299 Days: The Restoration

Chapter 318 Pancakes II

Grant couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Wes’ body was laid out, motionless, in the back of the truck. He ran over hoping to see that it was someone else, but as he ran toward Mark’s truck, he saw Ryan’s face. From his expression, Grant knew that it was Wes in the back of the truck.

Suddenly, Grant stopped running. He didn’t actually want to see Wes. He didn’t want to erase all the memories he had of an alive, active Wes. Of a warrior. Of a kind and gentle man to the innocent, and a skilled fighter to the guilty. Of a quiet man who did what needed to be done like when he announced “Lima down.” Of a strong Patriot.

Grant forced himself to go over to the truck. He didn’t give himself the luxury of closing his eyes. A weak man would close his eyes and run, and Grant was not a weak man, even though he wanted to be.

Grant slowly approached Wes and he noticed two things: the rope burn around his neck and that smile. Grant wondered how a man could be smiling after being hung. It was simultaneously eerie and joyous. That smile communicated perfectly that Wes was happy with his life, he died a happy man, having done as much as humanly possible in his short twenty-two years. He had been a husband and created a new life, even though he would never meet his child. He had fought for his country. More importantly, he had fought for his friends.

Wes was a loyal friend. He was the kind of friend a person never forgets. Grant recalled all the times Wes could jump in the back of Mark’s truck to go out on patrol, always wearing that big smile, and joking around in his Southern drawl. Grant remembered the first time he heard Wes talk, and how Wes had said, “We believe in diversity. Fords, Chevies, and Dodges.”

Kellie. She would be devastated. The father of her unborn child, her true love was gone. Oh God. This was horrible. Kellie had finally met a decent man, and he was killed a few months later. Grant thought of her and their unborn child as innocent victims of this whole stupid war.

“You can judge a man by the size of his funeral,” Grant remembered his dad saying. It was one of the few decent things that guy ever said. Grant thought about all the lives Wes had touched, and how huge his funeral would be. They would have a gigantic funeral, and celebration of Wes’ life, back at Pierce Point when they were done with this shit and could go back home.

Grant knew they needed to get Wes’ body to the makeshift morgue, but he couldn’t say the word “morgue.” He wanted to buy time before someone took Wes away from them forever. Forever, at least, down on Earth. Grant knew he’d see Wes again in a perfect and healthy body and with that same smile.

“Let the rest of the unit come by and pay their respects,” Grant said. “There is no use having them crowd into the morgue. Let them come by the truck.”

Grant told Scotty to grab Wes’ “membership cards,” like his Raven Concealment holster and pistol, and his AR with the SKT sling. All those would be keepsakes for the Team to remember their fallen brother. They were special items no one else would get to have.

Scotty pulled Wes’ bloody Zero Tolerance out of his pocket and started crying. “They took his ZT, man,” Scotty sobbed. “Fucking animals. You don’t take a man’s knife. Animals.” Scotty got ahold of himself. He was a soldier, and a member of the Team. He stopped crying and said, “I took care of the guy who took his knife.” He wanted everyone to know that.

“You keep it,” Grant said to Scotty. “You are the keeper of Wes’ knife.” Scotty nodded. He would literally kill again if anyone tried to take that knife. It was his last link to Wes. Grant had to pay his final respects to Wes. He didn’t want to touch a dead body, but this wasn’t just a dead body; it was Wes. He got up his strength and walked over to the bed of the truck and squeezed Wes’ arm. There. That was it.

Pancakes. A soldier near them was eating pancakes on a paper plate. Grant remembered that Wes ate pancakes right before they went out. Then all the blood drained out of Grant’s face.

Pancakes.

Grant remembered one of the first mornings out at the cabin after Lisa and the kids came out. Wes said one time over breakfast that his last meal would probably be pancakes. That comment had bothered Grant since that day and he never knew why. Now he did.

This was all Grant’s fault. If Grant had remembered Wes saying that months ago, then he could have stopped Wes from eating the pancakes and Wes would have lived.

Grant thought about that. Was it his fault? Because of pancakes? That was insane. Grant realized that absolutely irrational guilt comes from losses like this. The lack of sleep didn’t help either when it came to thinking straight. Grant took a deep breath. It wasn’t the pancakes or Grant that killed Wes.

He had to get back to business, as hard as that was. For the first time, he noticed that Ryan, Pow, and Scotty had blood all over their clothes and gear. He started to say they needed to clean up, but what clothes would they change into? What extra set of kit did they have?

Besides, Grant wanted the rest of the 17th to see that war was serious fucking business. They needed to see the blood and to understand what it was they were doing out there.

“Gotta get back to work,” Grant said to the Team, ashamed that he had to leave Wes. They nodded. They understood. They, too, needed to go back out. They would go and help Bravo Company seal off the exits from the park. They wanted to be there when those fucking animals were flushed out of the woods. They wanted to see if no one was looking and then do some more ZT work. They would even use Wes’ knife, just for the symbolism of it. This was personal now.

Grant walked back to the area where the 17th was. He tried to look at his pamphlet that he was so proud of, but it didn’t mean anything anymore. All the strategy, all the thinking, all the planning, all the… everything was a joke. Meaningless. Words. What mattered was in the back of that truck.

Grant pulled his black knit cap off and looked at the lieutenant’s bar stapled onto it. What a stupid piece of cloth that insignia was. Stapled on, not even sewn. What a joke. A piece of cloth. All of this was stupid.

Grant wanted to be back on the range with Wes and the guys before all this started. Back when Grant had a wife and kids he could go home to. Back when he had a real job. Back when sick people had simple medicines to keep them alive and back before all this killing and dying and good people going insane. Like Mark. Poor Mark. And Luke. And Tammy. And especially Missy.

The list went on. The list needed to stop. Everything needed to stop. It was out of control. Grant felt like he was physically spinning, thinking about all the things that needed to stop. He had to sit down. He was starting to pass out from exhaustion and hunger and stress.

He abruptly sat down on the concrete outside the brewery. Sitting there, he realized that he needed to be back in control of things, which meant getting back to Pierce Point. Things were normal there. Wes wouldn’t have died there. They would still be riding around in a truck there and saying, “This never gets old” with big smiles on their faces. He could go home to his family there, too.

Grant took off his black knit cap. He looked at the lieutenant’s bar on it. He tore it off. Grant had just resigned his commission. He and the Team were volunteers. Irregulars. They could go home at any time. That was what Grant would do. He’d done plenty. He was done. He went to go gather up the guys before they went out again.

Grant got up off the concrete and took that first step toward the truck. He knew that if he walked up to it and said, “We’re done, guys. Let’s go back home,” that things would truly be over. Even if the guys didn’t come back to Pierce Point with him, it would be over for him. Over. He walked quickly to the truck, wanting to say something that couldn’t be taken back. He wanted this to be over with.

He was two steps from the truck. The Team looked at him and realized he had something important to say. Grant opened his mouth and said, “Guys…”

Just then, someone came up and grabbed Grant’s left arm. He swung around, reaching for his pistol with his right hand.

Grant turned and saw a female soldier was grabbing him. Fortunately, he hadn’t drawn his pistol yet.

The soldier exclaimed, “Lt. Matson! The Governor wants to talk to you.”