Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

Talking in the Dark

Rear Parking Lot
15th FSB Barracks
Fort Hood, Texas
CONUS
06 February, 1992
1900 Hours

The night was actually warmer than I was used to. There were scattered clouds in the sky with the bright sliver of the moon, making the night clear as day to me as I pulled into the parking lot out back of the barracks and killed the engine on the truck. I'd eaten at the Rod & Gun Club after training, which had consisted of more medical courses out in the mud and grass, followed by a PMCS shift in the motorpool and restocking and cleaning the ambulances we'd used during training. I knew I was trying to avoid Stillwater, but as I drove to the barracks from the Rod & Gun I knew that I couldn't avoid him forever.

It wasn't raining, and while it was cold, I was wearing a lined flannel shirt. I needed to fix the heater in the truck. It wasn't the heater coil, the fan made an annoying noise, so I figured it was the ducting. It was probably old plastic tubing with wire coil that had vibrated until it had cracked and broken. I killed the engine, satisfied that it didn't rattle any longer.

The window squeaked as I rolled it down, lighting a cigarette and sitting in the dark. I wanted to go into the barracks, go to the CQ Desk and call Chuck, but again, I just couldn't do it.

It confused me, angered me. I had the balls to run into enemy fire more than once to pull wounded back to safety but I couldn't bring myself to face going into the barracks.

Because Stillwater might be in there.

I stared at the barracks as I smoked, looking at the windows that were lit up, sometimes people moved in front of the windows. The Day Room was brightly lit, and I could see people moving in front of the windows. From the angle and position they were playing pool and I found myself yearning more and more to go inside.

I finished my cigarette, stubbing it out in the ashtray, and rolled up the window in case it rained.

My boots thudded on the tarmac as I headed toward the barracks. I paused once on the stairs before continuing up. The door squealed and I wondered when the last time anyone had oiled the hinges. The wax on the tile was scuffed, and I wondered when the last time it had been stripped and waxed and buffed.

My mind was trying to concentrate on anything but the fact that Stillwater was somewhere in the barracks. I needed to concentrate on the decision I had made when I stubbed the cigarette out in the truck or I'd run away again.

I stopped at the CQ Desk, looking at Private Harrow. My brain tried to fill in additional data but I shoved it away.

"Sergeant Stillwater," I stated, staring at him. "What room is he in?"

"Um, Room 228," He told me.

I just turned around, walking back the way I came. The doorway was only the second one from the T-intersection, on my right. I stopped in front of it, took a deep breath...

and knocked on the door.

Nothing.

I waited a minute, and knocked again.

This time the door swung open.

My God, he looked like shit.

The whole time I'd known him he'd been heavy, thick muscle built up from hard work. First on the farm, then Basic Training, then months of hand carrying artillery shells. He'd been build like a tank.

Now he was, well, skinny.

Just like Misty had described him, but she'd missed details.  Little details that I noticed but she would not. Gray at his temples, silver in the light. Stress from Atlas. His skin was pale, his freckles stark amid the scars, lack of sunlight from too many years at Alfenwehr and God knows where. A slump to his shoulders I'd never seen before. His right shoulder was at least two inches lower than his left. A scar on his neck. He was wearing an Iron Maiden The Trooper T-shirt, jeans, and boots. His arms were scarred, the tattoo on his shoulder modified. His farmer's tan was faded, washed out, freckles on his arms.