John Gilstrap - Damage Control

With that, he slammed the door and walked away.

So, now they were marching. And sweating. They’d become a part of the jungle, bait not just to the gajil-lion insects that had already feasted on every square inch of Tristan’s exposed skin, but now to sharp-toothed mammals as well, now that the afternoon was dying and darkness lay only three or four hours ahead. Yeah, good times. And for the record, flip-flops made shitty hiking shoes.

Until, say, five hours ago, Tristan would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that he’d already reached the bottom of his life experience. Hah!

This was the stuff of nightmares. All the killing, all the blood. He wondered if he’d ever be able to close his eyes and not have those images invade his brain.

Would it ever be possible to be happy again? Would he ever be able to think about Allison and Ray and Mrs. Charlton and the others and see them in his mind the way they used to look, or would those memories forever be dominated by shattered bone and extruding brain tissue?

What was it that Scorpion had said to him before? That he’d served in war with soldiers who were younger than Tristan. He wondered now if those were all the ones who came back mentally crippled from the experience. If you can never find happiness, then what’s left for your life other than anger, depression, and suicide?

You’re catastrophizing. The thought startled him. He hadn’t heard his dad’s voice in his head for a very long time. Catastrophizing had been Dad’s favorite word for describing Tristan’s tendency to view a problem purely in negative terms and then spin it into a negative prediction for the future. Even Dad would have to cut him a little bit of a break on this one.

Even the ever-optimistic, ever-cheerful Dad, whose pancreatic cancer had taken him out within three weeks of his initial diagnosis. That had been one time, in fact, when Tristan had decided to take the positive route, if only because the negative was so depressing.

All things considered, calling Tristan’s life a catastrophe sounded more like a statement of fact than a projection of gloom.

Since it was too dangerous to use the Pathfinder anymore, they’d formed a three-person parade, with Scorpion in front and Big Guy in the rear. Big Guy had modified one of the dead guys’ bulletproof vests so that it would fit Tristan, so now, despite the zillion-degree heat, he was wearing a thirty-pound sweat machine that was crammed with magazines for the rifle that he’d practiced so diligently to load and unload.

He also carried a rifle they’d taken from one of the dead Mexicans, slung as the commandos’ rifles were slung, hanging across his chest. He kept his hand on the grip because that was where it felt most comfortable (and, he thought, looked most cool). Consequently, he endured a reminder every few minutes from Big Guy to make sure that the safety was still on. That seemed to be a real sore spot for him.

Tristan tried not to notice the bloodstains on the vest. At least it was black, and Scorpion had done his best to wash them off. If you didn’t look too hard, you couldn’t even see them.

When they’d first started out, this hike was announced to be about twelve miles in duration. Tristan wasn’t sure it was possible to drink enough water to keep up with the sweat that poured out of him. In the oppressive humidity, none of it evaporated, either. He didn’t get how Scorpion and Big Guy could do this with the long sleeves and long pants and the backpacks. Then again, their legs probably weren’t bloodied from thorns and bug bites. Everything’s a trade-off, he supposed.

The exhaustion and dehydration and the insects were to be expected, he thought, as unpleasant as they were. What really surprised him was how badly the jungle stank. Take the worst combination of gym socks, skid-marked underwear, and mold and blow the resulting smell through a hot, mildewed towel, and you’d come close.

Scorpion led them with purpose, rarely stopping to readjust to his map. Tristan figured that the box in his hand was a GPS of some sort, but it was way more exotic looking than anything he’d ever seen in a store.

Tristan picked up his pace to catch up with the leader, doing his best not to make a lot of noise.

“You’d be wise not to sneak up on people,” Scorpion said without looking. When he turned around for eye contact, he was smiling. “Come on up and walk with me.” He moved to the side to open up a gap between him and the foliage on his left.

Tristan stepped up.

“How are you holding up?” Scorpion asked.

“I wish I didn’t have to wear all of this crap,” he said. “It’s heavy and hot.”

“It’ll also stop a bullet,” Scorpion said. “Keep it on. How are you doing otherwise?”

“I’m scared,” Tristan said. He worried that they were the wrong words, but they were the only ones that came to mind.

“Good for you,” Scorpion said. “Give yourself an A in humanity.”

Tristan didn’t get it. How did someone endure this kind of pressure and drama yet remain so calm? He actually wanted to ask that as a question, but he didn’t know how to phrase it without sounding like a toad.

“You should feel proud of yourself,” Scorpion said. “I’ve rescued a lot of people over the years, and not all of them held up as well as you have.”

Tristan said, “Thanks,” but it sounded hollow, even to his own ears. What else was there to say?

“Tell me about home,” Scorpion said. “I know you’re on the debate team, but tell me something else I should know about you.”

Inexplicably, Tristan found himself blushing. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m boring. I’m a geek. I’m the anti-you.”

Scorpion laughed. “The anti-me? What does that mean?”

Under different circumstances, the laughter might have been offensive, but in this case, Tristan kind of liked it. He’d planted the joke, after all. “Look at you,” he said. “Now look at me. Any questions?”

Scorpion laughed again. Then he seemed to notice that he was laughing alone, and he turned serious. “Look,” he said. “I’m not going to bullshit you with a bunch of esteem-building nonsense, okay? I bet you have enough of that in your life. I’m really sorry about all your friends. I wish I could have done something for them.”

Tristan looked away. He felt emotion pressing behind his eyes, and he didn’t need anybody to see that.

“You know that there are bad folks in the world,” Scorpion went on. “You probably always knew that, but now you really know. Your best revenge is to come out on the other end of this alive.”

“I can live with that,” Tristan said. He didn’t mean it as a pun, but once he heard it, and the chuckle that it elicited, he allowed himself a smile.

“I bet you can,” Scorpion said.

A minute or two passed in silence as they trudged on. Tristan pulled at his vest, trying to get it to sit comfortably.

“How do you do this all the time?” Tristan asked. “How do you handle the stress?”

Scorpion answered without dropping a beat. “Scotch,” he said. “But not just any scotch. Good scotch. You’re too young for it, but when you get older, remember the name Lagavulin. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

Tristan smiled because he knew he was supposed to, but it had been a real question. Disinclined to ask it a second time, he stared ahead.

“I don’t know if I can make you understand,” Scorpion said. “I tried to touch on it before. It’s not about stress for me. It’s about success. No matter how bad things look sometimes, there’s always a happy solution to be found somewhere. You just have to stay with it until you find it.”

“But suppose you don’t?”

“You always do. That’s the reality. If you’re willing to commit everything to finding the answer-and I mean everything, up to and including your life-then the answer will be found, even if it costs everything you were willing to risk.”