Chapter 1: Woke

Donegal Wallace woke up shaking. His hands had noticed the invasion before his consciousness did. He felt pressure on his limbs pinning them down, cords reaching into him. He desperately tried to break free.

A fucking SNAKE?! His first words spoken aloud. He tried to break free, but the pressure holding him felt familiar – strange but safe, and restrained.

Don relaxed.

He knew the tube in his dick was a catheter. He knew the “snake” was probably keeping his lung inflated – it reminded him of something, but he couldn’t remember what. He tried to sit up, but gentle pressure on his shoulder held him down. The energy felt safe enough, and he relaxed again.

His eyes remained closed. He noticed familiar noises, feelings, smells – his fucking roses. The antiseptic hit first, drowning the roses out, then came the harsh beeps and rough cotton. He had metal in his leg, a lot. These were the milliseconds he would never remember – the hissing energy of the distinctive buzzing of fluorescent lights.

It felt like the entire universe dropping a giant cosmic dump on him. It hit his eyes first, then liver, kidneys. He absorbed the whole of that energy, the final end rushing out through his asshole and his pinky toes.

Deserved and necessary tears came immediately. He was alive.

He thought about something he’d once said: Some will truly understand the hideousness and beauty of life as a whole – if they survive death. Most won’t. His pain was beautiful, but the smells took him first – leather and cigars, bathed in Royal Oude and expensive scotch.

“Thank fucking Christ!” he said as he chuckled, drawing a huge gasp back in. A few rows of tears ran down his face as the buffoons blocking the TV made faces, tickled him, generally fucked with him in every way possible. A stupid but beautiful macho-ritual-mocking ceremony – all just to say “We love you, you made it” without having to make it a declaration. They would save that declaration for later, over steaks.

Olaf’s hands were like two beefy catcher’s mitts, but they were precise like a surgeon’s. He tousled Don’s pinky toe, trying to wake him up. Don was already awake and Olaf knew it, and Don knew that he knew it. He knew Grant was there – that hand was unmistakable – but this was a different reassuring, calm feeling.

Grant’s hand squeezed his wrist gently but firmly, as if to say “Hang on, Cap – Uncle Olie’s about to lose it – incoming.” Grant locked eyes with Olaf. They were both worried that Don hadn’t “come to” yet. Olaf grew frustrated and snapped as he reached for Don’s big toe, squashing it like a bug.

Grant whisper-screamed: “Hey!”

“It is YOU who has the hurt side! Besides, I don’t care anymore – MAYBE WE CALL YOU BABY BOY FROM NOW ON, HERR DONEGAL!” And he walked away.

But that’s all it took.

“You’re okay, old man – you made it. We all did. Olie will be back.”

Don knew it.

Don KNEW Olaf would be back, and it was Grant’s tender soul that made Don wait to open his eyes – he wanted to see BOTH those idiots who’d stuck by him during his life’s greatest challenge.

Grant had stayed on his wrist. “I love you,” he said, his eyes still closed, but it was loud and clear as a tear streamed down. He opened his hand for Grant’s.

Grant’s eyes widened as he saw Don’s hand move and heard his voice. Eyes puffy, he began to cry too. “I love you too, Old Man.”

Just as he said it, Olaf returned. He’d heard Don’s voice as he walked in, knowing Don was back. The tiny cup of hospital coffee looked like a shot glass in Olaf’s hand – he stirred it with a toothpick.

Don opened his eyes.

“And who is there to love poor Olaf?!”

This was the real beginning of the waterworks – like it or not, wanted to or not, it didn’t fucking matter.

Don chuckled, recognizing blurry faces come into focus. Olaf’s massive frame blocked the TV except for a little corner. Grant kissed his hand – the tears and snot felt ethereal.

Grant was the youngest and newest addition to the pack. He wasn’t officially military, hadn’t ever served. He was something in its own category.

Baby Boy grew up on the South Side of Chicago in the early 90s. His dad had a massive stroke and died when Grant was 10. His mom went downhill fast. Depression, they lost their house…pills…alcohol, crack….they ended up in drug dens, on the street. Baby Boy survived it all.

He had survived drive-bys, held his older friend Miguel as he bled out when Grant was 14. His friend Miguel… Grant still carried his switchblade.

The universe knew that Grant was the hardest of them all.

He was a sweet kid. Don had caught him breaking into his house – almost killed him, wanted to. But Don’s memory hit him hard.

Don thought like the Terminator – not because he knew or cared about the movie, but it’s just how he processed. He saw Grant that night and cocked his head slightly, reading him up and down like he’d noticed the bones of one of his own kind. They killed two bottles of scotch that night and shit all over each other with stories of survival and fraternal mocking.

Don couldn’t believe he’d survived the bloodbath in the highlands, the grenade blast, walking with a fractured femur to the chopper. And then it all just stopped.

Nothing.

Olaf turned around and sat down as he finished the tiny coffee. Grant and Don looked at each other – no emotion, just a hint of a smile in their eyes. Grant looked down, then at Olaf’s big head and let out a laughing grunt as Olaf complained in his thick accent to the news reporter.

Don gazed out the window, grabbing Grant’s hand tightly as he looked outside, watching a chubby little bird. He imagined its song as Grant looked at their hands. Even with Olaf’s curses about the weather, they sat in perfect silence.

Some time had passed – maybe an hour, maybe two. Don had dozed off and woken up several times, not a word spoken. Grant finally let go – he had to take a leak. Olaf turned as he got up to let Grant pass. “Remember to lift the lid, street tough!”

Don waited to hear the door close. “How’s the kid doing?”

“Better than you, old friend. What’s wrong…hm?! Was ist das? SPEAK!!”

Don hadn’t officially stopped or started to cry – the word didn’t mean anything. His face was just either wet or wetter.

“That kid saved my life, Olaf – AND yours, and we saved his. We’ve been through hell and have SEEN the devil and we’ve spit in his face. But as the kid held McDougal in the guillotine I taught him – the switchblade in McDougal’s belly – as the old bastard screamed, the Gaelic cursing, the joy in Baby Boy’s face – my concussion. I tried standing on this fucking leg and kept slipping in blood… I… I…”

Don’s face contorted.

“Enough for now, Donny. That’s enough for now. Sehr gut.”

“I don’t know where I went or where one goes – you’ve been there a few times, but you bounced back with a blink. While I was gone, the kid had told me that he would re watch Indiana Jones… I don’t know… the scene just kept replaying – over and over when I stopped him from reaching for ‘the grail.’ Do you remember? I shouted at him – nothing – then my hand is what stopped him, my eyes as I gently called him Grant…”

“Ja, I remember – his eyes were black, it was hideous. But you got him back for us, Donny. You brought him back. McDougal HAD to die – making it quick was merciful and the only way.”

“I had barely started to pull his hand up when it was HIM who pulled out the blade and we plunged it into McDougal’s heart – ending the fuck.”

…

“I’m scared, Olaf.”

“I didn’t want that for him. I didn’t want it for me or you or any of us.”

“Ja, but we have never wanted it either, mein friend. You remember when you lost Lee, I lost my Theresa a few years later?”

“Great, Ollie, let’s bring THAT trauma up too – fuck it, wanna talk about how I heard my mom being burned to death too? Just some punk rich kid – too weak to move the beam that fell on me. Let’s go deeper – I insist!”

“No, no – let me explain.” He grabbed the top of Don’s foot. “That was when we died. I remember it was about a week after I buried Theresa – you had already agreed to take the job with Francisco, and you invited me along. We stood in the library of zer Goldilocks, unamused as McDougal caved in Bruce’s skull? Do you remember my face then?”

“Yeah, you were fucking steel.”

“I was terrified.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“No – truly. But I wasn’t scared about the Goldilocks. I was scared because as he kept hitting and hitting the dead body – it brought me joy.”

“…Joy?” A stunned look crossed Don’s face.

“I knew that this was my descent, but I couldn’t stop it – I didn’t want to stop it. Knowing that I could give my life and soul to end these monsters was final judgment.”

“…Jesus… fuck…” Don took another hard gasp. A revelation. Then silence.

Grant unlocked the door and whistled as he walked back – a light whistle, the theme song to Indiana Jones. Grant’s face was cleaned up, but his forehead and hair were wet. He’d been crying in the bathroom.

Olaf – Olie was a master of most things and the oldest wolf in the pack. He could have been a surgeon, philosopher – fuck, he WAS all those things.

As he heard the tune he knew so well (he LOVED seeing Indy kick the Nazis’ ass), he wanted to bring the kid back into their shared reality before they went to eat.

“Was ist der name of that song??” Olaf knew he’d been crying and KNEW he was okay, but he didn’t want him to feel alone. So they joked and laughed after he broke the ice.

“That’s enough for now. Thanks, guys. Now come shake the Old Man’s hand and get the fuck out of here. Go eat, go sleep, go shower, you stink.” But they didn’t. Grant knew that they could sit by him forever – Don didn’t want them to. Before they left, Don made them promise they wouldn’t be back, made them swear an oath.

“Okay, let’s go, Master Grant. Sergeant Wallace? You know what to do from here. If you get lost, call a German.” Olaf smiled, his split teeth, his blond, dry pompadour seared into Don’s brain. Then Grant came to say goodbye as Olaf walked out, hand in his pocket searching for a stick of gum.

“You gonna be okay, Old Man?” Their bond was super glue tight – no, forged iron strong. “Watch that fuck – he may be the big guy, who’s the big guy – but big guys can hurt too. You guys take care of each other, now go…”

He began to weep as Grant started to pull away. Don’s hand gripped harder and Grant looked back. The same eyes he saw the night Grant broke in – his emerald green eyes glistening with tears. He looked like a puppy who didn’t want to leave, but knew he had to for both – all three, actually – to find life in the coming battle to heal.

As Grant and Olie left, they assessed the situation.

“Did he seem okay to you, Olaf?” Grant asked as Olaf put the stick of gum into his mouth, offering one to Grant, who took it.

“Jawohl, Baby Boy – he’s going to be okay. This is normal.”

They walked down the hall.

“Let’s go get a steak.” Olie said.

“Are YOU going to be okay?” Grant asked with a bit of worry.

“Ja! Uncle Olaf is ALWAYS okay. See?” He flexed his arms, taking up most of the hallway.

They went to eat and Don slept.

MJL
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