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

Warned Thrice

Rear Parking Lot
15th FSB Barracks Area
1st Cavalry Division Area
Fort Hood, Texas
CONUS
05 Feb, 1992
1830 Hours

It was dark, and raining, while I worked. I had my sunglasses off and could see clearly despite the darkness, laying on my back on the trundle, staring up. My legs were soaked and my boots wet. I had tools spread around me as I worked on my truck to give myself something, anything to do that was outside that barracks. My truck was perfect. I'd dropped the rebuilt engine in it, fixed the transaxle, fixed the problem in the steering column. When I drove it back from Copperass Cove I'd found a problem in the wiring.

Every time I stepped on the brakes I blew a fuse on my pickup truck, so I was chasing down the fault. I'd finally found it, where vibration had worn the wire's insulation down so that every time it got power it grounded to the frame. I was busy cutting the worn wire out of the circuit and replacing it with new wire of the same gauge. Undoing the retaining clip, threading the wire through it, and refastening it to the truck's chassis.

To avoid the chowhall I'd had dinner at the Rod & Gun again. Chuck had let me know he was going to hang out with his room-mates/tank crew and had to get up early for Thursday training tomorrow, so I'd decided to avoid going into the barracks by working on my truck.

It was dark, it was cold, and it was raining, but I'd been working on my truck for an hour now.

I know, I know, I was being a coward.

The new wire put in place I put my tools on my chest before I slid out from under the truck. I stood up, opened up my toolbox, put the tools away, then closed the lid before throwing the trundle into the back of the truck.

Something was making me jittery. I was thinking about just firing up the truck and going somewhere. Somewhere off post. Cruising the range roads wouldn't do it. I needed somewhere that I could think, somewhere I could sit. Somewhere I felt safe. Maybe Misty's house. I needed to drive, get away from the barracks.

Get away from Stillwater.

God, how could I face him. I'd zipped that body bag up myself, mostly blind and almost screaming with pain, but I'd done it. Fumbled, half blind, the medic having to guide my hand.

I could almost hear him whisper. "It's right here. Careful, I'll help you," his voice gentle as his hand touched mine and moved it.

Shivering from something besides the Texas night, I pulled open the door, getting inside the truck. It smelled of old leather, stale cigarette smoke, and that odd smell of rust and something else that old work trucks get. I fumbled my keys off my waist and fired it up.

The low rumble was a balm to my soul.

I pumped the brakes and was pleased when it didn't blow the fuse. I hit the headlights.

Stillwater stood in front of the truck, dressed in chocolate chips, blood all down his face, the side of his face blown out and his sinus cavity exposed. Both shoulders bloody. His uniform ripped apart by medics who had checked him. His empty XM-16E3 in one hand, the other empty, the fingers twisted and broken. That one red eye and his green one were staring at me.

I closed my eyes, resting my head on the steering wheel.

He wasn't there. He was probably in the barracks. But I knew he wasn't standing in front of me. Not looking like that. Not mostly dead and covered in blood and sand.

When I raised my head the parking lot was dark and empty of anything but automobiles.

My hands still shook as I lit a cigarette and pulled out of the parking space, heading to Battalion Avenue and taking a left. I gripped the wheel tightly to keep my hands from shaking as I drove through the rainy night. I needed to get away.