Rambo: Warrior. Uncle. Hero.
Walking down the dusty, deserted road in Bowie, Arizona, heading to his childhood home for the first time since he was a boy, John J. Rambo prepared himself for who or what might greet him when he arrived.
He hadn't ever given much thought to going back home and had been as content as he could fool himself into being living in a small shack abutting the Salween River near Burma in Thailand.
It had taken a sweet, sensitive, beautiful woman named Sarah to break through his war-toughened exterior enough to get him to even consider going back to the United States. If she hadn't been engaged, Rambo would have followed her back to Colorado in a heartbeat, but a pretty girl like that had never, and would never be interested in a broken, scarred man like him.
Noticing a mailbox getting closer with every step, he hiked his military-issued go bag further up his shoulder as he picked up the pace. In the back of his mind, he knew that it wasn't entirely likely that his father would still be alive; John himself was in his sixties, and his father hadn't been young when he'd had him.
Walking past the opened gate leading to a sprawling ranch, Rambo kicked at the sandy road with his boot, and breathed in deeply. He'd forgotten how clean the air smelled on this side of the world and felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt different, and after thinking about it for a moment, John concluded that what he was feeling was a sense of calm.
He knew right then and there that this place was where he belonged. This ranch was peace, and tranquility, and everything he needed to quiet the war inside him.
As Rambo approached the large, two-story ranch house, the whinnying of horses and the rustling of tumbleweeds in the wind filled his ears, a far better sound than the barrage of bullets and screams of innocent women and children that frequently assaulted his mind.
"Who are you?"
Startled, John whirled around, feeling his hip for the knife that wasn't there. He struggled through the red haze that clouded his vision with thoughts of battle to see a small, Hispanic girl with shiny, long brown hair staring at him with impossibly large doe eyes.
Clearing his throat, as not to frighten the innocent thing with his hoarse, gruff tone, he replied, "John."
"What's your last name?" She asked, cocking her head to the side like a puppy.
"Rambo." The name sounded off on his tongue. Living in a place where everyone spoke either Burmese or broken English, he hadn't needed to say his full name in a long time.
Recognition dawned on her face. "Like the man who used to own the ranch?"
He nodded. "Used to?"
"Yeah. He died when I was seven. Left the ranch to my Abuela. My daddy works with the animals, and my mom did too, before she got sick."
Unaccustomed to speaking this much at one time, John forced himself to continue the conversation. He would process the death of his father in his own time.
"Is your mom alright?"
She shook her head, and tears formed in her eyes. "No. She died in her sleep after the cancer hurt her for a long time."
"I'm sorry. How long ago did she die?"
"Two weeks ago," she answered somberly, "and nobody will talk to me, they're so sad. They all ignore me, even Abuela!"
Rambo's heart hurt for the brave, sad little girl, and he stooped down to her level, wincing when his knee cracked, and whispered, "I'll talk to you."
Three weeks later
Despite being deep underground, John could almost hear Gabriella's father yelling at her grandmother. In the weeks that he had been on the ranch, Rambo had kept to himself, only appearing in the main house for meals, and never staying longer than it took to clear his plate and help with the cleanup.
Still, it was impossible not to notice how volatile and angry Gabrielle's father was. He'd taken her mother's death hard, and John had assumed that the reason for that was love. When her grandmother told him that her father was only upset because he'd been left with Gabrielle in his care, Rambo had nearly shoved the man against a wall and threatened him until he understood that you didn't think of your daughter as anything other than a blessing from the Father above.
Determined to stay out of their family drama, he spent almost all his time under the ranch, digging tunnels and creating a space where he felt completely safe. No one could bother him down here, and that was the way he liked it.
A suspicious sound reverberated in the echoey space, and, armed with his flashlight and over thirty-five years of combat experience, Rambo edged closer towards the noise.
He found Gabrielle, curled up in the fetal position near the entrance to his tunnels, crying.
"Gabrielle?"
Her head lifted, and he saw the deep pain in her eyes. He wished with everything in him that a baby like her didn't ever have to feel anything like that, but that wasn't the way that life worked.
She sniffled. "I…I'm sorry. For coming down here. Abuela told me to not talk to you, but…I needed a place to go. They're yelling, and I…I can't…."
"Shh." John soothed. Unbuckling his tool belt and aiming his flashlight strategically so that they weren't totally shrouded by darkness, he sat down, pulled her into his arms, and rocked her from side to side, brushing the hair out of her face. "It's alright. You got no reason to feel bad that you came down here. I get lonely and want the company."
She opened her eyes. "Really?"
No, not entirely, but he heard the hope in her tone, and wouldn't take that away from her. She was a bright, shining light in the dark abyss that surrounded him, and whether he was ready to admit it or not, he needed her.
After a moment, Rambo came to his senses, realizing that he'd been holding this little creature against his mammoth chest, with his tree trunk arms wrapped around her, and hadn't asked if he could do that. Not wanting to make her feel at all uncomfortable, he moved to let her go.
"No, please don't." She murmured, "I feel safe."
His lips parted in surprise. After everything he'd done in his life, all the death and destruction, for her to feel safe in his arms befuddled him.
They stayed there, underneath the earth, huddled in a corner, completely silent. Finally, after a while, she spoke.
"He left."
John had a feeling he knew whom she was referring to but had to clarify. "Who left?"
Gabrielle wiped her nose with her sleeve. "My daddy. He just got into his truck and left, and Abuela said he isn't coming back!" She hiccupped. "Why? Why would daddy leave me?"
"I don't know." He answered truthfully. Rambo's fingers flexed against her arms as he did everything he could not to react violently. What he wanted to do was to track down her deadbeat father like the animal he was and break his neck. However, Gabrielle needed him, and he wouldn't leave her.
She breathed in deeply, and pushed her arms out, creating a bit of space between them, while still staying close. "My Abuela said that you were dangerous, and that I should leave you alone. But you don't seem dangerous to me."
How naïve she was. Not even a month ago he'd demolished an entire Burmese army with a Browning M2 .50-caliber machine gun, after attacking several soldiers with arrows. Not to mention how many others he'd killed in his life. Why should she feel safe with him?
Gabrielle stared up at him. "I'm supposed to compete tomorrow."
"Compete?" Rambo repeated. He knew that she rode horses in competition, had seen the trophies and medals the few times he'd passed by her bedroom, but hadn't ever seen her in action.
She nodded. "Yeah. Daddy always said that riding horses for awards was stupid, but mommy loved watching me."
That man had made his daughter believe that doing something she loved was stupid. Again, he felt the rage bubbling inside him, and again, he tamped it down. Gabrielle felt safe with him, for some unfathomable reason, and he wasn't about to show her what he could become.
"I want to do it."
He furrowed his brow, and she clarified.
"I want to compete tomorrow. For my mom. Not for my daddy, who left me."
The bravery and assuredness in her tone impressed Rambo. He didn't think a ten-year-old girl could have that much of a fighter in her, but he was mistaken.
"You sure?" He rumbled.
Her answer was firm. "Yes. Will you come and watch me?"
The last thing John wanted to do was to be in a crowd of people, with strange noises and outcomes he couldn't prepare for, but he wouldn't let her down.
"Yes, Gabrielle. I'll watch you compete tomorrow. You're gonna do great."
With that, she smiled, tears all but forgotten, and ran up the stairs back out into the world, where she belonged.
The next day, Gabrielle won five events in a row at her competition, more than anyone else there, and Rambo couldn't have been prouder of her. She rode with her head held high, and more than once, she'd found him in the stands and smiled brilliantly at him, warming parts of him that had long since gone cold.
When they got back to the ranch, he helped get her trophies into her room, and said, "You did real good today, Gabrielle."
"Thanks, Uncle John!" She exclaimed, giving him a quick hug before running back downstairs with all the energy of a child.
Rambo stood in the center of her room for a moment, processing. She'd called him "Uncle John" and hugged him, like those things were the most normal occurrences. He didn't have siblings, and never thought he'd get to be an uncle. The fact that she wanted him to be hers wasn't something he was going to forget.
Downstairs, he found Gabrielle sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a large glass of water. He knew from experience that riding horses made you quite parched and was pleased to see her taking care of her body.
Her grandmother was nowhere to be found, and he was grateful. Not that he disliked her; he found it difficult to communicate with everyone except Gabrielle. With her, it was easy.
Rambo was halfway out the door when something dawned on him. He wanted her around. He wanted her to feel comfortable in his tunnels.
"Hey, Gabrielle. Grab your crayons and meet me in the tunnels."
Confused, but never one to pass up on an adventure, she did as she was told, and grabbed her supplies before heading down to his tunnels.
John turned to the right of the stairs and pointed at the wall. "I want you to draw me somethin'."
"You want me to color on your wall?" She asked, amazed. Not only was she not allowed to color anywhere other than on paper, but she knew how important this place was to him, and he wanted her to make it messy.
He nodded. "Yeah."
Before he could change his mind, Gabrielle got to work, and he let her be, walking back towards the innermost spot of his labyrinthian cave where his weapons and mementos lived.
A half an hour later she came to find him, grinning from ear to ear. "I finished!"
He ambled over to where she'd been drawing and smiled. She'd covered as much of the wall as she could reach, with doodles of horses and rainbows and butterflies and flowers.
Worried at his reticent state, she asked, "Do you like it? I'm sorry if I did too much or too many colors or made it too girly…"
"It's great," Rambo assured her, placing a hand on her tiny shoulder, covering it completely, "I love it."
Gabrielle gave him another hug, loosening the walls around his heart even further, and then left him to his tunnels, forever marked with her effervescent joy.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, looked over her shoulder, and said, "I love you, Uncle John."
Stunned, he took a minute to gather his thoughts and clear his throat. Love hadn't been something he'd experienced in far too many years, if ever, and Gabrielle gave it to him without compunction, after only knowing him for three weeks.
"I love you too." Rambo whispered, just loudly enough for her to hear him.
Ten years later: Present day
"Raising that little girl, watching her grow into a woman, was the greatest thing that ever happened to me," he explained to the Navajos sitting in front of him, "and then she went to Mexico to track down her father, got taken by the Martinez brothers, who pumped her full of drugs until she died." His voice broke at the end, and he swallowed to regroup.
"I knew that they would come after me, once I got her out, so I made them come to my ranch, where I took them out. If I stayed there, the Mexican police would've arrested me. But they wouldn't have put me in jail. The entire force has been bought by the cartels and taking out the Martinez faction didn't do much. They'd torture and kill me and leave my body in the center of the city as a message for everyone not to mess with them.
"That's why I need to stay here. This is the only place the police cannot get me. I don't need much. Just a little land where I can ride my horse."
The Navajo men who he'd been speaking with glanced at each other, and then nodded. "Yes, of course you can stay on the reservation, John Rambo. We knew your father. He was a great man, a full Navajo."
A Native American woman walked into the shack where John had been explaining everything that had happened to him over the past decade and why he needed a place to stay on the reservation and said, "Follow me, Sir."
Thanking the men profusely, Rambo went after the woman, who led him to a small house near a large barn. "You can stay here."
He looked at the space and felt a weight lifted off his shoulders. The house was much smaller than his father's, but the barn was nearly identical to his old one, and that was what truly mattered. A place for him and his horse, two old men.
The woman, seeing that the house was to his liking, left him, and walked back down the road, towards another home.
It was like an entire community in here, one that Rambo was grateful for.
He walked his Quarter Horse into a stall, pat his head, and looked up at the high ceiling with a peaceful expression on his face. This place would be good for him, away from all the ghosts of his past.
John left his horse in the barn, walked into the house, and put the only belongings he'd taken with him on the table. His knife, the one he'd used to eliminate the Martinez brothers, his RAMBO go bag, and Gabrielle's horse drawing.
Before rigging the tunnels to explode, he'd cut out the portion of wall where she'd drawn a pretty horse for him when she was ten. He couldn't take the entire wall, but the horse picture had always been his favorite part.
His heart would be heavy for a long time, dealing with Gabrielle's death, but now at least he knew he was safe, and could regroup in this place.
Someone had left him a "Welcome to the neighborhood" casserole on his front porch, along with a phone number.
Shaking his head with a grin, Rambo grabbed the food, and decided that maybe it was time for him to get a cell phone. After all, his niece had bothered him for years about getting one, and he'd never budged.
"You might have been right, Gabrielle," he said reverently, "that nobody writes letters anymore, but you wrote one on my heart, and I'm never going to forget it."
The End