It was fucking dark. Not just dark like when you turn off a light, but dark like you'd been submerged in a bucket of crude oil and tried to open your eyes. Tim could hear shots being fired nearby, but the crevice he and his spotter had been wedged into echoed confusingly and they couldn't tell which direction they were advancing from.
Tim maintained a cool facade, but his heart was jackhammering against his sternum. After he'd taken his shot a few hours ago, he'd watched chaos erupt through his scope; men pouring out of the house they'd been watching in search of the person responsible. The path they'd been directed to take to reconvene with the rest of their unit had been used almost immediately by fighters looking to even the score, and they'd been awaiting new evac orders ever since, to no avail.
"We've got to get out of here," he said. He looked over at his spotter, some new kid who looked like he was straight out of Fort Benning named Samuel Kirk. Everyone had called him Sammy, which just made Tim think of him as being even younger than he probably was. He wished, not for the first time today, that he hadn't been paired with some green PFC on his first tour after Ranger School. "Kirk? You hear me?" The kid looked up at him, eyes wide and scared. This was supposed to be an in-and-out mission; quick and to the point. Tim wondered whether the intel they'd been given was outdated, or if his superiors had really thought the men in that house were just going to roll over after he killed their leader in front of them.
"What do we do?" Kirk asked, and Tim didn't know how to answer. It occurred to him for the first time that this kid's life was truly in his hands and his hands alone, and he wasn't sure he was prepared for what that meant. Tim liked taking orders and he abhorred giving them. Still, he knew if they stayed where they were, it was only a matter of time before someone found them, and the chances of it being one of their own were a lot less likely than the alternative. After sitting thoughtfully for a few moments, listening to the shouts and shots echoing through the canyon beyond their hideout, he made his decision.
"Follow me," he said, and Tim carefully climbed out of their hiding spot, furtively checking his surroundings.
They stayed low to the ground, creeping below the ridge so their silhouettes couldn't be seen against the stars. Tim maneuvered them away from where he thought the fighting sounded worst, hoping to skirt around behind their unit and meet up with them that way. The terrain was difficult, sand and stones that slid out from under you as you ran. It was hopeless to make an attempt at silence as they advanced, so they chose speed instead.
It happened so quickly that Tim didn't even know what was going on until he heard Kirk's mangled yell and his body hit the ground behind him. When he turned, the man was already lunging for him, knife out and slick with Kirk's blood. Tim reacted faster than even he thought possible, pulled the trigger, and the man's body slumped against his, weighty and lifeless.
Tim rolled the body away from him, and let it flail down the hill, scattering the dirt as it went. He stayed still for a moment, listening, but he heard no one else. He realized their assailant probably hadn't even been a part of the fighting; likely just a scared civilian who saw two American military personnel and reacted out of fear. The thought made his whole body feel heavy and useless.
Tim crawled toward Kirk, and he pulled the younger man toward him. Kirk wasn't dead yet, but he would be soon and there was nothing Tim could do about it. There was blood or shit or piss everywhere, thought he couldn't tell which was what in the inky blackness. He could just feel the wet seeping through his uniform as he held Kirk in his lap and watched him struggle against the knowledge that he was dying.
If only they had stayed in their hiding spot. If only Kirk had been better prepared for the field. If only Tim hadn't tried to be a leader when he knew damn well he wasn't one.
The gunfire sounded like it was everywhere; filling his ears. Kirk was saying something, but Tim couldn't make out the words.
... Deputy Gutterson. Marshal. Deputy Gutterson... Tim. Tim, wake up.
#
Tim's eyes shot open and he felt the heavy pressure of two hands on his shoulders. He flailed against them, feeling pinned down and helpless, fighting some unseen enemy that had gotten the drop on him.
"Tim. You are in a motel room in Tennessee. You're safe."
Tim swiveled his head around wildly until his eyes focused on Kathryn's face, mere inches from his own.
"What?" he asked, relaxing slightly, his muscled still coiled to attack in case this was some kind of trick.
"You're okay, Deputy. Just having a nightmare." Kathryn responded.
Tim laid his head back against the pillow, trying to remember, but all he could recall was the scent of blood and sweat. The sand scratchy in his uniform and his hands covered in something sticky and wet.
Kathryn removed her hands from his shoulders and stood up. Tim sat himself up fully, pressing his back into the headboard of the tiny bed and closing his eyes in an effort to consciously force his muscles to relax.
"Here," said Kathryn, and she handed him a cup with some of his bourbon in it. She perched herself on the edge of the bed, her own cup in hand, watching him carefully.
"Sorry," he said, embarrassed and angry with himself.
"Don't worry about it; I know more people with PTSD than without," she said, and took a sip of the bourbon.
"Did you serve?" he asked, though he already knew the answer, as he slung the liquor back as quickly as he could. He always enjoyed the burn as it slid down his throat and settled in his stomach.
"No," she replied, simply and definitively, as she refilled his cup from the bottle she'd placed on the nightstand. "You good?"
"Yeah," he said, taking another grateful sip.
"That happen often after you do a sniper job?"
"Sometimes, but I don't really want to talk about it."
"Fair enough," she said, and they slipped into an amicable silence. Tim looked over at the old digital clock between their beds; it was almost 4 in the morning. He wondered what he'd done to wake her, whether he had said anything aloud or shouted like he sometimes knew he did. He hoped that wasn't the case and that his movements had been what caught her attention. He was drenched in cold sweat, his t-shirt sticking to him uncomfortably. The cheap motel sheets were nearly soaked through, and he could feel his heart rate still descending from the crescendo it had reached.
Tim distracted himself from his thoughts and his fears by quietly observing Kathryn. She was sitting on the side of his bed that faced into the room, so he had a clear view of the tattoo on her left thigh. It was colorful and extremely detailed, so he traced the lines and swirls of it with his eyes to ground himself and slow his breathing.
"It's a blue ringed octopus and a mantis shrimp," she said. He looked up at her and saw that she was smiling softly. He thought, unprofessionally, that it made her look quite pretty in the dim light. "Both very deadly in their own way." Kathryn pointed to the octopus, "These little guys only get to be about 8 inches big, but they can kill an adult in a few minutes, and there's no anti-venom that can treat their bite," she traced her finger over to the colorful shrimp, which, if Tim was being honest, looked more like a weird alien centipede than something he'd eat with cocktail sauce, "and these guys only get to be about 7 inches long at best, but they use this giant claw to smash their prey," she thunked her fist down heavily on her own thigh for emphasis. "It's so powerful that even if they miss with the claw itself, the shock-wave it causes can still sometimes kill their prey. The velocity they wield it with is about as fast as a .22."
Tim appreciated the distraction and he mulled over what she'd said, wondering if he'd ever venture into the ocean again now that he knew a miniature poisonous octopus could kill him almost instantly, or a that shrimp with tiny guns for appendages existed. By the time he realized he was smiling, imagining a shrimp wielding a pair of pistols, Kathryn had finished her drink and stood up.
"Get some sleep, Deputy. You've got a long drive ahead of you tomorrow." Tim watched over the rim of his cup as Kathryn climbed into her own bed and pulled the blankets up under her chin. He took another sip of his bourbon and tried to close his eyes, but every time he did, all he could see was Kirk getting paler and paler in his lap, so instead he tossed back the rest of his beverage and decided to shower.
The warm water felt good as it cascaded over his exhausted muscles. He felt the tension ease out of his face and back as he leaned against the tile and breathed in the steam. He hoped Kathryn wouldn't be too upset that he'd had to move her clothes so they wouldn't get wet.
Tim waited as long as he could, until the hot water had finally turned ice cold, before he turned the shower off. He threw on a clean t-shirt and the same pair of shorts he'd been wearing, and walked back to his bed without turning the lights on, so as not to disturb his roommate.
The sheets were still damp, but with a fresh shirt, it was bearable, and he kicked the comforter off the bed, opting to use only the thin polyester sheet for cover. Tim stared up at the ceiling, letting his mind wander through the dark swirls of old cigarette stains on the once-white tiles. He slowed his breathing, afraid that when he closed his eyes he'd be back where he started; holding a dying man's head in his lap.
But instead, when he settled into the mattress and finally let his eyelids drift closed, all he saw was the ocean.
#
The next time Tim opened his eyes, the sun was bright and shining through the partially opened curtains. Kathryn's bed was empty, and so was the rest of the room. He rubbed his hands roughly over his face and looked at the clock; it was already 7:30, the latest he'd slept in quite a while.
Tim pulled on his clothes and decided to check on his vehicle. The keys weren't sitting with his wallet where they'd been the night before, and he wasn't sure he'd put it past Kathryn to take his car without notice if she'd gotten a call about Ibsen's whereabouts. But when he made it out to the parking lot, he was met with a very different situation.
He hadn't realized it would be possible for the other inhabitants of the motel to be more raucous than when they'd arrived the night before, but he could hear competing music and shouting from all directions. Apparently, this was the place to be for tailgating before whatever Nascar event was happening nearby. When he made it down to his car, Tim spotted Kathryn across the lot standing with a small group of men, holding a beer. They were clustered around the open bed of a pickup truck, with a griddle cooking bacon and classic rock pouring out of speakers run from the inside of the cab. Kathryn was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, now dry and relatively clean.
Tim wasn't sure if he should approach, but he decided the sight was too good to pass up and he walked over to the group. The four men watched him unhappily as he tapped Kathryn on the shoulder. She turned and he was met with the brightest smile he'd ever seen. "Hey!" she said with a twangy Texan accent he'd never heard her use, and turned back to her newfound friends, "Guys, this is my brother Tom. Y'all mind if he joins us?"
Tim watched as the men relaxed. He assumed they were glad she had identified him as her brother, though he was less enthused about the designation, if he was honest. He guessed the men were each in their 50s, and likely all hoped they'd have a chance to nail a woman nearly half their age if they played their cards right. He ran his eyes over each of them again and realized they were all standing as tall as they could, sucking in their beer bellies just a bit. He disguised his forthcoming laugh with a cough.
One of the men opened a beer and handed it to Tim. "Thanks, man," he said. "What're you up to, sis?" He hoped the emphasis would convey his displeasure to Kathryn, but she continued on without hesitation.
"I was just telling the guys here how excited we are to hit the speedway later. Should be a great day for racing." She wasn't wrong; the weather was noticeably warmer than the day before when he'd wandered through the woods, though he couldn't quite tell whether she was joking, so he opted to take a sip of his beer. At just about 8 in the morning, it was a bit early, even for him, but after the night he'd had, he wasn't going to complain.
One of the men, Kenny, flipped the bacon and asked Tim if he'd like breakfast, too. Tim nodded and gratefully took the bacon and egg sandwich he was handed moments later, resting his drink at his feet as he tore into the much-needed food.
Suddenly, a frantic guitar riff began through the speakers and everyone put their sandwiches down in some choreographed dance that Tim wasn't part of. Kenny turned up the volume. "Everybody got a beer?" he asked and the rest of the group nodded. "I'll start."
Tim looked around, confused, until he made eye contact with Kathryn. "Every time you hear the word 'thunder,' the next person in the circle starts drinking and goes until you hear it again." She clapped him on the shoulder and flashed him a wink. "It's easy, you'll figure it out."
Just then, Tim heard a sharp "Thunder!" crackle through the speakers and Kenny started drinking. A moment later, the friend to his left did the same. Tim choked down the rest of his sandwich and picked up his beer just in time to participate himself.
#
After they'd finished their breakfasts and chugged two beers to the sounds of AC/DC, it took Kathryn a few minutes to finagle an exit from their parking lot crew. She eventually managed to convince them by revealing that it was Tom's first time at Bristol and she wanted to get there early so he could get the full experience. Tim waited by the car as he watched all four men ensure that 'Kathy' had their cell numbers, in case she needed anything or wanted to meet up later, mostly so he wouldn't have to fake an asthma attack to keep from laughing.
While Kathryn had strongly hinted that she wanted to go back to the room first, Tim thought the most expedient and believable exit for them would require they get immediately in the car. When she was finished extricating herself from the group, he hopped in the driver's seat so she would have to follow, and he watched with abundant amusement when she waved enthusiastically to her new friends as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Well, that was quite an interesting morning," he said.
Kathryn turned to him, all the Southern charm she'd doused herself in like syrup suddenly gone. "I could smell the bacon from the room, so I figured I'd wrangle us some breakfast. Sue me."
"What happened to your 'I only drink Scotch and gin?' Did you forget to put piss-lite beer on that list?"
She shrugged, "I'm not gonna turn down a free beer from a group of guys I'm trying to scam out of food." Tim smiled.
"That still doesn't explain my bourbon."
Kathryn ignored him, put one foot up on the dash, and rolled her window down, dangling her arm out of it. "They'll be gone in a half hour or so. We can head back then, and you can grab what you need before you get on the road to Lexington."
"Actually, I've taken a few vacation days and thought I'd spend them in the great state of Tennessee. Maybe I'll even check out that race." He couldn't help the grin that spread over his face when Kathryn's head whipped around to look at him.
"Like hell, Deputy. You are dismissed, or don't you remember what that means?"
"Well, there really isn't much you can do about where I spend my vacation, is there? Now, you gonna give me directions back to Ibsen's house, or do I need to remember the way there on my own?"