Read Online Courier by Terry Irving - Free Book Online

one of his regular exams, a doctor had told him that his body was held together by a web of muscles that had grown stronger to take up the work of all the cartilage and tendon lost in battle and the long series of surgeries that had followed. The doctor predicted that Rick would end up a cripple anyway – explaining that, over time, most people lost interest, stopped working the muscles, and lost the use of the limbs they’d regained with such difficulty.
    Rick thought that since military doctors became officers the moment they signed up, the chances were good that he could prove this guy wrong – just like any other officer. Vietnam hadn’t left him with a high opinion of military leadership and judgment.
    He’d been working out steadily since he got out of rehab, weights at night and his little pink rubber ball all day. Not only had he retained the use of his arm, but he was also pleased to find that he was now surprisingly strong. The other day, one of the secretaries had asked him to move a typewriter from one side of her desk to the other. He’d stood on one side, reached over, grabbed the typewriter and the typing table together, lifted both straight up and over the desk, and then gently lowered them to the floor in front of her. He hadn’t missed the looks that almost everyone in the newsroom had given him for that stunt.
    Time passed, and he fell into the calm mental state that came with steady exercise. He went back over the incidents on 18th Street and at the airport. If they were connected, who was the driver, and why would anyone want to hit him? It was serious enough in regular city traffic, where the drivers acted as if he didn’t exist, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this time he was a target.
    Eventually, the exercise took over his mind completely, and he stopped thinking about anything. When he finished, he took a bath – one of the few failings of this house was a single bathroom and no shower – got into bed, and fell asleep immediately.
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    It’s full night, and he’s lying on his back on damp ground. Around him, the soft sounds of others trying to hide under the fragile cover of darkness. Suddenly, someone yells in Vietnamese and then there are screams.
    The fucking Cong have found another wounded grunt. The screaming is going on and on, and then a burst of gunfire and silence. They’ve taken to firing directly into the poor bastards’ wounds after jabbing a bayonet or the barrel of an AK-47 deep inside.
    Another American starts begging, "No. No. Please don’t." The voice ascends into wordless screams, and then gunfire.
    Trying not to make a sound, he reaches around him, searching with his fingers, but his rifle is gone. Lost.
    Where the fuck did he lose his rifle?
    Slowly, he moves over to his left. Sergeant Cook had used his .45 to blow the back of his head out a couple of hours ago. It should still be here.
    The searching fingers hit metal.
    The .45 feels sticky but solid. He hopes the blood and brain matter haven’t jammed the mechanism.
    There is a rustling in the grass. A boot touches his leg.
    They have AKs. The .45 is useless.
    He tries to hold his breath, stop his heart, and freeze the blood pounding through his veins.
    Then the boot hits him in the right arm and drives the shrapnel deep…
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    Rick woke with his throat locked, straining to hold back the scream. His heart was pounding and the bed was soaked in sweat. The yellow sodium light from the streetlights outside filled the room. He’d taken down the curtains when he first moved in – their moving shadows were too lifelike. He needed his environment to be fixed, solid, and without nuance.
    He looked at the clock on the windowsill.
    Three hours.
    Not bad. Three hours would get him through the next day.
    That’s all he could expect. Most days, it was the best he could do.
    Gradually, his heartbeat slowed, the screams in his throat retreating to