More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (2 page)

I kick the back of his boot, urging him to keep walking. “Not that I can tell. Maybe your lungs are dying. Quit smoking.”

He stops suddenly. “I’ll quit smokin’ when you quit preachin’.” He jerks his head, suggesting I walk ahead of him.

Our shoulders bump as I take his place in the line so his smoke won’t get to me. Not that I mind, but that’s all Dave. He’s always looking to take care of other people—something I worked out since I roomed with him during basic. See, Dave, unlike me—never wanted to be a marine, but when your old man’s the type with the heavy hand and an even heavier drinking problem and your mom’s left to take care of your three younger brothers, you hit a turning point. Dave’s point was when he walked in on his dad using his youngest brother in place of himself or his mom. Dave chose to turn the tables that night…

So, with Drunk Dad now in lock up it was on Dave (or Davey, as his mom calls him) to take care of shit. At barely eighteen, he found himself stuck with me twenty-four seven. He soon learned I didn’t have much to say, so he says enough for both of us.

He asked once why I chose this life. I told him a half-truth. I said I was avoiding. He said he was doing the same. I was too much of a pussy to admit that his version of avoiding and mine were on completely different spectrums.

Now here we are: kicking dry dirt in fuck-knows-where, Afghanistan.

“It’s bullshit they make us do this,” he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. Hell, we’re all frustrated, but only he has the balls to speak it.

“It’s our job,” I tell him.

“You think we trained all that time to be knocking door to door looking for threats?”

I ignore him and keep my eyes on my surroundings, bringing my weapon closer to my chest.

“D?”

“What?”

“Are you happy?”

With a sigh, I mumble, “Quit with this bullshit already.”

“D?”

My shoulders drop. “I’m happy enough, okay?”

“That’s a fucking lie if ever I heard one,” Leroy chimes in from in front of me.

“Who’s talking to you?” Dave responds.

Leroy shakes his head, never once looking back. “Anyone who says they’re happy in this shithole is a fucking liar.”

Dave steps up next to me. “Who the fuck are you to tell him he can’t be happy? Maybe D’s the kind to get off on being miserable.”

“Shut the fuck up, assholes,” First Sergeant Fulton whisper-yells from the front of the line. He places his weapon in position, eyeing the rest of us before knocking on what feels like the hundredth door of the same old dilapidated house we’ve seen every day for the last few weeks.

“Yo,” Dave whispers, coming up so close behind me I can feel the metal of his gun against my back. “How many more of these you think we got?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

We enter the house and go through every room, every crawl space. We open every door, flip over every piece of furniture. It’s a routine check, or at least it was. It’s not until I hear screaming coming from a far room that my pulse begins to pound and the adrenaline spikes.

“Put your weapon down!” someone yells.

Dave and I eye each other in the small, dark kitchen—the only source of light coming from a crack in the pieces of wood nailed over the window. Dust particles fill the air and now it’s silent again, all but for the beating of my heart.

“What the fuck we do, D?” Dave whispers. Gone is the frustration in his words, now replaced with something no one should hear, let alone show. Especially here. Amidst a fucking war.

I walk past him, nudging his elbow with mine as I do. I assure him that he’ll be okay even though I have no idea. But he’s young, and the fear in his eyes is something I’m sure he’s had to hold back in his past life.

We walk side by side through the narrow hallway, our weapons drawn, until we get to the other side of the house. The yelling starts again, only this time it’s louder and more than just one voice. “Put it down!” I hear over and over.

Then another voice.

A different one.

One of a kid.

He’s yelling back, his volume matching that of my unit’s. He’s screaming; muffled words in a different language and my feet, though they feel heavy, find a way to keep moving forward.

“Don’t fucking do it!” Leroy yells.

I round the corner first, Dave behind me, to a room I’m sure was once a bedroom. Five of my brothers cramp in the space, all facing the corner just to my left, their weapons aimed, fingers on their triggers.

My gaze quickly moves to their target—to a boy no more than twelve holding a semi-automatic, his eyes frantic as his weapon moves from my brothers to me.

I was wrong. The air
is
thicker here.

“Put your weapon down!” Leroy screams, splatters of spit leaving his mouth and joining the dust flying through the dead air.

“Jesus Christ,” Dave says, stepping to my right. “He’s just a fucking kid.” He loosens his hold on his gun, one hand in front of him—a peace offering to a kid he’s never met who’s aiming a gun at us. Only
here
would this situation make any fucking sense.

I try to stop him from whatever he’s about to do but my feet are stuck to the floor, my hands glued to my gun, my finger on the trigger. Ready. Waiting.

No amount of training can prepare you for this.
None.
Not even in my nightmares, in the intense heat of the days or the shivering colds of the nights did I ever think I’d have to blink back the sweat falling from my brow while my finger shook—my weapon aimed at a
kid
—his life in our hands.

One wrong word is all it’d take.

One sound.

Or in Dave’s case, one move.

From the corner of my eye, I see him reach into his pocket. The pocket I know carries a picture of his family. But to this boy—this scared shitless little kid—whatever’s in there could be the end of him.

He screams, a sound so deafening it rings in my ears. But it’s nothing compared to the sound of his gun shot, or ten, as he raises his semi above his head, screaming, chanting the words of Allah.

More gun shots, familiar ones.

Not from him, but from us.

He falls to the floor.

More screams.

Davey’s in my ear now, yelling for it to stop.

It does.

I don’t know how long or after how many rounds, but eventually it does.

And then it’s silent again.

The smell and sight of gunpowder fills the air along with the dust and the harshness of all our breaths.

“Is he dead?” someone asks, but no one moves.

Breathe.

Blood pools around the kid’s limp frame, now leaning against the wall behind him. I wipe my eyes. It’s not sweat anymore. It’s something no one wants to admit.

“Is he dead?” Same voice. Different tone.
Fear.

My shoes make a squishing sound as I step forward and for a moment I think it’s blood. It’s not. It’s clear and it trails back to the bottom of Dave’s pants.

I pretend not to notice as I take another step, then another, until my ears fill with nothing but the constant roar of my heart.

Thud. Thud.

Thud. Thud.

I reach for the kid’s hand to look for a pulse but his eyes snap open, stopping me.

He takes a final breath.

A final attempt.

A single, final shot.

More screams.

Then I feel the pain.

And I fall.

Dylan

M
edics.

Helicopters.

Doctors.

That’s pretty much all I remember after the kid let off his final round. That and an indescribable pain in my right shoulder.

Then there was the flight back home. The stares and the proud smiles as I hopped off the plane. The unwarranted attention and the nods of acknowledgment from random strangers and finally, an eerily silent cab ride home. Which is where I am now, standing on the sidewalk in front of a house I haven’t been to since I left for basic. The house hasn’t changed. Still the same single story, timber cladded, tiny home surrounded by a chain-link fence. It’s a different color now, I notice, which means Dad finally got around to repainting it like he’d been meaning to do since we moved in eight years ago.

The TV inside is loud—louder than necessary, like it always has been. The flickering of the screen illuminates the front window of the living room, causing a light display on the front lawn.

I exhale loudly, my left hand going to my pocket and fingering my set of keys. It feels wrong to use them. Almost as wrong as it feels to knock on the door.

With another sigh, I turn my back on the house and everything it represents. Just for a moment. Because I need the time to settle down, to think, to breathe. Tilting my head, eyes narrowed, I stare at the horizon, completely fascinated by it. Strange, I know, but it seems off—the way the sun sets over the earth. It feels calm. And that calmness makes me want to run. Fast. So does thinking about Dad’s reaction to seeing me. The pride in his eyes—pride greater than the smiles from everyone when I landed on home soil. Sure it was meant to be comforting, but it wasn’t. It just made me mad—because while I was here with an injured shoulder, my brothers were there. And the threats we were all searching for—they were everywhere… even in the hands and eyes of a scared shitless little boy.

I blink hard,
trying to push back the memories but the pain in my shoulder reminds me of the truth. It always does. Frustrated, I remove my hat and pick up my bag, then ignore the thumping of my heart as I kick open the metal gate and make my way up the uneven pavers of the path toward my home.

Home.

Like that’s supposed to mean something.

I take one more look over my shoulder at the horizon, hoping the calmness it emits will somehow make its way to me. It doesn’t. And without another thought, I drop my bag and raise my fist.

Knock knock.

Nothing.

I knock again. Stronger and harder so it can be heard over the television.

Silence.

He’s muted the TV. I know that much. The screen still flickers but besides that, nothing.

A light shines on the side of the house from the neighbor’s car as they pull into the driveway. I peel my eyes away from the lady stepping out and raise my fist again, but before I can knock, the sound of the TV starts again. Laughter, both from the TV and from the man watching it—a deep roar of a chuckle that flips my insides.

I smile.

For the first time since before the “incident,” I smile. And that smile, that emotion, that sense of home is enough to make me reach into my pocket and pull out my keys. I unlock the door and with the key still in the lock, I grab my bag and push open the front door. The smell of gravy fills my nostrils and has my stomach turning.

Two steps.

That’s all it takes for me to move from the front door, through the hallway, and into the doorway of the living room. I ignore the loudness of the television and look at my dad sitting in his recliner, a frozen dinner tray on his lap, his eyes on the screen and his fork halfway to his mouth.

He’s aged more than I expected, but besides that, he’s still my old man. Still the man who raised me. His dark beard is longer than I ever remember seeing it and for a moment I try to recall if I’ve ever seen him without one. I don’t think I have. Through all twenty-three years of my existence he’s had the same beard. Same huge towering frame. Same gentle tone and blank expression.

I clear my throat, preparing my voice so he can hear me. “Dad.”

He freezes, everything but his eyes. They drift shut. And I know what he’s doing because it’s exactly what I’d be doing too. He’s waiting. Making sure he’s not dreaming… like the countless times I’d try to hear his voice
over there
during the times I’d needed to find it within myself to help me get through it all.

“Dad,” I repeat, louder, because I want him to hear me. I want him to feel the same way I felt when I’d heard his voice.

His eyes snap open, his head shifting to the side and when he sees me, his eyes widen quickly. About as quickly as he stands, dropping his food onto the worn carpeted floor. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. We’ve never been much for talking. But he runs. Okay, maybe not runs… but that’s what it seems like. At least to me. And before I can tell him to slow down because I know he’s about to hurt me, I’m in his arms, held tight, and sure it fucking hurts… the sharp pain runs from my shoulder and down my back, but I ignore it. Just like I ignore the shaking of his shoulders as he holds me to him, gripping the back of my shirt in his fists. I ignore time. I ignore the way he wipes his eyes as he finally releases me and stands back, his gaze taking me in from head to toe. Then he smiles.

So do I.

And then I hear the sound that gave me the calm I needed to walk through the door. He laughs, deep and gruff. “Jesus Christ, son. You are a sight for sore eyes.”

“You too, old man.”

“You on R&R?”

I shake my head. “Medical.”

His eyes widen, just slightly. Then he looks me over again. “Where?” he asks.

“Shoulder.” I point to it.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Bullet?”

I press my lips together and nod.

“Ah, shit! I probably just made it worse,” he mumbles, shaking his head, his hands on his hips.

“Nah. You’re good.”

He rubs his hands together, his smile back in place and his gaze still on me. “Well.” He claps once. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” I say through a smile wider than his.

“Why don’t you go shower and I’ll heat you up some food.”

“Sounds great.” I take a few steps down the hall toward my old room before he curses behind me.

“Your brother’s taken over your room for his computer gear. If I’d known—”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, cutting him off. “I’ll make it…” My words die in the air when I open my bedroom door, or at least what used to be a bedroom. Now it’s just a room with no bed filled with more metal junk than I’d know what do with. “I can’t even see the floor.”

“Yeah,” Dad says with a sigh. “He’s been into all that shit since he got home from his deployment. He calls it work. I don’t even know what the hell he does with it all.”