Joe Ledger: Unstoppable

BLACK WATER BY WESTON OCHSE

“That could be you,” Wheatie said in my ear. “Joe Ledger. Teen heartthrob.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

Yet here I stood at Patton’s Pond, designated make-out spot for Baltimore high schoolers near and far. The only problem was I didn’t have a date. It was just me and Wheatie on stakeout.

“You know she’s hot,” Wheatie said.

And she absolutely was. But me being here had nothing to do with Susan Fraily. Instead, me being here had everything to do with Greg Monger — high school star quarterback and professional scumbag. Rumor had it that Greg liked to bring girls to this spot and force himself on them. I hated bullies, and rapists were the ultimate bullies, taking from someone something that they could never return. So when I’d heard Greg was bringing Susan here, I’d decided that maybe this time there should be some chaperoning. Problem was, they were just sitting in the front seat talking.

“Do you smell that?” Wheatie asked.

I did smell something… something chemical that tickled my nose. But I didn’t want to be distracted. Any second and the scheming rapist might make his move. I wanted to be ready when it happened. Still, I couldn’t help but ask, “What is it?”

“Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be here.” Wheatie went over to the water’s edge. “Look here. See the foam? It looks like the water is black.”

“I can’t look. I’m busy.”

“No, Joe, I’m serious. You need to see this. Someone’s been messing with the water.”

I sighed. Wheatie just didn’t understand the concept of surveillance. “It’s a stakeout, Wheatie. I can’t look now.”

“Okay, Magnum, P.I. Just don’t come running to Wheatie when you drink this shit and your pecker falls off.”

I couldn’t stop my lips from curling into a smile. That was actually funny, so I glanced over at the water. “What do you think it is?”

“How am I supposed to know? I look like Mr. Wizard to you?”

The sound of a car engine turning over made me return to my vigil, but it was short-lived. Monger put his Trans Am in reverse, then pulled away, the crunch of gravel receding until he hit the main road. He hadn’t tried anything tonight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try tomorrow night. And when he did I’d be ready.

The next morning was Saturday, so no school. The weather was still cold, but April was promising to be warmer than March. I spent three hours at the dojo working up a sweat, then went to Luskin’s and unloaded trucks for a few more hours. It didn’t pay much and the hours sucked, but it gave me enough cash to be free from my father.

After slamming a burger and fries, I met up with Wheatie. His discovery intrigued me. The Pond had always been an idyllic spot. When we were younger I’d fished from its banks. I never caught anything impressive, but it was the fishing that was important. Then when I was older and when Helen was still in my life, we’d swim there. Once we even went skinny-dipping, but I was too embarrassed to look at her and she was too embarrassed to look at me. Now, it was where we brought dates… scratch that… where other people my age brought dates. And it was cyclic. The young get older and go from fishing to kissing. I bet there were some eight- and nine-year-olds who wanted to fish there but couldn’t because of the pollution, and that pissed me off. So the question was, where did the pollution come from?

It was a chemistry lesson that gave me the idea to go to a swimming pool store and get a water test kit. During daylight, the water looked far worse than at night. Not only did it have a black color in places, but in others it had the telltale rainbow of gasoline, especially near the cattails. I decided to ignore the gasoline and go for the mysterious black water. I was forced to wade knee-deep out into the pond. I’d capped the plastic tube and was about to turn around to leave when I heard a voice.

“There he is, boys,” came a voice I knew and hated.

I spun. Where the hell was Wheatie when I needed him? He was supposed to be watching my back and now he was gone, leaving me to confront Monger, the right side of the offensive line, and the running back, Eric Mattis. The size of the two linemen with them was impressive. Each of them was at least two people. For all I knew, they probably ate their way out of their mothers, then ate their fathers. I supposed if I cared about football I’d know their names, but for now, I referred to them in my mind as Thing 1 and Thing 2.

“The Peeping Tom returned to the scene of the crime,” said Mattis, his voice girlish despite his twenty-one-inch neck — sort of like Mike Tyson on helium.

They’d arranged themselves in an arc at the edge of the water. I played out five different scenarios, in each one knocking them all down. I wasn’t scared because I knew I could take them, despite Thing 1 and Thing 2.

“I see you brought your sisters, Monger,” I said.

This turned all four of their faces red — the quarterback, the running back, and the two linemen.

I looked past them, hoping to see Wheatie, but no joy.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 had balled fists the size of softballs.

“Who you calling a sister?” Mattis asked in his girl’s voice.

That made me smile, which pissed him off royally. He lunged toward me, but Monger put a hand on his chest.

“He’s just trying to goad you into something.” Monger eyed the water. “You actually swimming in there? That shit will make your pecker fall off.”

“Since when did you care about my pecker?” I asked, remembering Wheatie had said much the same thing. I stepped forward and kept walking until I was at the water’s edge. As I approached, they backed away, allowing me to step onto the bank. My sneakers were wet and muddy and didn’t promise a lot of traction. I’d have to be careful.

“I saw you trying to sneak up on me last night,” Monger said. “I want to know why.”

I raised my eyebrows and shook my head slightly. “So you wouldn’t rape Susan Fraily,” I said.

I saw Mattis whip a fist in my direction. I leaned back, grabbed his wrist, and used his momentum to pull him past me, releasing him face-first into the water. The move was perfect, but I felt my feet slipping. In an effort to correct my balance, I brought my head forward — a terribly bad move. One of the Thing 2’s softball hands, which was anything but soft, connected with the back of my head. I dropped like a bag of cement, my face planting in the mud.

I moved to get up, but felt a boot connect with my ribs. Then another and another. They began singing the high school fight song as they kicked me over and over. All I could do was squirm enough to avoid a kick to the head or groin area.

Galaxies of pain were born and died every microsecond of their attack. I felt a rib crack. The bones in my left hand snapped. The toe of a boot found my kidney and I knew I’d be peeing blood for days.

There was a lull in their kicking, as if they wanted to examine the newly pulped being they were creating. I used the opportunity to slide back into the water by twisting to my knees and launching myself. I hit the water on my left side. They ran to the water’s edge, but I pulled myself deeper into the pond, grabbing mud from the bottom as purchase. As polluted as the water was, it soothed my body, reducing the pain to mere explosions instead of the never-ending avalanche it had become.

“Who you calling a sister?” Mattis howled, dripping black water on the edge of the pond.

Then they patted themselves on their backs and retreated. Eventually, I heard two cars start and roar away.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Where the hell were you?” I asked, each word a jolt of pain.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Wheatie splashed into the water next to me.

I held up my broken hand.

“Damn, they got you good.”

It was two hours before I managed to limp home. I emptied the ice container in the bathtub and got in, turning the cold water on. The ice melted right away, but the cold remained. I stayed that way a long time, then went straight to bed.

When I woke the next morning, I felt as if I’d been steamrolled by a ten-thousand-pound Zamboni. My father cracked open the door a little after eight. It was Sunday, so he was off and he usually spent the day down at the races, betting on horses. When he saw me, his face fell into something akin to Roosevelt on Mount Rushmore.

“You were in a fight again.”

If you call being jumped by four football players getting into a fight, then yes, but I didn’t answer.

He made no move to come in the room. “Your mom isn’t going to be happy about this.”

I wouldn’t expect her to be.

A few more seconds ticked by, then he asked in a monotone, “Do you need a doctor?”

If I asked for one, he’d get pissed. It’s not as though we could afford one. Then he’d be ragging on me for days, if not weeks.

“No, Dad. I got it covered.”

“You sure?” he asked.

I nodded, gritting my teeth at the pain.

He began to close the door.

“Uh, Dad?”

He stuck his head back in the room. “Yeah?”

“Did Wheatie stop by?”

He stared at me for a long moment, as if he were contemplating saying something, but then just shook his head and closed the door.

I listened through the walls as he began to talk to my mom, probably telling her not to worry.

The next time I woke the clock said 1:00 and Wheatie was at my side.

“Brother, you are one messed-up dude.”

Wheatie helped me out over the next four days. My hand swelled up like a purple pumpkin, but by day four, it was back to regular size and discolored. I kept it wrapped, applying ice when I could. My ribs were okay, just bruised… as was the rest of my body. I ate by grabbing whatever was available in the fridge. By Friday I was ready to return to the real world, but I wasn’t ready to go back to school.

My water sample was unbroken. Because it was in my pocket by my groin, it had been protected. So the first place we went after I left the house was the swimming pool shop to have the water analyzed.

When the nice man behind the counter got the results later in the day, he frowned. “If you’re swimming in this your pecker’s going to fall off.”

“So I heard,” I said, remembering having to scramble in the water to save myself. I was lucky it hadn’t already plopped to the ground. “What’s in it?”

“Mostly sodium and turpentine,” he said, eyeing me speculatively.

“Sodium like salt?”

He hesitated before responding. “There are different kinds of sodium. My machine can’t tell the difference.” He looked around the swimming pool showroom, then added, “If you want a definitive answer, I’d recommend going to the University of Maryland’s Science Department.”

I wondered what sodium and turpentine were doing in the water.

“There were also trace amounts of lead, mercury, and argon.”

“What could be doing this?”

The man leaned over the counter and whispered, “Listen, you didn’t get this from a pool. I know. I’m not sure where this is from, but I don’t want any part of this. I recommend you just leave this alone.”

“Why? What’s the matter?” I asked.

He gestured toward the readout. “I looked this up. You’ve tied into some black liquor.” Seeing the expression on my face, he explained. “It’s the substance that’s created when wood is pulped in the process for making paper. I made a few calls, including Patton’s Paper Plant, and was told to shut up.”

“Or else what?” I asked.

“Or else I might wake up one night to find my store a pile of ashes.”

“The paper plant told you that?”

“No. Someone else. Someone… how do I put this… connected. He didn’t say his name; he just said to lay off. He called and that’s all I’m saying.”

This was a turn of events I hadn’t anticipated. I was keen on getting to the bottom of the pollution and eventually stopping it. But if the Mob was somehow involved, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. Then I smiled. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I’d do even without the Mob. But I trusted my mind and body to figure it out.

I nodded. “Don’t worry about this. As far as we’re concerned, I was never here.”

He nodded. Then he paused. “We?” he asked nervously. “Who else have you told about this?”

“Just me and Wheatie,” I said. “No one else.”

I turned and left, Wheatie beside me. When we hit the street, we walked for a time so I could figure things out. Even I knew I couldn’t go against the Mob. Heck, I couldn’t go against four football players. No, that wasn’t what I was going to do. One day I’d be in a position to do something dramatic, be Spider-Man. But for now I’d have to settle for being Peter Parker. I’d gather evidence and find a way to report it. If not for me, for the memory of Helen, because the more that I walked, the more the memories of the two of us morphed until we were swimming together in a cauldron of black water, pieces of our skin smoking and then falling away.

Just as she began to scream, Wheatie brought me back to the present.

“What now, boss?”

“Now I go and find a camera.”

“What’s the camera for?”

“Another stakeout.”

Wheatie groaned.

“Except this time we’re not hanging out just to see if an asshole is going to rape some girl. This time we’re there for that and to see who’s dumping in the pond.”

I went around to Luskin’s to apologize to Mr. Howison, but that didn’t go well. I really should have called and he let me know just that.

“Plus, I can’t have any fighters working for me. I mean look at you. What would the customers say if they saw you?”

I wanted to say, That I was jumped by four of your high school football heroes, but I didn’t. Mr. Howison was a nice guy and was also a football booster. Assholes like Monger and his crew came and went. I wasn’t the sort to paint everyone with the same brush. And I understood where Mr. Howison was coming from, even if I was always in back on the loading docks and never saw any customers. He needed to count on me and my head wasn’t in the right place. Hell, it hadn’t been in the right place for years.

He gave me sixty bucks and we shook hands. No hard feelings. I took that sixty to a pawnshop. Their 35 mm cameras were out of my price range, but there were some Instamatics I could buy. Problem was, it was going to be in low light, or even no light, so I’d need a flash. Then I spied a Polaroid. The instantaneousness grabbed me. The audacity of stepping out of the bushes and taking a picture of them in the act of polluting was a powerful pull. So $30 later, I purchased a Polaroid OneStep Flash. Then, after I hunted down some batteries and film, I was ready to save the planet… or at least the place where my memories of Helen were perhaps the best.

I spent that Friday night hiding in the weeds near Patton’s Pond, waiting on a truck to show up. The spot had the usual traffic of guys with girls, steaming up the back windows of cars. Once I heard a scream come from the rear of an Impala, but it was followed by a giggle. With all the boy-girl action, it wasn’t long before my thoughts drifted into the dismal memories surrounding Helen. Part of me couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like with us had she not been attacked… had I been able to save her. There was a hole inside me a mile deep where what-ifs and what-could-have-beens fought Texas cage death matches, possibilities plowing into each other with barbed-wire fists and razor-blade feet, only to be reborn to fight again. The images were never-ending and tended to blend into reality until I believed I was seeing things that couldn’t possibly be there. For a year after the rape I’d see her, only not as she’d been before, but after, standing by a bus stop, bruised, bloody face cracked open or standing in line, her face purple, eyes accusing.

I’d tried to be with her at first, hoping I could be part of the recovery process. But it wasn’t long before I realized she wanted nothing to do with me, so I stopped trying to see her. She’d become such a recluse, all I could do was wonder if she spent her time blaming me. The attack was the very reason I’d found martial arts. I vowed that I’d never be in such a helpless position again.

Not that I hadn’t utterly failed in that plan the other day. I knew how I’d let them get the best of me. I knew it and hated myself for it. Overconfidence belonged nowhere near a fight. Neither did hesitation. I should have taken it to them the moment they’d confronted me, but instead I’d posed like a character out of a Bruce Lee movie who was reluctant to fight, but who everyone knew would eventually unload a can of kung fu whoop ass and be the hero.

Yeah, that’s me.

Stupid.

A station wagon pulled up and parked. Thing 1 sat in the front. Thing 2 sat in the back. Their dates sat beside them and looked like children. The size difference was so improbable that I almost laughed. They drank a few beers and groped the girls. Just as I was thinking they’d leave, Thing 1 spilled out of the front seat and began walking toward me, unzipping his fly. I eased myself deeper into the bushes. Yet still he came. I doubt he saw me, but I sure saw him. I watched with more than a little disgust as he relieved himself, the sickly stream landing just in front of me, splattering my knees. As if things couldn’t get any worse. I heard a car door slam and then Thing 2 was beside Thing 1, adding a new stream. I couldn’t look away. If they saw me, I needed to be ready. So here I was, kneeling in the bushes, forced to watch two gigantic offensive linemen holding their rods, inches away from me, giving me a golden shower.

I held my breath until they left, packing, zipping, turning, wiping their hands on their pants as they returned to their dates.

The rest of the evening was uneventful. I stayed until morning, but no dumping.

I made it back by nine, in time to see my father leave. We nodded to each other as we passed, our only connection. I slept for ten hours and woke at seven. My father still wasn’t back. Probably at the track.

Wheatie showed up as I was wolfing down a can of pork and beans.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said around a mouthful. “Where’d you get to last night?”

“Was busy.” He glanced around. “Your dad around?”

I shook my head.

“Good,” he said. Then he asked, “What do you think of your dad?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Simple question formed from a leading interrogative, followed by a subject and a verb and an object… the object of the question being your dad, with me asking what you think of him.”

I sighed. I forgot sometimes that Wheatie was a smart-assed genius. “I try not to think of him.”

“You know he doesn’t like me, right?”

“He just doesn’t understand.”

“I think he does. And you know what else? I think he loves you.”

“You don’t know anything I don’t tell you to know.”

“That’s sort of harsh.”

“Well, I’m feeling fucking harsh.” I tossed the can in the trash and the spoon in the sink. “You ready to go, or what?”

We were in place by nine, watching the steady flow of hormone-fueled teenagers come and go.

About eleven, Wheatie asked, “You’re hoping you see them, aren’t you?”

Some questions you can answer with a nod or a word, but this wasn’t one of those. The answer ran back years to those hideous moments when Helen was on the ground and four older teens were doing to her what no man should ever do to a woman. Despite the sketch artists and police promises, they were never identified, although I swore to myself I’d know them if I ever saw them again. Was I out here looking for them? I never stopped looking for them. I looked for them in every store, on every street, and in every place I went. Instead of answering, I continued my vigil. Whether it be Monger, the polluters, or one of them, I was on the lookout, and by God, I’d find one of them.

Wheatie bugged out at three in the morning, but I stayed until dawn. No sign of Monger. No sign of anything. I was halfway back to my house when I heard the rumble of an engine. I looked over and saw a station wagon. Thing 1 and Thing 2 filled up the front. They were in sweats and it looked as if they’d just worked out as they pulled up next to me.

“What’s going on, ground stain?” Thing 1 asked, prodding Thing 2 in the rib with an elbow.

“What’s in your purse?” Thing 2 asked, all grins and steroid acne.

I had a small pack with a water bottle and my camera. It wasn’t a purse, but they didn’t need to know that. Instead of answering, I cut across a lawn, leaving them in the street. They’d either drive away or—

I was gratified to hear the sound of two doors opening, then slamming shut.

“Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” Thing 1 growled.

I turned and watched him stomp across the grass, hands working around invisible necks. Instead of running, I took three quick steps and got into his guard. He reached out and I hip-chucked him ten feet. Before he landed, I was on Thing 2, firing two punches to his kidney, then raking my foot down his shin and into his instep. He fell to the ground, grabbing at his foot.

Thing 1 started to get up and I kicked him in the face.

Thing 2 saw it happen and stayed in place.

“What’s wrong? No one to sucker punch me?”

Just then a cop car pulled to the curb. Its lights began to flash and I could see the cop talking into the radio and eyeing me as if I were an escaped convict. Then he got out of the car, his hand on his pistol.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

Neither Thing 1 nor Thing 2 said a word.

“You and you, on your feet. What’s going on?” he asked, looking at me.

“Fellas tripped is all.”

Thing 1 wiped blood from his broken nose with the sleeve of his sweat suit.

“I know you guys. You’re on the football team.”

They both nodded but said nothing. Thing 2 glared at me, but Thing 1 wouldn’t meet my gaze. The cop shook his head. “I don’t know what really happened here, but let’s not do this again.” He pointed back to the station wagon. “This belong to you two guys?”

They nodded.

“Get it moving. And you,” he said, pointing at me. “Where should you be?”

“Home, Officer.”

“Then get there.”

I nodded and left.

Half an hour later I was home and in bed and I fell asleep with a grin on my face.

Sunday night as I was about to leave, my dad came in the kitchen.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Out.”

“Where out?”

I glanced at him from where I was eating a microwaved burrito, leaning against the counter. Why was he suddenly wanting to be the good father? I guess I took too long to answer, because he rolled his eyes and lowered his voice.

“Listen, Joe, I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m safe.”

“Seriously. You’re out at all hours of the night doing God knows what. Your mother is worried and I just need to make sure you aren’t breaking any laws.”

“I’m not breaking any laws,” I said, finishing the burrito.

“Then where are you going?” he asked.

I turned to him. “Out,” I said, daring him to ask me again, act as though he cared, maybe even be a father and stop me from being rude.

For one solid moment, I thought he would. But then he sighed, turned, and walked out of the room.

I left the room, too, leaving it as empty and sterile as it had been before. Thirty minutes later I was in the weeds on stakeout.

At 10:53 a flatbed truck pulled up at the far edge of the pond. Wheatie had gone out for some Cokes, so I was alone. I began to edge my way around. As I was navigating the bushes, I heard Monger’s Trans Am pull up as well. I took a long look and saw that Susan was with him. Her head moved funny, as if it wouldn’t stay up. Then it hit me. Fucker had rufied her, or maybe gotten her drunk. This was the night for certain.

I stared at the flatbed. Six metal drums were on the back of it. I had no doubt that the two men in front were going to dump them in the pond.

Caught between two competing decisions, I wasn’t sure what to do.

The two men got out and began to wrestle a barrel onto the ground.

I decided that concealment was overrated. I stood my full height and ran toward them, pulling the camera from my bag as I went. They heard me when I was ten feet away.

“Get out of here, kid.”

“I know what you’re doing.” I pulled out the camera, pressed the on button, and snapped a picture. The flash blinded them and me both. Then the camera whirred and spit out a picture. I grabbed it and shoved it in my back pocket.

“Hey!”

“You can’t do that.” The driver reached out his hand. “Give me that now.”

I backed away and took another picture. Then another. “You don’t get out of here now these pictures will be in the Baltimore Sun tomorrow.” I took a picture of the side of the truck where it said CANELLI BROTHERS, then a picture of the front license plate.

“You can’t do that!”

“I can and did. Take your barrels somewhere else.”

I backed away and took one last picture.

They cursed as they loaded the barrel back on the truck.

“If I see you, you’re dead,” the passenger growled.

I held up the camera and grinned.

Then they drove away.

I turned and sprinted back around the edge of the pond. I could see movement in the Trans Am. The passenger seat was lying flat. Monger was on top of Susan. When I arrived at the car, I began taking pictures.

One. Monger on top of Susan. Her eyes closed. His hands up her shirt, groping her breasts.

Two. Monger’s face surprised. Susan’s eyes still closed, his hands pulling free of her shirt.

Three. Now Angry Monger. Susan’s eyes still closed.

Four. Monger launching himself out the window.

I ditched the camera and put all the pictures in my back pocket with the others.

Wheatie appeared behind Monger, and behind him came the station wagon.

“The others are here, Joe. Be careful.”

Monger got to his feet. At six five, he towered over me, but that didn’t matter.

I planted a boot in his crotch and watched with satisfaction as he fell to his knees. Then I brought my own knee into his face and was pleased to hear the crunch of his nose.

The others bailed out of the station wagon and gathered in front of the headlights.

“Leave him alone,” Mattis howled.

I stalked toward them, every step, every movement, with dire intention. For however long it took the police to come and arrest me, my targets were no longer Monger, Mattis, Thing 1, and Thing 2. Instead, they were the four strange boys who’d brutally raped Helen, shattering her life and bruising her soul.

It was because of them we were no longer friends.

It was because of them I couldn’t look into her eyes.

It was because of them she couldn’t participate in the world.

Wheatie and I sat in the holding cell for three hours. Two drunks and a perplexed-looking man in a suit and tie sat on the metal benches. Twice Wheatie tried to engage me in conversation, but each time I ignored him.

I remember that they had to bring two ambulances.

From the back of the police cruiser where I sat handcuffed, I watched Monger leave in one of them.

Thing 2 left in the other. I’d broken his arms and shattered his knee.

Thing 1 would be peeing blood for a few weeks.

Likewise, Mattis would be doing the same. If he ever held a football again with that right hand, I’d be surprised.

“Come on, Joe. It was four against one. They can’t hold you.”

I glanced over at Wheatie. He was a good friend and I was lucky to have him.

“But I attacked them,” I said.

“The cops don’t know that.”

Just then my father appeared, his face a crimson ball of anger. As a cop, he knew it looked bad to have his oldest son in jail.

“What did you do?”

I stopped a man from raping a girl and stopped two men from polluting the pond.

He shook his head. “You’ve gone too far.”

“I had to do something.”

“Do something? You almost killed those boys.”

“They had it coming.”

“Do you hear yourself? ‘They had it coming’?” He shook his head again. “You have got to stop this, Joe.” He turned to look behind him. “There’s only so much I can do.”

Now I shook my head. “As long as there are bad men out there, I won’t be stopped.”

He pointed to his chest. “I’m your father and you will do as I say.”

“Better listen to him,” Wheatie said.

My father lowered his voice. “I spoke to the other parents. They were going to press charges, but the police found your photos.”

“What did they show?”

“Two men with a barrel by the pond and what looks like the boy you hurt on top of an unconscious girl. Care to explain the pictures?”

“I think they’re self-explanatory.”

He stared at me for a long moment. “Listen,” he said, “I know I haven’t been the best dad. I know I can be better. You have a few more months before you can leave on your own. Let’s make those months good ones. If not for our sake, for your mother’s. Okay?”

I felt a powerful emotion grow in my chest. For the first time in forever, he was acting like a father. He was doing everything I’d wanted him to do. I opened my mouth to speak, but found I couldn’t.

“Let me sign some paperwork, then you and I can be on our way,” he said as he turned.

“Hey, Dad?”

He turned back.

“Can you get Wheatie out of here, too?”

My father’s smile fell and his face contorted into a mask of tortured anger.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Wheatie.”

“What about him?”

“You keep talking about him as if he’s still alive.”

“What are you talking about?” I turned to where Wheatie sat. Gone was his usual smile. He frowned and his face looked different.

“Wheatie drowned in that pond the same day you and Helen were attacked.”

I watched as Wheatie’s skin began to flake away and his hair began to fall out. A spider crawled out of his mouth and found a home in his now empty eye socket.

“The doctors said that I shouldn’t press it, that I should let you realize his death on your own.”

“Wheatie’s dead?” I asked, the words whining from my mouth. I went to repeat it, but only my mouth moved. No sound came out.

“Yes, son.”

Where Wheatie had been, there was nothing but a pile of dust and bone. Wheatie had disappeared into that black water the same night four strangers had left permanent bruises on our souls.

I remembered.

I remembered it all.

“They pulled him from the water the next morning,” I said.

My father nodded.

“No one knows why he was in the pond. He didn’t even know how to swim.”

He nodded again.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you let me go on like that?”

“I have told you. I tell you every year and then you just sort of forget. The worse things get, the more you seem to need Wheatie.”

I felt a pressurized balloon blow inside me and emotion rushed to my face. I couldn’t help it as I cried over the loss of a friend who’d died a few moments ago and four years ago.

Wheatie.

Helen.

The Black Water.

“Oh, Dad, it’s just too much,” I managed to say between sobs.

Then the ghost of Wheatie whispered into my ear, “Joe Ledger. Teen heartthrob.”

And I completely lost it.

Weston Ochse is a former intelligence officer and Special Operations soldier who has engaged enemy combatants, terrorists, narco smugglers, and human traffickers. His personal war stories include performing humanitarian operations over Bangladesh, being deployed to Afghanistan, and a near miss being cannibalized in Papua New Guinea. His fiction and nonfiction have been praised by USA Today, The Atlantic, the New York Post, the Financial Times of London, and Publishers Weekly. The American Library Association labeled him one of the Major Horror Authors of the Twenty-first Century. His work has also won the Bram Stoker Award, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and won multiple New Mexico — Arizona Book Awards. He has written more than twenty-six books in multiple genres, and his military supernatural series SEAL Team 666 has been optioned to be a movie starring Dwayne Johnson. His military sci-fi series, which starts with Grunt Life, has been praised for its PTSD-positive depiction of soldiers at peace and at war.