1.
“You can pull over there.” Nick Denton pointed to a spot on the shoulder of US 23, just before an exit. There was a sign of some sort about a quarter mile ahead, but the sun had not quite risen and it was difficult to make out the words. That was okay; Nick knew what it said.
The driver (Stan? Steve?) Gradually slowed the big rig and came to a smooth stop, not far from the sign. Nick leaned forward and dug for his billfold, “What do I owe you?”
Stan/Steve smiled like a little kid. “Nothin’. You don’t owe me nothin’. It was my pleasure. Wait till Edna hears that I gave a lift to a real hero.”
Nick sighed. This was the first time the driver had mentioned it, but Nick figured he knew, thanks to the little sidelong glances the guy was giving him all night. Even without the uniform, this guy had picked him out.
“Alls I ask is that you let me shake your hand.”
Nick put on his hand and Stan/Steve flinched.
What’s the matter? You think I’m going to incinerate you, turn you to white-hot ash? Maybe you didn’t hear; I don’t do that anymore. The man’s hand was damp. Nick gave it a good squeeze, just enough so he knew it had been shook. “Thanks, buddy. I truly appreciate it.”
“Hell, we appreciate what you fellas did over there in Afganny-stan. And what y’all did up in space, too. You make me proud to be an American.”
Nick grabbed his duffel bag and climbed down out of the cab.
“Hey, can I ask you one more thing?” Stan/Steve said.
Typical, Nick thought. They spend six hours afraid to say anything, then they want to cram the works of Shakespeare into the last two minutes. “What’s that?”
“Well, really two more things.” The driver’s face turned red. He waited for Nick’s approval.
Nick forced a smile and said,”Sure.”
“Why didn’t you, y’know, just fly here in one of them fancy Legion of Freedom jet shuttles?”
At that moment, Nick sort of wished he could fry Stan/Steve. Sort of. “I had some thinking to do. I wanted to take my time, gather some wool.”
The driver nodded, as if he understood. “You know, my oldest boy collects all your toys. He’s got all the models of the ships and stuff. He’s got your doll, too.”
“Action figure,” Nick stressed.
“Yeah, that’s right.” Stan/Steve said. He stared at Nick.
After a couple of seconds, Nick said, “You had another question?”
Stan/Steve laughed again, his face growing redder. “Oh, man. Sorry. I’m a little star struck, I reckon. What I was gonna ask is...well, I mean, I hope this ain’t too personal...”
Here it comes. “Well, the wife, y’know, she gets
People magazine and they was sayin’...well, they was sayin’ that you’re all used up. Is it true?”
“‘Fraid so,” Nick told him. “Thanks again for the lift.” He closed the door, hitched his duffel onto his shoulder and started walking toward the exit. He was stiff from sitting so long and his knee felt like it was going to lock up again. After he covered about fifty yards, the truck pulled away. Stan/Steve gave him a blast of the air horn. Nick threw up his hand in acknowledgment.
The sun was visible over the horizon, Nick felt it wash over him. He stopped and closed his eyes, lifting his face to the sky. Remembering.
After a moment, he smiled. A few minutes later, he passed the green and white sign. It read:
WELCOME TO RADIANCE, KENTUCKY
THE FRIENDLIEST LITTLE TOWN IN THE BLUEGRASS STATE!
Nick shook his head as he walked past the sign.
“We’ll see,” he said.
***
The sun was fully up as he entered downtown, all six blocks of it. He guessed it was just a little past six. On the front porch of Kinney’s Feed and Hardware, two old men–one black, one white–sat in wicker rockers and watched him approach. The two were skinny and frail looking, both smoking unfiltered cigarettes. They looked exactly as they had when he’d last seen them.
Nick stopped in front of the store and let his duffel drop to the sidewalk. The three men stared at each other in silence.
Finally, the old black man said, “Noodge, look what the cat drug in.”
The ancient white man leaned forward and jabbed his cigarette at Nick. “And don’t you go thinkin’ I forgot who stole that gnome out of my garden in 1966, Mr. High-and-Mighty Super Hero man.”
Despite himself, Nick smiled. “I’ve been meaning to apologize for that, Noodge. Sorry.”
Noodge rocked back in his chair and stuck his cigarette between his lips. He crossed his arms across his thin chest.
“And how are you, Lester?”
“Tolerable,” the black man said. “Tolerable.”
“You old buzzards don’t look a day older than you did when I had this burg in my rear view mirror.”
The two old men looked at each other, exchanging an unspoken thought. Lester turned back to Nick and said, “You been gone a long time, Nicky. Lot’s changed around here.”
“I know it has, Lester. And it’s not just here.”
Noodge had sucked his cigarette down to a stub, which he flicked over the porch rail, just missing Nick’s head. “We were real sorry to hear about your boy, Nick.”
“Yeah,” Lester said. “John was a good kid. A good man.”
“Thanks,” Nick said. He glanced down at his boots.
“We figured you weren’t here ‘cause you were on one of them secret missions. Was that it.”
“Something like that”
Lester nodded. “It’s good you’re here. This town, it’s got something wrong with it, like a disease.”
“Some bad shit goin’ on, boy,” Noodge added. He spat over the porch rail for emphasis.
“Hey, Nicky,” Lester said, “Everybody saying you ran out of juice. That ain’t true, is it?”
Nick picked up his duffel and slipped the strap over his shoulder again. “That’s what they say.” He walked toward the center of town.
“Hey,” Noodge called after him. “What good is that gonna do us?.”
***
He passed a young man jogging and two heavy middle-aged women who were power-walking very slowly, their arms pumping up and down in what looked like slow motion. All gave him covert glances when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Nick paused in front of the Radiance courthouse, the place where he took his driver’s license test. He remembered the joy he felt when his father had let him drive the car, a Ford station wagon with that fake wood paneling on the sides.. He picked up Talmadge Green and Bart Cooley and the three of them tore up three counties, cruising the Bluegrass Grill over in Ashland, then taking in a double feature at the old Corral Drive Inn in Flatwoods. They finished up by throwing beer bottles out the window at Old Man Fletcher’s cows. He also remembered his father punching him in the face when he came in after two in the morning.
“Home, sweet home,” Nick muttered. He had wasted enough time. Now he had to get down to it. Nick would rather face an invasion of reanimated dinosaurs than what he now had to do.
He set off again, passing the few remaining businesses in town, all closed save for Libby’s Diner. He had no desire to walk through those doors. In high school, he had lost his virginity to Libby’s daughter, which resulted in a brief pregnancy scare. It was the first time since he was a child that Nick had prayed. It was something he didn’t do again until Vietnam.
He wondered briefly what had happened to Glenda, Libby’s daughter. He had a pretty good idea. She grew up and had a normal life, like everyone else in this town. Everyone but him.
He left the diner behind, traveled down Main two more blocks, then turned right. It was a short street with only three houses, one on each side and a two-story Cape Cod in the cul-de-sac.
The house had a big, wide porch, which held an assortment of outdoor furniture, a bike and a tricycle, along with various plants. It was in pretty good shape; the roof looked just a few years old. And it would need painting next year. All in all, it was better than he’d expected. He hesitated in front of the door, listening for any sounds from within. He heard nothing, but he did smell coffee. Reluctantly, he knocked.
The woman who answered the door was petite, with red hair tied back in a ponytail. There were dark circles under her eyes and deep creases around her mouth, lines that hadn’t been there before. She wore a robe that was too big. She smelled like soap and Maxwell House.
Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times in shock, like you’d see someone do in a movie. She closed her mouth, sighed, then smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile.
“So,” she said, “the goddamn sun god decided to grace us with a visit.”
The knot of tension in his gut twisted around itself. “Sara,” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it here any sooner.”
“No problem, Nick,” She threw the storm door open. “It was a great funeral. You’d have loved it. Come on in and I’ll tell you all about it.”
She disappeared into the house. He stood there, rooted to the spot.
This was a mistake. And then he opened the door and entered the house he’d grown up in.
2.
The headaches started when he was thirteen.
His parents and the doctors thought it was migraines, at first. He would be stricken with a blinding bolt of pain behind his eyes, like someone was driving a railroad spike into his skull. When an attack would occur, Nick would have to lie down in the dark until it passed. It had been particularly humiliating when one of the headaches hit during gym glass, and he had vomited on the gym floor. When conventional methods of treatment proved ineffective, Doc Green (father of Talmadge, co-defendant in the future First Night Driving incident) suggested they see a specialist at the University of Kentucky. So his old man loaded them up in the station wagon, and they drove to Lexington and the fancy hospital. When they were finally summoned to see the doctor, it was Nick’s dad the physician wanted to talk to. Leaving him with his mom in a waiting room filled with kid’s magazines, the doctor escorted his confused father to an examining room, where he stayed for nearly an hour. When his dad finally emerged, he crossed the waiting room slowly, never looking directly at Nick. He sat down next to Nick’s mom. She grabbed his father’s hand and squeezed until her knuckles turned white.
“What is it, Roger?”
He patted her hand and looked at Nick for the first time and Nick saw something that was worse than the debilitating headaches. His dad was scared.
“Nicky?” his father said, with a quavering tone in his voice. “You remember your dad’s army stories, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Nick said. “You were a hero. You beat the Nazis.”
“Well, I had some help.” His dad forced a smile. “And you know about the Krayll, right.”
“Everybody knows about them, Dad.”
“Right. Okay. Then you probably know that when the Krayll crashed on earth in the Forties, the Nazis stole stuff out of one of their space ships and made weapons, right?”
Nick nodded, afraid of where the conversation was going.
“Well, some of those ray gun things got used near my squad in Berlin. And they leaked some of what they call radiation.”
“I know what
radiation is.” Now Nick’s stomach hurt really bad, like he had diarrhea.
“Okay, okay. Let me finish,” Dad said, his face scrunching up in anger. This was a face Nick was used to. The angry face was a lot better than the scared face. “Anyway, the docs, they know a lot more about Krayll radiation now, and because I was exposed to it, it changed something in my body.”
“Oh my God,” Nick’s mother said. “Are you dying?”
“No. Not anytime soon, anyway.” He patted Mom’s hand a couple of times, then released it. “No, they think I might have passed something on to Nicky here, and that might be what’s causing his headaches.”
“Oh, no,” Mom said. Her eyes were large and wet-looking. “Is it...is it a
tumor?” She whispered the last word, then shot a glance at Nick to see if he had heard, which, of course he had.
Tumor, he thought.
I’ve got a tumor. Like Belinda Hensley. Belinda had been in his second grade class. She had been sick for a week or so and, after Christmas break, Belinda never came back to school. Word quickly got around that she had died. She had a tumor.
Nick started to cry in the waiting room; he couldn’t help it. His Mom grasped his hand and said soothing things. His father looked around, embarrassed, to see if anyone were watching them.
A nurse came out and said his name.
“Let’s go,” his dad said, already shutting down, the compassion he’d shown now vanished from his face.
***
They ran all the tests on Nick that they could think of, and, while the Krayll radiation was present in his blood, they could find no cause for the headaches. They gave him pain-killers and sent him home.
Nick eventually felt better. He played football, dated, got into fights. It was a perfectly normal small town life.
Until he turned 18, and Uncle Sam came calling. It was 1967 and, knowing he would be drafted, Nick signed up with the Marines.
February of 1968 was wet in Vietnam. With the rain and the fog, Private Nick Denton thought he’d never be dry again. As he crept around the outer walls of the citadel of Hue, Nick remembered seeing the city for the first time, just three days ago, and thinking it was the most beautiful sight he’d ever witnessed. It looked like something you’d see in the movies. Somewhere, a hundred or so yards behind him, was a Marine his age, a guy named Solly Kowalski, from Iowa. He might as well be back in Cedar Rapids, for all the good he was doing Nick. Now, with half of Alpha company dead or wounded, and the fetid odor of the Perfume River stuck in his nostrils, Nick was as scared as he’d ever been. Rumor was the NVA had a Krayll weapon up there on that wall. Even now, the technology was tricky, and it was just as likely Charlie would blow everything up trying to using it. Nick had seen a couple of Hueys with Krayll guns mounted on them. It made him very nervous.
The NVA had taken over the citadel in hopes of sparking the victory that would turn the tide of the war. And Alpha company, first battalion-Fifth Marines, had been ordered to take it back. It had been hot work, close work. Nick had taken to using a pump shotgun to get the job done. He seen more blood and spilled viscera these past three days than he had in his entire tour. Two of his closest buddies were dead. Nick was sure, in his heart, that he would soon join them. He had a knot the size of a grapefruit in his gut. He would have given anything at that moment to be back in Radiance, hanging out with Talmadge and Bart, back when getting laid and finding gas money were his two biggest worries.
He was never sure which of them shot him. He only knew that he was suddenly knocked to the ground and his knee felt like he’d been swatted with a sledgehammer. It took another second for the realization to sink in. “I’m hit!” he yelled, not knowing how far away he was from anyone in his unit. Nick had always heard that all you felt when you were shot was numbness. But his knee was on fire, as if the devil himself had rammed fingers of white-hot flame into the wound. “Oh, Jesus,” he screamed, trying hard not to cry, trying not to be that scared little kid in the hospital waiting room, but now two figures had detached from the shadows of the wall that surrounded sad, beautiful Hue and were approaching him, raising what looked like rifles with bayonets, because they had decided he wasn’t worth a bullet, so they were going to stab him again and again until he died screaming his mother’s name--
The pain in his knee was dwarfed by the pounding agony behind his eyes, the migraine of his youth times infinity. His world turned to flame and he was barely aware of the screams–not his–that rose and ended as larynxes were incinerated. And, as his sight returned, before unconsciousness claimed him, he saw the blackened pit that was once the citadel of Hue.
To Be Continued
Originally published in 2004 at Adventure Fiction Online.
Revised version © 2007 Mark Justice
