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I applied for Special Forces a month after Chester died. I decided to live my life for him since he didn’t get to achieve his dreams. Every time I wanted to quit, every time I was yelled at, spit on, or degraded, I kept my eyes forward. Eyes towards the goal. Eventually, Chester’s goal turned into my goal. My life became consumed by my new role in Special Forces. I wanted to be a part of the best units, the best teams. I wanted to do cool shit. Shit that other people could never dream of.
I wanted to save all of the people like I couldn’t save Chester. I threw myself in front of bullets, took the lead busting down doors, and ran down streets riddled with IEDs.
I wanted to make a difference, but years of training turned into years of missions, teammates killed, and innocent casualties. The dark corners of my brain were getting deeper and darker, multiplying. After a decade, I realized the job was all I had. I had just returned from an overseas mission, and when I powered my phone on there were two voicemails left three days prior. One from my mom and the other from my sister, both excitedly telling me Happy Birthday. I hadn’t even remembered my own birthday…
That was my 30th birthday, and like the day Chester died, my perspective on my life changed drastically. I realized that I had lived my life for my family, then I lived my life for Chester, then the job, but I needed to start living life for myself.
I started planning for life as a civilian, but it still took me another year to finally get out. I loved being a soldier but I knew that continuing down that path would lead me to an even darker place, and I didn’t want to lose myself entirely.
With that in mind, I had a cabin built up in the mountains, in the western point of North Carolina. A cabin surrounded by nothing but forest for miles. The sanctuary I needed to find myself again after so many years of living for other people.
That’s where I’ve been the last two months, my dream home. I had plenty of money saved up from years of nothing to spend it on. The contractors had it built within a year, so all I had left to do once my military contract ended was to officially move in.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the restlessness to creep in. Even though it was a cabin in the woods, it was far from desolate. I was lucky enough to have all the amenities I needed to live normally, so chopping wood for the fireplace occupied my time for a while, but I only needed so much. The fireplace is just for extra heat, for show. My HVAC system runs on propane.
Down the mountain is Whitewater, a small town with precisely one grocery store, and one restaurant, which is actually just a diner. Small means no crowds, no hustle, no bustle, just the way I like it. I go into town about once a week, maybe every two weeks, so I always have plenty of food stocked up. It has the smallest population in Rollins County, which in itself is what most would refer to as a very rural county.
I decided to start hunting, as a hobby -not out of necessity, but because I’m bored. It felt good to carry my rifle again. Ghosting through the trees gave me a sense of comfort I hadn’t had since my last mission. Even saying that in my head makes me feel inhuman. Stalking prey gives me comfort?
What kind of sociopath have I become?
There is an undeniable adrenaline rush that comes with pulling a trigger. An adrenaline rush that I welcomed after two months of stale boredom.
That’s where my thoughts keep going as I sit on the top of a ridge, ass in the dirt, back leaned against this giant rock. The butt of my rifle is propped on my thigh, the barrel balanced on a branch in front of me, aiming towards the grass clearing about 50 yards below me. The brush in front of me obscures me from any game that might wander into the field below.
This was supposed to be my trial for a new life and I am already getting the tightness in my chest, that feeling that I might have made a bad decision. I miss my brothers, my teammates, but more than that, I miss having a purpose. Apparently, I’m not cut out for retired life. I planned on taking time to figure out my next move, figuring out a job to do as a civilian, a job that makes sense for a man who has been in the worst parts of the world and has seen the evil that lives there.
Then lies my next problem. Most civilian jobs require a certain level of social prowess, something I am severely lacking, something I never cared to master. All I’ve needed these last 13 years is my orders and my unit. Even these last few months, other than a couple of phone calls to my mom and my buddy Jesse from my team, I haven’t spoken to anyone. Maybe a hello or have a nice day to the cashier at the grocery store, but I don’t tend to draw conversations when I am out in public. I’ve been told I don’t have an approachable demeanor. Hell, that’s always been fine by me.
When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, there isn’t much to talk about. I’m not interested in small talk, and I don’t want to talk about shit that doesn’t matter. I don’t think people really want to hear what I have to say either. The normal person wants good light-hearted conversation, they ask how you are and they don’t expect a real answer. They want you to say all is well and move on with their day. It’s a waste of time and I’ve never had the patience for fake niceties. Another reason people tend to steer clear.
That’s just the version of me that was created after my best friend died. The version that kept hardening after every mission, every kill shot and every teammate lost. It was naïve of me to think leaving the Army would fix anything for me. All I know is to kill or be killed.
I have no purpose now. Maybe this is where I belong, in these God-forsaken woods.
Chapter Three
Callie
I wish this boat would stop rocking, my head is pounding… But, why am I on a boat? No, that doesn’t make sense…
My brain is full of sludge, I am trying to think but nothing is processing. Slowly my consciousness comes back into focus, but my head is still throbbing. I can feel my pulse battering the inside of my skull.
My fingertips brush across cool metal clearing some of my confusion, bringing me back to reality. The swaying that I thought was a boat is actually the rhythmic bouncing of a car, the tires crunching across gravel is deafening from my position against the floor. My thoughts are foggy but I try to backtrack. What happened to me? And why am I here?…
My subconscious starts retracing my steps, but I have to grasp my recent memories.
I was driving.
I was driving in my car through the mountains. Then I heard a pop and my wheel jerked. I blew a tire, so I pulled onto the shoulder…
My memory sweeps back in like a tidal wave, making me cognizant of everything that happened.
I realize the two men sitting in the front seats about two feet from me are Tony and Bub, incredibly too close for comfort. My cheek is pressed against the bare aluminum floor of the van, so I try to stay still. I don’t want them to know I’m awake.
I do a mental inventory, besides my pounding head, I seem to be okay physically. My hands are clasped in front of me, tied at the wrists with a zip tie. My legs aren’t bound though, so I’ll consider that to be good news.
The van rocks and hits bump after bump. “Damn, Tony, couldn’t we have gone a different way?” Bub asks, whining.
