The Weird Travels of Aimee Schmidt: The Curse of the Gifted (54 page)

“Perceptive young lady. You’d make a good soldier.” He chuckled.

Stuttering like an antique, defective typewriter, she tried to reason with him. “John, listen. Geez, this is nuts! Obviously you’re a dedicated soldier, I mean, how else could you survive this long over here? Don’t end it like this. My God, whatever needs to be done can be handled in another way. Surely your superior didn’t give you orders to handle it this way?!”

“Don’t need no fuckin' orders,” he growled.

“What do you mean you don’t need any orders? All soldiers follow orders from someone higher up, all the way to the President. That’s what makes you a soldier.” She quickly tossed ideas through her brain trying to figure out how to reason with this madman. He apparently didn’t need anyone above him telling him how to carry out this particular mission. “So…” Aimee paused, her voice strangely starting to settle, “…you’re obviously on a…uh…” Aimee's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth on
the next word, “…
death
…mission here...” She paused intentionally. Aimee wanted him to think about
what she was saying, to mull it around and hopefully think about how totally insane he was acting. He was listening, but didn’t respond. “So how about little Nate? You gonna make him grow up without a daddy?”

“He’ll have a daddy. Some fuckin' asshole named Jason.”

“No, sir. Nope. Sooo not the same. You’re his dad. Doesn’t matter if you’re halfway around the world, if you act like his dad, you love him, and you try to be there in whatever way you can, he’ll know who his real daddy is, that is, if you do the right thing.”

Silence. John drove in complete silence for a couple minutes with his eyes still scrunched in thin slits, one hand tethered tightly to the steering wheel, and one now nervously fingering his dynamite belt, but Aimee could tell his mind was chewing on what she had said.

Geez, friggin’ Louise, Aimee,
she thought,
think fast! Our friggin’ lives are in your hands. Pull
at
those heartstrings. Keep finding anything that makes him think twice about killing us in this crazy
suicide scheme.
Softly she asked, “John…John do you have any pictures of little Nate? I would like to
see your son before… well, before you carry out this mission you’re on. May I see one?” John kept his guarded composure for a couple more minutes. Finally, he moved his hand off the lethal belt strapped tightly around his waist and eased it up and into his jacket. Between two fingers, he pulled out and handed her a photo of a large toddler posing on top of a wooden horse. He was an exact likeness of his dad, only not hardened yet by life. His beautiful, big brown eyes were busting with the awesome excitement any two year old should have, and the grin he had plastered from ear to ear exposed every tooth in his mouth. Aimee giggled as she held the picture towards the dash to admire John’s son. “Geez, he’s a cutie! And he looks just like his dad,” Aimee said sincerely. She stroked her thumb gently across the photo, then looked up to notice John watching her intently. Aimee handed the picture back to him. He looked at it with a smile before sliding it back into his pocket inside his jacket.

“You know, John,” started Aimee, struggling to put together the right words that would convince him to abort his suicide mission, “that darling little boy needs you. So maybe you can’t be with him today, but when you are with him, he’ll look up to you. He’ll be so proud of his dad. You’re a soldier; a United States Marine. Every little boy loves playing soldier, and dreams maybe someday they’ll be one, or have a dad, like you, who is one. Geez, John, you’re a kid’s freakin’ dream; a soldier…someone to look up to. Man, you’re here in this horrible place defending us while we’re back in our nice, comfortable warm homes sucking down our skinny lattes and eating our nice cheesy quesadillas. You’re why we can do that. You’re why we can be proud and wave our flags on the fourth of July...” The words were flying out of Aimee's mouth like a two-bit author churning out a lousy paperback novel. She didn’t know if she was hitting any strings, but at least John acted like he was listening. “…well, anyway,” Aimee said, then sighed heavily, “he’ll never be able to tell you just how proud he is of you, or you of him. Totally a waste. He’ll never have you to throw baseballs to, or watch him when he makes his first tackle, or teach him how to cast his rod and reel and pull in that big fish, or that first…” She stopped, shook her head and chuckled thinking of the time her dad talked to James when he was twelve. Of course, James already knew everything in Dad’s little discussion. “...or that first father-to-son talk about sex.” John suddenly looked at her. A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. She looked out into the darkness, but Aimee could feel him scrutinizing her, quietly processing everything she was saying. She was hot, on a roll. Aimee could feel his heartstrings starting to strum.

“Okay, so John, have you written your good-bye letter?”

He paused for a few seconds, and then answered without looking at her, “No. I didn’t write one.”

She cut in quickly, “
What?! No letter?!
How could you blow yourself up and not have a letter
for little Nate? What kind of irresponsible dad would kill himself and not, at the very least, tell his son, the one and only child of his loins, good-bye and wish him the best as he grows up without him, and tell
him why he is now fatherless? How
could
you do that to him?!” Aimee paused and glowered at him,
waiting impatiently for his response.

He shrugged and answered, “Sorry. I didn’t have time to think about it. Besides, I didn’t think there was a fuckin' formality to doing this, ya know.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, “everyone knows that the least you can do is leave behind a note.”

John stuck his other hand back on the wheel and drove in silence. The cogs in his brain were churning, digesting their conversation. It was working. Finally, he spoke up, “Well, fuck, I guess I should at least write Nate a note, ya know, so he has something to help him understand when he’s old enough why his old man whacked himself. I mean, it’s not like I’m going down by myself. I’m gonna take a few friggin’ Hajji's with me when I go.”

“Hajji's?”

“Yeah, Hajji's, ya know, the people who live in this shithole. The people we’ve been protecting from the fuckin' terrorists hiding in their friggin’ country.” He paused and took a deep breath. “But hell, I’m a soldier. I’m just a fuckin' killin’ machine, that’s all.”

Geez, how pitiful,
she thought.
This dude’s mind is gone. He’s no more than a friggin’ robot.
Aimee exhaled sadly, but she didn’t have a lot of time left to change this course. Her head was throbbing, not just from the blow she took bouncing off the roof when they hit a giant pothole, but the pounding she usually got before, during, and after a journey.

Aimee looked over at the dynamite wrapped around his waist and noticed a cell phone on the seat next to his leg. It seemed oddly out of place, for some reason.

She asked, “Expecting a call?”

John glanced over at Aimee, and his eyes followed hers down to the phone. He smiled, and smugly answered, “Yep. I’m expecting a call to come through at 02:00.” He looked at his
watch to check the time. “In thirty minutes, that is if
she
calls on time.”

“Hmm. Something to do with this mission?”

“Yes, ma’am, you might say it is
critical
to the mission.” He looked at Aimee with a diabolical
grin.

Like a detective, Aimee tried to decipher the clues
. Dynamite. Cell phone. Dynamite. Cell ph…oh crap!
A light bulb went off. She had watched a couple movies in the past where they used a cell
phone to detonate the charge. Panic quickly set in. Aimee glanced over at John. He had his fingers wrapped tightly around the phone. It was definitely on. Technically, any call, not just the one that was supposed to come in at 02:00 would cause an explosion. Her pulse jumped up right through the roof, and her brain went with it. The cab twirled upside down and Aimee's gut immediately churned inside out. Her breakfast - coffee, juice, and toast - worked itself up.

“John,” she gagged, “John…I’m gonna puke!”

At first, John snickered like it was a joke, and looked over at Aimee with a grin half turned up on one side. Her dark green face must have convinced him she wasn’t kidding. He suddenly started to slow and pull to the side, but before he completely brought the groaning truck to a stop, Aimee had the door swung open with her head hanging out barfing whatever was left in her stomach.

“Here,” John said as he handed Aimee a rag. “Sorry I don’t have anything else to offer you.”

Aimee tucked one arm back inside in his direction, wiggled her fingers feeling for the rag, then yanked the cloth from his hand. She half-heartedly swiped at her mouth, and spit out anything remaining. The cold fresh air felt good. It quickly cleared her head and settled her upside down stomach. She shut her eyes and sucked in a big whiff of air through her nostrils, then felt it creep down her windpipe and fill her lungs. Breathing. So natural. So easy. Automatic. In. Out. In, then out. She didn’t like to
think about
not
breathing, but tonight that might happen. She didn’t want to die…not yet…and
certainly not here. She had to get back to Dylan.

God, how am I gonna get us out of here in one piece,
Aimee thought frantically while she stalled hung over the edge of the truck pretending to choke out what was left in her mouth.
Man, I gotta get that phone somehow,
she decided. Finally, she sat back up and closed the door. She glanced
over at John and forced a slight smile. “Sorry,” she apologized weakly. “Not sure what’s wrong with me. I guess the bouncing around on this road has gotten to me.”

John laughed and shook his head. “Sorry the roads here ain’t up to your standards, but this road is in pretty friggin’ good shape considering it gets shelled weekly...” He paused, looked out the side window into the darkness, then continued, “…and the village we’re coming up on…well…one more blast and whatever is standing will probably fall down like a house of cards in a hurricane.” He stopped again and chuckled to himself. “My only regret is I won’t be able to see it fall.” John glanced Aimee's direction, smiled wickedly while he mindlessly flipped the cell phone over and over in his palm. She watched out of the corner of her eye while she calculated her next move.

“John,” Aimee started.

John half nodded.

“So, have you thought about what you want to write Nate? You need to do that for him.”

He checked the time, and then he dropped his foot from the accelerator. The truck immediately started to slow. He turned the lights off, but kept the truck running after he slid it into Park. He patted his jacket with the phone still tight in his right hand. After reaching his hand deep inside the jacket, he
pulled out a pen, and then grabbed the
Dear John
letter.

“Maybe someday he will find this letter twisted, but amusing; his mom’s
Get lost you loser
letter on one side and his dad’s
I love you, but I’m checking out
letter on the other. I just hope the bitch
gets hers someday.” He stopped again, cleared his voice, popped his neck, and laid the paper on his leg to start his letter. He twirled the pen between his fingers for a minute while he stared out the window into the darkness. Suddenly, he started writing madly, occasionally pushing the pen through the thin paper as he rushed to get all his words down. He stopped, checked his watch, then added one more line, folded the letter in half, and threw it on the dash.

“Guess that will have to do,” he said, and stuffed the pen back into his jacket. Instead of putting the truck back into Drive and easing onto the road, he turned off the engine, and pulled out the keys.

Aimee immediately asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“End of the road.”

“What do ya mean, ‘end of the road’?”

“For you. You’re staying here. I’m walking in,” he said as he looked at his watch again.

“Walking
in
?”

“Yep. The village is a few kilometers ahead.” He stuck the keys into his pocket as he began to open the door. “Don’t wanna blow up a perfectly good truck,” he said with a laugh.

Aimee shook her head in disbelief, and quickly reached over to grab his arm before he slid out. “No…no…John, you can’t do this!” She wouldn’t let go of his arm as he tried to step out.

“Whathahell!
You’re
crazy
, lady! Let go of me!” He tried to wiggle his arm
out of her clutch. Instead of letting go, she dug her fingers deeper into his sleeve. His eyes bulged while Aimee's fingers sank through the thick material into his arm. Like an animal trying to frenziedly shake off the trap eating into its limb, John tried to shake loose of her death grip. In their tussle the cell phone flew out of his hand and disappeared onto the ground. He pulled her across the seat to the other side, then out of the truck. She dropped to the cold, sandy dirt.

“Holy crap, lady!”
John screamed.
“Are you fuckin' nuts?!”
He fell to his knees and wildly raked the ground for the phone.
“Fuckin' A!”
he exclaimed when he found the phone. He started to
stand up, but Aimee tackled him from behind his legs and held on like she was wrestling an angry alligator.

Whack!

A wincing pain pierced through her shoulder from the boot he shoved into her right clavicle. Instantly, Aimee screamed, and then she crumbled throbbing in pain. John stood up breathing heavily and leaned over with the phone glued to his hand. He took a couple deep breaths, shook his head, then ordered her like a drill sergeant, “Get your pretty little ass back in that truck, young lady! Someone from the unit will probably be up in an hour looking for me. Stay down under the dash and don’t get up. You’ll be safer here. Whatever you do, don’t get off the road if you have to get out. There're fuckin' IED’s everywhere.” He grinned mischievously at her. “You don’t wanna get that pretty little ass blown up, now do ya?”