Fanfic: Only the Good Die Young
Only the Good Die Young

Jane Harper

RATING: R for language
SYNOPSIS: It was a dark and stormy night. Shots rang out.
ARCHIVE: Sure, just let me know. HTML available on request.
DISCLAIMER: I'm just a stowaway on the USS Sorkin. Please don't toss me overboard.

"GUN!!!!!!!!!!!"

Sporadic cracking of small arms fire rings out over the plaza behind the Newseum. Screaming. Chaos. Fear. Instinct and training kick in, and he hits the pavement. A hand holding him down.

Time stops.

The gunfire then had been full auto: staccato bursts of terror through a montage of jungle scent. He had been hiding, waiting, wondering if anyone knew he had gone down, stranded on the wrong side of the border by a MIG with a demon pilot.

After hitting the ground, he had frantically gathered up anything that would have reflected the brilliant moonlight and buried it. He had stripped anything off his jumpsuit that might have identified him.

Dogtags. Leave his dogtags? Then they couldn't have identified his body. Take his dogtags? Why not, as if his pale Irish face wouldn't be a clue that he had fallen somewhere he did not belong.

Mud. Cover that pasty Yankee face with mud. Stuff his pockets with survival – knife, chocolate, chlorine, compass, what the hell, jam everything that will fit and doesn't weigh much. Hurry. He had no way of knowing how close the enemy might have been.

Shelter. Find some kind of shelter from the rain that would have inevitably come.

And in God's name don't forget the sidearm.

Two days, three, he had worked his way due east, walking in daylight, hiding in darkness. They had owned the night, and he had known better than to tempt fate by pretending to be quiet enough, stealthy enough. Tired enough, hungry enough, sure. But never surreptitious enough to be safe at night.

There had been one very close call his last night in the jungle. He had tried to stay awake, needed to stay awake, but his adrenaline had failed him at last. He had awakened to the sound of voices. It had taken all his will to keep from moving, keep from breathing, keep from giving himself away and giving away his life. He had known what would happen if he were caught; not many got away from Charlie's greedy grasp, but those who did had carried tales of horror. Bone weary, belly growling, he had prayed to stay alive.

God, Jenny. We had so little time . . .

A car backfired, and it woke him up.

He saw the flashing motel light reflected on the hoods of the cars in front of him, and slowly tried to get up, but rubber legs would not respond. People were walking by, muttering under their breath.

Fuck 'em all and the horses they rode in on. He opened his mouth but couldn't quite make it behave, couldn't quite form the words. Someone laughed at his attempt.

He managed to pull himself to his feet and stagger to the sidewalk. Bitch. he'd show that bitch. She couldn't do this to him. He leaned up against the side of the phone booth, finally half-collapsing inside. Dimes. He needed dimes.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. Bitch had gone out. Where the hell was she? Who was watching Mallory?

Tears started down his cheeks. His baby. He had to go home to his baby. And the bitch had taken her somewhere.

He punched in another number. The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Jed?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"It's me!"

Silence.

"C'mon Jed, don't play What's My Line. It's me."

"Yes, I know. What do you want?" He was cold, angry.

"Can you come get me? I need to get home—"

"No, Leo. I won't come get you." His old friend had a steely tone. "Jenny is here, with Mallory. She's cried so much over you."

He heard the words but they didn't quite penetrate.

"Are you listening to me?" Bartlet was almost shouting into the phone. "Enough is enough!"

Jed was saying no. Jed never said no, couldn't say no to anybody, most of all his best and oldest buddy.

Jenny, gone.

Mallory, gone.

Jed, gone.

He curled up on the phone booth seat and started to sob.

"Leo," the voice from the phone said, "Can the crocodile tears; it's not going to work. Not this time. You need help."

He couldn't stop crying.

Bartlet's voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "I will come get you, but not to take you home. You don't need to go home. You need help."

"I . . . need . . . help . . . " his voice broke in gasps. "Help . . . me . . ."

"I can't, Leo, but I know people who can. I'll be there in five minutes. Where are you?"

"Franklin . . . Motel . . . lot . . ."

The line went dead, and he dropped the receiver. When Jed arrived, he was still sitting in the phone booth, shaking, sobbing, rocking back and forth.

Bartlet put his arm around his oldest friend, and led him to the car. After a few minutes' drive, they pulled into a church parking lot.

A Church? God no, not a church. Enough of the church. God was a bastard who shot him down in the jungle. God was the bottle he prayed to. God was a huge empty hole in his gut . . .

Jed helped him out of the car, put an arm around his shoulders, and they walked to the door. He stopped there.

"I'm not going in," Bartlet said.

"I know. You can't. You're the Governor for God's sake." He was surprised that the words came out.

"That's not it, Leo. You have to go in here under your own steam. You have to want this, to be willing to do whatever it takes. So here you are, it's your choice." Jed walked back to the car, got in the driver's side, and drove away.

He turned and walked into the Fellowship Hall, and up to the first person he saw. "I'm here for . . . "

"I know," the woman said. "Come on in. Want some coffee?"

Hands pull him up off the ground, someone grabs his belt and pushes him into the car. The door closes and they speed away.