The Death Agreement



  The Death Agreement

  by

  Kristopher Mallory

  The Death Agreement

  Jon Randon Series.

  Copyright

  www.StealthFiction.com

  The Death Agreement

  Jon Randon Series

  Copyright © 2014 Kristopher Mallory

  Cover Art Copyright © 2014 Kristopher Mallory

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  ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-31170-285-2

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  Edited by Em Petrova

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  eBook License Notes:

  You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

  Other Books by Kristopher Mallory

  I Know What They Are

  Master Stargazer

  These Bad Dreams Combined

  Mega Millions

  What People Are Saying about Kris's Books

  The Death Agreement:

  "This is all so confusing and mind blowingly awesome.

  " – Jesslikewoah

  I Know What They Are:

  "This is absolutely amazing. Has me a bit paranoid as I get deja vu quite a bit, hopefully not too many good futures have passed me by..." – Niamhel

  Master Stargazer:

  "Hands down one of the best short sci fi books I have read" – Ricky G.

  These Bad Dreams Combined:

  "No idea WTF is going on here, but I'm fascinated!" – Ali

  Special Thanks

  Amber Whelpley, Em Petrova, J. W. Zulauf, James Fincham, Janiel Escueta, Jonathan Hasara, Terry Colley, Thomas Thompson, NoSleep Readers

  Shout out to the Hypnophobia Crew.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Book List

  People Say

  Special Thanks

  SEVERITY

  PREAMBLE

  RECOUNT HISTORY

  LOOK AFTER FAMILY

  OBITUARY

  ATTEND FUNERAL

  SHARE FINAL WORDS

  WISHES

  CELEBRATE LIFE

  VISIT THE DEAD

  EX POST FACTO

  FAMILY PORTRAIT

  REMEMBERED MOST FOR

  YOURS TRULY

  A Word on Alan Goodtime

  Message From Jon Randon

  About the Author

  What's Next?

  More from Kristopher Mallory

  More from Stealth Fiction Publishing

  SEVERITY

  "It's just a flesh wound."

  ~ The Black Knight

  PREAMBLE

  Dedicated to memory of Major Jesse Taylor.

  We made a pact. He lived up to his end by dying. I tried to live up to my end by following The Death Agreement.

  What you will find within these pages is a true recounting of a man's life as seen through my eyes. It's almost an impossible task when some of what you see can't be real and what is real you may refuse to see.

  Human beings have a capacity to dread the truth, to distort facts when they don't fit our predefined notions of how the world should work. We forget that reality isn't what we want it to be. We ignore the signs that our universe doesn't care about us. It constantly changes to suit its own needs. Nothing is perfect. This includes the focus of my story. People come and go. Pieces don't fit neatly together. Doubt clouds judgment. Mistakes are made. All hell breaks loose when no one is looking. I guess that's how life is supposed to be.

  For me, it doesn't matter anymore. What happened, happened, and I'm still bound by the terms set.

  Please consider this dedication a warning sticker. Come in if you dare, leave if you don't. Some might call this experience horror. It is that, no doubt, but at the root I suppose it's a tale of transformation.

  Speaking of transforming: Have you ever stood in a dim bathroom and stared at a mirror? For the past 18 months, I've done that every day. What I see in the glass consumes me. My silhouette fades into a thousand different terrifying faces; each sharpens to crystal clarity before morphing into someone else. I don't know who these people are, but I recognize them all. I've learned that what we see isn't a reflection. We are the reflection.

  My name is Jon Randon and I'm going to tell you a story.

  SECTION I - RECOUNT HISTORY

  Taylor and I used to joke about dying young.

  Looking back, it started as a way for us to show off to our friends in West Point—one of America's most prestigious schools. We wanted to project this fearless image like a lot of young cadets do. We were arrogant and had a smart-ass answer for everything.

  "If we keep this up," Taylor said, laughing, "we're not going to make it past thirty."

  "Not a chance," I agreed.

  Driving a car down the highway at over twice the speed limit? Fun. Jumping off a cliff into shallow water? Hell yeah. Sleeping with another trashy barfly that cruised Highland Falls? High five me, brother.

  The Academy professors all called us Cadidiots behind our backs. I'd say that's an accurate term. We knew we were young, dumb, and full of cum.

  Even so, we lived by a code: A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those that do. And we took pride in our motto: Duty, Honor, and Country.

  General Douglas MacArthur summed it up best: "In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country."

  I first crossed paths with Jesse Taylor on Reception Day. The Commandant told us which platoon we'd be joining and assigned us a room in the Ike Long Barracks. Between the constant barrage of screaming and running around we had to endure that day, I don't think we had a chance to even say hello to each other, let alone the other new Cadets.

  Death jokes started the first week of Cadet Basic Training. Though our backgrounds were extremely different we had the same morbid sense of humor. We quickly became best friends, and it wasn't just because some system of random selection told us we were going to be roommates.

  Most days as a Plebe went by in a blur. None of us got more than four hours sleep each night, but people can get used to anything, or so they say. I guess to sum it up, we all had a tough time that first year.

  Life drastically improved after we joined Corps Squads. We gained access to a team house. Someone knew a laid-back captain who on occasion would provide us with some booze. Not much at first, just a swallow here and there, almost as a dare to see who'd risk taking a shot.

  Fast-forward to a night when we were sophomores: 50.5 miles from West Point, at a bar, attending a birthday party for one of the guys. The Corps Squads team captains were pressuring each other to see which squad could drink the most. I figured the row of tequila shots would kill us. Taylor figured we'd be executed via firing squad when the Tactical Officers found out we were drinking underage. None of us really thought we'd get busted, so we drank, and drank, and drank some more.

  From then on that's how things were at West Point. We became juniors, and during the week, all us Cows studied hard and acted the part. Come the weekend we lost control of our ability to act like rational human beings, oftentimes nearly killing ourselves during our extracurricular exploits.

  Somehow we made it through the four years of school without dying or being expelled. Only one of the guys in our company ever got punished for an alcohol violation. The p
oor bastard had to walk for 100 hours, marching back and forth on the weekends, unable to talk to anyone. It took him over six months to work off the time. I still laugh about that.

  Taylor and I had both wanted to pilot helicopters, so we signed our names to our career selection sheet which contained sixteen careers that we'd wanted, then waited for Branch Night to find out if we would get Aviation. We'd passed the exams but knew only about ten percent would make it.

  On branch night, we were ushered into one of the large briefing halls, where we waited for the order to reach under our seats. When the order came, I reached down and found an envelope. Inside was my branch insignia, but I didn't open mine right away, and instead watched the reactions of everyone around me.

  Most guys cheered and shouted. They offered high fives and fist bumps to anyone willing to accept. Not everyone seemed happy though. Some cadets stormed away or cursed. No one dared to ask.

  I'd seen enough. I swallowed hard, opened my envelope, and my jaw dropped. Despite all odds, I had been chosen to attend pilot training.

  "Dude," Taylor said. "Congrats."

  "I can't believe it. I never thought—" I paused. In my excitement I'd failed to register Taylor's somber tone, slumped shoulders, and half-hearted smile. "Aw man, I'm sorry. What did you get stuck with?"

  He looked away.

  I sighed. "That bad?"

  "Yeah. Those bastards." He shook his head. When he looked at me again, a smirk had replaced his frown. "They're sending me to pilot training, too. Real bad news, right?"

  We laughed like a pair of hyenas, then joined the others who had been chosen for the aviation branch, and went out to do keggers. I don't think I'd ever gotten more wasted in my life.

  That night, Taylor and I did a blood pinning as well. We took the backs off of our insignia and punched them into each other's chest. As drops of blood dotted our shirts, we joked about dying of a tetanus infection.

  Post night came that spring. We had known we were going to Rutger after we finished the Basic Officer Leadership course, but weren't prepared to learn that we would be going separate ways after that. It came as a shock that my best friend would be half a world away.

  ***

  Then came Rucker. It wasn't the hell we had thought it would be, but it wasn't a vacation either. The training instructors were hardasses, and we were still a pair of jokers. Even during the annual combat exercise, they couldn't strip us of our sense of humor. After that day of crawling through the mud with live ammo fired over our heads, we still managed a few wisecracks.

  We did have real problems, though. Most everything came at us in the form of tests and memorizing ridiculous amounts of information.

  Taylor had nearly flunked out of the preliminaries, and I nearly got kicked out of the program for slacking off in the simulator.

  Late one evening, Taylor stopped by my apartment and found me passed out on the couch with a stack of books across my lap. "Jon," he whispered. "Wake up."

  "I'm awake…well, I was until I started reading through this shit."

  "Listen, I got a plan to keep us motivated."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Does it involve pictures of your sister?"

  "I'm serious. Higher stakes. If one of us quits or fails, the other kills himself. Simple as that."

  "Can we take out as many people as we want first?" I chuckled. The proposal was a joke, obviously, but Taylor stared at me like he had expected a straight answer.

  He stood up. "Well?"

  I bit off a piece of my thumbnail and spit it out. "You're saying if I get thrown out you'll put a bullet through your head?"

  "I like to think I'm more creative than that, but yeah, you got the general idea."

  "Fine then. I'm in."

  "Good," he said. "I'll see ya in class tomorrow." He nodded and left.

  I lay awake that night wondering if I'd said the wrong thing. What if he wasn't kidding? Would he really have gone through with it? In the end, I told myself it was a joke like everything else.

  Funny thing…after we made the bet, my grades improved, as did his. Subconsciously I still worried Taylor would actually do it. Maybe he thought I would, too. It didn't matter. We both worked hard. In fact, his improvement surpassed everyone else's, and gets this: he finished at the top of our class.

  The time we spent in Rucker ended up being the best of our lives. If the situation were different, if things happened how we expected, perhaps more of this story would focus on those fun days when we had to succeed or kill ourselves.

  We parted ways after earning our wings. They sent me off to Alaska and sent Taylor to Hawaii.

  I really wish I could go into details about how Taylor fell in love and married Lorie while I went through several crazy girlfriends. Or how Taylor bought his first home in the suburbs while I was content living in a rented, broken-down trailer deep in the woods. Career-wise, Taylor shined as an officer and promotion came easy. Things were different for me there, too. I hit a real rough patch and eventually got caught dating an enlisted girl, earning myself an Article 15. As punishment for fraternization, I received a General Letter of Reprimand, which pretty much meant that I'd never be promoted higher than 1st Lieutenant. So much for honor, right?

  The way life shaped up, it looked as if Taylor had found his calling, while I considered resigning my commission the minute the contract expired. Through it all, we remained close, and we never looked back with regret.

  It's nice reminiscing about times long past, but as much as I want to trap myself in those memories, I can't. Boys grow up, shit happens, and the story goes on.

  Real change came three years later. I called Taylor to give him the latest news. Lorie answered on the third ring.

  "Oh, Jesse's out right now," she said. "Say, when you going to come visit? It's been too long."

  "I know. I want to. Maybe after I get back. I just got word…I'm heading off to some nameless airfield in Afghanistan."

  "Oh, Jon. Be safe, okay?"

  "Yeah…I'll try. Thanks. Tell him I called?"

  "Sure. Talk to you soon."

  "Bye, Lorie."

  Taylor called me back an hour later.

  "I hear they're sending you out to the sandbox," he said.

  "It's my turn. Knew it was coming."

  "Gonna get a lot worse before it gets better."

  "I hope if it happens, it won't leave me broken. I don't think I could handle being disabled."

  "Don't talk that way. A sniper is sure to take you out the day you arrive."

  I chuckled. "Of course."

  "Besides, you'll have someone you know watching your back. I got my orders today. They're sending me, too."

  ***

  Each time the mortars dropped into our base, Taylor asked, "Is today the day?"

  "Probably," I always replied.

  We laughed it off after the shelter-in-place sirens stopped blaring, but I knew one or both of us might not make it home. So far we'd been lucky.

  Close calls were common early in the war. On one flight, Lee Thompson, a better man than I ever will be, flew to my right. I saw a flash come from the mountain range and tracked the fast-moving corkscrew of smoke as I dropped altitude, deployed flares, and transmitted the location: "Incoming nine o'clock."

  The S.A.M. had a lock on my bird and ignored the flares shooting from underneath the landing sleds. I took a deep breath and held it, waiting for impact. The missile rocked my cockpit, striking dead center, but it didn't explode.

  "Randon," Lee said over the radio. "I called in an airstrike. Are you okay?"

  "A dud."

  "Lucky. I can't believe that just hap—"

  Lee's bird exploded in a horrifying fireworks show. I screamed as burning debris rained down outside of Kabul. He had been watching me, and neither of us saw the second rocket. His luck had run out.

  After I landed, I hid from everyone. Of course Taylor found me.

  "It isn't your fault," he had said and passed me a bottle of whiskey that Lorie ha
d discreetly sent him.

  I nodded. There wasn't anything I could've done to save Lee's life, but I felt the heavy weight of survivor's guilt just the same. If the missile that hit me hadn't been a dud, I'm sure he would've seen the second one and made it home to his family. I clenched my jaw and squeezed my eyes shut, but the tears still came.

  Taylor sat next to me, quiet. We drank to Lee that night just as we had toasted to our other friends that had given their lives.

  After a while, Taylor nudged my arm. "By the way," he said, "Lorie is pregnant. It's a boy, and we're naming him after you."

  Despite everything that had happened that day, I couldn't stop the smile from spreading across my face. Before I knew it, the tears of sorrow turned to tears of joy. That was Taylor. He always found a way to make everything better. I was lucky to have him as a friend.

  There I go talking about luck again. You want to know the worst thing about luck? It has a tendency to run out for everyone.

  The next day, on a routine flight from Kandahar to Erazi, the rear rotor of my Black Hawk went haywire, thrusting me into an uncontrollable spin.

  I chose to attempt an autorotation, a dangerous maneuver used as a last-ditch effort to land a crippled bird. I knew the blades were spinning too fast, and the odds of success were slim, but a small chance is a hell of a lot better than no chance at all.

  I cut the power and prayed.

  I don't remember the crash.

  ***

  "Wake up, Jon. Look at me." Taylor slapped me in the face. "Look at me!" He slapped me again. Oddly, two of him hovered at the edge of my vision, but after another solid slap the images wavered then merged together.

  "Where am I?"

  "Field Hospital. They're taking you outta here. Not today, you hear me?"

  "What happened?"

  His lips moved. I don't know how long it took for me to comprehend what he was saying, but I do remember the pain that suddenly caught up to me. I looked down, saw my twisted, bloodied legs, and screamed.

  "Don't look. You'll be okay. Today's not the day, all right?"

  I searched his face. His eyes were stone and unreadable. Behind him, the tent flap blew open. I stared out at the clear blue sky and noticed a group of Afghan children kicking a soccer ball across the rust-colored sand. Their game moved from of my field of view and a strange fear came over me. I wanted to see those carefree kids one last time before I died.