Nasferas: The Begotten

18

Marcie's Beer and Gas

A few hours earlier

Each time Marcie swept the porch under the lights of the old neon sign, she tried to guess how many times she'd stood on the stoop and moved the broom handle back and forth; a million--two? She'd been cleaning ever since her husband of forty years, Colonel 'Jumpin' Jack Takashima, died fighting for his country in a blessed sand dune. The men had strolled up to her home. Their brass medals had clinked against their barreled chests. Three gold stars shined on the shoulders of the one who spoke. And for every swipe of the broom ... one word of theirs, or a million, had flitted from her mind.

Now, many years later, another word still made her nauseous. Expendable. The word turned her from a God-fearing, USA loving, soldier's wife, into a bitter, government hating shrew. This piece of intelligence came to her when a war-torn lad of about twenty-nine showed up at the store one day.

"Names James Patterson, ma'am," he had said in the most backwoods southern drawl she'd ever heard. "154th Airborne infantry."

Jack's command.

After she'd hired the boy to work at the store, he had told her all the top-secret bullshit the government would never divulge publicly about the 154th's missions. For some reason, it gave her great pleasure nurturing him like the son she'd never had. She even gave him a nickname—Jimmy Boy. He hated it ... which tickled her pink.

He'd told her he wouldn't divulge the nature of Jack's death until she was ready. It took her a couple of years, but as she swept the porch on that beautiful star-filled night, she made the decision.

"Leave nothing out," she said.

When Jimmy Boy began, she'd committed to memorizing every syllable. This time, she wanted to remember.

"One of them stealth jets had some sensitive government hoo haw in it and took a dive over ISIS-controlled Syria. Their distress signal didn't work. So ... they jump us in, cuz that's what we do ... er ... did."

The two had taken a seat on the couch in her living room. Jim's tastes weren't as country as he sounded. His six-foot-three (and a half) frame made any jeans look baggy. He wore rock-n-roll t-shirts to the likes of Megadeath, Metallica, and a few other bands starting with M's and N's. His head remained buzzed and he kept himself to his military regimen.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out his vaping machine thingy. She wouldn't let him smoke in the house, though, she didn't mind the vape cloud as it made the house smell like candy. His current favorite juice, Asian Delight. Which she didn't mind because the full smell of Lychee custard filled the room. And just because Jack had a Japanese Grandfather didn't mean she had to be up in arms about everything Asian.

"Our recon team dropped into enemy territory about five clicks from the wreckage." He turned on the machine and stuck it in his mouth, sucking on the end and holding it in like she used to with a joint in college.

"Usually the Colonel wouldn't have gone. For some reason, that morning, he wanted to come."

Her heart bounded. "I thought he went on all of the missions." She pushed some of the thick cloud from her face.

"No, ma'am. Command usually stays behind. I guess he felt personally responsible for the information we were after. In one way or another."

Marcie sighed. "Okay. Go on."

Another cloud enveloped her. This time he blew it out the side of his lips.

"Well ... we set out to find the wreckage. There wasn't a fire or nothing, so we had to guess where it went down. It split us up and there's where our biggest mistake happened. It was me, heavy gunner Billy 'Big Bub' Thurston, Tom and Jerry; our explosive specialists. You know, to blow up the plane after and such? And the Colonel rounded us out. The other team was a bit larger."