Scott Sigler - Contagious

“So you don’t get to have kids, so what? I’ll never have a son.”

“You have a daughter,” Perry said.

Dew nodded. “True, and I love her to death. You’ve got me there. But you know what? She hates fishing. Wouldn’t go even one time just to try it. She saw fish on TV and thought they looked slimy. I never went fishing with my kid. Won’t be able to do it with grandkids, either, because she’s not having children. My line gets snuffed out just like yours.”

“Why won’t she have kids?”

“She’s a dyke.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Dew said. “I don’t see her and her partner kicking out a passel of little ones, if you know what I’m sayin’. And I love her for who she is, by the fucking way, so if you use the word dyke again, I’m going to kick you right in the nuts.”

“I didn’t say dyke, Mister Phillips. You did.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.

“Oh,” Dew said. “Well, then stop calling me Mister Phillips, goddamit.”

“Yes sir.”

“And can that sir shit. I work for a living. You call me Dew. But not Dewie . I hate that.”

“Okay, Dew,” Perry said. His voice sounded deeper than normal. Elbows on his thighs, his head hung low again, uneven hair drooping down like a blond curtain hiding the stage of his face.

Dew realized he’d just threatened to kick Perry in the nuts. Probably not the most sensitive thing to say to someone who had taken a pair of poultry shears to Big Jim and the Twins. Dew took a deep breath—he’d have to remember to think before he talked.

“You know what, hoss?” Dew said.

Perry managed to shrug without lifting his head.

“I’m kind of sick of your whining.”

This time Perry looked up. Not all the way, but enough for the blue eyes to stare out from behind the blond curtain.

“Whining?” Perry said in a hiss. “How about you cut off your junk, get shot twice, then go through two weeks of an experimental treatment that feels like little men made of fire walking around under your skin and pissing flames on all the important stuff, stuff like your brain. And while you’re visiting my slice of paradise, bring in a team of specialists to sew your Jimmy back on, minus your nuts, of course, ’cause they had tentacles growing through them, and then listen to the motherfucking specialists tell you your cock has maybe a ten percent chance of ever functioning again. How about you do that, Dew, and tell me I’m whining.”

“You poooooor fucking baby.”

Perry’s eyes showed another emotion—shame. Or maybe it was just pain. The pain of hearing someone you respect tell you you’re worthless.

“Look, hoss, that sucks,” Dew said. “But the thing is, you need to quit feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I think I’ve got a golden ticket to feel sorry for myself,” Perry said. “I think I pass ‘go’ and collect two hundred bucks on the way, because if I don’t have the right to feel sorry for myself, who the fuck would ?”

“How about Marty Hernandez?”

Perry’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Who the hell is that?”

“A kid I served with back in ’Nam.”

“Oh, come on,” Perry said. “War stories?”

“Yes, war stories. Just listen, okay?”

Dew let it hang in the air. Perry gave that narrow-eyed look again, but nodded.

“We were on patrol in the foothills of Binh Thuan. We came under fire, caught off guard. Couple guys went down right away. Marty and I jumped off the trail into a nice little depression that gave some cover, only Marty took a round just as he jumped. Hit his leg below the knee, man. Severed it, except for a little string of meat and skin. So he starts screaming. I get to the edge and return fire, because they might have been right behind us, you know?”

Perry nodded as if he knew.

“Marty is in real bad shape. But I can’t help him, because I’ve got Charlie coming at us. I can see them charging, so I’m shooting. Marty is bleeding all over; he has leaves and sticks and shit stuck to the stump of his leg. He stops screaming. I’m still firing. I know I killed two, maybe a third, then Marty, he says real calm, Dew, let’s get out of here . I sneak a look at him. He’d used his knife to finish the job on the leg, and he’s holding his foot and leg to his chest like it’s a fucking baby. Bullets are hitting all around me, so I turn back and start firing again. Then you know what Marty does?”

Perry shook his head.

“He starts talking to me about the Raiders.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” Perry said. “The Oakland Raiders?”

Dew nodded. “Yeah, he loved them. Had that logo with the shield and the swords tattooed on his shoulder, man. Bad tat, too. Another guy in the platoon did the work, but that doesn’t matter, right?”

“Right.”

“Right. So he’s in shock, he’s sitting there, holding his leg like you’d hold a baby, and he says, They gotta get Flores back . You know about Tom Flores?”

“Sure, he won two Super Bowls as a coach.”

“He was a quarterback first.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

Perry was leaning forward now, his eyes wide with interest.

Dew continued. “Quarterback. First hispanic QB in the league, so of course Alvarez, El Mexicano , he thinks Flores is fucking God in a helmet and pads. The Raiders traded Flores to Buffalo, and Alvarez was pissed. He says, Dew, they gotta get Flores back . He’s sitting there holding his severed leg, and he’s talking goddamn football.”

“So what did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. I’m killing gooks left and right and I’m thinking, God help me for thinking it, but I’m thinking, if he can hold his leg, he can hold a gun, and why isn’t he laying down fire? Anyway, our line forms up on the right and left and we held, and then our F-O called in artillery.”

“F-O?”

“Forward observer.”

“Oh.”

“So the artillery comes in, practically right on top of us. I’m still shooting. Marty starts talking again, but he has to yell to be heard over the artillery. So he’s yelling, I just got this goddamn tat and they trade Flores to Buffalo. I’m not getting a Buffalo Bills tattoo, Dew. I’m just not. Artillery stops, Charlie is gone, so I decide to get the unit the hell out of there. I turn to help Marty, and he’s dead.”

“But you said he was just talking all normal and stuff.”

Dew nodded. “He was. We could have been in my living room watching Monday Night Football. He was just dead, laying there with his foot and leg in his arms like it was a teddy bear.”

Dew stayed quiet for a moment, wondering if Perry would get it.

“I don’t get it,” Perry said.

Maybe Perry knew computers, but he had the common sense of a goat.

“How old are you?” Dew asked.

“Twenty-seven,” Perry said.

“Marty Alvarez was nineteen and three days. He’ll never have kids, either. He never even saw his twenties, man. Your life is fucked up, I’ll give you that, but you’ve already had a decade more than Marty ever had. And he went out way more peaceful than most, hoss. I watched guys go out trying to stuff their guts back into their bellies. I watched guys crying and begging when someone stabbed them in the chest with a bayonet, over and over. So your life is fucked up? So fucking what ? At least you’re alive . You play the hand you’re dealt. You can either be a man, or not.”

Dew stood up. It took two tries. Perry didn’t say anything. Dew swayed a bit as he looked down at the big man.

“Kid, I got to know something.”