He’d only felt snow once before and that was years ago when he was a young kid. He’d lived near Brownsville then, close to the Mexican border. It hardly ever got cold there, but this time, a cold front had blown in, it was cold for a week and then it snowed. The snow only amounted to about an inch, but everything stopped. No school. Stores closed. They shut down the highway. The adults were worried, but the kids loved it. He remembered playing with his cousins, running in the snow, letting the flakes fall in their mouths and melt on their tongues. They scooped the fallen snow off of cars and benches and threw it at each other. The next day, it warmed up and the snow disappeared by the afternoon. That was his one experience with snow.
Until now, and this was different. The snow here was falling much harder and the cold more intense. He turned his head as he heard a sound. A faint sound of music somewhere far away. A familiar song from, from his childhood. A guitar played and a soft female voice sang in Spanish, words he didn’t understand. But the voice was so familiar. He listened harder and the music seemed to come closer. He was sure he knew the voice but couldn’t make out the words. And then suddenly, he could, but they weren’t just words. It was a name. His name.
“Ramon.”
And he knew the voice—It was his mother. His mother who died when he was just ten years old. Her voice close, like she was standing right next to him. He peered into the raging storm trying to see her, but only saw white. His arms outstretched, he walked towards the sound.
“Mama,” he called out, but she didn’t answer. The voice was gone. He thrashed about going in one direction, then another, screaming her name. Still, no reply. Panic rose in his chest. Was he going to lose her again?
Then he heard the music once more. In back of him this time and far, far away. He turned towards it and stumbled forward, trying to find its source. His heart beat like a bass drum now, he panted with fear and exertion. It wasn’t cold anymore. Now it was hot and humid. The snowstorm had stopped. It was still a world of white, but now it seemed more like fog or steam.
He rushed forward now, trying to find the source of the music. Running faster, but no matter how fast he ran, the sound stayed in front of him. He couldn’t lose her again. He ran even faster, and this time, it was as if he’d launched himself into the air, he was off the ground and flying. Suddenly, the whiteness dispersed and he saw where he was for the first time. He wasn’t flying at all but had stepped off of a cliff and was now falling face forward into a deep canyon. The ground rushing closer.
Ramon’s head jerked back against the cart. He was suddenly wide-awake. His heart pounded, his veins pulsed with adrenaline. His whole body soaked with sweat. It was only a dream, he thought, just a dream. He let his breath out in a long sigh. Nothing but a bad dream.
He tried to bring his hand up to his face to wipe his forehead, but couldn’t. His arms were restrained. For the first time, he noticed his surroundings. He was in a brightly lit, white room. Three walls were bare concrete. The fourth wall contained the door. It was thick stainless steel with no doorknob, an electronic keypad built into it. Next to the door was a mirror, set at eye level, it ran the length of the wall. Ramon turned away from his reflection.
He tried to move his legs, but they too were restrained.
Where am I?
He had to think, it wasn’t familiar at all. He tried to sit up, but his entire body was bound by straps. He was on a cart of some kind, fastened tight to it. His right arm felt especially uncomfortable. A needle poked into his vein, taped securely, connected to an intravenous bag that slowly dripped some unknown fluid into his body.
What am I doing here?
Ramon tried to remember, but his head was sluggish, his brain dull. This wasn’t the prison. The sounds were altogether different. This room was so quiet, the only sound a soft electric hum.
He felt anxious. It was like awakening from one nightmare into a new one. How did I get here? He thought back, What happened last? Where was I before I went to sleep? It seemed so long ago, he couldn’t recall. Then all at once, he did. He had been put to death. The last thing he remembered was being in the Death Chamber at Ellis, strapped down and ready to die.
He gripped the sides of the cart. The veins in his neck pounded, his eyes bulged. He screamed. His body spasmed and he gasped for breath. He screamed again and again. All he could feel was fear, the utter terror of the situation. His screamed until his throat was raw.
After a long time, he regained control. He gripped his fingers against the sides of the cart, grasping the wet cotton sheets. He struggled for air. There must be an explanation. With effort, he regained his normal rhythm of breathing. His heart slowed a notch then, but his eyes were frantic as they scanned the room looking for clues. There’s got to be an explanation.
A sound came from the doorway. The door slid open with a quiet whoosh, followed by a rush of air entering the room. A figure appeared in the doorway, large and strange. He appeared to be human, but Ramon couldn’t tell for sure. He was dressed in a large, bulky, day-glow yellow reflective suit that covered his entire body, including his head. The figure lumbered forward, his eyes just visible behind the clear visor of his headgear. His breath rasped out in a staticky electronic drone. A backpack peeked over his shoulder, letting out a mechanical hum. As he moved into the room, another figure, smaller but dressed in an identical outfit, followed him into the room pushing a small cart. Once the second figure came all the way inside, he turned and passed a card through the keypad in the door. The door slid shut.
The two men moved the cart beside Ramon’s bed. It held gauze, some tape, yards of tubing, and a small stainless steel cylindrical device with a plunger at one end. The men’s breath rasped out rhythmically. They stepped up to Ramon. The first figure took hold of his arm and held it in a vise-like grip to the side of the bed so that Ramon couldn’t move at all. The second figure picked up the metal device, brought it up to Ramon’s arm and depressed the plunger. Ramon felt a jolt of pain as a needle entered his skin.
The shorter man bent over Ramon, his visor glaring with reflected light. Ramon felt as if his head was going to explode as the man began to speak. The electronic apparatus distorted his voice, but Ramon heard the words clearly.
“Welcome to Hell, Mr. Willis.”
5
Lieutenant Charles Green always looked forward to Thursday nights. Discipline was tight here at the Installation, and Rev Tanner’s poker game was one of the few chances to unwind. The game was for officers only, but nobody paid attention to rank. For a junior officer, this was a revelation. While the game was on, they were equals. No “yes, sirs” or “no, sirs” were required. If Green saw them at the Installation tomorrow, he’d have to salute and play the part, but tonight, he was free.
The Johnson Installation was in many ways like duty on a submarine. For the officers on the base, it was a long time between leaves off base. But their paychecks came regularly. And since all their necessities were paid, gambling was a common pastime. This was a friendly game, though. No one ever lost too much or took it too seriously.
Green couldn’t play every week. Sometimes he pulled late duty, but whenever he could, he made it a point to go. The players shifted each week, depending on schedules, but there were a couple of constants. Rev Tanner was one. The game was held in his room in C barracks. He was only a lieutenant, but he ran the game and somehow he was always cleared of duties on Thursday nights. Rev was big and black as asphalt. He stood over six-foot tall in his bare feet and he weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds. Mostly muscle too. He’d been a fullback for two years at the University of Georgia before quitting to enlist in the Army. Green didn’t know Rev’s real first name, but everyone called him Rev because of his voice. He had a deep smooth bass that would have been the envy of any Baptist preacher.
The other constant in the game was Major Al “Rooster” Stepman. Stepman was short and feisty with a chip on his shoulder the size of New Hampshire. He was competitive in everything he did
. Quick to argue and quick to take offense. But he was also a born leader, the kind of guy men would want to follow in a battle situation whether he was wearing the stripes or not. He was well up in the hierarchy of the Installation, but he still acted like a regular guy. It was Major Stepman who first invited Green into the game, and Green was indebted to him for it, and honored to be chosen for special treatment.
Green rapped on the door. After a moment, Rev Tanner opened it. The room was a haze of cigar smoke. Four players were sitting around an old card table, absorbed in the game. A baseball game blared from a TV in the corner, but nobody was watching it.
“Hi, Rev, how’s it going tonight?” Green asked.
“Charley the Tuna! Come on in, boy. We need your money.” Rev opened the door all the way and Green walked through.
“Hey, guys, who’s winning?” Green asked.
Stepman tossed some change into the pot and glanced up. “Grab a beer and grab a seat,” he called out. “We need fresh blood.” The other players simply nodded their heads or grunted acknowledgment as they studied their cards.
Green walked over to the refrigerator in the corner and pulled out a Lone Star. He twisted off the cap and sat down at the last open chair. He took a long pull on the bottle and prepared to wait while they finished out their hand. He was sitting to the left of Rev Tanner. Virgil Ortman was on his other side. Virgil was a lieutenant also, originally from New Jersey. He always came on like a clown, a real wise guy. He was usually the first one to fold and he rarely won, but he played so safe that he never lost much either. Next to Ortman was Bob Durmo, a major from Indiana who took his cards and everything else seriously. His ears were about a size and a half too big and people called him Dumbo behind his back. Next to Durmo and across from Green was Rooster Stepman. The night was early, but from his bloodshot eyes, it looked like he’d had a head start on the drinking.
Green almost didn’t recognize the last player in the group. He was a captain with short blonde hair and a fighter’s body, hard and lean. His face was all angles. What threw him were the eyes—soft, and green as a lazy river. They would have been fine on a painter or a poet, but not on this man. They weren’t at all what Green had expected when he met him the other day—though at the time, the captain had been wearing mirrored sunglasses.
“You know everyone here, Charley?” Rev asked as he returned to his seat.
“Yeah, sure. Well, not officially…” He looked over at the captain.
“Hey, Pal, sorry if I was short with you the other day.” The captain flashed a cold smile at Green as he extended his hand. “The names Parker… Parker Cain. We appreciate people like you that can do their job and not ask questions.”
“Yes, sir.” The handshake was firm to the point of bone crushing and Green realized he’d been wrong about the eyes. There was an intensity he hadn’t noticed at first.
“Okay, we all know each other. Let’s finish the hand, fer Christ’s sake,” Rooster Stepman called out.
Green took a sip of his beer and settled back in his seat. He hadn’t realized it before, but he now saw that Durmo, Stepman, and Rev Tanner all had the same purple slash emblem that Captain Cain wore. Funny how he hadn’t noticed it before.
“Pot’s right, cards are coming.” Virgil Ortman was the dealer. They were playing seven-card stud. The first two cards were dealt face down, the next four dealt out one at a time, face up with wagers placed after each. The last card was always face down. Ortman was dealing out the third up card, laying out a running commentary as he did so.
“Pair of bitches out front, looking good… eight of hearts, possible straight… six of hearts, that’s a lot of red… a black jack for the black jack.”
He dealt the last card to himself, the ten of diamonds, which was no help at all. “And I fold.” Ortman threw his cards down. “Bitches bet.”
Durmo picked up his hole cards and glanced at them, then he looked around the table. He was showing two queens and a nine of diamonds. He tugged on his right ear, trying to decide. He tentatively reached into his pile. “I’ll bet a dollar.”
Stepman glanced at his hand, a six of diamonds, eight of hearts, and a nine of spades showing. He had two cards to draw a five or a ten to complete his straight if he didn’t already have it in the hole.
“Raise you two fifty.” Stepman threw three ones and a fifty-cent piece into the pot.
Captain Parker Cain was next. He rubbed his eyes and tossed in the three fifty without even glancing at his cards. Then he tossed in an extra five-dollar bill. “Let’s make this interesting… raise another five.” He slipped his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on. “Sorry fellas, the light bothers my eyes.”
Rev Tanner was showing a jack of spades, an ace of clubs, and four of diamonds. Without hesitation, he threw his coins into the pot. “You gotta pay if you’re gonna play. I’m in, guys.”
Durmo stared at his cards, then studied the pot as if he were doing a profit and loss analysis in his head. Very carefully, he pulled out five singles and dropped them into the pot. “I’ll meet your raises and call.” The pot was substantial.
“Okay… last up card.” Ortman threw the cards down on the table. “Damn, three bitches… a seven to help your straight…”
“That’s right, baby!” Stepman snapped his fingers.
“…you got Durmo’s last queen, no help to you… and a jack to go along with your other jack… bitches bet again.”
Durmo studied his cards. “I’ll bet three bucks.” He tossed the money onto the table.
“Meet your three and raise you the same.” Stepman threw his bills onto the table.
“Meet and raise it again.” Parker Cain threw the money in without any hesitation. Green looked around at what was showing on the table. Durmo had three queens, that was a given. Stepman had the makings of a straight, but he was prone to stay in to the bitter end just on the hope that he would catch something on the draw. Rev Tanner had a pair of jacks showing, but if he had more, he’d be betting more aggressively. Green didn’t think he would be a factor. Cain was the wild card; he wasn’t showing much—three hearts—but he was playing with confidence and betting like he already had the flush covered.
Rev Tanner threw his cards down on the table with a grin. “Damn, fellas, this is getting awful rich for a working man. I’m going to have to pass.”
Durmo tugged on his ears again, his forehead shiny with sweat. “I’ll meet your raises, then I call.” He threw his money onto the pile. Stepman dropped three bills in to balance the pot.
“Okay, pot’s right. Last card.” Ortman dealt the last card face down to the three remaining players. “Queens still got the floor.”
Durmo deliberated for a moment, then threw five dollars into the pot. “Okay, five to you.”
Stepman threw the money in. “Let’s see who’s got the cards.”
Parker Cain tossed a five into the pot, then glanced over at Ortman. “What’s the limit on a raise here?”
“Twenty is the limit.”
“Then I raise twenty.” Cain threw two tens onto the pile.
Durmo puckered up like he’d bit into a lemon. He stared at his cards. Green felt he could read his thoughts. For this group, this was a big pot. For Cain to throw money around so loosely, it had to mean he had his flush, a hard hand to beat. Still, Durmo had invested a lot in the hand already. He couldn’t just toss it in now—that would feel like surrender. Durmo tugged hard on his ear then reached for his money. Halfway down, his hand had second thoughts. It paused in midair for a moment before courage finally won out.
“Well, I might regret this… but…” He threw down the twenty dollars then added another ten of his own. “I’ll meet your twenty and raise you ten.”
“Shit!” Stepman’s face reddened. He looked at his cards, as if willing them to be something else. “Shit.” He threw his cards onto the table and took a huge swig on his beer. “He’s got to have the goddamned flush. I’ll let you big spenders fight this one out.�
�� Green thought he was doing a good job of controlling his temper.
Cain met the ten and bumped it up ten dollars more. Durmo tugged on his ear again.
“No more raises. That’s the limit,” Ortman said.
Durmo grimaced as he threw in the last ten. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Okay, I’ve just got the three queens. What have you got?”
Cain shrugged and flashed a smile as he threw his cards face down on the table. “Ya got me, partner.”
“Goddamn! I had a straight. You chased me off with nothing?” A vein throbbed in Stepman’s temple. “I don’t believe it.”
Cain was as cool as ice. “Relax, Rooster; it’s only money. Nothin’ but money, my friends.”
Everyone tensed for a moment. No one called Stepman “Rooster” to his face, especially not a junior officer. Stepman’s face reddened, but he didn’t respond. Green waited for the eruption, but it didn’t come.
After a moment, Durmo nervously raked the money over to his pile. “Whew, that was something.”
Ortman collected the cards and passed the deck on to Durmo for his deal. He gave a short laugh. “It’s only money! I like that, Captain. It’s only money. You playing, Tuna?”
“Yeah, I’m in,” Green replied. He pulled out his cash and asked for change.
The game continued until about one. Durmo had to be up early in the morning and was the first to leave. Cain left soon after. He’d been the big winner that night, ending up taking money from all of them. Now it was down to the last four and they were all about ready to call it a night. Green took a big gulp on his beer, not in a hurry to leave.
“It’s only money. Can you believe that shit?” Stepman was more than buzzed, and irritated at losing for the night.
“He had our number tonight, that’s for sure,” Rev Tanner said as he looked at his watch.
“Who invited that asshole to play anyway?”
Living Proof Page 5