War Demons: An Urban Fantasy Thriller (The Prodigal Son Book 1) Page 3

  Exhausted, he cleaned up after himself and plopped down in the recliner in the living room. He didn’t want to go to bed yet, didn’t want to face the dreams. For the first time in years, he turned on the TV. What the hell, he figured. Might as well figure out what the kids are talking about so I can pretend to be social before class. But he didn’t, at least not that night. He fell asleep halfway through the first episode.

  Chapter Four

  The incursion into Pakistan had gone blessedly quickly. They’d chased a small Taliban force over the border, kicked its ass and covered the tracks. The Pakistanis never even knew their sovereignty had been violated. It wouldn’t even make the five o’clock news. Their small team knew how to keep a secret. They were riding the high of success. Even so, he and O’Bryan let out a cheer, high fiving each other as they crossed the border back into Afghanistan.

  They never heard the RPG. But when it hit the tail rotor they knew instantly what had happened. The local RPGs had proven deadly to helicopters. The MH-50L Black Hawk flew only 50 feet off the deck – standard procedure for a stealthy helicopter extraction. The crash came fast. They had no time to prep for impact.

  The intense heat shook him out of the disorientation of impact. Fuel leaked everywhere and it burned. He had to get out, and quickly. Next, he felt the pain. He looked down to find a twisted hunk of metal pinning his hip to the seat.

  He strained to lift it. It budged, but not enough. He scanned the cabin. The entire team seemed to be dead or unconscious. He struggled again with the metal on his leg but got no further. He tried using his rifle as a lever but only managed to snap off the plastic stock.

  He gave it one last go with the slag. The exertion drew a scream out of him. The scream morphed into a cry of despair as he failed once more. That’s when O’Bryan stirred. Michael shouted at him. O’Bryan stared back in confusion. Realization dawning, O’Bryan added his strength to Michael’s. Together, they finally moved the twisted hulk.

  Michael stood. Then the pain set in. He screamed, stumbled, and very nearly passed out. He forced it down and thanked God for adrenaline as he maneuvered O’Bryan out. That’s when they both realized the problem with O’Bryan’s feet.

  They’d detached from his legs just below the knees.

  Pushing through the shock, Michael pulled O’Bryan over his shoulder and started the slow, painful shuffle away from the burning hulk. With all the ammo and explosives aboard, they had to move fast.

  Michael somehow dragged O’Bryan all the way to a nearby cave. Later, he’d find out about his internal bleeding and the fractures. At that moment pain and resolve occupied his entire consciousness. He set his friend down, but not exactly gently, and collapsed next to him. He managed to radio out a short burst giving his location and a request for help. He fought to keep alert, afraid that if he passed out he’d never wake up.

  Somehow O’Bryan hadn’t bled out yet. One look showed him the reason why. The fire had cauterized the stumps. His friend passed out before him. Michael didn’t blame him. He fumbled through his pack, digging for the medical kit.

  The hint of yellow caught his eye. Then the faint glowing light resolved into the outline of a nose, barely illuminating the bestial face it belonged to. The creature roared and charged.

  * * *

  He rolled out of bed with a scream, pistol in hand, safety off. He scanned the darkness for targets. After a moment of panting, the shadows coalesced into his bedroom.

  Not for the first time, he considered using the pistol in his hands. He hadn’t really slept since the hospital. The Army docs had given him wonderful painkillers. Thankfully, he hadn’t picked that up as a habit. The empty bottle of Jack Daniels next to his bed reminded him of the habits he had picked up.

  He contemplated the pistol – John Browning’s classic M1911 – a bit longer before finally resetting the safety and returning it to the drawer of his nightstand.

  “Not today,” he whispered. A quick glance at the clock revealed the time. Two eighteen.

  He made his way into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Sleep wouldn’t return tonight. He didn’t want it to, anyway. The worst parts of the dream had spared him this time. Thank God for small favors. Still, four hours of sleep wouldn’t cut it. He made the coffee extra strong.

  He downed a cup as soon as the machine beeped. Normally he’d drown it in cream and sugar. This time he added only a double shot of Jack Daniels. He needed the caffeine. He also needed to soothe his nerves.

  By the time he hit the shower he felt almost human. Breakfast and the rising sun finished the job, leaving him feeling somewhat chagrined. Whatever he’d seen in that cave, certainly it wouldn’t follow him halfway around the world. He took the photograph out. Before the cave it had just been a curiosity. Now it consumed him. O’Bryan smiled at him from beyond the grave, the only other man to see what he’d seen. Or had he really just imagined it all?

  His first class of the day didn’t begin until after lunch and he still needed information. Dr. Stoegemoeller’s books hadn’t helped. Trying to meet the man in person had blown up spectacularly. Michael needed new tactics.

  He arrived at the main campus library promptly at seven-thirty. They opened the doors three minutes late. Civilians, he grunted silently. Two hours later he found himself engrossed in an article by Dr. Stoegemoeller, rereading it several times. A gentle cough interrupted him from a deep focus.

  “‘The Origins of Icelandic Folk Tales in Actual Events,’” Abigail Covington read over his shoulder. “Heavy reading for the second day of the semester.”

  He groaned inwardly. A sleepless night hadn’t prepared him for this.

  “I’m working on a personal research project. I planned to discuss it with Dr. Stoegemoeller this semester.” He let that dangle, hoping to draw out hints of his whereabouts. She ignored the bait. “But his absence killed that plan. So I pulled a few of his papers to see what I could find. Any idea when I might be able to talk to him?”

  She shook her head. “All I know is that someone asked him to do some special research. He left in a rush of excitement, but said he couldn’t talk about it.”

  “Is that kind of secrecy normal in this department?”

  She laughed at him.

  “It’s normal in every department. You wouldn’t believe how politicized all of this is. Everybody is afraid that someone else will steal their work. Academia is one of the cruelest employment fields there is. A hundred qualified applicants try for every job, each desperate for an edge.”

  He supposed that made sense.

  “How long have you been back?” she changed the subject gently. He contemplated the young woman for a moment. Her entire demeanor had changed from the day before. She actually smiled at him.

  “About two weeks. I saw your father yesterday.”

  “Is that why you’re in my class?”

  Michael choked with laughter.

  “Oh God, no. Given how we parted, do you really think I’d choose to put you in charge of my grades?”

  “No, I suppose not,” her eyes twinkled as she laughed.

  What the hell? Michael thought. Is she flirting with me?

  Her laugh faltered.

  “I’m… sorry,” she allowed. The apology shook him to the core. “I was wrong to blame you.”

  “No you weren’t. Your father swears it wasn’t my fault, but if he knew...”

  “He does know, Michael. I told him years ago.”

  Michael sat for a moment in stunned silence. His mouth moved. No sound came out. His last conversation with Jim took on an entirely new light.

  “You know that it really isn’t your fault, right Michael?”

  Shock turned into awe. The last time he’d seen her, she’d screamed at him, and even beat at him, blaming him for everything. He left to avoid hurting her in self-defense.

  He struggled and failed to meet her eyes. Instead he focused on a small pendant around her neck he’d never seen before. Silver detail outlined a circular
mass of jade squiggles around an emerald jewel.

  “We should grab a drink sometime soon,” she told him. Her expression shocked him out of his distraction. Yesterday, she’d picked up right where she’d left off, with everything but the hitting. Now she actually fluttered her eyelashes at him. Her mood swings had always been sharp, but this was extreme even for Abby.

  “Sure,” he forced out. He had no interest in a pseudo-date with his dead fiancé’s crazy sister.

  “I have to get to class. But Michael...” she stopped.

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe we can’t go back to the way things were. But can we at least be civil? We both loved Katie dearly. Can we at least do that for her?”

  Michael nodded. Of course he could be civil. After all, he hadn’t hit anyone.

  “I’d like that,” he answered. She smiled nervously at him. “I did, you know.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “Love her. Very much.”

  “I know, Michael.” An odd timbre entered her voice. “She knew it, too. So does Dad.”

  An awkward silence hung in the air. Finally, Abby gave him a parting suggestion.

  “You might check out the work of Dr. Harvey Beale from UCLA. He’s also written a lot on the real-life origins of folk tales. It dovetails nicely with Dr. Stoegemoeller’s work.”

  He thanked her and returned to his research. Dr. Beale’s work proved perhaps a little too fascinating. A few hours later he checked the clock and realized he’d entirely missed a class. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Chapter Five

  Michael slammed into the mat again. His partner, some nineteen-year-old kid named Jason, wore a green belt around his waist. That meant that he’d studied with Sensei Bill Rogers for a little less than a year. He’d acquired some decent skill, but hadn’t yet learned to land his partners gracefully and gently. Michael kind of liked the kid, despite the stench of marijuana that followed him everywhere.

  Michael’s own belt, black with two stripes on it, denoted about six years of jujitsu training. Unfortunately, that had been almost six years earlier. He’d let his skills lapse, and he could feel it.

  Some of his old training partners remained, older and more experienced now. Some, like Peter Bishop, he barely recognized. He remembered teaching a thirteen-year-old Peter – gangly, awkward and shy. The young man before him now neared twenty. Now Peter helped Sensei Rogers teach. The kid came around once or twice, demonstrating some techniques, and tossed Michael around. That white uniform concealed a well-muscled frame with some serious strength behind it. Michael made a mental note never to tussle with Peter in a dark alley.

  But most of his friends had long since moved on. Few people stayed with serious martial arts training for long. Even the really serious students usually only gave it a few years.

  Training with all the new faces felt like coming home to find somebody else sleeping in his room. But the new students welcomed him back. It felt great to break a sweat and work on something both technical and physical. For the first time since the cave, he found himself truly lost in the moment.

  They moved on from throws to joint locks. Michael well remembered this particular technique from his previous training. Jason struggled with it. He gave the younger man a few tips. Sensei Rogers noticed, and nodded approvingly as he moved through the groups. Michael appreciated the gesture. At least his skills hadn’t completely deteriorated.

  Over the next hour, he and Jason took turns throwing and locking each other. Hitting the mat hurt a lot more than it used to. He’d been gone too long. He refused to contemplate that he might just be getting older. He’d be sore in the morning, but he didn’t mind. It would be the good kind of sore, the kind that meant that he’d done something. Besides, he might actually sleep for once. Maybe he wouldn’t even dream.

  Maybe he could accept this as a normal life. School during the day, the dojo at night, a pleasant post-workout meal and a hot shower. His old life had moved at a much faster pace, but he could get used to this. If he could find someone to share it with, he might even enjoy it. Maybe he could someday open a dojo of his own and live a simple life. He really didn’t need much money. During his five-year enlistment he’d barely spent any of his salary. The Army provided the necessities. Upon his discharge, he found himself with a rather nice bank balance. Not that he’d be buying the Covington estate anytime soon, but enough for his needs.

  Later in the evening, they strapped on some sparring pads. Michael rotated through a couple of light, warm-up rounds with some of the newer students. He was glad he did. It took a bit of work to get his groove back. A round with Peter Bishop and another with Sensei Rogers himself proved that his skills really had atrophied, but he enjoyed the time.

  Eventually, he found himself facing a young black belt named Luke. Built like a tank, he looked like one of the rough and tumble types in the UFC fights Michael’s Army buddies loved. He towered over everyone in the room. One look at Luke’s arms told Michael he couldn’t rely on strength, either. The man scowled and loomed, clearly used to intimidating his opponents.

  It didn’t work on Michael. Earlier training with Sensei Rogers and long experience on the battlefield had cured him of that. He refused to lose the fight in his head before it even began. He met Luke’s cold stare with one of his own. His opponent rewarded him with a glimmer of doubt in his eyes.

  Not content to leave things there, Michael started the bout with a bang. The instant Sensei Rogers called the start, he slammed the young man with a hard, fast side kick. The giant actually blocked it – not a typical response to a side kick. Still, Michael had put enough into the kick to knock him back several feet. The tucked block prevented any serious damage, but the blow had accomplished its goal. Michael established dominance.

  Clearly unused to the position, the young man adopted a defensive posture. The two circled each other, feinting and probing. The rest of the dojo had stopped to watch, entranced by the pair. After years of tuning out enemy fire, Michael found it considerably easier to ignore the eyes watching him. Luke’s eyes gave away the game. The younger man feared losing face.

  Good, Michael thought to himself. That ego would make his challenger stupid. He feinted high with a jab, and then dropped low for a solid cross. He’d probed with the maneuver already, but this time he followed it up. Anticipating his opponent’s responding jab this time, Michael closed the gap instead of retreating. He ducked outside the punch and launched a flurry of blows. Beginning at the midsection, he rose along the body, ending with a few to the head. When the young man finally pushed him off and broke the clash, he nodded at Michael with respect. Then he snarled at Michael and charged.

  It was the snarl that did it. For a moment, Michael didn’t see a young man in front of him. For a moment, he saw the cave – that yellow nose and dripping fangs. For a moment, he heard gunfire and felt the click, as his magazine emptied and he ran out of ammunition. For a moment, he heard O’Bryan screaming in agony again as the creature ate him.

  When Michael came to his senses again, the young man lay on his back, hands up in a guard. His nose bled, and a bruise had already started to form around his left eye. Michael remembered the last three savage blows he’d landed to Luke’s ribs. He remembered the shouts he’d let out, but as if they’d come from someone else. He didn’t remember taking him to the ground at all. His heart raced and his lungs heaved.

  Peter’s strong arms pulled him back. Someone shouted at him. Sensei Rogers jumped in between them, definitively ending everything.

  He stopped and looked around. Realizing what he’d done, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. A moment later, he rose and approached the young man. Peter jumped to pull him back again, but he raised a hand in truce. Then, he stepped over to help his opponent up. He gave the young man a deep bow.

  “I’m very sorry,” he extended his hand.

  “What the hell, man?” Luke snapped at him.

  “Mr. Alexander,” Sensei
Rogers called. Michael turned to face him, bowing again. “Perhaps the demons of Afghanistan are best left in Afghanistan.”

  At those words, the room relaxed. Many of his fellow students nodded. Michael felt embarrassed, knowing that they likely all considered him to be a basket case veteran – just another crazy PTSD victim. The truth behind the thought embarrassed him even more.

  “Yes, Sensei.” Michael sat out the last few rounds of sparring.

  The other students cut him a wide berth on their way out of class. Peter, on the other hand, stopped to check in on him. Michael appreciated the effort but waved him off, not ready to unburden his soul to someone.

  Sensei Rogers sat next to him, quietly waiting.

  “I’m sorry, Sensei. I was way out of line.”

  The older man nodded at him.

  “Rough time over there?”

  “Yes sir...” he faltered.

  “What is it?”

  “I saw some crazy shit in the sandbox.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No, sir. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” The Army hadn’t. Why would anyone else? Rogers seemed to accept that.

  “You’ve got to sort this out, Michael. I don’t care if it’s me or a friend or a priest. Hell, I don’t care if it’s a hobo or a hooker. Find someone to talk to. Before this chews you up. Someone got hurt tonight. If it happens again, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Michael nodded. All things considered, it could have gone worse. He deserved worse. His old friend and teacher clapped him on the shoulder, and they parted ways silently.

  He flipped off the radio and drove home in contemplative silence. Ravenous, he put together a second dinner and washed it down with a beer and some ibuprofen. Afterward, he hit the shower – closing the bathroom door and cranking up the heat to fill the room with steam. He stayed in until the hot water ran out. He found his way to the bed and collapsed in a heap.