Defying Terror

Chapter LXII

Capt. Brian W. Manchester, No. 002

7 September 2030

9:12 QCT

My brain juggles throughout my skull as I swing around to set the full plate on the sleek wood of the counter. The boy on the receiving end collects it with both hands. Through a blurred haze, I distinguish a stretch of his lips. He backs from the counter toward the vanishing table.

"Thank you," he says.

"Yep, no problem, kid." I catch my collapsing chin with my hand before it reaches the wooden surface. I blink with my remaining might and the kitchen table reappears. The blades of light above pierce through my eyes as I pull myself upright. I unbutton another latch on my shirt and start for the sink.

The window unveils a scene ablaze with a sharp-green field expanding for miles and an untainted, blue sky. The dying summer air sweeps into the kitchen and travels down the hole I've made for my chest. I peel my dog tags from the hair coating my skin, leaving the plate slick. My thumb retracts from the eagle and only a smudge print remains.

The crack of a newspaper rings against my ears. "Okay, Brian, you made the kid breakfast. Maybe you should sit down or something. You look like shit."

I twist toward the kitchen table as it speaks to me. "Don't tell me what to do. Do you want breakfast, too? I'm up, I might as well make you some."

"Brian, this will be the fifth time you have asked me if I wanted any damn breakfast."

One of the chairs chimes in. "Actually, sir, that would be the sixth."

"And for the sixth time, my answer is no. Now, sit down before you drop dead."

My hands clench the overhang of the counter as I use it for support. The bones of my hips collide with the smooth edge. Before me presents Isaiah James MacTavish, the audacious yet earnest Colonel of Queen's City, consuming today's headlines. Perhaps it is something more beguiling than any food could attract, considering how he does not wander from the text for a mere moment.

From where I stand, the other figure at the table has his clothed back facing me. It's one of Hayes' old shirts draped over his torso, which means it's Slater's shirt, too. But it is neither of them. A disheveled head of fair hair course over his ears and trickles over the tags that pop out from behind. He stabs his fork into the fried eggs I constructed for him. His face, distorted as it was in my haze, is one from my recent memory. I should know this kid, but in my state, his identity is concealed to me.

One day, my alcoholic amnesia will prove fatal in the worst way possible. One morning, I will wake up and someone will be dead, and I won't be there to save them. A common, grisly thought that wracks away at my conscience, with or without booze. Come to think of it, I'm sure the same issue has stolen some of Slater's sleep.

Over the years, I must have traded my tolerance with James for his piece of sanity in this hell of a career. I can hardly drink anymore without nearing sickness or losing control. This morning's problem is not as severe as last week, waking up in bed beside a businesswoman who I had only known for a few hours. It's only a matter of time before I lose everything.

I curl around the counter to approach the table with the boy. I slump into the seat across from him, and he peers up from his plate. "How is it? I hope I didn't mess it up."

"No, they're fine. Thank you, Captain."

James flips the newspaper at the other end of the table and watches. I hold my index finger in the air between us. "Hey, now listen," I assert with my finger trembling. "You don't need to call me Captain here. Brian will do just fine, especially if you're a friend of Slater."