For God & Country Read online

  I believe in the United States of America, as a government of the people, by the people, for the people, whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed, a democracy in a republic, a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States, a perfect union, one and inseparable, established on those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.

  It is my duty to my country to defend it against all enemies. I am in service to my God, my Commanding Officer, who empowers me to enact vengeance on any who threaten my country. My will is iron, my heart coal, and my mind fixated on a single purpose: For God & Country. Let the enemies of my country tremble in fear. I will bring judgment down on their heads.

  -The Pegasus Revision of the American Creed.

  Prologue

  “Doctor, I have a pulse, but it’s fading fast!”

  Dr. Chase Armstrong pushed up his bifocals and threw open the doors. The nurses huddled around the moving stretcher. One of them cursed as she stomped on a fallen Christmas ornament.

  “We don’t have much time, people. Let’s get this patient into the ER.” Dr. Armstrong said. He examined the patient’s pale face. “A body temperature of 27-degrees Celsius. How does he have a pulse? Do we know how long he was out there?”

  “Not exactly,” said Rita Hackett, the nurse-practitioner. She scribbled notes onto her pad and swiped a strand of her red hair out of her face. Dark, droopy circles hung underneath her eyes. “They estimated at least three days.”

  “What? In this weather?” Dr. Armstrong had to bite his tongue to restrain his frustration. He ran his hand through his graying hair. “He belongs at the county hospital! We don’t have the resources for this!”

  “No time.” said Rita, propping open the ER door. “It’s a wonder he made it this far.”

  “No kidding,” said Dr. Armstrong. He and his team moved the patient onto the gurney. Scanning the crowded room with blood-shot eyes, he saw that patients outnumbered his staff three to one. A nightmare.

  One by one, heart monitors flat-lined. Too slow. Too many. Too late. Dr. Armstrong wiped his brow. “Do we have an ID?”

  “Nope,” said Rita and she flipped through several pages of notes. “No wallet, no ID, nothing. They found him a mile off the highway.”

  “Non-reactive pupils,” said Bethany, one of the younger nurses. “His respiratory muscles aren’t contracting!”

  “Do we have the Doppler up and running?” said Dr. Armstrong and he turned to mention to one of the nurses to prepare a batch of stress-dose steroids if the patient didn’t respond to normal heating treatments.

  “We do now,” said Rita, who looked at the Doppler ultrasonography and frowned. “Blood flow is coming to a halt.”

  “Nice and steady, people. Bring his temp up gradually,” said Dr. Armstrong. “What were they doing a mile off the highway in this weather?”

  “They think it was a car accident.” Rita’s voice grew weaker with each heart monitor that flat-lined in the background.

  Dr. Armstrong worked frantically, but every attempt to revive the patient backfired. In desperation he administered the stress-dose steroids, but to no avail. Deep down he knew this fight had already been decided. He ran his hand through his hair once more and jarred his brain into thought.

  CPR was his last option. He pressed rhythmically on the man’s chest, huffing with all his might into the patient’s blistered mouth. He couldn’t let this one get away. He wouldn’t let this one die.

  “Doctor?”

  “Keep your eyes on the Doppler!” Dr. Armstrong said and he pushed more ferociously on the man’s blackened chest cavity. He knew he had to get the blood flowing again. The brain depended on it.

  “Dr. Armstrong…”

  “Just keep your eyes on the Doppler!”

  “Chase,” said Rita, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s over, Chase. Let it go.”

  He pressed once more, and then stepped aside. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Shoulders slumped, heads hung low, the nurses started the process of clearing out the emergency room.

  “Doctor, shall we make it official?” said Rita, who had become teary eyed.

  Dr. Chase Armstrong’s heart sank, and he paused. Days like this made him wish he had chosen another profession, like bass fishing. He closed his brown eyes and sighed. He shook his head as if to ward off his mounting doubts. “Yes.” Dr. Armstrong lifted his arm and glanced at his watch. “Time of death, 8:42 PM, CST.”

  Rita jotted down a few notes, smiling wanly at him before leaving the room. Chase stood there for a while, staring at the body. The patient’s face was covered with black, bloody patches. From what he had seen of the body, visible signs of extreme frostbite were prevalent. It was a miracle he had had a pulse at all when he was brought in.

  Dr. Armstrong pulled the sheet over the man’s head. Did he have a family? A wife? Kids? He thought of his own wife, Angela, and his own two kids, Christy and Grayson. He had have to give them a call when he had washed up.

  The room had become quiet, amplifying the sound of his breathing. The lack of movement had caused the automatic lights to switch off. How long had he been standing around, sulking? Chase sighed and walked over to the sink, his footsteps resounding like hooves on concrete. He let his hands soak in the hot water as his mind drifted into space.

  Beep.

  He cracked his neck and dried his hands with a paper towel. He peered out the tiny window at the heavy snow falling outside. Like angels having a pillow fight, his mom would have said. He gently massaged the back of his head. Maybe he should take Angela’s advice and start a small clinic in Chicago.

  Beep.

  Chase removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His mind was obviously playing tricks on him. It had to be. He needed a vacation.

  Beep. Beep.

  He grunted. You can’t save them all, Doc.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Chase turned to discover the room had begun to fill with nurses. The beeping noise had been coming from the EKG. No, it couldn’t be. Impossible.

  A scream bounced off the walls, causing Chase to jump. The nurses gathered around the patient and stood in silence. Rita had placed a hand over her mouth, and her face was as white as the snow he witnessed out the window. Whispers of “It can’t be!” and “I don’t believe it!” rose from the group.

  When he finally parted the crowd and saw what the fuss was about, his heart nearly stopped. His eyes widened in horror.

  This wasn’t, couldn’t be the same patient he had covered with a sheet some ten minutes ago. Where were the bloodied, black patches all over his face? No sign of any frostbite whatsoever. The patient’s body…had it healed itself? No. This was just another trick orchestrated by an overactive imagination taking advantage of his tired brain.

  Dr. Armstrong had started to back away from the gurney when the patient’s hand gripped his wrist. He felt the blood drain from his face. Out of fright, he attempted to break free, but the patient was too strong. Then he heard it. The whole room heard it. Four words escaped the dead man’s lips.

  The patient’s eyes were still closed, and he was probably delirious. He repeated the phrase several times before collapsing into a deep sleep.

  “He was David Mathis.”

  1

  Seven years later…

  I am a monster and not a man. The thought pressed in on David Mathis as large drops of sweat fell from his forehead. His head swam, tossed to and fro by invisible waves. A sickening feeling welled up in his stomach at the sight of more carnage, death, and confusion

  I want them all to burn. The thought screamed at him in an alien voice that carried with it a haunting familiarity. The thought was h
is and it wasn’t. This mind was his and it wasn’t. His confusion was a token from the war that had begun to rage within him. The chaos around him bore witness of the aftermath of a struggle that couldn’t produce a winner.

  Fragments of burning wreckage continued to scatter across the basin. Flames licked at the sky. The pilots would probably make a sweep of the area to ensure the bogie had been eliminated. He let his gaze wander over the forbidding jungle that started not many feet from where he stood. It offered a way of escape, a chance at redemption, and a one-way ticket to the grave.

  Lt. Alan Johnson. His eyes now fixed on the corpse of a man he should have saved. He let Johnson’s badge run through his fingers as he stared at the large chunk of metal that had sunk into the man’s chest. David’s attempt to rescue him from the plane had been futile. Just another casualty.

  I am a murderer, not a savior. The thoughts rolled in like the downpour of a heavy rain. Why do I always survive? Only the strong survive. Why do so many innocent people have to die? There are no innocents. Will this nightmare ever end? Just let go.

  “NO.”

  David shuddered, disgusted with death, life and himself. As he rose to his feet, something in him made a loud pop, causing him to grit his teeth in pain. He locked his eyes onto the deceased Lieutenant.

  Did he have a family? A child perhaps? A daughter?

  The images overwhelmed him and brought him to tears. Her beautiful round face, that pearly white smile, and the dark curly hair that ran down past her shoulders. He heard her laugh, and his stomach twisted into knots. A lump rose in his throat. Then the flames came. The pictures of Marie that flooded his mind burned to ashes. Cries of joy became terrifying screams. His daughter was dead. He couldn’t save her because he was a murderer and not a savior, a killer and not a hero, a monster and not a man.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  An alarm went off in his head. Three hours. That’s all the time that remained between now and the destruction of the free world. The lives of billions hung in the balance, and most were blind to the holocaust that awaited them. It was down to just him. A survivor. He knew now who and what he wasn’t. Who and what he was…those were questions that would have to wait for another day.

  He regretted not being able to give Johnson a proper burial, but thought he had surely understood. It took a moment for him to steady his shaking hands. He still felt a little queasy, but he couldn’t let that slow him down. No, the goal was clear: eliminate the target and kill two birds with one stone. Save the country from Armageddon. Avenge the murder of his little girl.

  His situation was grave. He was stranded in the middle of a densely populated jungle with no backup and running on empty. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to stand. It hurt to sit. His body was reeling from the early morning torture session he had endured.

  David straightened up, ignoring his back’s demand for rest. He checked himself. All he had was the butcher knife. His only hope at this point was the element of surprise, and even then his chances of survival were quite slim.

  Glancing up into the sky, he spotted them immediately. One of the F-15e Strike Eagles made another sweep of the wreckage and was coming in hard. David launched himself into a sprint, hitting the jungle at a gallop.

  Everything became a blur of green. Rushing in like this went against his better judgment, but he had no choice. For her. All for her.

  As time trickled away, he ventured ever deeper into the jungle, rushing heedlessly through tangled branches and clouds of mosquitoes. The insistent thumping of his heart matched the drumbeat in his head, setting his mad pace. Death played the fiddle on his shoulder as he descended straight into the belly of hell.

  Ψ

  With one hand clamped over the man’s mouth, David slid the knife along the man’s neck. Suddenly, something snapped, sending him into a frenzy. He plunged the knife into the man’s neck again and again.

  Harder.

  The voice beckoned him. He responded with a stronger thrust. The blood splattered onto his face. His eyes were as wide as saucers but his breathing was measured.

  HARDER.

  He tore into the man and mutilated him like a wild animal. This wasn’t hunger but sheer rage, a blind fury that fueled his murderous rampage like a demented cheerleader. When he finally regained control, he threw the knife into the dirt, fell to the ground, and wept.

  He could taste water in the air. A tranquil, flowing sound played not too far from where he was. A river was nearby.

  Get up. You have work to do.

  David slowly got to his feet and wiped the snot from his nose. After a long sigh, he strapped the dead man’s AK-47 over his shoulder and tucked the pistol behind his belt. Crouching, he picked up his knife and made his way to the water’s edge. He spotted a three-person raft not four meters from shore. Scouts. There were two men in the boat, both heavily armed. However, the radios they wore concerned him more than their weapons.

  Then he saw it. A beautiful lizard rested on a branch. A chameleon. If it worked on humans, maybe it would work on an animal too. It took all of a minute to accomplish his routine, and, with success, he came back to the water’s edge. A sly smile broke on his face when he looked at his hands and noticed his skin tone had changed to match the color of the water.

  Like a snake moving in on a kill, he dipped into the water and headed toward the raft. It was cold enough to send chills up and down his spine – a sensation that was both refreshing and revolting.

  From directly under the raft he heard them laughing, perhaps at some crude joke. They spoke in Arabic, but he understood it as plainly as if it had been his own native tongue. The river remained his best option for entry. The jungle was too fortified for a frontal assault, not that this backdoor option would be much safer. Survival was no longer important. He only had to see this through to the end.

  He hesitated. The attack had to be swift and precise. He cleared his mind, acting only on instinct. Their fingers will have grown lax. David thought. Their years of going undetected have lured them into a false sense of security. End them NOW.

  It took a second before his fingers found the raft, and he zeroed in on their positions from beneath the water’s surface. Their heartbeats were normal. He unsheathed the knife and readied himself. No point in wasting ammo. Once he killed these two, he would have to use them as props in order to not draw attention.

  His lungs burned. Had he really been under this long, or had fatigue finally caught up to him? Gripping the knife firmly, he tensed his muscles, preparing to strike.

  One…two…three.

  He jumped out of the water and was on the first man before he finished describing the lovely lady from Cairo. He wrapped his arm around the man’s skull, breaking his neck. The other one started to yell, but David silenced him by throwing his knife into the man’s neck. The guard’s body fell backward, but as David lunged for him, it happened again.

  Images passed before his eyes in rapid succession. It was like watching a slideshow while thundering down a rollercoaster. Syringes. Test tubes. Lab coats. Chemicals. Bodies. He tried to gasp for air. The guard hit the water with a splash as David collapsed to the floor of the raft. His back went into a spasm with screams echoing in his ears. No, it was in his mind. Flashes of babies floating in green liquids fogged his vision.

  His heart clattered against his chest like a battering ram while his legs seized up. Just when he was on the verge of a complete meltdown, the nightmare stopped. David lay on the floor of the raft in a state of shock. The other guard’s dead body now hung over the side of the raft, threatening to join his comrade in the river.

  David had barely a minute before the boat drifted within visual range of the onshore lookouts. Luckily, the radios gave no indication of alarm. He cautiously sprang into action and pulled the dead body back into the raft, propping him up as best he could. Once finished, he let himself fall back to the bottom of the raft. Between short breaths, he could still feel his body trembling.

  Hopefully,
the dense jungle ahead would create the poor lighting he needed. David carefully removed his pistol from his belt, placing it across his chest, and rested the AK-47 by his thigh. He curled his fingers tightly around the triggers.

  He was a fish in a barrel, though he had been in worse circumstances. The past three days. He had traveled hundreds of miles only to be in the same spot he was in when all of this had begun.

  It happened almost simultaneously. The raft hit a slight bump along the river bank. Unexpected. The stiff body became a ragdoll, tilting back and sliding into the water with a splash. This kind of stuff only happens to me. The scouts yelled like madmen in a variety of different dialects, and the radio traffic became alive as a swarm of armed guards moved in on his position.

  He took in one last breath. It wasn’t long before the shots rang out and that little voice whispered into his ear, “Here we go again.”

  2

  Three days earlier…

  A little centipede scurried along David Mathis’ apartment ceiling. It was late, and for the first time since he had moved in, he was sad it was so quiet on his block. What he wouldn’t give for a noisy neighbor blasting his tunes till 3AM tonight.

  Tonight would have been his anniversary, back when he was still married. Now it was just another day.

  A well-meaning friend had told him it would be okay. “It just takes time to heal,” he had said. And yet, here he was, gun in hand, bent on ending his own life.

  “New Message,” squealed the answering machine. He jumped nearly dropping the pistol. He forgot the blasted thing was still playing. He rested the barrel on his forehead, closed his eyes tight, and let out a deep sigh.

  “Mr. Mathis, this is Victoria Lane from Mixipedia International. I am just calling to inform you that at this time all vacancies have been filled. We appreciate your interest and will be sure to hold onto your resume for any future vacancies that would be a match for your qualifications. Thank you.”

  Beep.

  David squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. That was the job he had needed to claw his way out of debt and get back onto his feet again. Life as a minimum wage bachelor wasn’t as enjoyable as all the sitcoms made it out to be.