and the wild bunch at the Lava Lounge. Why couldn't I see him?

  “Tommy, help me out here,” I said to him, wherever he was. “Why can't I see you?”

  He laughed a little at that, making me feel a little foolish.

  “Well, Jimmy, I can't see you either dude, but there you are, yes?”

  I gave up for an instant on that mystery and moved on to trying to figure out which Tommy this was that apparently knew me, and I him.

  “Tommy, I'm sorry. But, Tommy who?”

  “No problem. I get that a lot. Tommy after all is a popular name. Private First Class Thomas J. Jacoba ring any bells?”

  It did indeed. Tommy, my high school buddy. A friend on Facebook as well.

  “Hey,” I said excitedly. “Why aren't you in Afghan anymore?”

  Just asking the question answered it for me, and before I could apologize or explain myself, he started talking.

  “It seems like only a moment ago, Jimmy. You know about that, I think. I was on patrol, like every day, on patrol. The guys were all moving along this wall, trying to reach a building where we heard bad guys were stashing weapons.

  “I was just turning to ask the guy behind me for some gum when it happened. Real fast. Real fast, buddy.”

  I listened to him, fascinated to have someone else talk about it with as well.

  “One moment,” he continued. “I'm thinking about you over here checking out the lava, and it made me thirsty you know? I turn to ask Horas for gum and boom!”

  I felt that hit me hard. “Damn Tommy, I'm sorry.”

  We were both silent for several moments. The flow wasn't, though, and it pulsed around both of us, like rocks in a stream.

  “Yeah, sucks right? Soldiers getting blown up with dynamite. I mean, we have nukes, right, and we are getting blown up with frickin' dynamite?”

  I had wondered that too, a long time ago.

  “But, I'm real sorry,” he continued. “Sorry that I had that post timed for 10 P.M.”

  “Post? What are you talking about?” I asked, still a bit amazed that I was talking to someone at all.

  “I gotta go, Jimmy,” Tommy said, sounding a bit distracted. “Take care.” He seemed to move away a bit, in the stream of sounds. “I'm real sorry, Jimmy.” He seemed to speak louder now as the distance between us increased. “I'm sorry that my Dad is gonna read about me dying on Facebook.”

  10

  I remained where Tommy had left me, in the jungle, near the cliffs, staring at the glow of the lava in the distance. He had long since moved on to wherever it was he was going. Those last words of his were still bouncing around in my mind. Sorry. Sorry that his Dad would read about his death on Facebook. Oh my god, my own Mom must have read that post Janet had made on my behalf by now! It had been almost a week.

  The sky seemed to quickly grow lighter, washing away the river of stars and the blackness they bathed in. The sounds I had heard much earlier were quieting and soon I didn't notice them anymore. Perhaps the sun overwhelmed them with its own song.

  There were no lights on in Cabin #94 as I approached the front porch and then moved inside. My laptop was still plugged in, and Facebook was still up. Janet, I soon discovered, was asleep still on the bed, fully clothed and on top of the covers, snoring loudly. A dozen beer cans littered the room, one spilling on the floor.

  I looked more closely at the laptop, and the chat window was still open. The little box off to the right tried real hard to squeeze as much text as it could into a small space.

  Joyce Johannson:

  “Jimmy, haven't heard from you.

  Hope all is well.

  You need to report to Ft. Bragg in 3 days.”

  Joyce is offline

  My Sergeant was looking out for me no doubt. She always found her troops one way or the other before we were scheduled to show up after leave. It kept everyone out of trouble. Her especially. Someone didn't show up once, and she cursed the guy for weeks for all the heat she got from the Lieutenant and for all the paperwork.

  Well, there wasn't much I could do. So I waited. Waited for Janet, waited for Ms. Debbie and my trip to the light. Tommy sure didn't have to hang around long. I wondered what the deal with me was.

  Something was keeping me here, and the more I thought about it, the more it pointed to Janet. Why still mystified me. At this point I could move on easily. Sure I loved her, but the part of her I loved seemed to no longer be there. At least not on the surface.

  ~~~

  Sometime around what must have been high noon, she pulled herself up off the bed to find the cabin all cleaned up. The maid had been a saint, keeping her work silent. Plus she was making a small fortune cashing in all the beer cans.

  Janet immediately went to the refrigerator and fished out her last two beers cans. Pop. Pop. No Snap Crackle here, just beer. The first one went down like water and she took the second one into the bathroom setting it down on the counter.

>   Staring at herself for a few minutes, studying her eyes and running her hands through her long red curls she abruptly started crying. But, she didn't drop her head, or reach up with her hands to cover her eyes. She just moved in closer to the mirror and watched the tears roll down her cheeks, sobbing.

  After a moment, and without wiping her face, she stripped off all of her clothes and stared again at herself, her body. Hands shaking slightly she moved them up and under her small breasts, gently lifting them. She pulled at her nipples for a second and then released them quickly. Reaching to her sides, she moved her hands, gently now, down her ribs and to her hips. She was crying again, but lightly. I could almost hear the tears hitting the counter top.

  She felt around her belly for a long time, then moved back around to her butt. She always had a fantastic butt, spectacular, actually, not that I cared much anymore, but I did remember caring at one time.

  It was strange watching her. I got the distinct impression she was sad about herself, although I can't imagine why. She had an athletic, muscular build that I had to defend on more than one occasion in a bar. When she was happy and smiling and friendly, she was a knockout.

  Finally, she reached up to wipe away her tears. Her hands found her long red curls this time and both of them lifted the mass up and over her head. She turned her left hip inward, posing like a model and trying to smile. It looked forced.

  She turned the other hip in toward the mirror, preening for the mirror, for herself. Then she laughed a little and let her hair fall. Lifting one leg up onto the counter she leaned in close to the mirror. I watched her expression change as she moved one hand down low. Her eyes closed gently as she took a deep breath. For a few minutes she tried and tried, but her concentration, her mechanics were off, and she quit.

  That's when I saw the anger in her eyes. She stood there, hands on her hips, frustrated and angry about it. Furious. She slapped herself, right across the face, twice. Then she slapped her breasts, hard enough to leave a mark. She was crying again now. Angry tears, pissed off tears.

  She picked up the last beer and chugged it, smashed the can with her hands, and tried to throw it out the bathroom window. It missed the small opening and bounced right back into the toilet.

  Cursing, she turned back to herself, in the mirror and began punching her stomach, like a samurai might sink his sword. Of course, she couldn't get enough leverage to hurt herself much, but she was going to try.

  I was afraid she might actually hurt herself in a minute, if the thought of a weapon crossed her mind. Immediately upon thinking that she stormed out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. She was throwing things around, bouncing shoes off the walls and knocking over a lamp with her jacket.

  Still cursing loudly, like I might, but certainly not like any woman I had ever met she apparently found what it was she needed. Slamming the bedroom door open so hard it bounced closed again behind her she held long fabric sheers in her hand as she marched back into the bathroom.

  This I couldn't watch, wouldn't watch.

  11

  The cold gray sand was locked in an immortal battle against the green terrorists. Her bare feet ran quickly over the firmness, just above where the last wave had receded. She saw it easily, knowing the heart of war personally, and recognizing one you could never really win. A battle yes, as the gray sand battled the sea and its jade green pebbles, but never the war.

  38 years old, tough, single, and moving powerfully along that indefinite line between the Pacific and Oceanside, California, she never paused. Never slowed down for a breather, lest she drop her pulse too low. Never skip a run, even in the obnoxious winter dampness and cold. Sergeant Joyce Johannson liked it that way. No time to dwell on the impossibility of it all.

  Impossibility seemed to permeate everything, at least this morning. All this running wouldn't prevent anything in the long run. Her skin would slacken, her hair would gray and her muscles weaken. She stopped at the pier and counted to 60 before turning to head back the direction she had already come. And, she felt, nothing would ever stop the war. The war in mankind's soul. They could win every battle, every skirmish, every challenge, and still, there would be more. Just from some other direction over some other reason, imagined or real.

  It didn't matter at this point anyhow. She was going to continue to run in 40 degree fog and she was going back to Afghanistan. And she was going to gather her soldiers like a mother hen and get them all together at Ft. Bragg in two more days.

  There was only one man left to confirm and he had just posted on Facebook that he was dead. She had heard of excuses before, but this one got the award for originality, if not for stupidity as well.

  How can you post something when you're dead? That hit her first, but then immediately after she thought it was something people don't normally joke about. So, if it was legit how would you do it? Set a timer or something and then go jump off a bridge?

  Regardless, she needed Private First Class James Madison Turner on a plane pronto if he was still in Hawaii. It would take him nearly 20 hours to get from airport to airport. She would try and call the front desk at Kilauea Recreational Area to get a message to him directly.

  Up ahead a larger wave was moving in, threatening to swamp her straight line back across the beach. She sprinted as fast as she could to beat the enemy. Her heart, her legs and her lungs all stepped up to make it happen. Only a small splash hit on her back as she won, then slowing down to a simple run, she lost her frown.

  ~~~

  My fascination, well, my fear, actually could finally hold me back not a moment longer. I had been outside Cabin #94 for an hour. Nothing had changed. No lights, on or off. No loud noises, no screams. I sensed the static, the white static of Janet's mind begin to soften and fade. Was she slowly bleeding to death on the bathroom floor?

  Instantly I moved inside to the fireplace mantel again, and looked around. Nothing. Nothing indicating trouble. I gazed down the hall and then I saw it, on the floor, spread across the entrance to the bathroom. Red, lots of red.

  Hair was spread out across the white tile floor, almost flowing on its own. I moved closer and into the doorway.

  She was leaning up against the bathroom counter, still naked. Her lower belly was pressed against the edge and her toes were stretched up. Strong legs held her as she moved the scissors for a last snip or two of what was now a military style haircut. A military man's haircut. Half an inch at best and brighter red than I could have ever imagined. Carrot top, blue ribbon at the fair, kind of red.

  Reaching down for a beer, she realized the can was empty. Crushing it swiftly she dropped it to the floor, let the scissors fall to the counter and smiled at herself.

  I had never imagined how much her long hair had added to her femininity. Her thin hips and small chest accentuated her now boyish good looks. No makeup parked on her skin or lips.

  She turned and marched right toward me, running right through me. That was a strange feeling, being that there was no feeling whatsoever. She moved toward the bedroom and threw my suitcase up on the tousled bed.

  Soon she had one of my white t-shirts, a pair of khaki trousers, and finally a pair of my briefs. These she put on experimentally, pulling them up like a pair of training panties. They fit her exceptionally well. Next came the white shirt and then she found my 189th Infantry Brigade cap, which she pulled down low over her brow.

  Finally the pants and my Wal-Mart special running shoes completed her. Walking over to the bedside stand she found my wallet, opened it and no doubt found the two hundred dollars I had stashed for a special dinner in Kona.

  I wasn't sure, but I think I heard her mutter beer money as she stashed the wallet in her back pocket, my back pants pocket.

  She practically ran back into the bathroom and checked herself again in the mirror. Damn, she looked a lot like me! Her cheekbones were a little softer and her lips a little fuller, but not by very much. With my jacket on, my wallet in her pocket and a big smile on her face she marched
over to the Lava Lounge.

  ~~~

  Larry Larson had parked just outside the closed gate to the back entrance to KMC. It was only a short walk to the Lava Lounge from there and two miles less driving. Being almost 5pm he figured some of the guys over at the front desk might be game for some karaoke.

  As he passed the Lava Lounge, he noticed that it was far too quiet. He needed a couple of good voices, or at least some brave voices, to liven things up. The front desk was only a few yards further through the mist. Larry could see the bright lights on inside.

  “I'll make sure we get him the note, ma'am.” Alex was looking like it was quitting time, but was tortured with the fact that he couldn't quite quit. “Yes, ma'am, I understand it's very important. No. No, I'm not enlisted, no, ma'am. I just work here.” He was nodding yes and gesturing with his free hand.

  Larry walked up to the counter and leaned in. Alex looked up and pointed at his watch, frowning.

  “Of course, right away. Yes. I understand.” He looked at Larry and rolled his eyes. “I'll do it myself Sergeant.” Alex hung up, disgusted.

  “Can you believe that?” Alex complained.

  “What?” Larry followed.

  “This Sergeant Janice or something like that,” he looked down at his notes. “ Sergeant Joyce Johannson wants me to track down some lost solider and give him a note. This guy's about to miss his deployment.” He waved his hands in mock desperation. “Like I got nothing better to do at quitting time.”

  “Let me see that, buddy,” Larry said, reaching out for the notes. Reading it quickly, he put the note down and reached over for Alex's paper and pen. “Here, you want me to do it? Cabin #94 is half way between here and karaoke. You're going right?”