Turn or Burn Read online

  Turn or Burn

  Boo Walker

  Also by Boo Walker

  Lowcountry Punch

  Off You Go (Novella)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Boo Walker

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Sandy Run Press

  www.sandyrunpress.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9913018-1-2

  Cover art by Karri Klawiter

  For Mikella and Riggs, la mia ragione per esistere.

  Turn or Burn

  Table of Contents

  I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  II

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  III

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  IV

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  I

  “I went to cover the war and the war covered me.”

  - Michael Herr

  “Within thirty years, we will have the technological means to create superhuman intelligence. Shortly after, the human era will be ended.”

  - Vernor Vinge

  CHAPTER 1

  I saved a lot of money on therapy bills the past couple of years consulting my German shepherd mix instead of driving to some bland office with a still life on the wall, telling an overeducated, underexperienced, credential-burdened psychotherapist/wannabe doctor that my life was fucked, and paying their ludicrous fifty-minute fee, so that they could afford their yoga dues and their Vespa payment and their organic, local, blah blah blah cuisine and perhaps even a cute little Argyle sweater for their seven-pound dog.

  Not that my overexperienced, pissed-off, and jaded monkey mind had gotten me much of anywhere, but at least I wasn’t diving in the dirt anymore. The vineyard I’d planted and was currently meandering through had certainly been part of the healing, too.

  I still had a lot to get done before the sun fell much further. The temperature had already dropped fifteen degrees, though that was nothing out of the ordinary for the desert in the Columbia Valley of Eastern Washington. And that’s what it was: full-on desert. A lot of people don’t know that about Washington State. They think, Seattle and rain. Well, once you drive east over the Cascades about two hours from Seattle and get close to Yakima, you’re lucky if it rains. You’re in the desert. And I’m talking the coyotes, rattlesnakes, tumbleweeds, and dust devils-kind of desert.

  It had been an especially hot May, and I welcomed the cool evening breeze and a dip into the low sixties. I could hear Roman coming up from behind, weaving his way through the rows of grapevines, as he loved to do. He caught up with me and nudged my leg with a dried-up cane left on the ground from when we pruned the vines in February.

  “Hey, buddy. You can go all day, can’t you?” I rubbed his neck and pulled the cane out of his mouth and tossed it south. “Go get it, Roman!” He shot after it. Nothing could make me smile like he could. If I had to put my finger on one reason why I hadn’t put a gun to my head and painted my bedroom wall with blood and brain, it would be him.

  I went back to work. I used drip irrigation to water my vines—the only way any of us did it up on Red Mountain. Heck, most of the Columbia Valley, I imagine. There’s good and bad to having a meager five inches of rain every year and being forced to irrigate. There was an upside to being able to control the amount of water our grapes drank, which allowed us to fine-tune some. Play God with the water. Have consistent vintages. But I wouldn’t have complained if I didn’t have to dig another hole to fix a leak for a while. I’ve sawed enough PVC pipe for a lifetime.

  Every couple of days, I walk down each row and make sure all the vines are getting water and that everything’s working properly. That’s what I was doing today, just having a good stroll down the rows, taking it all in, breathing and trying to find peace. It’s in those walks that I’d found a path leading me to some kind of normalcy. Soldier normalcy—not quite civilian-style.

  A soft thunder began coming in from the west, rolling over the treeless hills. My senses became very acute; my skin tingled. I dropped the shears in my hand and looked off in that direction. I couldn’t see anything but the sound became clearer. It was a helicopter coming toward me. It didn’t feel right, what my body was going through. Beads of sweat. Increased heart rate. Tensed fists. A sensation close to tunnel vision but not yet totally out of control. I analyzed the scene around me with precision and speed. No other cars or people in sight. The closest building was my tractor shed one hundred yards up the gravel drive. I had no weapon; I had left it back at the house.

  “Roman!” I yelled. “C’mere, boy!”

  He was by my feet in seconds. He must have known there was something wrong. The helicopter came into view, climbing over Rattlesnake Mountain. Roman started growling—a very defensive, guard-dog growl. The helicopter drew closer, crossing over the Yakima River. It looked like a four-rotor, single-engine Bell. Probably a 407. Police issue.

  Roman began to bark.

  “Shhh,” I whispered. “Don’t do that.” I bent down and rubbed his neck. He quieted. It was me that was anxious, though. I was the reason he was barking. He was protecting me. We humans release smells when we’re experiencing emotions. Millions of pheromones. Dogs pick them up. I’m sure my body was spraying scents of fear and anxiety like a busted fire hydrant. He had picked it up quickly, like he always does.

  The helicopter flew directly over our heads. I stood tall and watched it move past us and told myself to be calm. My instincts attempted to override the message, told me to run, but I wouldn’t let that happen. I kept myself from moving. I told my mind first—then my body—that it was okay. That I was safe. I wasn’t in a war zone anymore. My body understood. My heart rate slowed; the tension loosened.

  The helicopter moved on and its sound started to fade. I took a deep breath and slowly knelt in the sandy loam soil. Roman wedged himself between my legs. I closed my eyes and began to meditate, something I’d taught myself after reading a few PTSD-related books I’d discovered over the years. I’m not hardheaded about whatever the hell is going on with me. I want to get better. I want to change.

  And I was changing. It had been six months since I had reacted to a trigger. Sure, I could still feel them, but I was proving that I could control the urge to physically react. For a while ther
e, the triggers had the best of me. They were deeply ingrained. At a Fourth of July get-together the year before, I was in the backyard with a group of old high school friends standing around the grill when the neighbors started shooting fireworks. This was earlier in the day, long before sunset. Before I had prepared myself. As soon as the first firework exploded, I hit the ground and yelled, “Incoming!”

  There were embarrassing moments like that. I hoped I’d be able to laugh at them one day, but not yet. My illness was deadly serious, and it hurt more than someone who has never been in combat could fathom. I’m glad my parents didn’t have to see what I’d been going through. It would have been too much. In a way, dealing with my PTSD alone made me feel more comfortable.

  The helicopter was gone. My mind was calm. As is the objective with meditation, I wasn’t stuck on my thoughts. I simply let them pass by. An inner smile started to rear itself. I was getting somewhere with this shit. I wasn’t Buddha yet, but I had tasted a bit of Nirvana. Just enough to have hope. I was starting to feel my confidence coming back, like I had this thing licked.

  There I was thinking again. I pushed away those thoughts, even though they were positive. I needed to get back to the stillness. Stroking my Buddhist ego wasn’t exactly leading me to an orange robe and slippers. Things began to calm.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

  A breeze. The sound of leaves blowing. Warmth of sunshine. The first taste of this year’s lavender in the air.

  My cell phone, left in my truck, began to ring. The sound pulled me back to reality and thoughts flooded in. I pushed them away and tried to ignore the noise. I let the call go to voice mail.

  Back to the silence. Back to purity and form and emptiness.

  The phone sounded again, and what a bad chirp of a ring it was. I gave up. Enough spirituality for one day. I stood and dusted the dirt off my jeans. Roman followed me down the row and right along the drive to my old Ford diesel. The phone had stopped ringing. I reached for it and looked at the screen; I didn’t recognize the number. Just as I began to check the message, it started ringing again. Three calls in a row. Give me a break. I opened it up and answered.

  “This better be the president,” I said.

  “Harper Knox,” said a familiar voice. It was Ted Simpson. I’d known him since Fort Bragg, which felt like hundreds of years ago. We were like brothers, though we hadn’t spoken in a while. Ted hadn’t stopped fighting. Not once in his career. While I was out there crushing grapes, he was over in the desert crushing Al Qaeda. “How are you, bud?” he asked.

  “Was doing okay until my damn phone started yapping.”

  “Wow. I thought this vineyard mumbo jumbo was supposed to mellow you out. Where’s the love?”

  I leaned against the driver side door of the truck. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”

  “Well, while we all eagerly await your transformation, I have a job for you.”

  “That right?”

  “Yep. And I need you tomorrow.”

  “Can’t do it,” I said. “I’m up in Canada for a couple weeks.”

  “You serious? Where?”

  “Banff.”

  “What for?”

  “A vacation.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “I’m not selling it. It’s the way it is. Got a cup of coffee in my hand overlooking the Rockies. Let me ring you when I get back south. Talk to you later, Ted.”

  “Wait a damn minute. I’ll fly you back. This is a good gig. Good cash.”

  “This up here is what I need right now. I am done with battle.”

  “I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’re never done with battle. And besides, you haven’t left Red Mountain in months. Banff…come on. Can’t you do better than that?”

  “Whatever.”

  An SUV started coming down the gravel road that lines the southern side of my vines. The rocks crunched underneath the tires and dust rose up in a whirl behind it. I hadn’t had a visitor in a while. I don’t have that many friends anymore. “I have to go,” I said. “Call you when I get back in the country.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Later, Teddy.”

  I closed my phone and looked up the hill.

  As the car drew closer, Ted’s face became visible behind the wheel. Damn it.

  I turned and started running.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ted’s shadow appeared first. I was standing on the ledge outside of the second floor of my white stone tractor shed, directly above the back entrance. One hand kept me from falling. He’d followed me in, but I had already scurried up the ladder and worked my way out the window. I heard him looking around inside, moving things, looking for me. “Tofu,” he was saying, using my Army call sign. “Toooofuuuuu,” he said again, drawing out each syllable. “Show yourself.”

  His shadow appeared. I breathed slowly and quietly. Didn’t move at all. Waiting for the perfect time.

  The sky was darker now. Colder. One 40-watt lightbulb that I’d accidentally left on the night before swung from the ceiling inside the shed. It lit his shadow and then his body as he stepped back outside into the night. Directly below me.

  He hadn’t changed much. Still six-five—four inches taller than me. Built like he was training for something. I noticed a little balding circle on the top of his head, the size of a cup holder. That was my target. He turned his head left and right, scanning my property. “Tofu!” he yelled.

  I let go and jumped. I landed feet first on his shoulders and he dropped hard, knees to chest to the gravel. He grunted as the breath left his lungs. I fell on top of him and went straight for his neck. I threw my forearm around and tried to cut off his oxygen. He didn’t give up easily, though. He got to his knees and kicked my shin with a nasty sideswipe. Just about broke my leg. He flung me off, and I hit the side of the shed and dropped into the dirt.

  Ted stood and looked down at me. I pulled myself up before he could kick me again. I stood a foot from him. Looked him in the eyes.

  We smiled at each other and opened our arms. Both exhausted, we embraced and broke into hearty laughter. “It’s been too long,” he said, letting go of me.

  I put my hands on his upper arms and looked at him very seriously. “Oh, Teddy boy, I wish I could say the same. I thought I’d be fortunate enough to never see you again.”

  “Nothing changes, does it?”

  “Everything changes. Last time I saw you, you weren’t losing hair. That has to be eating you up inside.”

  He tried not to laugh and shook his head.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “How long have you been back?”

  “Mostly Africa, protecting some DOD kooks. Dumb work. Got back a couple months ago. Been in Seattle ever since.”

  I hit him on the back. “Let’s get you fed. Pump you full of greens. Try to grow some of that hair back.”

  “I didn’t know greens did that.”

  “Clearly.”

  “You’re still not eating animals?” he asked me as we started toward my house.

  I’d been a vegetarian since I was five. “Nope. I’m still not eating animals.”

  ***

  “When are you going to learn you can’t lie to me?” he asked later in the evening, both of us still ignoring the elephant in the room, the catalyst of my self-destruction, the thing that had brought us both such terrible pain. Someone we hadn’t spoken about in a long time. His dead brother.

  “Same day you learn it’s best to leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m trying to get away? You know I love you, brother, but…you know.” I pulled at the corkscrew, and the cork popped out of a shiner of Syrah a friend down the road had given me. I poured an ounce into my glass and sniffed it to make sure it wasn’t corked, then shared it with Ted.

  We were sitting at the long wooden table on my back porch. I’d showered. This wasn’t our first bottle. The sun had already done its thing for the day, and the great and mighty night sky of Eastern Washington surrounded us in its terr
ifyingly humbling way, giving us a glimpse into the unknown, reminding us that we were nothing more than a tiny little part of it all. I’d seen more constellations on my porch than anywhere else in the world.

  For the better part of an hour, we laughed at old war stories. Ted could tell them better than anyone. Like the time in Honduras, one of his first missions, when he and another Green Beret were sent to a beach to build a defensive barrier with sandbags. They’d been given four days to complete their mission. The day they arrived, they hired one hundred Honduran boys for a dollar apiece, and the barrier was done in a couple hours. They spent the next three days lying on the beach drinking beer and getting a suntan. That’s the Green Beret way: delegate.

  And the time he almost got caught with marijuana in his system. I never smoked much but a lot of Green Berets did. Instead of Be all you can be, it was Be all you can pee. Ted took part in the ganja from time to time, especially in his twenties. He grew up on Bainbridge Island west of Seattle; how could you blame him? Back on base in North Carolina, while firing his M-16 on the range, he and the others were told that they were to be tested directly after leaving. Luckily, one of the food trucks that rode around base was coming by. Ted bought some apple juice. Just before he got in line for testing, he took a big sip, swishing it in his mouth to warm it up, holding it there until it was his turn. They handed him the pee cup, and he somehow spit the juice in without them seeing and went on to pretend he was peeing into it. Well, he passed. Who would have known? Of course, that was back in the old days; I’m not sure that would work anymore.

  Roman had his head on my foot. The vineyards sloped down toward the Yakima River in front of us, and we were looking beyond that, out over the sparkling lights of Benton City, which was really more of a village than anything resembling an urban community. One bank. A hardware store. A tire store. A damn fine diner called the Shadow Mountain Grill. That’s about it. Come to think of it, Red Mountain, where I lived, was more of a hill than a mountain. Perhaps those of us from around there had delusions of grandeur.