One Man's Island (One Man's Island Book 1)

Praise for One Man’s Island

Thrilling is an understatement. Mr. Wolfenden delivers a pager turning, compelling novel about one man's survival and discovery. One you will not soon forget.

Jacqueline Druga, author of the Sleepers series

"One Man's Island is a pitch-perfect apocalyptic thriller, a rare blend of action and emotional depth."

Sean T Smith, author of Objects of Wrath

Fans of technical military thrillers will love this debut novel, that's wild ride that will leave you shaken and wanting to go around again.

Paul Mannering, Author of Tankbread

A PERMUTED PRESS book

Published at Smashwords

Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-61868-2-369

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61868-117-2-376

One Man’s Island copyright © 2014

by Thomas J. Wolfenden.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Roy Migabon

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Forward

Part One

Chapter 1: The Nothing Man

Chapter 2: Careful What You Wish For

Chapter 3: Booze, Books and Bullets

Chapter 4: Conflagration & Exodus

Chapter 5: Friday

Chapter 6: Replenishing Hands

Chapter 7: Another Winter

Chapter 8: Holidays Passed

Chapter 9: Ports of Call

Chapter 10: Intestinal Fortitude

Chapter 11: Go West Young Man

Chapter 12: Rude Reception

Chapter 13: Pass Interception

Chapter 14: Q&A

Chapter 15: Retaliation

Chapter 16: The Ancient Ones

Part Two

Chapter 17: Home Sweet Home

Chapter 18: Fly the Friendly Skies

Chapter 19: Aloha Haole!

Chapter 20: The Island

Chapter 21: The Battle of Volivoli

Chapter 22: Rockets’ Red Glare

About the Author

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

A lot of research went into writing this novel, and I took great pains to get everything as accurate as I could. That being said, I did take some literary license in some aspects, sometimes great leaps, especially the naval aspects, in order to make the story work the way I desired. That being said, I hope you’ll forgive me these discrepancies, sit back in a nice comfortable place and enjoy the journey.

I would also like to take the time to thank all of my friends and family for your support in the writing of this novel. I’d especially like to thank my best and worst critic, my partner, Catherine. Without your love and support, I’d never have been able to complete this work. You truly are my Soul Mate! I’d also like to thank Ed McDonald and Trevor Emmitt, whom without both, I’d never have been able to finish this work. Thanks guys! You’re the greatest!

This is also a work of fiction, and any similarities to places, events and characters, to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidence.

Newcastle, NSW Australia, August, 2012

Sigatoka, Republic of Fiji, November, 2012

Forward

It has been said in various scientific circles throughout the years, that 99% of all species that have ever lived on planet Earth, are now extinct.

When we look up at the night sky, we are looking far into the past. What we see isn’t the stars as they are now, only images of what they once were, so vast are the distances. In a far corner of our Milky Way Galaxy, 100,000 light years from Earth, almost that many years ago, a huge star exploded into a Supernova. A star’s death, is the stuff of life itself, but in that power of life, is also death. It will take many millennia for the light of that huge event, to get to us.

No one saw it coming.

It also will take that much time for another little gift this cosmic event is sending us…

After all the theories, speculation and research, in the end the scientists were wrong. And the most ironic thing about it was that no one was left to know what had actually happened.

Almost no one.

"The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn."

~H G Wells

PART ONE

Chapter 1: The Nothing Man

It was a cold and damp November morning when Sergeant Major Timothy Flannery stepped off the jet way at the Philadelphia International Airport. He headed for the baggage claim tiredly, hoping this would be the last time for a while. This last tour was the hardest. Not because of combat, it was being away from his wife and family that was finally getting to him. All of his adult life he’d been in uniform. He’d enlisted right out of high school and spent eight years in the regular Army, then came home and joined the police department. While on the job he enlisted in the Pennsylvania National Guard.

This was okay for a while, until the first Gulf War. That deployment wasn’t so bad because he was still young and single, but he had met and married Connie shortly after returning home from the Persian Gulf. After the attacks on the World Trade Center in 2001, things got tense in the Flannery household. Arguing and fighting started and the first deployment came as a relief to him. He came home after that tour and things were back to normal for a while, then the nightmares came and the fights started again. To be sent off on the second deployment, again, was a relief. The letters and emails tapered off, and then stopped altogether.

Between the last time and this, things were absolutely frigid in the Flannery home. The slamming of the door when the taxi came to take him to the airport the last time was like the sound of a casket closing. However, after several emails, phone calls and promises these last eighteen months, Tim and Connie had both decided to try to work on things and patch things up.

That’s why he wondered why Connie wasn’t answering her damn phone. He’d sent her an email three days ago letting her know when he was coming home. He did think about just surprising her, but he was getting a little old for that bullshit, and just wanted to get home.

Answer the phone, Connie!

Still going right to her voicemail… He closed his phone and dropped it back into his pocket as he arrived at the baggage carousel. The luggage was just coming down the chute and he had to wait for a while until he saw his battered old duffle bag. He quickly shouldered it, placed his ACU cap on his head, and left to see if she was waiting for him at arrivals.

He walked outside to the pavement, and through the exhaust of the courtesy shuttles and taxis, he groped in another pocket and retrieved a battered pack of Winstons and a crumpled book of MRE matches. The security assholes at the airport in Germany had taken his old Zippo, and he had only four matches left. He cupped the flame and lit the smoke, inhaling deeply, savoring the taste. He looked around again and didn’t see the blue Chevy Connie had driven for years.

Where the hell could she be?

He leaned back against a concrete pole and closed his eyes.

Hey pal, can’t you read? someone said sharply. He opened his eyes and saw a cop heading towards him.

The cop pointed at the sign right above Tim’s head that plainly read No Smoking.

Looking at the young officer’s face, Tim couldn’t resist. Does your daddy know you’re out playing cop? he said snidely.

What are you, some kind of smartass? the officer growled, and reached for his back pocket.

You might want to rethink getting that sap out; it’ll look mightily funny sticking out of your ass.

That’s it! Soldier or no soldier I’m gonna—

Sensing he had gone too far, Tim said, Hey, I’m a three-six-nine. Cool off, Troop! using the Philadelphia Police code for a cop. He reached for his wallet and flashed his badge and ID card.

Listen, I’ve just spent twenty-seven hours on planes and this is my first smoke in twelve hours. Cut me a fucking break! When did they do this shit? he asked, pointing at the sign.

The city did it a while ago. Listen, Sar’ Major, you just get back from the sandbox? the exasperated cop asked. This is my first gig out of the academy and my lieutenant is riding my ass.

Yeah... I know how that goes.

Anyway, welcome home. Finish the butt before my LT sees you, okay?

You’ve been over there?

Two tours, the cop replied, Marines.

I had a favorite uncle in The Crotch. Welcome home yourself.

With that the beat cop nodded and walked away. Tim finished his smoke and hailed a cab. He tossed his duffle bag into the trunk the driver had popped for him and climbed into the back seat.

Eighty-two hundred block of Leon Street, he said.

The driver nodded, turned on his meter, and plugged the address into a dash-mounted GPS.

The drive from the airport was quiet, thankfully. He really didn’t feel much like talking and he really hated talkative cabbies. The temperature was even now starting to fall, and the solid, slate gray sky threatened snow. He stared out the window, watching the city pass by from Interstate 95. A lot had happened these last few years, and he thought this time would be the last. Tomorrow he’d go up to the Armory and put his papers in. He had enough time in service to retire. He owed it to himself. He owed it to Connie. All the time away… He’d been in uniform since he was seventeen and now he was on the near side of fifty and he wasn’t getting any younger. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of his service, but it was a long time to be away from his wife. Thank God they’d not had any kids. Being away from his wife was hard enough, but to be away from kids would have been even worse.

The taxi took the correct exit off of the highway and headed west on Cottman Avenue. It was all the same, but different too. It looked dirtier, like no one cared anymore. He remembered as a kid how everyone in his neighborhood had taken pride in their homes. By the looks of it now, no one gave a shit anymore. A thin patina of filth covered everything, even a small dog being walked by a man in a grimy overcoat.

The cab driver made a right hand turn against the light at the intersection of Cottman and Frankford Avenues and he looked to his left to see the shell of the old Mayfair Theater. As a kid, he’d walked there with his friends to watch Star Wars and Jaws on Saturday afternoons in the summer. It was now a Rite-Aid pharmacy. A lot of the shops were still there, just different names now, hawking junk made in China. It used to be a nice place to live. He wondered what had happened to it.

Apathy, that’s what had happened.

No one was willing to work at keeping things nice anymore. It was a goddamn shame. His dad had come home from World War II into a bright, shiny new world filled with hope. And like the millions just like him, they strived to give their kids everything they didn’t have, and in doing that, they bred a generation of mostly ungrateful bastards. The world owed them everything. Not his parents.

Tim and his brother were both instilled with a strong work-ethic. When his friends in high school turned sixteen, one by one, all had been given new or almost new cars. The day of his sixteenth, his dad had driven him down to the used car lot on Torresdale Avenue where young Timmy paid cash for a 1969 Dodge Challenger. He’d saved the money after three years of mowing lawns in the summer, and shoveling driveways and sidewalks in winter.

It wasn’t the best car in the world. It was in bad need of a ring job and shocks, and there was rust in the floor pans, but by God it was his car, and he took care of it. He’d had that car for several years, driving it to Georgia to his first duty station in the Army, and only sold it when he got orders to ship out to Panama. Not one of his friends had kept their cars as long, and one kid, after getting blind drunk at a party, wrapped his brand-new Corvette around an oak tree on Holme Avenue three days after he got it.

This is fine right here, Tim said as the driver turned onto his block. He looked for Connie’s car and didn’t see it, but he did see the big FORCLOSURE sign on his tiny, overgrown, postage stamp sized front yard.

What the fuck is this? he said aloud to no one. He gave the cabbie a $50 bill for a $40 fare. Keep it, he mumbled, he lifted his duffle onto his left shoulder, and bounded up the small flight of steps to his front door. Standing on his porch he fumbled in his pockets for his key ring. Finding the right one, he inserted it into the lock, but the key wouldn’t work.

Jesus jumping Christ almighty! he said a little too loudly, the anger beginning to boil up in him now.

Hey, Tim! Eh, I didn’t expect you back… the words trailed off from the open door of the row home next to his. It was Phil, his longtime neighbor who’d lived in the house longer than Tim had had this one.

Yeah, well… I’m back, he said with growing frustration. Can you tell me what this is all about? He thumbed back at the foreclosure sign.

Well, Connie moved out about three weeks ago, and then a day later, some guys from the bank came and changed the locks, and put that sign up.

"Moved out? Did she say where she was going?"

No Tim… She didn’t. Tim, I really hate to tell you this, but…

But what?

Tim, she said you were dead… that you got yourself killed over in Afghanistan.

Well I’m not dead!

Tim, I can see that. Don’t get pissed off at me. Ah fuck, I’m sorry, man… he let it trail off. Look, it’s a little early, but you want a beer?

Yeah, I think I could use one.

Tim took out his crumpled pack of Winston cigarettes, and lit one as he leaned against the porch railing to contemplate his situation. What the fuck was he going to do now? He let the thought go for the moment when Phil returned with an opened bottle of Miller for both of them. Tim downed half the bottle in one pull and looked over at Phil. Thanks, he said, lifting his bottle up in a toast. I have a feeling this is only the first of many today.

Yeah, man… this just sucks. She told me about three months ago you’d been blown up, one of those IED things I hear about on the news. Nothing left to send back. She said it like she was discussing the weather. Kinda’ gave me the creeps. Like, Oh, Timmy got blown up the other day, you think it’ll rain this weekend, Phil?

Well, we’d been having problems, but I didn’t think it was that bad… he said, then a long draw off his cigarette. So much for quitting these things now, he thought. So you said she moved out? Anyone help her? he inquired, sounding very much like the cop he was.

Ah shit, Tim. She had a big moving van. Mayflower Movers, I think. They had six guys in and out in about four hours.

No one else? Her sister or dad or anyone?

There was a guy. Always wore a cowboy hat. Big 4x4 pickup with Wyoming tags… started comin’ round’ about three months after you left.

Wyoming? That’s odd. Tim finished off his beer. Thanks for the cold one, Phil. Looks like it might snow tonight, he said, looking up at the sky and taking off his cap.

Yeah, that’s what Accuweather says, maybe six inches overnight.

Of course.

Are you going to be okay, Tim?

Yeah, I’ll be okay. Just a little pissed off right now.

I can sure dig that, man. Hey, what are you doing!?

Tim put his fist into his patrol cap and punched out one of the small panes of glass in the front door.

I’m just using my universal key to get into my house, Phil, he said, matter-of-factly, reaching into the hole and unlocking the deadbolt.

You ain’t going to go off and do something, are ya’, Tim?

Nah, I’m good. Just tired and want to get some sleep and try to figure this out. Thanks again for the beer.

Sure, no problem… Phil mumbled, watching Tim’s back as he walked in the dark house, and the door shut with a click.

Oh, this is not going to be good, Phil said to himself, and turned to walk into his own home.

Tim’s boot crunched on the broken glass when he walked into his living room. The anger was starting to well up. He looked around at a completely bare room and dropped his duffle bag. His footsteps echoed eerily in the empty house as he walked from room to room, to find nothing but some forgotten packing foam, and discarded newspaper pages.

Upstairs, he found three empty bedrooms, even the drapes, closets and bathroom were stripped. She’d even taken the goddamn shower curtain. That bitch, he said in a small whisper.

He went back down stairs and into the kitchen, looking into all the cupboards and drawers. Not even a coffee cup or a spoon. He tried a light switch, and found that the electricity had been turned off. He went to the kitchen sink and tried the taps. No water either.

That fucking bitch! he screamed. He wanted to throw something, but she didn’t even leave anything to throw. Then he thought about money. He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed his bank. After a few minutes he got connected with the bank manager, a man who he’d grown up with and considered a good friend. After several minutes of explaining, he’d found out that Connie had cleaned out the account a month ago, but left it active. His US Army pay did go direct-deposit a week ago, so he had a little money, maybe enough for a few weeks, but not enough to save the house. He put a stop on all her credit cards, and blocked her access to the account from that point. It was a little unusual, but the manager being a friend had expedited everything right over the phone. He’d have to come into the office later that day or tomorrow to sign some papers to make it official, though. Tim thanked him and thumbed off his phone.

Now what the fuck am I going to do? he said aloud, looking around the empty kitchen, the anger slowly beginning to be replaced by sadness. He looked at the door leading down to the basement. The guns!

He opened the door to inky blackness then remembered there was no power. He went back to the living room to his duffle bag, unlocked it, and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the floor. He dug through the uniforms and dirty underwear and found his Maglite.

He went back through the kitchen, turned on the flashlight and was rewarded by a bright beam of light. He went down the steps two at a time until he was standing at the bottom. He shined the beam around to see an equally empty rec room. The bar he’d built himself was still over on the far wall, but all the booze and stools were missing. In the corner was the six foot tall Mosler gun safe he’d had installed several years ago at Connie’s insistence. She had hated the guns in the house, and wanted nothing to do with them. The safe was bolted firmly into the concrete floor of the basement, and weighed over seven hundred pounds; no one was going to be carrying that thing out of here. He went over to it, and noticed the door was standing ajar. Knowing already, he had to look anyway. The door swung open silently to expose an empty space.

All the guns were gone. Even his police issue Glock.

Well, maybe not… He went over to another corner of the room and looked up at the acoustic tile drop ceiling. He examined the tiles, and they looked undisturbed. Holding the flashlight with his left hand, he reached up with his right and pushed up the corner of the tile. It moved easily and he pushed it up and out of the way. Reaching up, he was rewarded by the feel of old cotton webbing. It was the handle of a WWII era satchel. He pulled it down, elated by the heft. She hadn’t found these! He freed his hidden treasure from its hiding place.

Walking back up the stairs to the relative light of the kitchen, he placed the bag on the counter and unzipped it. A sigh escaped his lips when he saw that everything was still there. He reached in and pulled out his booty. First was a WWII Era Colt .45 1911A1, then a German Luger. He placed both next to the bag and pulled out a M3 Grease Gun, also of .45 ACP caliber along with six 30 round magazines. The last things he pulled out of the bag were 300 rounds of newer, boxed .45 caliber ammunition and an Army issue cleaning kit. These little toys he’d had for several years. No one knew about them at all, not the Police Department, FBI, or the ATF. These were what were called Unregistered and no one at all knew they existed. The pistols he’d probably be able to bullshit his owning, but the M3 was a fully-automatic submachine gun. He’d get a lot of years in Leavenworth for just having it, and he’d done all he could to not let anyone know. Well, almost everyone. His brother knew about them. Even the whole story on how he’d acquired them. Too bad he couldn’t tell that story. It was a hoot.

He lit another Winston and busied himself with breaking down each weapon, cleaning each as only an Army Sergeant Major could. Satisfied that all were as clean as he could get them, and properly oiled, he checked the action of each. He then loaded the magazine of the Colt, sliding the action to feed a round to the chamber, and placing the safety on Condition One, round in the chamber, hammer cocked, safe on. Only very experienced people carried them like that, and he was well trained.

He put the pistol in the small of his back between his pants and t-shirt, then went on loading the magazines for the M3, which took some time.

He looked a little forlornly at the Luger wishing he had some 9mm ammo for that. The M3 he didn’t load, just left it laying on the counter with the loaded magazines.

After he was finished with this chore, he was contemplating what to do. Should he hunt Connie down and kill her? No, no matter how much of a bitch she was, she wasn’t worth losing what was left of his life to a prison cell. He heard the front door open and looked up.

Hey, Tim, are you here? It’s me, Sean!

Six years older, his brother Sean was a cop too. A homicide detective, one of the best there was. How the hell had he found out Tim was home so soon? Phil must have called him.

Yeah, I’m in here, Tim said loudly enough to be heard. The sounds of his brother’s footfalls echoed through the empty house and came closer to the kitchen. He looked at the machine gun on the kitchen counter, his heart beginning to pound in his chest. Too late to hide the guns, but Sean already knew about them anyway, so Tim just shrugged and waited.

I brought some coffee. Sean said, coming into the kitchen and eyeing the guns. You ain’t plannin’ on going out on a hunting expedition, are you?

No. She isn’t worth it.

Good. I’d hate to be the one to have to lock you up, he said as he handed over a paper cup from Dunkin’ Donuts.

How are you doing?

I could be better.

Yeah, no shit. Look, do you need anything? Sean said in an even voice, looking at Tim over the rim of his own paper cup.

I could use a ride to the Armory in a bit. Are you working? Tim asked, knowing the answer. Sean was in his best Brook’s Brothers suit and overcoat. Not a hair out of place, Smiling Jack mustache perfectly trimmed. He was working. He looked like a recruiting poster for Supercops, Inc.

Fucking bitch took everything, Sean, even my service piece.

No shit? All of the guns?

She took every last one of them. Well, not these, she didn’t know about them, or where I hid them. She’d have shit Tiffany cufflinks if she knew about the machine gun, he laughed, not really feeling all that humorous.

Well, I can make a report on that at least, theft of the guns and the police issue one will be a huge fuckup on her part. That’ll get the ATF and FBI involved. Do you have any idea where she went?

Phil next door said she had some peckerhead from Wyoming hanging around.

You want me to pass this off to Northeast Detectives, or do you want me to handle it?

You do it, Sean.

Alright. I’ll take care of it this afternoon. Where are you going to stay?

Right here. This is my home.

Do you have power, gas and water turned on?

No, I’ll get them back tomorrow. I just need to get some stuff from the Armory for the next few nights. I’ll be okay.

Are you sure? You can stay at my place until things settle, Sean offered, sipping at his coffee.

No, I’ll stay here, Tim replied, looking away. Just the thought of staying at his brother’s house, with his four bratty kids and snooty wife was making him nauseous.

You ready to go?

Yeah, let me bag this shit up and we’ll go. Tim threw the guns into the satchel and re-zipped it. Okay, I’m ready, he said, shouldering the satchel and picking up his coffee.

They walked through the living room and out the front door. I’ll have to take care of that lock and window later.

Good idea, Timmy. Neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.

You don’t say? Tim said with a grunt.

He shut the door and followed his brother to the unmarked cop car and got in the passenger side. His brother started the car, and pulled out.

They went along silently for a while, until they turned off Holme Avenue onto northbound Roosevelt Boulevard. The Colt was digging into his spine, and he decided he’d have to get some sort of pancake holster or something to make carrying it more comfortable.

I’m really not all that surprised at this, Sean said, breaking the silence.

Here it comes, Tim thought. He was wondering when The Pontification would start.

What did you expect to happen with you running off playing soldier? Sean remarked. You should have been at home.

I wasn’t ‘playing soldier’, I was doing my job! Tim retorted.

"You have a fucking job, Tim. It’s called being a police officer."

More like garbage collector.

Is that what you think? Our job is very important!

Yeah, okay, it’s important, Tim said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

Why did you even become a cop in the first place if you hate it so much?

That’s what was expected of me, goddamn it! Do you really think I had a choice in it at all? No, it was all decided by you, Dad, and the whole family, that that’s what I’d do after I came home from Central America. I had no fucking choice!

Yes you did!

"No I didn’t. If I went against what the family thought, can you imagine the guilt that would have been laid on me?

That’s bullshit. You had a choice!

"No, I did not. You and Dad would have made my life insufferable. You weren’t there the day I came home from school and told Dad I was enlisting. I thought he was going to have a stroke right there. I almost caved at that point, but I stood my ground. Then when I came home after being away for so long, I thought maybe I’d do it his way for a bit… maybe I could do a good job."

And you do, Timmy. You’re a good cop.

"I’m a shell. The job has sucked all the life out of me. Fuck, life itself has done a pretty good job of it too!"

Then why the hell did you stick with it?

The naïve belief that I could actually make a difference… He trailed off and looked out the window.

"You can make a difference. Every time you head out you could stop a crime, save a life, make a difference in someone’s life" Now Sean sounded like the recruiter for Supercops, Inc. and Tim rolled his eyes.

You know what, Sean? I never told you this. On my first night out on the job fresh out of the Academy, I was partnered up with this old cop. Mooney was his name. He was so fat the steering wheel rubbed his stomach. He had this stub of a cigar that smelled like burning shit. He pointed at one windshield pillar and then the next, and said; ‘If it don’t happen between here and there, it don’t fucking happen!’ then he asked why I became a cop. I told him I wanted to help people.

And? Sean asked, popping a piece of chewing gum into his mouth.

He said ‘They don’t want your fucking help, kid!’ And do you know what? He was fucking right. They don’t want our fucking help, Sean. They never want it. You and I are just marking time doing a thankless job that no one cares about anymore, Tim said. We’re dinosaurs, Sean. People don’t think like we do anymore. And like dinosaurs, pretty soon we’ll be extinct.

Christ, how’d you get so goddamn jaded?

"How the fuck can you not get jaded?" Tim shouted, anger welling up inside of him again. His brother, while meaning well, would never get it. You couldn’t see things he’d seen and do things he’d done and not look at the world through jaded eyes. The years spent in Central America, doing things that he couldn’t even think about, let alone talk about. How do you tell a man, who’s never been outside of the city save for a yearly trip to Wildwood, New Jersey with the wife and kids, what it’s like to see real poor people, in a real Third World shithole? What it’s like to have your best friend bleed to death in your arms, not being able to do anything about it? Someone who’s never fired a shot in anger? Or never had the experience of real terror, to make you feel totally alive. This… this whole life he talked of was just bullshit. How could one person really make a difference? They couldn’t, that’s how. You try and the world gobbles you up.

Here we are, Sean said, pulling into the National Guard Armory. Hey, maybe you should go and see Father McGranahan.

Let’s not go down that path, okay? Tim said. He unlatched his seatbelt and opened the door. Fat chance he’d see a priest. Why would he go to see a man who had never been married, and have him counseling him about marriage, and faith? He’d quit the Catholics years ago, and the last person he’d be talking to was a priest.

Why don’t you come over for dinner on Friday? The kids and Mary would love to see you.

I’ll think about it. Thanks for the lift.

See you soon, and I’ll work on that report this afternoon.

Okay bye, Sean, and he shut the door, walking away towards the front doors of the building.

Tim went through the front door and walked tiredly up the stairs to the second floor, where his Brigade’s Headquarters were, and his office. He walked into the orderly room to see Sgt. Patterson busy playing FreeCell on his desktop computer.

It’s so nice to see you hard at work, Patterson! he said as he blew by the soldier.

Oh shit, Sar’ Major! I didn’t expect you back until next Monday!

Surprise, I’m back early. I need the keys to the M880, he barked.

Right away, Sar’ Major! Patterson said to a closed door.

Tim looked around at his office. All the usual things were still there, just as he had left them eighteen months ago. He looked at a framed photo sitting on his desk. He picked up the gilt frame and looked at it briefly. He and Connie smiled back at him, drinks hoisted in mock salute. It had been taken on a vacation to Belize several years ago, and was now a distant memory. He looked at the photo one more moment, and with all his strength, he heaved it at the far gray-painted cinderblock wall.

His office door opened and a head peered in. You alright, Sar’ Major?

Yeah, John, it’s been a long flight. I’m just tired, Tim lied.

Here are the keys to the 880.

Just put them on my desk. I need a list of all the equipment that didn’t ship over to Afghanistan.

Do you want that now?

No, next fucking week. Yes now!

You got it, Sar’ Major! Patterson squeaked.

Tim hated getting ‘Sergeant Major’ on Patterson, but sometimes he wondered if the Brigade Clerk was really that stupid sometimes. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a half-full bottle of Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and a glass, pouring himself four fingers before putting the bottle back and taking a long pull from the glass. Fuck it. No officers around to bitch. Besides, he really ran the Brigade. The door opened again.

Here’s the list, Sar’ Major. Anything else I can do for you?

No. If you don’t have anything else to do today, why don’t you take an early quit. I’ve got a few things to do here and I’ll lock up when I go. I’ve got the NCO’s fitreps to do this month, and I’ll be in tomorrow to start on them.

Okay, Sar’ Major. It’s good to see you back. I’ll see you tomorrow!

Tim looked down at the list without responding, scanning it for what he’d hoped would be there, and he heard the orderly room door shut. Fucker didn’t waste time getting out of here, he thought. He went through the list and highlighted the things he’d need at the house. It was against regulations, but he’d have everything back before the Brigade got back from Afghanistan. Generators, that was first. He’d have his pick. There was a huge towed one, a 10KW diesel, but that was far too big. It’d power a whole neighborhood and it was loud enough to piss off and keep everyone within four blocks awake.

One of the small 1KW gas gennies would do. It was just enough power to run a refrigerator and a microwave, maybe a small TV. A couple of Jerry cans for gasoline, maybe two for kerosene, also. A folding cot, a few blankets and pillows, kerosene heaters, and a few lanterns. Some dishes, pots and pans, and coffee cups, along with a propane camp stove from the mess, and some MRE’s. A few cases, maybe. He’d gotten sick of eating them in Afghanistan.

Meals, Ready to Eat? More like Meals Refused by Ethiopians, he mused.

He’d stop off at the Pathmark down from his house to get some real food and coffee. He remembered to add a coffee pot, and checked that off his list. He pocketed the list and the keys to the truck, then headed out to the motor pool where he found the ancient M880. It was actually a diesel powered Dodge Powerwagon 4x4 pickup truck, built in 1979, and painted camouflage. Not many left in the Army, but the Brigade had held on to this one because it was a good gofer truck.

Tim unlocked the door, and climbed in the cab. After securing his satchel of firepower under the seat, he depressed the clutch, waited until the glow plug light went out, and cranked over the engine. It fired right up on the second turn. The pricks at the motor pool were good for something at least. He drove around to the back of the building to the loading dock. Once there, he expertly backed the tailgate up in one go. He made quick work of opening the door and locating everything on his list. It took about an hour to gather everything and load it onto the truck. He then made a quick hop around the front again, where he dutifully locked up everything, and turned out the lights.

He toyed briefly with going into the arms room, and getting some of the better toys, but thought better of it. The stuff he had gotten right now was easily explained, but it would be an entirely different matter with a few M4 carbines or an M16. He already had way more firepower than he needed anyway, with the grease gun still in its satchel bag, stuffed under the seat. Besides, contrary to Hollywood and TV, it was against regulations to have even one round of ammo in the Armory, so it’d be of no use to have a rifle without any ammo.

The liquor store was right next to the grocery, so that was only one stop there. First stop was a gas station for the gas and kerosene. That he found right away on his dive south on Roosevelt Blvd. He topped the Jerry cans off with unleaded gas and diesel (which would burn just as good in kerosene heaters and lanterns as kerosene) and a carton of Winstons. Next stop was the liquor store, then the grocery store. The Pathmark was on Frankford Avenue, just a few blocks north of his house. He pulled into the parking lot and looked around. He noted there were a lot of cars in the lot. They must be having a sale or something.

He first walked over to the liquor store or State Store, because the State of Pennsylvania still had a monopoly on the booze business. He bought a half gallon of Ruskova vodka, and another bottle of Jamesons. He locked his purchases in the truck and headed into the grocery store. Getting a cart, he wandered around the aisles, making the mistake of going into a food store on an empty stomach. He tossed in a slew of ramen noodles and canned soups. He then went to the bread aisle, and noticed almost all of it was gone. Oh I get it, he thought. They’re calling for snow, which means a run on bread, milk and eggs. There must be some regressive gene somewhere in everybody that makes them all crave French toast during a snowstorm. He got the last loaf of bread, next to the last gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and wandered around some more. He was running on fumes at this time, and was surprised himself that as tired as he was, he was still functioning. After getting coffee, a salt and pepper set like the little cardboard-tubed camping ones, and some sugar, he grabbed some mayonnaise, pickle relish and a few boxes of different kinds of pastas. He headed for the canned meats aisle for some tuna. He’d thought about getting some steaks and pork chops, but decided against it. There was nothing to cook them on anyway. He’d not checked the garage, but the bitch had probably taken the BBQ grill too.

He made his way down the aisle and selected a few cans of the store brand tuna when he heard a tsk from behind him. He turned to look, and saw a morbidly obese woman, whose age he was unable to determine. He thought to himself with a laugh that she had more chins than a Chinese phonebook. She was sitting in— more like oozing out of— one of those electric buggies the store reserved for the handicapped, looking at him disdainfully.

You’re not going to buy that tuna, are you? she spat.

Yeah, I was. What’s wrong with it?

It’s not dolphin friendly tuna! she said in a tone that reminded him of Sister Mary Magdalene from grade school. She was a bitch too.

Dolphin friendly, what the hell is that? he asked, knowing even before he finished he’d get a lecture all about it.

Well, the dolphins get caught in the tuna nets and die. Dolphin friendly tuna is tuna they catch without nets, saving the dolphins! she said in a superior tone that was really starting to get on his nerves.

He stood, looking at her deadpan for few moments, crossed his arms, and then finally spoke.

So let me get this straight. It’s okay to kill the tuna, but not okay to kill the dolphins?

Well, I didn’t say—

Yes you did. I guess it’s okay to kill the tuna, because a tuna never had its own TV show back in the 60’s right? Or is it because tuna aren’t cute, like baby seals and otters and shit? Well fuck them, I’m hungry. I’d kill Flipper for a tuna sandwich! he was shouting now, and he took an arm, scooped several more cans of the non-dolphin friendly tuna into his cart and walked off, not giving her a chance to reply.

I swear to God, he thought. I’ve got to have some kind of magnet somewhere that I attract these fuckwits.

He made his way to the checkout, and of course the person in front of him had a problem with their personal check. Several times the checkout girl tried to run it through, and it just kept rejecting it.

What else can fuck up today? he muttered, which the checkout chick heard. She looked at him apologetically, though it wasn’t her fault. Finally, after the fourth time the girl tried to run the check through Tim had finally had had enough and asked, How much it the bill?

Thirty seven fifty, she said. He pulled two twenties from his wallet and paid for the man’s groceries. It wasn’t because he was feeling all that generous; he was at the point where his head would implode if he had to endure one more fuckup today.

The man thanked him, and Tim replied Merry fucking Christmas, a month early.

The man quickly took his few bags and quickly left, saying, Thank you, sir! God bless the troops!

The girl grinned at him, and he just nodded. He was tired, but nowhere near being done for the day. He paid for his groceries and made his way out of the store to the truck. He loaded it quickly and headed off to his house, finally.

He pulled the truck into the alleyway behind the row of homes, and backed into his small driveway, so the tailgate was almost against the garage door. He broke into the back door, the same way he had done with the front door earlier. Gaining entry, he opened the inside door, walked into a small hallway to the inside door to the garage. This he opened, letting in some light. He was delighted for the first time today, when he saw the four cords of hardwood he’d cut, split, and stacked before the last deployment.

Guess Connie forgot about that. It would come in handy in the wood stove he’d had installed in the living room several years ago. He quickly unloaded all his wares to the house, and put it all away. Now, to get the generator up and running. He set it up outside the house, filled the fuel tank with gas, primed the carburetor and quickly pulled the recoil starter. It fired up in one pull. He had to hand it to the Brigade. Maintenance was good. He ran the extension cord through the garage and the rec room, up the stairs to the refrigerator, plugging it in. Next he went back down to the garage, bringing up the lanterns, heaters, and a Jerry can of diesel, shutting both the garage door and the basement door in the kitchen.

He went about setting up the camp stove on the kitchen counter, the heaters, one in the kitchen, the other in the living room, and put a pot of water on to boil. He’d decided on the drive home, he’d just live in the kitchen/living room/dining room level of the house for now. There was a small bathroom off the kitchen he could use for now. He’d bought ten gallons of water at the grocery store, and this he could use to wash up and use the toilet. If he couldn’t get the water turned back on tomorrow, he’d have to get more.

He set the cot up in the living room and got a fire going in the wood stove to take the chill off. It was as cold as a morgue in the house, and the temperature was falling fast. He then tacked up a few blankets in front of the open doorway to the upper level of the house. No sense heating a part of the house he’d not be using.

Busying himself by tidying up his clothes and preparing where he was going to sleep took enough time to let the water he’d put on the stove heat up enough to wash and shave. He took his toiletries kit into the kitchen and stripped to the waist. With some soap and a brown Army issue washcloth Tim went about washing his upper torso and armpits. A really nice long hot shower would have been better, but this would have to suffice for now. Next, he took a small metal mirror out and propped it up next to the pot to shave the day-old stubble from his face. It was the first time Tim had really had a look his reflection, and he didn’t like what he saw. Who was this old guy staring back at him?

The eyes still looked the same, but there were crow’s feet at the corners, and his face took on a weathered, slightly leathery look, from too many years of too much sun. His close cropped hair was salt and pepper now, long gone was the light brown of his youth.

A dinosaur.

Finishing up, he looked out the window noticing the growing twilight, and looked at his wristwatch. Five PM. It’d be dark soon. With that thought crossed, his stomach reminded him that the last meal he’d had was about ten hours ago, somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. He’d have to eat something soon. He looked around the kitchen, and even though he’d made a big purchase of food, he didn’t feel like cooking anything. So that decision made, he redressed back into his uniform, because he had no civilian clothes.

He had no clue what Connie had done with them, and he just couldn’t walk around in a half-assed uniform. He was that kind of soldier. Do it right or don’t do it at all. He’d sort out some civilian clothes later, but for now he’d just wear his uniform. Even in these new ugly desert ACU’s he did look good he thought.

He decided to walk the three blocks down to Garvin’s Pub, on the corner of Solly and Frankford Avenues for something to