DISCLAIMER: I do not, and will not (unfortunately) own any of the characters, etc. involved in the story. I wish I did, but I don't. George is my own creation. Go me. I kill my own creation.
MAJOR THANKS TO: Pog Mahon for being my best beta ever! She catches all my dumb mistakes and makes me look good, so cookies to her! YAY POG!
Ok, here we go.
Chapter 1
George Hallen drove down the highway while listening to the NPR news report about Iraq. He shut it off with a snap, giving the radio an angry look. More news on how many soldiers had been killed that day. More news on how many of his friends from the Marine Corps had been killed. More bull shit, in his opinion.
He himself had already served two years in the Marine Corps in Iraq and had watched three of his buddies die there already. He'd shot two squad bombers himself during his fourth month on duty. He felt like he'd aged twenty years since his first day as a Petty Officer. He took a sip of his coffee and continued his driving.
He saw the sign for his next exit, Clark Street, and turned off onto it. The road leading off Clark Street was a dingy dirt road which bore a small sign which read "Chimeston Road". Down the way was a small blue house surrounded by a brown picket fence. This was his destination at last.
Upon reaching the house, he parked his silver Chevrolet Aveo and gently climbed out, paying mind to step with his right foot first seeing that most of his left leg was gone. After hopping out of the car, he grabbed his crutch and began to walk to the gate. With an easy push it opened, and he limped towards the front gate.
The moment he got to the front door, he knew something was wrong. The hinge was broken off and the door was ajar. George pushed the door gently, yet the moment he touched it, the door fell off. Slightly panicked, he hastened his steps towards where he said he'd meet his friend. He passed the stairway and was just about to reach the patio door when he slipped and fell flat on his back. He felt a fierce stab in his chest and gasped as he stared at the now bloodied knife tip sticking out of it. The view before him began to go hazy as blood pooled around him and spurted out of the wound. All he could think of was his buddies who had been killed and how this must have been the terror they had in the last few seconds in their lives.
A blood bubble popped on the side of his mouth as he felt his heart slow to a dull thump, and the second before he died, he reached his arm to his neck and grasped his dog tags in his now pale white hands.