Echoes

  Echoes

  Jason Brant

  For Erin.

  We fill gaps.

  Chapter 1

  "What a glorious day to watch America burn."

  "I'm sorry?" asked a reporter as she turned around. Her short stature and tight business suit made her look rather pudgy.

  "It's a glorious day," Murdock said as he walked by her.

  "Oh, yes, it is pretty nice out, isn't it?" she said, squinting into the clear Spring sky.

  He wondered how funny she was going to look trying to run in that suit. Only twenty reporters had shown up for the impromptu press conference Senator McArthur called. Most of them wondered why a senator, who generally kept as far away from the media as possible, summoned them to the steps of the Capitol building in Washington D.C. They chattered amongst themselves, constantly looking at their watches and tapping their feet, their impatience growing.

  Murdock walked amid the reporters, but didn't have any equipment – not even a pen and paper. Despite the lack of gear, his medium height, build, and off the rack black suit made him indistinguishable from the other journalists. Dark features and black hair could have made him Italian, but most people would find it difficult to pinpoint his ethnicity. Blending in with the crowd was a specialty of his. Only when you looked in his eyes could someone see something amiss. Hate brewed inside them.

  Settling into the crowd, he took a deep breath, appreciating the smell of the season. It felt as if it had been forever since he last enjoyed the aroma of leafing trees and freshly cut grass. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin up as a slight breeze floated by his face. The iconic dome of the Capitol building, pearly white as it reflected the sun, stood out in stark contrast from the blue sky. Murdock had chosen the meeting place of Congress to light the first flames due to its legendary imagery.

  Senator McArthur approached the crowd from behind and strode past them, angling toward the podium at the base of the stairs. His typical clean cut appearance was admired by fellow politicians, but today he looked like he'd slept on a park bench. His disheveled suit and grey hair were splotched with red stains. Pale, aged skin and bulging eyes gave the impression of a man who had suffered the worst shock, or loss, of his life.

  McArthur's press secretary, a small but formidable woman, was working frantically on her Blackberry when she saw him approaching.

  "Sir, what is this press conference about? Tommy said he didn't prepare any kind of speech for you and we've discussed how you don't do well with off the cuff inter—" The shock on her face when she fully took in his appearance was comical to Murdock. "Sir, you can't speak to the media like this! You look like a corpse." She cut herself off as she looked into his eyes. "Senator? What is it? What's happened?"

  Without acknowledging her he stepped up to the podium and looked into the nearest TV camera. Questions exploded from the gaggle of reporters at once. Their impatience forgotten, replaced by a thirst for an explanation of his blood stained façade.

  "Senator McArthur! Is that blood?"

  "Were you mugged?"

  "Why hold a press conference in this condition?"

  They shouted over each other, trying to get their questions heard. The senator held up a hand, drying blood visible on the palm, to quiet them.

  "I've done terrible things in my time as a U.S. Senator. People have been captured, tortured and killed by my orders. We've abandoned our troops, allies, agents, and brothers to torment and murder. Our country and society have been acting without regard to consequences. Today that stops. Today is judgment day." A tear spilled over his pale cheek, cutting a line through splatters of blood. "Senator McArthur sat on a wall; Senator McArthur had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put McArthur back together again."

  Everyone in attendance stared at him, confusion on their faces.

  His body trembled as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a snub-nosed .38 Special. Tears poured from his eyes while he raised it to his temple.

  The crowd exploded with cries of fear and pleas for the senator to stop.

  Bye-bye, Senator.

  "Burn, baby, burn," Murdock and McArthur said in unison as he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 2

  I hate when politicians interrupt television shows. President Thomas popping up in the middle of Cops made me want to drink. Actually, that didn't sound like a bad idea. Thomas was already blathering on about the evils of Iran. No surprise there; he'd been instigating them for years. I really didn't want to stare at his smug face, so I decided a beer was in order. I'd been pretty good about drinking lately, and my thoughts were clear – and more importantly, almost entirely my own.

  As I jumped off the recliner and headed for the fridge, I couldn't help but feel a little pride for getting myself headed in the right direction. The last five years of my life had been pure hell. It's hard for someone who hasn't suffered a traumatic brain injury to relate to those of us who have. My doctors were concerned that I would have permanent physical, emotional, and cognitive side effects. They had no idea just how bad it would get.

  Remaining conscious had been difficult for the first few days, but when I was awake the headaches were devastating. My motor skills were fine, but my ability to think clearly and concisely was practically gone. The biggest problem I had were the echoes. They often overwhelmed me. Anytime someone stepped into the same room as me I couldn't focus. Voices and emotions pinged around in my head like echoes in a canyon, but instead of repeating, they always changed.

  Voices like the ones I felt coming from my neighbor's apartment right now. Though it's been so many years, I still have trouble grasping what it's like to not only hear voices, but to feel them. Even now, when I've learned to control my mind, an emotionally charged thought is able to slip through my defenses. Like the one poking around now.

  You stupid bitch, you don't tell me to leave!

  Apparently my neighbor had a poor excuse of a man in her home, again. Her name was Samantha and she happened to be the primary reason I decided to get off the sauce. We met in passing in the hallway or stairwell occasionally, where she would always tell me a bit about herself. She had no way of knowing I already knew everything.

  She was an athletic trainer for the local pro football team, dated assholes, was very pretty, and had gigantic boobs. And she was fairly dumb. That probably explained why she always went out with assholes. Typically, I can't handle being with women who are allergic to books. But she had been so kind to me, especially during my drunk days, that I couldn't help being attracted to her. The boobs helped too. If I hadn't been so messed up for the last half decade I would have been hitting on her instead of just drooling from across the hall.

  Deciding to probe a little deeper into the douche-bag-next-door's intentions, I began to focus on the voice in my head. My eyes narrowed as I concentrated on him. The sounds of bustling traffic coming from the street gained a hollow, muted quality, as if I listened to them inside a tin can. My peripheral vision began to blur. I could feel my mind's eye reaching out to him, grabbing onto the threads of his consciousness.

  His thoughts were less than honorable. My plans for a peaceful night of pizza and a movie evaporated. I released my mental grip and decided to put a stop to this when the sounds of shattering glass and Sammy's muffled cry came from the other side of the wall.

  I was out of my chair and through the front door before I had time to think about what I was doing. My hand pounded on her door within seconds.

  "Sammy? Are you ok?"

  "He won't leave!"

  "Piss off, unless you want some of this too," Douche Bag said in a deep voice.

  "Open the door!"

  He was begging for me to wipe the floor with his ass. I decided to oblige him. The doors in our building aren't
the best, but they have three locks on them so it took me two solid kicks to knock it open.

  I'm 6'1" and run about 200, so compared to most people I'm pretty big, but this guy made me look like Justin Bieber. He had to be at least 6'7" and maybe more than that. He was an absolute monster; his arms were as big as my legs, and he had a head the size of a silverback gorilla. If he didn't weigh three hundred pounds then he was only a cheeseburger or two short of that. His size gave him a false sense of security; I could hear the arrogance bouncing around in his head when he saw me. His black overcoat and slacks were made of the same amount of material as a circus tent. The gaudy gold watch he wore cost more than my rent for the year.

  Against the wall behind him, with large fearful eyes, stood Samantha. The black dress she wore made my mouth water.

  "The hell you think you is coming in here?" he said.

  His sheer size worried me. If he got his hands on me, he'd rip my arms off and beat me to death with them. I tried not to let my concerns seep into my voice.

  "I'm Jack the Giant Killer, and I'm going to stooge slap your dumb ass all over this apartment," I said as I strode across the living room.

  My abilities make fighting untrained people fairly easy. Their thoughts betray their actions, so I know what's coming before they attack. Douche Bag had no actual skill; he merely relied on his size. I could see the sloppy overhand right he was about to throw from down the street. I dodged it with ease and kicked him square in the balls. All the air whooshed out of him. As he bent over, holding his groin, I gave him a hard left hook to the liver.

  That combination of blows would have toppled King Kong, which he nearly was. He crashed face first onto the tiled floor, the entire apartment quaking from the impact. Laying there curled in the fetal position, he tried to get a few wisps of air back into his lungs. Reaching down and pulling his wallet out of his back pocket, I flipped it open and looked at his driver's license, even though I already knew his name. He was a defensive lineman for the same pro football team that Samantha worked for.

  "OK, Brad Fickett of 403 Pratt Street, I want you to do a favor for me. Do you see the pretty brunette behind me? I want you to tell her that you're very sorry for being so mean to her, scaring her, and for being a turd in general. Promise her that she will never see you outside of the office again."

  His teeth were grinding together in pain and he still wasn't able to speak, but I could hear his thoughts.

  Wait until I get my teammates and come back here, you son of a bitch!

  I knelt down beside him and tapped his wallet on his forehead.

  "You don't want to do anything like that, Brad; I'd hate to have to embarrass you in front of all your friends and coworkers. Besides you don't want all of them to know you like to intimidate women, do you? I have a feeling that wouldn't be so great for your career," I whispered, leaning in close to him so Samantha couldn't hear what we were saying.

  He rolled his eyes up to look at me with confusion on his face.

  I didn't say that out loud, did I?

  "No. I'm inside your head, big man. Remember that. Never come back here again, and don't even think about hassling her at work."

  The shock in his eyes made me want to laugh. At first he thought that I had just been lucky to knock him down, but now he was genuinely afraid of me. Maybe he’d remember this moment the next time he tried to tune up someone else.

  I dropped his wallet in front of his face and stood up. "Brad, I don't like to repeat myself. Now please apologize to the lady."

  Looking back at Samantha, I saw that she hadn't moved at all since I kicked the door in. She just stood there with an odd expression on her face. I guess it isn't every day when someone kicks in your door and beats up your guest.

  It had been a few weeks since I'd seen her, and I was instantly reminded of her attractiveness. She was very tall for a woman, probably approaching six feet, and had an athletic build. Her long brown and wavy hair fell across her bare shoulders. How someone could be so mean to something so pretty, I would never understand. I wanted to stare at her for another second or fifty, but the look in those frightened eyes got me pissed off all over again.

  "Last chance. Apologize or you're going to start drinking out of the toilet," I said as I turned to the man mountain again.

  On very shaky legs he started to get up, though he wasn't able to stand fully erect yet. He looked from her to me, then dropped his eyes to the floor. The look of defeat on his face made me feel like I had just won the lottery.

  "I'm sorry for scaring you…" He trailed off as he looked at me.

  "For being mean to you, and for being a turd."

  "For bein' mean to you, and for bein' a turd," he mumbled.

  "You can leave now, Brad. Drive home safely."

  He didn't make eye contact as he turned, still hunched over, and shuffled out of the apartment. Following behind him, I watched him go down the first flight of stairs and out of sight. I walked back into Samantha’s apartment as she started to relax. Putting my hand around one of her arms, I led her over to a stool sitting in front of the island in her kitchen.

  Looking around for the first time, it was obvious that she took much more pride in her home than I did. Except for the broken glass on the floor, the place was immaculate. She actually had furniture, something I didn't have much of, and everything was clean and organized.

  "Thank you, Ash…for everything. I can't believe he turned mean so fast. The look in his eyes was so scary! Who knows what he would have done if you didn't hear us…"

  I knew what he had planned, but decided to keep that to myself. No point in scaring her even more.

  She covered her eyes with her hand. "He seemed so sweet at work. When he asked me out, I didn't know he was such a jerk. I'm so stupid about boys! Why can't I find a nice guy, just once? This is so embarrassing."

  "You have nothing to be ashamed of. It would be great, though, if the next time you need some help it didn't include having to fight the biggest man I've ever seen in my life," I said with a smile.

  Walking over to her door, I inspected the damage from kicking it in. The splintered wood and bent metal didn't give a good prognosis. It wouldn't even close the whole way, let alone latch.

  "Sorry about your door, Samantha. I'll try and get someone in here to fix it for you tonight."

  "Call me Sammy; I like it better. And don't worry about the door. I owe you so much for saving me like that – a door is no biggie. Although I would feel safer if I could go over to your place while we called the landlord?"

  Maybe the night was looking up after all.

  Chapter 3

  "The super was pissed, but he said he'll be here in a little while to see if he can fix your door," I said as I hung up the phone.

  Samantha sat at a folding card table, which was sitting in my kitchen, trying not to laugh. To say that my apartment is a bachelor pad would be an understatement. I have the requisite TV and recliner, but beyond that my furniture and decorations are nonexistent. Because of my inability to be around people for the last couple of years, I hadn't put much effort into preparing for guests.

  "Yeah, my place sucks. Sorry."

  "No, it's not you. Guys are supposed to live like slobs. I'm laughing because it's kind of funny to think about big, tough Brad Fickett getting beat up like that. Where did you learn that stuff?"

  "I've been taking boxing and jiu-jitsu lessons for a few years now."

  "They teach you how to kick guys in the balls in boxing class?" she said with a laugh.

  "I like to call that an Ash Benson Special Delivery. I reserve that move for men who could squash me like a bug if they got a hold of me. He'll thank me someday though, since he'll be able to sing an octave higher now."

  She turned down my generous offer of frozen pizza, Pop Tarts, or beer, which is all the food I had, and stuck with a glass of water.

  We sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity. My social skills were garbage from being alone for so long.


  "It's a shame that this is what it took to get you to invite me over," she said, breaking the quiet.

  Was she flirting with me?

  "My life has been…difficult for awhile now. If it seemed like I was avoiding you, it's nothing personal," I said. I sat down across from her, trying not to seem uncomfortable.

  "Is that because of the I.E.D. that got you in Iraq?"

  That took me by surprise. She nailed it though. About nine months after getting commissioned as a second lieutenant, I deployed to Iraq where, six months later, my Humvee was hit by an improvised explosive device. The blast crippled the vehicle, killed two of my soldiers, and caused significant blunt force trauma to my head.

  The look on my face must have tipped her off to my surprise.

  "I used some Google-fu on you when I moved in. You weren't on Facebook, so I had to cyber stalk you the old fashioned way."

  "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed. But you're right. That's what started my troubles. Socializing has been an issue for me."

  That's simplifying what I like to call a living hell. Eventually I was honorably discharged due to the lingering effects from the brain injury, and from what my physicians believed was a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder. The official reports cited a rapid withdrawal from social situations, increased agitation, difficulty communicating with multiple people, chronic fatigue, and other anxiety symptoms.

  They were right. I suffered from all of those, but it wasn't because of PTSD. That's when I started hearing the voices. They became more frequent and got significantly louder as time went on. By the time I left Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital, I couldn't handle being in the same room as anyone else. The drinking started shortly after that. It was the only thing that could make the voices manageable. So I got blotto every day, on the cheapest beer I could find.

  The disability checks the Army sent me weren't much, so I'd been living in squalor for years. Since I spent most of my cash on booze, food took a backseat. I lost a ton of weight due to my time in the hospital and from subsisting on alcohol. Nearly fifty pounds had melted off me the first two years. My memory of the third year is pretty spotty, although there wasn't much to remember; all I did was drink and watch movies all day.