- Writer, soldier, thinker, and science fiction lover. I just can't seem to find a way to divide my adventurous self of constant outdoor activity and exercise from my nerdy self playing games and going to conventions. So why not just be both?
I am a young professional living out of Tallahassee, Florida for the past five years. I have been on a deployment with the United States Army and continue to work outside of my other occupations to better myself mentally and physically. My passion for writing is driven by my passion for everything I find entertaining in life, and of course by my friends and family.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
The Horseman's Blade, Part 2
1977 San Francisco, California:
“S. Spears Dunn. Didn’t want to put a first name?” The man looked up and squinted at Samuel from across the table. The light was brighter on the man. Samuel kept his eyes under his cap, hunched over with his fingers clasped. He didn’t say anything to the man. “It’s fine, not a real talker huh? Let’s see.” He looked down at the file in his hand. “You have a nice record as a Lieutenant during Vietnam, and then you did some….” The man paused and looked up at Samuel for a moment “…work I guess in Africa? Let’s leave it at that. Let’s see, everything else seems fine. Let me just ask a few questions. Do you have family?”
Samuel took a gasp in and exhaled before answering. “No, I was an only child, my mother died in a car accident when I was 17 and my father died of a heart attack when I was still in service.”
The man looked down again. Samuel observed his outfit. A white jacket and blue shirt with a red tie made him seem brighter in the light. “And friends?”
“Few and far between.” Samuel answered with a halfhearted smirk.
The man leaned forward on his desk resting his elbows on his desk and his curiosity. A long pause took place between them, but no confession came from any amount of time between the two.
“Well, I think you understand the business that we do and you seem to be what we are looking for. I recommend you pack up what you need and be at the dock tonight at midnight.” Samuel stood up and extended his hand while reading a tag on the man’s white shirt, Terminate Corridor Corporation. The man looked at Samuel’s hand for a moment, and without shaking Samuel’s hand, he sat down at his desk again and picked up the phone from the corner of his desk. “That’ll be all.” He turned his shoulder to Samuel failing to acknowledge he was still there. Samuel drew back his hand and left the man’s office, his face starting to scrunch and his teeth clenched.
Samuel had rented a small apartment earlier in the year. It was a studio apartment, but it was well kept by Samuel. He kept everything he owned in the best operating condition possible, not that it amounted to much upkeep with so little to possess. He walked over to the section of the apartment on the front left corner, he kept a mini-refrigerator. He picked up a cool can of cola from the door and closed it. He had a tall wardrobe next to his bed on the right back corner. He took a sip from his cola before he set it down on a nightstand and opened the doors of the wardrobe. Inside hung all of his attire; a few pairs of jeans, a single suit, and only a few black shirts. He didn’t like white shirts, they became dirty too easily. He also had a field coat, a pair of olive green cargo pants, and his old green marine button up shirt. He removed his cargo pants and his marine shirt and laid them out on his bed. At the bottom of his wardrobe he had a few pairs of white cotton socks and a pair of jungle boots which stood out from the two pair of shoes next to them. Samuel placed the jungle boots at the foot of the bed and threw a pair of socks on the bed.
He took a sip of his cola.
Samuel began to remove the clothes he was in. He took off his sport coat and hung it in the wardrobe. He backed away from the wardrobe as he began to unbutton his shirt. Everything in his wardrobe appeared black; it was dark in the wardrobe, and poorly lit in the room itself. He hung up his shirt and did the same with his jeans. He rolled his head on his shoulders to stretch and began putting on his cargo pants and then his socks and then his jungle boots which he then tucked his cargo pants into. He pulled out a belt which he kept under his bed. It was a tan belt with a bronze buckle, but he had purposely not polished the buckle and had scratched out the sides to prevent too much reflection at night long ago. He looped it through his pants; he wore it even though his pants fit him fine. He then pulled out a black shirt from the dark wardrobe and slid into it. He tucked in his shirt and then stared at his green marine blouse.
There was a time the uniform had meant so much. Before he really knew anything, before he knew people. He shut his wardrobe, and there on the front of the left door of the wardrobe was a mirror. He glanced at himself; his green eyes were bright around the dark shadow of his unlit room. The dark was warm and comforting. A sort of home he could temporarily return to. But atlas, a reminder of a home he never really had.
He knelt down on all fours on the left side of his bed and reached under his bed searching. He pulled out a small metal case and sat it on the bed. Opening it he removed a slick black 1911 .45 caliber pistol. He set the pistol down on the bed next to the box and removed two magazines for the pistol and a box of ammunition as well. He gazed at the pistol for moment. It was his service pistol during the war. He had stolen it, but he never recognized himself as a thief. He remembered the incident well. It started as an accident, he had returned from the post office near the base and was required to turn in any weapons before entering his sleeping quarters, but had forgotten. No one seemed to notice either. He didn’t realize it until he was about to pack his sea-bag for home. He rolled the consequences in his head, like dice, and his ultimate return to the states was a pot too great to even allow a minor hindrance. He disassembled the pistol and placed its parts through his sea-bag randomly. He was worried about it for a long time, he sweated over it, they told him before coming home that they thoroughly searched all the bags. Every second leading home his heart would skyrocket up to a new higher speed. His face flush, and every stare accusatory. No one ever stopped him though. Samuel opened the ammunition box and poured out the .45 caliber bullets. He filled up both magazines and slid one into the pistol and placed the other in his left pant pocket. He slid the slide back just enough to see that there was not a round in the chamber. He then slid the pistol into his waist band. He walked over into his bathroom. On the wall he had hung his leather jacket, a dark brown leather jacket. He slid it over his arms. He wore it more to hide the pistol than because of the weather. He pulled back his sleeve, 11:30; it was time for him to leave for the docks now.