Authors: Aaron Mach
Tags: #Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Romance, #Contemporary Fiction
Absolution River
“Absolution River”
By Aaron Mach
Copyright © 2015 by Aaron M. Mach
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Publishing, 2015
Cover design by Steven Plummer at stevenpdesign.
For My Wonderful Wife
And Her Enduring Patience
Contents
I
Na Drang Valley, 1973
“Run Jack, Run!”
The voice was barely audible over the intense gunfire from the Vietcong. Darkness surrounded the dense jungle and the night sky was alive with illumination flares and napalm. The trees echoed with voices screaming for help where there was none to give. Bullets impacted the ground all around Jack as he struggled through the mud, clawing, grabbing for that next piece of dirt that would get him a few inches across a landscape forgotten by time. Detonations of hand grenades and mortars burst over his head and all around him. Alone and with no clue where the enemy would reveal himself. His right shoulder burned with a fresh bullet wound. The sound came from nowhere but the pain from its impact was precise. It seared into his flesh, the metal pieces still burning. A few more inches, through the brush, struggling to stay alive. His ammunition was gone but for a few bullets left in his sidearm. The shimmering of the illumination flares reflected off of the surface of his weapon as the sweat poured down his brow. His hands and face covered in mud and cuts from the razor sharp weeds he had no choice but to navigate. Just up ahead he heard the mumbled voices of the enemy, mere feet away. So close he could smell the gun oil on their hands. Staying quiet and making himself into a tiny ball he waited patiently for them to pass. His resolve was absolute, and he was fearless. Jack was no ordinary man. He had been forged out of a furnace of pure will. The pain of his past made him this way, and he used it. Despite his battered condition and the agony of his wounds, his eyes were as still as a man living out his destiny with the surety of its fate. The world around him was a storm, and he the eye of calm, always. Out of the darkness, bursting through the bushes came a charging enemy soldier. His eyes glowed red with the reflection of the nearby explosions. With a bayonet out in front he screamed with only one intention, to bury that long sharp piece of metal straight into Jack.
Jack turned at the last moment and rolled away from the bayonet. The attack alerted the other enemy soldiers and they were on him just as quick as the situation turned south. Jack rolled three times and immediately turned his sidearm in the direction of the nearest man and shot him dead in the face. The next bullet struck another in the leg. His last bullet struck that man in the chest, killing him instantly. The darkness was like a black cloak pulled over the eyes. There was no telling who was who but through the intermittent flashes from the fiery explosions all around them. The last enemy soldier kicked the pistol out of Jack’s hand and struck him in the face. Blood poured out of Jack’s broken nose. He fought to prevent the darkness from the outside entering into his consciousness, sealing his fate forever. The reflection of a flare on the blade snapped him out of his daze and he thrust his hands up to catch the arms that brought it down. The Vietcong soldier on top of him put his entire small frame down onto Jack, screaming as loud as he could, trying to push the blade into Jack’s chest. Jack’s arms were tired, exhausted from the three day patrol with little food and no sleep. He looked up at the enemy’s face and saw nothing but hatred and disgust. The ferocity of the battle between man and man was never more animalistic and wild. They were nothing but creatures on this night in the hot and humid jungle trying to survive. Jack looked to the right of the man’s face and saw the stars above. His face softened and peace began to overcome him, as did his acceptance of the situation. He was going to die. Accept it, there is no reason to continue. Nothing in his life up to that point was worth savoring or remembering. He would be just another name on a wall that hadn’t been built yet. That moment was ultimate serenity as a star crossed the galaxies above, creating a long white stream of light that stretched for a millennia. Jack looked back at the man’s face. Determined as ever. Jack was unwilling to relinquish his life, not now. There was more to life than the mud and the blood. There was a meaning to all of this, but he did not know what. The blade inched closer and closer. The tip of the blade pierced the skin of Jack’s chest as he screamed in the anticipation of a deeper agony. As he felt a small spark of life renew in his spirit, he felt too the renewal of his strength. The blood in his veins pumped harder and faster, giving life to his once weary arms. The blade retreated ever so slightly and the pain subsided. His adversary began to lose his resolve, as was evident in the softening of his features. The sound began in Jack’s stomach and evolved into a roar, a roar into the night and against his past. The sound was deafening. His strength was now undeniable and the man on top of him was lifted up and over him. As their positions were exchanged and predator became prey, his enemy was no longer the ferocious one that he had seen only moments before. In front of him was a wounded animal begging for mercy. For Jack, in those days, there was no mercy in him. As he turned the blade on the wounded creature below him he got up on his haunches and put his entire weight down on the bayonet. It went clean through the enemy soldier and was impaled into the heavy mud beneath him. Jack saw the light flee from his eyes and he collapsed onto the dirt beside him. His breaths were labored, and pure exhaustion filled his muscle and bone. His eyes were closed, and right next to him a shot rang out, and a body landed hard onto his abdomen. As the wind left his lungs, his eyes burst open to see Anders standing there with his rifle still smoking. The man on top of him was another Vietcong soldier with bayonet in hand.
“I said run Jack, now!” Anders screamed to Jack as he grabbed his hand.
Jack and Anders limped each other out of the edges of the jungle. Napalm dropped in behind them and exploded into a massive fireball. The heat was intense on their necks, only feet away from the outer edges of the blast. Overhead they could hear the faint sound of a chopper. Yard by yard they limped across the open field. In the distance were white flashes from the muzzle of the enemy rifles followed by the whiz of the air being broken by their projectiles. They were the only two alive, alone in that dark jungle.
Anders handed Jack his sidearm and each were firing blind into the night. Fighting for those few moments they would need before they could reach the only means of escape. Across the field came a different sound. One that they would only recognize after the devastation it caused. Through the darkness of the night they could see a smoke stream of a rocket propelling itself toward the helicopter. Jack and Anders could do nothing but stare in horror as the chopper was struck and exploded two hundred feet in front of them in a massive fire ball of men and metal. There was nothing left they could do. All hope was lost. They knelt there in the long grass of the field. Their faces were orange from the reflection of the blaze, and the blood that trickled down each of their cheeks glistened from the light. Their eyes expressed the utter realization of their situation. Before long each had a rifle in their back and their minds went blank as they were struck unconscious.
II
Missoula County, 1957
The sun was shining brilliantly on the fields of golden wheat. A boy played on an old green and rusted ‘31 pickup. The wheels had been gone for years and grass had grown over the sides of the bed. Inside the cab was an assortment of figurines. Heroes of the past come alive in the imagination of a child. He lay in the bed of the truck with eyes peeked over the side. From here he could see everything, sitting and observing the landscape.
The farm was fifty acres, nothing special in the eyes of most, a fortune in the eyes of some. It wasn’t readily apparent from the farm that the family was poor. His father worked hard to maintain it and demanded the boy work hard too. The house was built in the late 1800’s but looked brand new; white, Victorian, and big. It was obvious the house was more effort than they could handle but with their hard work they slowed the years of deterioration to a snail’s pace. The yard was large and green with specks of cotton flying through the air as the sun was beginning to come down. The heat was almost unbearable, but had a comforting feeling about it as the night began to win the battle over the day. The barn was a picturesque red, full of chickens and hay. He could hear the chickens all the way from where he sat in the truck, but they were beginning to go down, as was the sun for the day. An old worn table on the porch held up a large pitcher of lemonade with lemon slices floating on the top. There was a large oak tree in the front of the yard that was there since the beginning of time. The tire swing swayed back and forth like a pendulum of a clock ushering in the night. A meticulously mowed lawn surrounded the farm and three large oak trees surrounded the house on three sides. A small dirt road went through the trees and veered off to create their driveway, which was extremely long. You could see cars that were so small in the distance and knew who would be coming, though no one ever did.
The boy shifted his gaze to his mother. He loved her very much. She wore a white sundress and was putting the clothes on the clothesline. Her back was turned to him but he knew she was sad. He could imagine tears dripping down her face. His mother knew that he was hiding in the truck as her back was turned to him. If he didn’t see her pain there wouldn’t be any.
Off in the distance he could hear the familiar sound of his father’s truck. Loud and old, just like his old man. The boy closed his eyes on the landscape and took a picture with his mind, to remember those few moments before the storm.
Crop prices had dropped; he knew this from the way father was driving. He could also tell the drinking had already started. This was his gauge to determine what kind of night it would be. He was an expert at understanding how his father drove down those few hundred yards of the driveway. Most likely he would have to prove his courage to his father by grabbing his wonder boy baseball bat from behind his bed to defend his mother. A test there was no book to study or manual to read. Only instinct prevailed, and only his bravery stood in the way of his father’s rage. The boy by now was as a hardened combat veteran who had been tested in the trenches since the day of his birth.
The truck came closer and he turned to his mother. She turned and revealed a bruised eye, and a small tear went down the right side of her face. Her eyes were still so full of life, and every look his mother gave him was a reinvigoration of hope. One day it would not be like this. His mother smiled and he immediately felt calm, that everything was going to be okay.
The truck came to halt in front of the porch, chased by a massive dust cloud. The door creaked as it slammed shut, the metal of the door and hinge smashed together to announce the beginning of another drunken night. The sound of a beer can made a loud crunch sound as his father threw the empty can to the ground and stomped on it.
“Where’s dinner?” said Byron as he stumbled up the porch steps in his dirty corduroy overalls.
“Soon, sweetheart,” the boy’s mother said with a smile. A smile meant to curb her husband’s anger. Her actions like stepping on a razor’s edge, one wrong move and the sharpened blade would cut straight through their happiness.
Byron mumbled under his breath as he made it through the creaky screen door. The night was still hot and he wiped his brow as he entered the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door he pulled out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and popped the top. He moved over to his well-worn recliner and sat, listening to the baseball game on the radio. The can of beer sat in his lap as his eyes fluttered to remain open.
Dinner was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. Father insisted on this meal several times a week. Father got what he wanted. Little Jack sat at the table as his mother was making the final preparations, setting out the bowls and taking the chicken out of the oven.
“Byron, sweetheart, dinner is ready,” Jack’s mother said softly into the adjacent living room where Byron snored loudly. He was startled awake, “Dammit woman, I was sleeping, can’t you see that?”
“I’m so sorry darling, but dinner is ready,” she said with the softest, kindest voice she could muster.
“Son of a bitch, alright, alright, I’m coming,” Byron grumbled.
Little Jack sat with his figurines on the table, and as his father came over he grabbed them and threw them down the hall.
“No damn toys at the table!” Byron’s intensity was sudden and frightening.
Little Jack stared at his father in terror, and his mother was frozen solid. The silence was deafening as Byron pulled the chair from the dinner table and took a seat. There was already a beer opened for him and waiting. He grabbed it and took a long pull. The froth came down the side of his chin and landed on his coveralls. With his forearm he wiped it away and rubbed his hands together in the excitement of his favorite meal.
With a scary and sudden change of his mood he smiled, “Okay, now that smells good!”
Mother forced a smile and placed the last items on the table, she clutched the bowl containing the corn on the cob with a white-knuckle grip. Her eyes began to roll into the back of her head and she fell to the ground, striking her forehead on the edge of the table. She lay there motionless, and her head wound bled profusely. Little Jack was in shock, he ran to his mother and put her head in his lap. As she gazed up at him he couldn’t tell if she was awake. His little boy mind ran with thoughts only an adult could comprehend. No words could have entered him that would express the fear and sadness welling within. The realization came to him that she would in fact never wake. In that moment there was nothing but emptiness. The darkness entered into him for the first time in his life and the source of that darkness was his father.
“Damn woman, get up, stop being so damn dramatic,” Byron said as he took another pull from the Pabst.
Little Jack cried and cried, the tears never stopping, and the weeping turning to wailing. Byron finally arose from his seat and looked down at his wife. As if the shock were contagious, he pulled little Jack off his wife and threw him aside. Jack grabbed one of the small toy figurines that were strewn across the kitchen floor and gripped it with all his strength. The tears came down in streams as he sat there breathing heavily, utterly terrified.
Byron grabbed her and began to shake her violently, unsure of what to do. Jack was confused. His dad was a mean old bastard, but when he saw that he too was crying uncontrollably, he didn’t know how to react. Finally, in all of his years he saw his father express real emotion. Emotion fueled not by alcohol, but by a movement of the heart.
Little Jack’s mother died on a Monday.
