-Chapter 1 - Paul's Dead-
Rod slowly opened his eyes to find himself once again out of his constant war nightmares and back into the subway train in which he was traveling on. He took in his surroundings as if he had only seen them for the first time. This always happened every time he had one of his Vietnam flashbacks of that night 15 years ago. Rod was now 36 with short shabby dark-chestnut hair with the same color of eyes to accompany them. He was a short man, 5'7", who worked as a taxi driver and shaved every two weeks, giving him five-o-clock shadow beard stubble. He was wearing a long, brown leather coat with khakis and an "I (Heart) NY" shirt underneath. He, just like his war buddies, remembered nothing except the occasional small flashes and that is it. All they now is out of a battalion of 40 soldiers, only 7 of them survived. But the only question was, how?
He hadn't seen any of them in years, except Frank, who was his closest friend and also co-worker. He didn't really care to. Not that he hated any of them, but the thought of doing something out of his daily routine annoyed him was all. They're all really swell guys, he thought, but would it make things any better if I saw the rest of them again? Besides, he had other things on his mind besides reunions.
His mother had also died 15 years ago after having a stroke and collapsed down the stairs; breaking her neck in the fall. It was while this happened, that him and Frank were at a local party; Frank helping him get aquatinted with a girl had been wanting to hook up with. Rod's final words to his mother echoed over and over again in his mind; "Mama, I'm only gonna be gone until midnight. You'll be alright here by yourself. Your not that old, y'know?"
No matter how much he buried his burden, it was still too much to bear. It was only Frank that was there for him in his time of need. Not only did he show up at the funeral with a bouquet, but he had even helped him carry his mother's casket. Even though Rod said nothing, it had definitely meant a lot to him. As for dealing with the death of his mother, he did the only thing he could do; block her out and show nothing.
He then pondered the reason why he was inside a traveling subway train. At first, he couldn't remember that, either. Then he remembered something about his cab breaking down and this was his only method of getting back home because the other drivers were booked with someone else. Yes, his home was… an apartment in Brooklyn… his mother's. He then got from his slouched position as the lights of the train flickered in and out, causing a slow strobe light flashing. The current car he was in appeared to be empty, so he slowly headed for the next one.
The other one was indeed lit, and was accompanied with two extra travelers. One was a dirty young teenaged girl with long brown hair and wearing tattered rags with her head buried between her knees, crying. She sat the furthest away towards the front left of the train. Rod wasn't really too concerned with the girl, so he moved his attention to the other gentleman in the car that was closest to his right. He appeared to be a middle-aged man with short scraggly gray hair, beard stubble, and yellow teeth dressed a dirty blue-and-white striped shirt with stained jeans. He also smelled bad, as if he hadn't showered in a month.
As the man rocked back and fourth with a blank, unblinking expression on his face, he continuously repeated the numbers, "…7...0...3...1..." over and over.
Being around crazy people always made him nervous (as would it any other normal person) so he proceeded to the next car, when suddenly, it came to a halt at the destined street station. He hesitantly walked out the car door into the station waiting area. For some reason, the train had given him the chills. It was never like that before, only this time, something just felt out of place. Shrugging it off, he proceeded up the steps, took the usual turns, proceeded through the turnstiles and up the stairs that led out into the street. For some reason, everything look eerily empty on the streets around him.
Ignoring his paranoia, he proceeded to the complex in which he lived in. Through the double doors and up the stairs he went when he arrived. Everything was run down and filthy with graffiti all over the walls. As he traveled up the urine drenched stairs, he could hear the fighting of a married couple above him. Once he arrived on his floor, he could hear the furniture breaking and the children crying as the mother was beaten senseless in front of them.
These things did not concern Rod. The excuse was simple: it wasn't his business. However, these matters always concerned Frank. From what little information Rod had learned for as long as he had known him, he had come from a broken home. The man could be as tough as nails when he wanted to be, but could also easily be emotionally broken if you pushed him long enough. There also appeared to be something else there that would bother him from time to time, though he would never mention it. But he could see it in his eyes. He had been acting weird around him a lot during the past 3 weeks. Out of that, he had even missed a week of work, too. This didn't sound like him at all.
Rod twisted the key to his doorknob and opened the door. He walked in and closed it as he removed his coat and hung it on the post nearby. His home indeed reflected that of the outside, which was disorder. Whatever junk you could possibly think of was there in the floor; soda/beer cans and bottles, pizza boxes, bills, underwear (both his and not his). What would his mother think?
He wasn't poor. Far from it, actually. He held an okay job and his veteran's pay for his service in Vietnam was indeed very handsome. If he wanted, he could find a much better place to live than this shit-hole. He even swore he would when he came back and would take his mother with him. But he didn't. He couldn't. Not now after his mother had died. It was as if he was compelled to stay.
Rod treaded through the jungle, armed with a berretta and a machete. He bled from wounds caused by knife cuts, bullet grazing, and even scratching. But they were nothing that he would die from. For the first time in his life, he truly felt alive, as if he could take on anyone and anything. Suddenly, he heard the snapping of twigs from somewhere around him. His head cocked back and forth in an attempt to discover the source of the noise.
Suddenly from behind, came a screaming Vietnamese man armed with what looked to be a stolen assault rifle in which only his unit was issued with. The enemy fired at him, some of the shots hitting him in the left leg. Rod howled in pain as he clutched his wound. With his attention diverted, the scout rammed him against the tree with the rifle pinning his throat and with fury displayed through gritting teeth like an enraged beast.
Rod let out a mad howl as he head-butted the man so hard that it shattered the bones in his nose and sent pieces into his brain. As the man staggered, raising his rifle upward, Rod swung his machete and severed the man's hand from the wrist; the rifle pouring endless rounds into the dirt and forest. Rod then charged into him with almost inhuman strength and impaled him into a tree with his blade. As the dying Vietnamese man gasped his last, Rod removed the machete and the man fell to the ground.
But rod didn't stop there. Screaming something inaudible, he hacked away at the enemy's head, over and over again; drenching himself in warrior's blood. Once he was finished, all that was left of the man's head was chunks of meat, brain, and skull fragments. Proud of his kill, Rod quickly limped further into the jungle in search of more adventure to quench his thirst of battlefield fury.
Rod was awakened by an explosion on TV. It was some random movie that they were showing. As he sat there, settling back into watching television, the phone began to ring. Rod looked at his watch, which read 11:45 p.m.. He got up from his couch and wandered towards the telephone. He then picked it up and answered with a hello. At first there was silence, then a click on the other end from whoever it was that hung up. Pretty steamed, he slammed the phone back on it's receiver. He had been getting a lot of those, lately.
Again, the phone rang. He picked it back up and shouted to whoever it was on the other end. "Whadda you want!?"
"…I-It's me, Frank." spoke his friend on the other end.
"Oh, hey Frankie." said Rod, relieved. "Sorry, I thought you were that creep that keeps callin' here."
"Paul's dead." Frank said, in a tone that was mixed with both sorrow and fear.
Rod was stunned. "W-what are you talking about?"
"Jerry had called me and told me all about it. Something about his car blowing up. Nobody knows why it happened. It just… exploded."
"It… blew up?"
"Um, listen. I… something just came up and I've got to go right now. I'll see you at the funeral. Until then, don't look for me."
"What!?" Rod responded. "What the hell are you talking about? Frankie?"
Frank had already hung up.
Rod placed the receiver back on his phone and tried to digest all that he had heard. Not only of Paul's death, but of Frank, his closest friend, and what he had said. Don't look for you, wondered Rod. What's the matter? Is there something you're not telling me?
The funeral service was as slow and dreary as the rain that fell from above as they stood around the casket. Listening to the reverend, watching the casket be lowered into the pit, accompanied with military rifle shots in the distance to honor it. Once everything had been said and done, the sad parade of umbrellas flowed across the cars; each one finding it's own. All, but Paul, of the survivors were there. Jacob led the front. Jerry had already left for Paul's house where the service still continued. Doug and George fell behind the group side-by-side. Next to Frank, they were the most quiet. And shortly behind Jacob was Frank and his wife.
Rod never hardly spoke, either. As everyone left, he kept his pace but also a slight distance from Frank. He followed them both like a curious puppy, but never close enough out of uncertainty. Once everyone piled into their vehicles, everyone head for the same direction as well. Rod rode with Frank and his wife in their car, but without a word exchanged between either of them. To be honest, Rod didn't know if whether or not to say anything. Would Frank really want him to say anything to him?
Paul had a beautiful house. If it hadn't been filled with mourners that day, you could have seen more of it's beauty. It would remind you of a house that belonged to one of those nice sitcom families where everything went smooth. Not so for Chunky Paul, anyway. Even if he hadn't seen him since the departure from the hospital back in Nam, he was still bewildered as to why would such a bad thing would happen to such a nice guy. The whole thing reeked of conspiracy cover-up. Or maybe he just watched too much TV.
Rod and his friends eventually found themselves together around the kitchen. They had made small talk about themselves. George, who sat next to Doug at the table, had went on to become a history teacher at a public high school. Jerry, whom was in between Jacob and Rod, was an accountant. Doug, whom was drinking at the table, lived off his veteran's pay. And oddly enough, Jacob, whom had studied to be a collage philosophy professor, went on to become a mail man. Rod and Frank spoke a little also, but not to each other.
Finally, the silence was broken again. "Did anybody see the police report?" asked Frank, in a suspicious tone as he lit up a cigarette. "Sounds like a bomb to me."
That would explain why Frank's been acting creepy as of late, thought Rod.
"Paper said it was electrical;" added Jerry. "it was an accident."
Rod finally chimed in with his two cents. "That's bullshit." he said. "Someone's coverin' something up. That was set man, that was no accident."
Doug raised up from his bottle and glared at Rod with sarcasm in his statement. "Why? Paul wasn't hated by anyone in the world."
Rod replied with a shrug and went back to his corner.
Frank then turned his attention to Jacob, who was pacing back and forth. "What did he say when you all went out? Did he say anything?"
Jacob stopped to answer the question. "Well, he was upset. He felt people were following him."
"Yeah, who?" asked Doug.
"He didn't know…" Jacob was a little hesitant to bring up the next part out of fear that his comrades might have thought that both he and Paul were insane. But if there was a chance that they were all suffering the same visions, he had to take it. "…Demons."
George, who was cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief then stopped at the word.
Rod thought that was stupid. Paul wasn't that weird. "Demons? What the fuck you talkin' about demons?"
Jacob didn't really know too much to say. "…He thought he was going to Hell."
Doug was the next to stop his activities and turn his attention to Jacob.
Rod's sarcasm was then replaced with concern. "Well why would he say that for? I mean, what would make him say that?" Rod then looked over at everyone else. "That's strange, right?"
George griped the beer bottle in his right hand, taking great interest in what was said. "What else did he say, Jake?"
"He was scared." replied Jacob. "He was seeing things coming out of the wood-work. 'They're trying to get me,' he said."
Then with a nervous choke, George asked, "Did he say what they looked like?" His right hand then began to shake so hard that he ended up dropping the bottle unto the carpet; spilling out all of it's liquid contents. Everyone stared at him as he asked to be excused while he left the room, wondering what was wrong with him and at the same time, knowing exactly what it was. All of them except Rod, who of course still teased him jokingly about his kidney problem.
"In one end and out the other, huh George?" he said with a smile. "Still a fuckin' spaz."
Rod then picked up the bottle and placed it back on the table with a small chuckle. "I hope he can hold his dick better than his bottle."
Rod then looked around the room and instead of seeing amused faces, he saw horror and uncertainty in them. Frank was even… crying.
Rod was a bit confused. "…What?" Perhaps there was more to his friends lives than what he had thought.
