Survivor's Remorse: Brothers of Ink and Steel (2 page)

Jamie slid the trays into the washer and pressed the start button. She gave the machine a pat when it clicked and hissed as the scalding hot water poured into it. Her dad, when he ran the place, had the staff wash all the dishes by hand. Having done her share of washing herself, the first thing she did when she took over the bar was to buy the commercial dishwasher.

While the machine sanitized the glassware, Jamie counted out the register drawer in her office. Deposit made up, she returned to the kitchen and began to empty the dishwasher. Even through her gloves, the dishes were still almost too hot to handle.

As she quickly stacked the glasses, she let her mind wander and she wondered what was eating Leo tonight. He was always a little moody after he had been out on an intercept, but he had seemed almost depressed tonight. He would brighten briefly when someone spoke to him, but then return to staring into his beer. She could understand that. No matter how richly deserved, killing a man had to be hard. And Leo seemed to go out on more intercepts than anyone else.

What he needed was a break. He needed to get away from the stress of the intercepts and the resulting death for a while – go into the rotation with the rest of the guys so he wasn’t always on the line and avoid burning out.

Finished unloading the glasses, Jamie surveyed the kitchen to make sure everything was clean and ready for Tuesday. It was. She didn’t even know why she bothered to check anymore. Ever since Tim had taken over the kitchen, the place positively gleamed. Between Tim, Bobi, Rachel, and herself, they had a smoothly working team.

Satisfied that all was right and the bar was ready to open again Tuesday afternoon
,
Jamie returned to her office and picked up her purse, the deposit, and the keys to her truck. Flipping off lights on the way out, Jamie locked up and climbed into the bright red 1950 Chevy pickup with the
He’s Not Here
logo, the bar’s name in an art deco script inside a decorative border, painted on the doors.

As she turned the truck out of the parking lot on her way to make her deposit, Jamie decided she would have to talk to Leo about working too hard. HNH is a happy bar, full of fun and laughter. If he is going to sulk, he needed to go to
Shots.
But she liked Leo too much for him to leave, so she was just going to have to convince him he had to straighten up and learn to relax.

CHAPTER TWO

Leo backed his bike into the garage next to his white Chevrolet Tahoe. He killed the engine but didn’t dismount from the bike. He didn’t want to go into the house…demons waited for him there. After a moment, he sighed, parked his helmet on the mirror, then leaned the bike over onto the stand and swung his leg over the machine.

Slapping the door control as he entered the house, he stopped at the fridge and pulled out another beer and sandwich makings. He wasn’t hungry, but he hadn’t eaten since lunch and he knew his lack of appetite was just his depression talking.

Throwing together a sandwich without any care to what it was made of, he took his plate and beer into the living room and dropped into his recliner. Setting aside his beer, he turned on the television, the screen coming to life on
The Weather Channel.
Good enough.

He consumed his dinner without enthusiasm, staring at the television without noticing what he was watching. Sandwich eaten and beer drank, he rose from his chair and took his plate and bottle to the kitchen. He placed the plate in the washer then rinsed the bottle and chucked it into the recycle bin in the garage. As he shut the door he stared at a cabinet door a moment before opening it and removing the half full bottle of Jack Daniels Black Label and a shot glass.

He returned to the living room and sat the bottle and glass on the table, pouring a shot and downing the amber liquid in a single toss. His face twisted as he battled the burn and then opened the binder that held his memories in 4”x6” splashes of color. He flipped to near the end, his fingers finding the proper page through long practice.

He poured himself another and tossed it back to join its mate before setting the glass back on the table. As his eyesight cleared, he looked at the pictures and his lips crooked into a sad smile. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he stared at the photos of men and women in uniform, grinning at the camera with the Iraqi desert in the background. As he stared at the first two pages of photos displayed before him, Leo distractedly poured another shot. With a small toast to the photos, he threw it back with a silent snarl. He flipped the page and smiled as he saw the picture of himself on his hands and knees in the sand, part of the bottom layer of the four-high pyramid of troops. These were his brothers in arms, his friends and platoon mates. And they were dead. Every last fucking one of them. Dead over five years...as he should have been.

He turned the page again. More pictures. More smiling faces. Another page turn, then another. He reached for the bottle again and began to pour, then stopped, before taking the lid and screwing it back on. He closed the binder and leaned his head back against the chair, his eyes closed as the Jack warmed him.

Every person in the photos was dead; his platoon wiped out to the last man…with the exception of himself. He had received a miracle…and was blessed with a curse.

When he returned to Grass Range, Montana, he had been treated to a hero’s welcome. His parents were both bursting with pride at his return, breathlessly telling anyone that would listen how he had won a Bronze Star for his actions. He hardly recognized himself in the stories. He was no hero, just lucky, and he should have died with all the rest of his brothers in arms.

The small town hero gig got old, fast, and as soon as the snow melted he bought a Harley and hit the road. Leaving his crying mother in Grass Range with a promise to return, he rode where the notion took him. As summer bled into fall, he kept heading farther south, unable to yet face the familiar faces…and the memories they brought.  

As Christmas approached, he had been hanging out in Del Rio Texas, enjoying the warm weather, before moving on. He had been putting the moves on a Latina beauty when a half-dozen bikers rolled into the bar. He had recognized them immediately as military. Well, ex-military. You can grow out your hair and beard, but it’s much harder to hide the way you stand and move.

He had just about talked Elena into a ride, first on his hog, then on himself, when some guy had walked in and claimed her as his own. Not wanting to get into a fight, Leo had backed off…until the greaser slapped her. That hadn’t set too well with him and before anyone could intervene, he had laid the greaser out cold. And worse, after kicking the shit out of her man, Elena wouldn’t have anything to do with him either. He was just sitting down again, sucking on a bleeding knuckle, when one of the bikers had approached him.

Lima 6 was his family now, like Second Platoon was then. They had recruited him in Del Rio, and he had followed them to Vallecito de Grande to meet Ron Terrill, President of the Lima 6 Motorcycle Club. Ron was older, in his late fifties, but he still carried himself with the same military bearing that all of Lima 6 did. Ron had offered him the hospitality of their clubhouse for as long as he needed it.

After looking around the town, and talking with the other members, Leo had pulled Ron aside and asked if they needed another member. Lima 6 had called a vote the next day, and he was given his prospect patch. From that moment on, he had worked tirelessly to promote the club, and recruit other members, to offer them a home, as Two-Tone and Tuck had done for him.

Leo looked at the time and was surprised at the lateness of the hour. The Jack had relaxed him and the time had gotten away from him. He carefully returned the binder to the shelf and took the bottle and glass to the kitchen.

After a quick brush of his teeth, he tumbled into bed wearing nothing at all to help combat the heat and the night sweats. He lay on his side, staring at the clock as its glowing red numerals announced the new day.

***

“Hey… if it isn’t Leo the Lion! You going to join us, Sarge?” Corporal Miller called, scooting over to make room.

Leo grinned and sat his tray down beside Miller. “You ready for the milk run up to Kirkuk tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir! The heat in Baghdad is killing me. See the world, they said. I tell you, Sarge, Iraq is about as far from Iowa as you can get and still be on planet earth.”

Leo laughed. Miller wasn’t much on formality, but he knew his shit and was always good for a laugh. “I feel your pain, Corporal; I feel your pain.”

“Yeah. I bet you do. It’s hot as fucking Texas here, especially if you’re trapped in the back of a delivery truck.”

“What?” Leo asked, confused by Millers change of subject.

“The Mexicans, Sarge, the Mexicans. That was a nice thing you did, giving them water like that. That little girl looked like she was about to drop. You might have saved her life.”

“I—” Leo began, but Miller cut him off.

“Come on! You’re too modest. Like when you tried to save me, Higgins, Pectori, and Chillany.”

“Save you? Save you from what?”

“From being killed tomorrow.”

Leo felt his blood run cold. “You know you are going to die tomorrow?”

“We all are. Well, all but you; you lucky bastard.”

Leo sat at a complete loss of words. “How do you know this?”

“Because it already happened. What’s the matter, Sarge? Can’t you remember?”

“I remember…” Leo whispered.

“Yeah. It was fucking awful. I remember giving you my gun after you ran dry. You sure gave ‘em hell, didn’t you?”

“But I couldn’t save anyone.”

“You saved yourself. You lived and were able to tell our story. I’m glad. I wouldn’t have wanted First Platoon to think we died like a bunch of pussies.”

“I shouldn’t have lived. I should have died with you,” Leo said softly.

They were no longer at the mess table, but walking through the wreckage of their convoy.

“Oh, horseshit, Sargent.”

Leo looked into Miller’s face and he could feel the tears forming. “I tried, Miller. I really did. If I could have saved you – if I could have saved just one person...”

Miller took Leo by the shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I know you did. You did more than anyone could expect. You tried to pull our asses out of the fire. And you won a Bronze Star for it, too. Nobody blames you, Sarge. We took on a fucking company and stood them off until help could arrive. I’d like to see First Platoon do that!”

“But what do I do now?”

“You go on with your life. You’re still in the fight, Sarge. You’re doing good work. Just make sure you don’t let the monster get you.”

“Monster?”

“The darkness. Evil. Call it what you will. Don’t disgrace our memory by going to the dark side,” Miller said then made breathing noises like Darth Vader.

Leo shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Miller looked at Leo until he met his eyes. “Of course you do. Some of the guys… they seem to enjoy the killing just a little too much, don’t you think? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. You wouldn’t lie to your pal Miller, would you?” 

“Those fucking bastards deserve to die!”

“I didn’t say they don’t. But you don’t have to enjoy the work. That’s all I’m saying. Look at Tuck. He could have broken that kid’s back tonight, but he didn’t. He pulled back and only used as much force as necessary. Can you say that about Lucas? Or Gigolo?”

“They’re good guys,” Leo murmured, defending his club. 

“Didn’t say they weren’t.”

“What should I do?” Leo asked as they walked into the Lima 6 clubhouse.

“Keep up the good fight. But make sure it’s the
good
fight.”

“I’ll try, Miller.”

“I know you will, Sarge.” Miller held out his hand and Leo took it. Miller gave him a firm shake and that stupid lopsided grin of his. “And don’t forget to drink one for Second Platoon, Charlie Company.”

***

Leo rolled over, looked at the clock, and groaned. It was two in the morning and his bed was damp with sweat. He knew he had been dreaming; he could feel it, but he could never remember his dreams after he woke up, the memory of them dancing just beyond his ability to recall. All he had were the emotions left behind. He threw an arm over his eyes as he rolled to his back.

He staggered out of bed to the kitchen where he drank water directly from the jug he kept in the fridge. Putting the jug back, he leaned on the sink and stared out the window into the dark Texas night before he sighed and turned back to his bedroom.