Part 7: Aftermath; ... the making of a krycek

As the weeks went on, John continued to sooth his pain with alcohol abuse. He met a friend on the military base who was also an alcoholic. He was a Hispanic man named Luis Cardinal.

Luis looked rough and had quite a bit of experience in the world. He was twenty-three years old, and told John of his stories in Mexico being involved in the drug trade. John was amused, but not in support, of Luis's stories of killing people on the harsh Latino streets.

Luis and John quickly became good 'drinking' friends. They hung out together almost everyday. John thought he could trust Luis. What he didn't know, was that Luis worked for Mr. Spender.

On one sunny afternoon--a day that would prove to be more tragically meaningful to John than any other--he and Luis went into the forest off base for a fun game of target practice. John was bored out of his mind, and wanted to have some fun shooting Luis' rifle off at the trees.

Both men walked to the forest together. Luis carried his rifle, and John carried a six-pack of lager in hand. They sat down in the forest and drank a few beers. John drank more than he anticipated.

"Let's get this show on the road," said Luis.

"Are you sure it's safe to shoot when we're drunk?" asked John, nervously.

"What are you, a pussy?" Luis commented. "We're in the middle of the fucking woods. Of coarse it's safe."

Luis always had a certain kind control over John. He was very demanding. John always felt the need to live up to him and impress him, kind of like how he used to have to live up to his uncle's expectations. Maybe Luis' power was a kind of imminent goal for John... a hope to hold onto when there was nothing else to look forward to.

The pair set up the rifle on its stand and got ready to shoot. John was as nervous as hell.

"You go first," he imposed.

"No," laughed Luis. "You said you'd go first. I'm gonna go and set one of these bottles down for you to shoot at. I wanna see how good you are, Johnny."

John gulped as Luis walked away, limping and tripping he was so drunk. An imperative nausea sunk in John's stomach. Something wasn't right.

Luis walked out of John's sight, at least fifty yards away. As John waited for his return, Luis came to a large oak tree which appeared to be dying. It had no leaves on it. On one of the branches, Luis set the beer bottle. There was no way John could hit it by aiming. He was barely experienced with a gun, let alone a rifle, and it was a stupid drunken idea. From where John was, he could not even see the beer bottle.

Luis glanced further down the forest, at the small lake. In the lake, two young girls played. They were somewhere around twelve years old. They didn't see Luis, but he saw them. He ignored them and walked back over to John as the birds chirped. The girls in the lake were diagonal with the tree where the target beer bottle sat.

"Shoot," Luis said over to John when he returned.

Luis stood over behind John. John positioned himself behind the rifle and got ready to pull the trigger. John was as scared as hell now; he didn't know what to aim for. He feared what the anger of the alcohol-fueled Luis would do if he didn't pull the trigger. So, he aimed in a straight line from where Luis came from. Without thinking, he pulled the trigger.

BAAAAAAAAAAAM! The gunshot rang out. The birds stopped chirping and fled.

Nothing was hit.

"Again!" ordered Luis.

BAAAAAAAAAANG! Another gunshot.

This time they heard a noise following the shot. It wasn't the sound of the glass breaking. It was a scream. One of the young girls'.

Both men looked at each other in horror.

"Oh no," said Luis.

"What?" asked John. "What is it?"

"Let's...," Luis began. "Let's get outta here."

"We can't go!" cried John. "I thought you said the area was secure!"

Luis ignored John and ran, leaving his rifle behind.

John stood there for a moment, in shock. He took a deep breath, and then ran towards the lake where the scream came from. He ran faster than he ever ran before.

When he came to the lake, out of breath, he saw a girl running away. He looked around. Then he saw the other girl laying on the ground. He went over to her, kneeling down beside her. Blood was pouring from the back of her head. He shot her. How he made the shot, he didn't know. It had to have been a coincidence. Luis was a liar... it wasn't safe at all.

John put his hands on the girl. She was still alive. Her long black hair was mixed with blood, dripping onto John's hands. The girl reminded him completely of Samantha. Even her face which had tears running from it.

John began to whimper and cry. His tears flowed onto the girl's face, mixing with her tears and blood.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to her.

Then the girl closed her eyes, and died in John's arms. He held her body close and cried some more.

Soaked in blood, John thought about what he had done. He felt like he had murdered Samantha. While that may not have been so, he was indeed a murderer.

With nothing to live for now, not even the hope of holding a good name, John left her body there and walked back home covered in blood. He went unnoticed walking back to his house covered in the blood of an innocent. No one saw him. Night was approaching.

The Air Force Base was surrounded by a fence. John snuck in through a hole in it which he and Samantha had sometimes snuck through.

When he got home, he took a shower and changed his clothing and put the bloody jeans and t-shirt into the garbage. Then he sat down and thought for hours. He couldn't stop crying.

He knew he had to report the accident. But there was no way he could face what he had done. He wrote a note, explaining the murder and confessing his actions. Then he gathered all the medication he had in his house, and took them to his bedroom.

He collapsed on his bed and overdosed on meds, attempting suicide. He blacked out, going out cold.

John woke up several times, severely groggy from the overdose. He continued to pump himself full of drugs, hoping die. He continuously passed out, having no recollection of the time that was passing. He didn't know how long he had been out cold. Maybe hours, maybe days.

He dreamed during his overdose. He had the same nightmare over and over again--about Samantha. He saw himself, shooting her over and over again, dying in his arms. After she was dead, she'd come to him as a ghost, asking why he murdered her.

Finally, John ran out of drugs to overdose on. His immune system became very weak, and he'd constantly wake up to puke, only to fall asleep again and have the same nightmare. His soul was in so much pain, as was his physical body. His stomach was polluted with drugs. It hurt so much that he almost thought about cutting it out of his body with scissors.

Possibly days later, he woke up feeling a little more lucid from the drugs leaving his system. He looked over at the door to his bedroom. It was open, with a shadow standing there. At first he thought he was hallucinating, but then he smelled the familiar smell. Standing at the entrance to his bedroom was the Smoking-Man, Mr. Spender.

"Get the hell out of here!" John yelled bitterly.

Mr. Spender just stood there, puffing away on his cigarette. John stared at him with intense hate.

"If you're not going to leave," he continued. "At least shoot me!"

John expected Mr. Spender to sarcastically smile at him, but he didn't. He didn't even acknowledge John's wish.

"You're not meant to die," spoke Mr. Spender. "I would have killed you before, but I've always known what a smart boy you are... smart AND strong. You're a powerful asset to me."

"You idiot!" yelled John. "Get out! Get out!"

"I know that you killed the young girl out in the forest," claimed Mr. Spender. "The ballistics from the bullet found in the girl match the rifle which belongs to your friend Luis. The rifle had fresh fingerprints on it. Yours actually. I know that it was an accident. A tragic accident. That was my good friend Ronald's daughter who you shot. However, no one will know about it. I've covered it up with a story about a lost hobo finding the gun and shooting the girl. That's the official story now."

"I don't care!" John exclaimed. "Leave me alone! I wanna die!"

Mr. Spender put out his cigarette on the floor and came over beside John on his bed. Like a father, he put his arms around him.

"Poor, poor John," he said. "It was an accident. It wasn't your fault. You can confess your actions to the police, but they won't believe you after how good I covered it up."

John didn't understand Mr. Spender's sudden sympathy. But he didn't care anymore. It didn't matter. He was so vulnerable now; willing to hear anything even if it didn't make sense.

"You can be forgiven," declared Mr. Spender.

"Forgiven?" laughed John. "There is no forgiveness. There is no truth. There is no faith, no hope. Fuck it all. And fuck this thing!"

John ripped his mother's cross off his neck and threw it on the ground. Then he got up and stomped on it.

"I am a murderer like my father!" he yelled. "I AM A RAT... A KRYCEK!"

Mr. Spender grabbed John by the hand, trying to sooth him. But that didn't quench John's anger or self-hatred.

"Whatever you may think of yourself," began Mr. Spender. "You can start over. I've salvaged you and saved your life. You will work for me now. And I can guarantee that you will discover that what you've done isn't nearly as bad as the things I've done. It's time to give up the alcohol. Only now have I made the decision to give up my cocaine habit."

"Yes, yes," said John. "Whatever. I don't care. I'll work for you. I'm already a murderer as it is. I may as well do something to save the world like you claim to have the power to do."

Mr. Spender let go of John's hand and patted him on the back. Then he walked to the door and paused there. He turned around to John, lighting another cigarette.

"You can start over with a new life and a new name," Mr. Spender reminded him. "Any alias you choose is yours. Take some time, and then come see me at my house. Jeffrey is anxious to see you again."

John stayed quiet. He didn't care about anything.

"Can I offer you a cigarette?" Mr. Spender asked as he did once before.

"No," answered John. "I'll still never touch them."

With that, Mr. Spender left. John sat down on his bed again, deep in thought. He still hated Mr. Spender, but had no choice but to work for him now. What else was there to do?

John still felt depressed and haunted. He felt like he betrayed Samantha, and that she could never love him now. He took some fresh concrete and went over to Mr. Spender's house. He covered his hand print with concrete, erasing it from existence. He also erased the heart he drew in Samantha's hand print, leaving only her and Jeffrey's hand prints behind.

To this very day, John Alex Arntzen has not forgot any of this. He thinks about it all the time... still tormented by ghosts from the past. He has begun a new life and taken a new identity, working for Mr. Spender. The name "John Arntzen" has seemingly been erased from all records. No history can be found for the first eighteen years of his life. Not even the most ambitious of investigators could ever find anything credible on who is now known as 'Alex Krycek'.

The End...