Chapter 1

A dark desert highway. The phrase stuck in Marty’s head and brought back ugly memories. Bad things happened on dark desert highways. Especially on nights like this: no moon, clear, the stars glittering like muzzle flashes. He shook his head hard; that was months ago and thousands of miles away. This road should be safe. No IEDs, no RPGs, and no God-damned Hadji.
He’d driven this way before, I-90 through eastern Washington. Not really a desert, more of a semi-arid steppe. It didn’t matter. He focused on the road and reality.
Bleary-eyed and dog-tired, Marty pressed through a tunnel of light provided by his pickup's halogen beams. The highway’s dashed lines tried to fuse together. Hypnotic. He rolled down the window and let the cool wind blow through his hair. The MP3 had moved on, Zeppelin’s 'Black Dog' pounded his ears, blaring. It helped him stop thinking, but he could only mutter along with the song. He needed to stop soon.
Two tiny glowing green orbs appeared, beyond the reach of his lights. He blinked hard, twice, and flashed his high beams. Still there. He eased off the gas—a hallucination?
The orbs got closer. A small bloom of blue appeared beneath them—up ahead in the distance, he saw a shimmering light.
Standing in the middle of the road—a dog! Staring into his headlights.
"Oh, shit!" He jammed on the brakes and yanked the wheel hard to the right, avoiding the animal—except he might have felt a bump. The truck careened down a slope, bounced through bushes and over rocks. Boulders loomed ahead. He spun the wheel hard left. The tires plowed into the soil and the vehicle slid to a stop.
His heart pounded his ears as he sat white-knuckling the steering wheel. Shifting into park, he left the engine running, took a couple of deep breaths, grabbed the flashlight from behind his seat, and jumped out. Had he hit the dog? Crap! He ran back up to the highway, avoiding suspicious pieces of ground that might have hidden double stacked land-mines.
Why the hell had that dog been on a highway in the middle of nowhere? Who would be so careless with their pet? Anger inside surged, fighting for freedom. Deep breaths, in and out. Relax, find the dog.
He scanned the light up and down the blacktop. Nothing. He whistled two quick notes, then repeated it a few times. No response.
It had definitely been a dog, not a coyote or a wolf; a white muzzle and chest, with color around its eyes and ears, and a silvery looking coat—not a breed he recognized. It had been real, right?
“Here, boy. Here, girl. Here, pooch.” He shrugged, nothing else he could do about the dog tonight, and retraced his steps back down to the truck to look for damage. He played the light underneath, examined the axles and wheels, and checked the truck’s body. The new scratches didn’t matter, they'd blend in well with the old. A few thumps on the camper shell showed no movement, still secure. He patted the truck’s front fender. “You’re a tough old girl.”
Music continued to blast in the cab. His MP3 had shuffled to BTO: 'Takin’ Care of Business’.
Marty kicked at the dirt around the tires, they’d dug in a few inches. His four-wheel drive would get him out. Shining the flashlight, he walked a path back to the highway, from the soft soil to the rocky dirt, then onto the gravel that bordered the road. No trees, bushes, or rocks in the way—and no IED’s.
One last check for the dog. He called and whistled a few more times. Maybe if he howled at the stars it would get the dog’s attention. Or some wolves. He shrugged again; maybe he’d come back and search in the daylight. He hiked back down to his truck.
He’d only driven a few more miles before he had to struggle to keep his eyes open. He’d turned off the music so he could think about the dog, but the monotonous hum of the tires on the road lulled him. He saw floating orbs everywhere—blue, green, red.
His head grew heavy and his sight grew dim. He definitely needed to stop for the night or he’d kill himself. Maybe flip a coin. Heads—stop and sleep. Tails—drive and die.
A campground symbol on a highway sign decided for him. Marty followed the directions to an empty spot and pulled in; he’d pay in the morning. Crawling into the back, he kicked off his boots and lay there thinking about the dog, reliving the scene over and over. Had he missed it or did he have another lost life to count?

*****

Willie leaned forward over the steering wheel and turned away from the dark desert highway to grin at him. “E, we’re your family, you know we’ll always have your back.”
The blast disintegrated the driver’s window and the side of Willie’s head. Blood splattered across the cab. Explosions and shock waves rocked the truck. Vehicles burned—fire everywhere. Machine guns on the Bradleys lit up the countryside.
Willie was gone, his face spread across the seat. Baxter and Grouchy’s truck destroyed. Blood and body parts. The supply truck, an LMTV, in flames—Jumbo and X-Man’s. Burning, everything burning. The smell, the noise, the smoke.
He sprinted through the night and sand toward the burning trucks, trying to help. What could he do? What? But it was too late, he was always too late. He went down—they’d shot him in the ass.
His friends’  faces. Smiling. Floating. Melting.
Marty jerked awake, drenched in sweat, shivering. Where the hell was he? Flinging the sleeping bag aside, he sat up. Dawn's gray light filtered through the camper shell windows. His rucksack, stove, and boxes of supplies lined the sides of the truck bed. Outside: cars, tents, campers and a lone small building spread across a flat, mostly cleared area. Right, he’d stopped at a campground outside of Spokane.
Marty pushed the nightmare down, thinking of… nothing. Plans for today? None. Life and responsibility lurked outside his awareness, probing and prodding—waiting. But, again, no plans today.
His fingers found the cluster of dog tags under his shirt. He silently recited his personal rosary—Willie, Baxter, Grouchy, Jumbo, X-man. He left his own name out, not sure he belonged. Their lives had ended way too soon. And for what? He tucked the tags back under his shirt.
The throbbing in his hip led his fingers to explore the familiar scar. Not the only one on his body, but the only one that mattered; a shallow divot that twisted across his ass to his hipbone. The pain registered about level six this morning. He stretched as best he could, but that brought a stabbing increase, jumping the pain up to about an eight, almost as bad as it had ever been.
The campground stirred around him. Tents unzipped, doors slammed and banged, stoves and fires started, and the clamor of small children pierced through the camper shell. His shoulders tightened. People noise.
Nightmares, pain, and noise—not a good way to start a day. Marty’s arms itched, another reminder of Afghanistan and Iraq. He checked them for bumps or bites from sand fly parasites. Nothing visible.
He pulled his rucksack over and dug a small plastic box out of the deepest corner. Setting it in his lap he traced the label with his finger. Beretta. He flipped the clasps and opened the lid. A 40-caliber pistol lay snug in the foam next to an empty magazine and a full box of ammo. The metal felt warm and cold as he ran his fingers along the barrel and down the grip. The scent of gun oil brought back flashes of old, unwanted, treasured memories.
It hurt to remember the good times, the ritual of sitting around cleaning rifles, bonding, and BS’ing. They’d talked about home and what they would do when they got back. It hadn’t turned out that way.
The gun slid out of the foam and felt natural, familiar, in his hand. Safety on, he inserted the empty magazine. Harmless. The magazine ejected when he pushed the release button. Only a single bullet would be needed. He considered it. He fingered the tips of the shells in the ammo box.
One bullet from the box, into the magazine, click the magazine into the pistol, chamber the round, and flick the safety off. Take a long one-way walk into the woods and find a beautiful spot. Sit down and have a long peaceful sleep. No one would cry for him.
He lifted a shell from the box, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, then snicked it into the magazine. One bullet.
Two pre-teen girls chased through the campground, their mother yelling at them from a big RV. The sounds battered at him, dug at him, vibrated his bones.
Safety on, the magazine slid securely home. It was ready.
He might be.
Marty grabbed his string backpack. The gun fit in next to the half-empty bottle of water and an old granola bar. He slipped his feet into his boots and scooted out the back of his truck, his hip only at a ‘don’t forget about me’ pain level four. He looped the bag over his shoulder, and found a site map that showed a trail head on the other side of the campground. He headed that way, toward the peaceful pine trees, keeping his steps even, making sure not to limp.
People noises everywhere, he picked up his pace. A pair of young sisters giggled and squealed over to his right. A dog barked a couple of times, and the girls squealed louder.
A dog.
He glanced over and stopped. A medium sized dog with a white muzzle and an overall silvery coat stood and met his eyes, with the same small blue glow he’d seen last night emanating from its chest. The girls danced around the dog and it went back to playing with them.
Was that the same dog? He had a bone to pick with the owner then. He hiked down and then up a gully to get there. The two little girls sat on a log, making designs with leaves, no dog in sight.
They stopped their play and watched as he approached; one nervous, the other smiling and friendly. “Hi,” she chirped.
“Hi girls, where’s that dog you were playing with?”
Both girls looked around, then shrugged in unison. “She ran away,” the friendly girl said.
“Was she your dog?”
The girls shook their heads no.
A deep voice came from behind Marty, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
Marty flinched, stepped away, and reached for the non-existent weapon at his hip. He turned as a man walked past and stopped between him and the little girls.
The man glared at him. “These are my girls. What do you want?” He looked like an ex-athlete gone soft; big, but with a gut that overhung his belt.
Marty’s insides churned. “They were playing with a dog, is it yours? Do you let it run free?” He could take this guy; he squared his balance.
“No, we don’t have a dog.” The man turned to his girls. “Come on, let’s go get breakfast.” He shepherded them back toward their motor home.
Marty took a step after them. He wouldn't be blown off like that.
The friendly little girl twisted back to face him. She smiled and waved. “I hope you find your dog, mister.”
He froze, then managed a small wave. What the hell? He’d almost started a fight with this guy over a random dog? And in front of his two little girls. The guy was only protecting his family. Jesus, he’d better get moving, get out of here.
Back at his truck, he unloaded the pistol, put all the parts in the box, and stuffed it back into his rucksack. He could do one more day.
He’d continue west and then head south – as good a plan as any. As long as he stayed away from any V.A. hospitals and their smiling pill doctors telling him to swallow the yellow one for happiness. Trying to suppress his soul with just one more drug.
He grabbed his kit and went to clean up.
A hot breakfast would get him going. He blackened bacon and scrambled eggs in the grease—all cooked in an iron skillet over his camp stove. Nothing fancy or special. But he did include a peach; he liked peaches.
Before eating, he paused, not giving thanks, but thinking of lost friends and family.
Family. The little girls and their dad. Maybe he should try to figure out who his dad was and find him. One photograph, showing his mom and what must have been his dad, a picnic table in a park, a split tree, and a truck fender. Not many clues to go on, but what else did he have to do?
He shrugged and ate.  Cleaned up, packed up, and hit the road. Keep moving, always moving.