003: Coming Home [FLASHBACK]

The Greyhound from Bakersfield rolled into the dusty lot at exactly one minute after seven, just as the shadows were starting to lengthen across the gas pumps. Ash Devereaux let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relaxing the death grip that had completely mangled the camouflage cap he'd taken off his head a few hours ago when the anxiety had gotten too bad and he needed something to do with his hands rather than watch them shake. With a hiss of the air brakes, the bus stopped and he found himself glancing towards the back; the only other passenger was a dark-haired girl that was dozing. Barely able to suppress his smile, he watched while the sudden stop jolted her awake. Letting out a soft chuckle, he turned back towards the front and picked up his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder as he moved to his feet. His first few official hours as a civilian were already behind him and the only difference he felt was the prickle of unease over his skin. His aunt was supposed to be picking him up, the only damned family he still had left that he was still on speaking terms with. A few seconds later, his feet touched down on the dusty gravel and he looked out over the lot, feeling the cool breeze dry up the sweat that had soaked the back of his shirt for the majority of the trip— nothing more than nerves. One car sat in the lot, someone sitting behind the wheel although he couldn't tell who it was against the setting sun's glare. His heart rate sped up slightly as he shifted the bag to his other hand after tucking the hat into the back pocket of his fatigues, eyes narrowing as he stared at the car.

He probably should have asked what she'd be driving. As he shifted his weight, finally deciding it had to be her, he was nearly bowled over by the dark-haired girl who ran past him to that very same car before jumping into the passenger seat. "Oh." He looked towards the store and then back at the bus just as it started to pull away.

It was six minutes after seven now.

Bowing his head, he started popping open the buttons on the stiff dress shirt until it was flopping open over his white wife-beater while he trudged resolutely towards the store. A little bell over the door dinged as he crossed the threshold, going towards the cooler in the back. A thousand different variations of sugar water assaulted his eyes, the choices staggering and he realized he had no idea what half of them tasted like. He chose a Dr. Pepper only because he had a vague memory of liking it when he was a kid, immediately running it across the back of his neck. His head itched in the worst way— this was the longest his hair had been in about five years, even though it was still buzzed pretty close to the scalp. Sighing, he stared at his ghostly reflection in the glass door, wondering what she was going to think. He hadn't seen her in eleven years, since he'd enlisted with the Corps and the Boyd side of the family had turned their backs on him for good. With a grimace, he realized he was still wearing his dog tags— force of habit— he snatched them over his head and dropped them into the pocket of his pants before making his way up towards the counter.

"Hey," his voice came out quiet as he set down the bottle, making brief eye contact with the teenager whose eyes were glued to the screen of his iPhone, "you got enough change to break a hundred? Don't have any smaller bills on me." The kid nodded so he fished out his wallet, peeling one out and tossing it down. "Can you make sure I've got enough change for a phone call?"

"Pay phone's busted," the kid replied, waiting until Ash had cracked the seal on the soda and brought it to his lips for a drink. "Been like that as long as I've worked here... I dunno what the fuck's wrong with it." He listlessly counted out the change and pushed it towards Ash.

"Figures." Ash crumpled the bills and the change into a ball, stuffing it into his pocket as he turned towards the door. "You got a phone I can use for a second? It's a local call."

The kid shook his head, "nah. There's a phone in the office but it's for emergencies only. They'd have my ass for that. Not even allowed to let customers use the staff can back there. Sorry, dude."

Ash shook his head, not bothering to press the issue when the kid was holding a damned cell phone. The last thing he wanted to do was cause some big scene. If he had to walk the five or so miles into town, he would. "Alright. Thanks for your help all the same." He nodded to the kid and then stepped back out into the evening. The breeze pulled at his unbuttoned shirt as he tilted his head back, taking another long swallow of that vaguely medicinal-tasting soda. The lot was still empty and so was the road in both directions. Sighing, he lifted the strap of his bag up over his head, hooking it diagonal across his shoulders so it wouldn't fall and he turned towards the setting sun. If he was lucky, maybe he'd make it into town before nightfall. 


He was back in that dusty alley in Baghdad, watching that starved-looking dog gnawing on a bone. Following orders had landed them in this mess, pinned down with the close-packed buildings on either side. The rattle of gunfire had lured them in, the silence forcing them in deeper until it was like one of those westerns where the bandits were run into that narrow canyon with no way out. They were sitting ducks, and Ash knew it— he felt it in every beat of his heart.

His eyes were locked on that dog, watching it break apart the bone with its teeth, sucking at the marrow inside. Randy Dunlevy flanked him in the arched doorway, Tyrone Johnson across the street— the other two members of his fire team from that first tour of duty in Iraq. He could smell the mint of the toothpick that was wedged in the corner of Randy's mouth. Everyone had their quirks, superstition running rampant. He carried Gretchen's picture, laminated and sewn with great care into the inside of his flak jacket, pressed against his heart.

There were others from their side scattered along the street, pinned down the same as Ash's team were. When the sound of gunfire rang out again, it wasn't a single shot. It was the death rattle of dozens and then hundreds of bullets from automatic weapons trapping them in a circle of gunfire. Across the street, two of their men were wounded. Ash watched them go down in his peripheral vision, still firing at the windows above that he could aim at with his limited range. The dust was thick, hard to see much but he felt the vibrations of the tank as it rolled, blocking the mouth of the street. The air vibrated as the muzzle flashed and the upper stories of a building collapsed, more dust and glass filling the air. He heard screaming people, felt it in his soul as civilians fled the buildings into the streets, getting mowed down in the crossfire.

The roar of another barrage from the tank obliterated thought and the upper floors of another building collapsed. The tank, rolling forward, was getting close now— too close. All at once, enemy gunfire started coming from two directions, not just one. Randy nudged him; he glanced at Tyrone. They knew what they had to do. It was time to move; if they stayed, they'd die. Ash rose first. In that instant, all went suddenly white, then turned black. It usually played out the same: the concussive explosion of an RPG that threw him through the air, rupturing his left eardrum. This time as he lay there in the path of destruction, she walked through the dust and the smoke, bullets sending up chips of mortar from the buildings as they somehow missed her. She looked the same as she did in that picture he'd taken with him when he'd shipped out, fresh out of high school. He wasn't even sure she knew he had taken it when he'd been filling in for the yearbook. She could have given that poster of Farrah Fawcett a run for its money— her hair a tumble of wild blonde curls, legs showcased in a pair of cut-off Daisy Duke shorts. Oblivious to the danger all around her, she stood there and he screamed her name, over and over until his voice was gone.

"GRETCHEN! GET DOWN! TAKE COVER! GRETCHEN, PLEASE!"

Her head snapped around and she waved at him, flashing him a sunny smile. She ran towards him and suddenly he was standing over her, ears ringing. The street was covered in rubble, thick dust in the air. She was on the ground, covered in blood. Her eyes were already glazed as he pressed his hands over the wound in her chest.

"What were you thinking?" The words hurt his throat; it was raw from screaming at her through the dust and the tank fire. "It's dangerous here!"

"It's okay," she murmured, blood on her lips and teeth. "You'll save me."

That was his job, after all. Keeping the peace. Keeping others safe, civilian body count be damned— it was easier not to think about them as casualties. They weren't. They were just statistics, really. Part of the job. "I can't," he sobbed, watching her bleeding out under his hands, "I can't fix something like this." He watched as the light faded out and her eyes fluttered closed—

"NO!" The scream exploded past his lips, soundless other than the sharp burst of air from his lungs as he sat bolt upright. He was soaked in sweat, feeling feverish and disoriented. The dream had been so vivid, so real, for a moment he could smell blood and taste the grit of that alley in his mouth. The fact that the girl he'd had a crush on in high school, the one he hadn't though about in years had been a featured player this time was downright creepy. He stared at the square of light on the wall, thankful he didn't have curtains in this shitty little apartment. He could see where he was well enough. Bed. Dresser. Sideboard kitchenette with its hotplate and sink and fridge that looked like it had come from the 1950's.

He shoved the twisted sheets aside and leapt from the bed, crossing quickly to the window. In the glow of the moonlight, he looked down at himself, looking for innocent blood on his hands. Nothing. Dry as a bone. But still, his pulse was pounding. An icy finger of dread trailed down his back, raising gooseflesh. The night was calm and silent. Ash stared at the sky; his expression unreadable as the last vestiges of the dream fell away, leaving nothing but that unsettling feeling of dismay behind. Tears clouded his vision, his throat as raw as it had been in his dream when he took a deep breath through his mouth. The sound of screams weren't too uncommon here. Half the place was full of broken junkies and hollow-eyed veterans. Society's trash had found its way here, to this subsidized halfway house and he wished he had somewhere else to go, some other prospects. 

His hands were shaking as he pressed them to his face. He needed to get out of here. He'd been here ten days and it already felt like a thousand years. As soon as his aunt's affairs were sorted, he'd get the hell out. Go somewhere else and make a fresh start. Go where? 

"Medical school," he muttered, thinking he could just pick up the courses he needed that would bolster that ten years spent as a medic in the corps, that would get him into a hospital or some place where he could make a difference. Maybe that would silence the screams in the middle of the night. It was at least worth a try.