Flashback

  FLASHBACK

  By Peter Grist

  Flashback by Peter Grist

  Copyright 2019 Peter Grist, All Rights Reserved

  Portions of this book may be reproduced with permission from the author.

  Please contact: petergrist59@gmail.com

  Cover design by Patrick Ryder

  Set in Minion Pro 11/13

  Print and digital layout by Joss Korvus

  www.josskorvus.com

  Although the Thule Society is real this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Grace

  Jeepers creepers, she was fast…….so fast! This was the fastest she had ever been. She just absolutely loved her new bicycle. The coloured tassels sprouting from the handgrips stood horizontal from the speed, so did her hair. Her long, lithe ebony legs pushed the black rubber pedals round and around. This was faster than the school bus even. Wow, this was the best birthday present ever! Grace Benjamin pedalled her cherry red Schwinn Hollywood along the sidewalk for block after block, getting closer to town. It was early Saturday morning so traffic was almost none existent. For an 11 year old, she looked more like 16. She was tall, like her Dad, tallest girl in her year, and her body had started to transform from a gangly girl into a young woman’s. She had noticed how the older boys in her school looked at her; even some of the white men folk had started looking at her differently. There was a hungry look in their eyes, she didn’t understand why, but she had noticed. But right now she didn’t care, all she wanted was to go faster and faster. She was coming up to the first big intersection in town, but she had a green light so she put her head down further over the handlebars and pedalled even faster leaving the sidewalk to cross the road, a huge grin on her face.

  The old Dodge pick-up truck rumbled on, weaving occasionally in its lane as the young driver fought to keep the vague steering in once place, constantly jigging the big old steering wheel left and right. He was running late and the boss was going to give him a hard time again about his time keeping if he couldn’t sneak in the back door. His head hurt just a little from last night but he and the guys had had a good time. Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to drink so much bourbon when he had to be in work early the next morning but after a couple of mugs of coffee he would be fine, just fine.

  The radio was on low but he was losing the signal for the country station he preferred. He glanced down at the radio he had installed, taken from a wrecked 55 Buick a few months back. His right hand reached out to the big chrome knob and started to tune the station back in, Patsy Cline’s beautiful voice became clear again. He didn’t see anything; he just felt the slight impact and heard the scraping sound of metal against metal. Instinctively he hit the brakes but it seemed to take forever for the old truck to come to a halt. He looked out the back window and saw her laying on the ground, a negro girl in a red dress about a hundred yards back. The stupid bitch must have cycled right out in front of him. He glanced up at the traffic lights. He felt physically sick when he saw his lights were red. Well, the bitch should still have looked before she went. His right hand went up to the gear shifter on the steering column and threw the lever into reverse; the old manual transmission whined as he quickly backed the truck up to the girl. He climbed out and strode up to her. She was conscious but dazed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked her over. He could see she was in pain, her left leg was pretty cut up, but she was trying not to cry, she was toughing it out. He took a quick look around, see if anyone had seen the incident. It was way too early for the good folk of this town to be up yet. Doors stayed closed, no curtains twitched, the roads were deserted. He smiled to himself then down at her, ‘Here, let me get you in the truck, I’ll take you home so we can get you fixed up okay?’ She winced at the pain as he bent down and helped her to her feet, but she let herself be led to the cab, the driver putting an arm tightly around her waist to take her weight. She felt firm underneath the thin cotton dress. She limped heavily on her left leg but she still didn’t cry, just a couple of sniffs from her nose. When she was inside he went back and picked up the bicycle with its buckled front wheel and bent handlebars and threw it over the tailgate into the bed. He looked around the intersection; still, no one had arrived or come out of any buildings to see what had happened. He jumped back in the cab. ‘Okay, young miss, let’s get you home, where do you live?’ The transmission crunched as he shoved the gear selector into 1st and drove off.

  Prologue

  Tay Ninh Province, Vietnam October 1971

  The young soldier lifts his head slightly and the gentle sound of crickets and the louder buzz of Cicadas is drowned by the distinctive rattle of an AK47, instantly quelling his curiosity, he ducks quickly back down. Soft ‘fut-fut’ to his right as the bullets rip shreds of green from the leaves above then get swallowed up by the boggy ground. He doesn’t flinch, not any more.

  The high-pitched scream of the jet engine of an A4F4 Phantom was getting closer, coming in at right angles from his position of cover; it was fast and low. Unlike the unseen adversaries secreted around the hooches in the village, he knows what is about to happen. He squirms lower into the mud, nose touching the dampness and closes his eyes; he can smell the moss and the earth. The WHOOSH of rockets, dangerously close, a moments silence, and then the roar of a thousand angry lions. The heat of the napalm caresses the gap between his helmet and the sweat-soaked collar of his combat jacket, the hairs on his unprotected neck quivering with the heat. The jet roars passed and disappears away to another target, bamboo trees swaying violently in its wake. He raises his head – no gunfire this time, just a deathly silence broken by the occasional crackle of burning wood. Seconds later the sound of the country returns, the Cicadas are incessant. He stands fully upright, there are no shots fired at him so with a brief upward wave of his hand the others around follow his lead. As one, they move purposefully forward.

  As his platoon walks from the lush greenery of the jungle into the chard and blackened clearing, he can see that most of the village has been raised to the ground but four Pampoo houses on the far side remain standing, one smoking a little and the other three look untouched. They are plain rectangular buildings with a roof of tightly thatched leaves and windows made from a patchwork of reed and bamboo. A few small pots stand forlornly outside. They slowly walk towards them, constantly scanning left and right with the barrels of their assault rifles, stepping over a few dead VC bodies, kicking any weapons out of reach. The wicker flap that acts as a door on one of the huts moves on the dwelling on the far left. He squeezes a long burst of automatic fire through the little building, fire spitting from the barrel of the M16. As two comrades cover his approach, the young soldier runs towards the hut, tears down the wicker door and steps inside, crouching low, finger at first pressure on the trigger.

  It takes just a few seconds for the soldier’s eyes to adjust to the dimness inside, the bullet holes in the bamboo and mud walls cause thin shards of sunlight to criss-cross the single room abode, piercing the gloom and creating small pools of light on the dusty floor and walls, specks of dust twirl lazily within the beams of sunshine. No furniture, just some rugs, scattered in a rush, and a large overturned cooking pot in the centre.

  She is lying a short distance from the doorway, her back to him, curled in an almost foetal position. He steps slowly sideways, his rifle never leaving the still figure. After three steps he can see along the length of her body, she looks young, a child. Another two steps to the side and he can see her front. Long, straight, dark hair covers her fa
ce, the loose brown smock on her torso has patches of darkness as the blood oozes from several wounds, the liquid running down to be soaked up in the dusty earth of the floor. She is holding something to her chest, a grenade? Warily, he moves closer, his eyes already now fully accustomed to the half-light; he sees that she is very young, seven, maybe eight years old. He kneels down beside her, laying his rifle beside him. The slightest of moans leave her lips. Gently, he brushes back her hair, and stares down at the most beautiful face he has ever seen; young, sweet, and angelic. Her dark brown eyes flutter open, no malice there, just fear, pain and confusion. She tries to speak but only manages a cough, tiny specks of red spray from her lips. Uncaring what might be clutched in her hands, he gently scoops up her shoulders, supporting her neck and head with his right arm. She coughs harder this time as she tries to speak again. He is mesmerized by the thin trail of blood now trickling from the corner of her mouth. He touches it with a finger and causes an ugly smear across her chin, he wipes it away on his battledress sleeve. Her lips slowly move so he leans in closer as she struggles to whisper, “Me oi, me oi, cuu con voi!” He has been in this country long enough to know what the girl has said, her anguished calls for her mummy a desperate plea. The little girl’s body convulses as she is racked with another coughing fit, the soldier holds her tighter, unaware that he has started to rock her to and fro.

  “Ssssh – ssssh”. He holds her closure to his chest, continually rocking. A last violent gurgling cough, then silence. Her tiny body goes limp and the girl’s hand-made wooden doll falls from her lifeless hands, the once bright intelligent eyes become vacant. He knows she is gone, but still he rocks her.

  From the door, one of the other soldiers pokes his head in “C’mon man, let’s go!....Lieutenant?....Hey Ed!...”

  One

  Summer 2010. Ohio, USA

  Ed jerked himself out of his daydream to see his car wandering across the broken yellow-painted strips of the center-line of the road, an almost subconscious movement of his hands to the right and he was back on his side of the road. Those memories of so many years past hadn’t troubled his sleep for a few years and he thought he had conquered the knack of avoiding the thoughts during his waking hours, but she had been a constant companion these last few weeks and had crept up on him once again during the day, taking him by surprise. Ed Saunders tried to put thoughts of his Army days out of his mind and turned his attention back to the shimmering heat haze that emanated from the empty blacktop ahead of him. The road seemed to go on like an endless river of molasses, tirelessly flowing towards an unseen and distant ocean. He was nearing the end of his trip, and except for the recurring nightmare, he felt tired but fairly content. He knew that with the sales he would make in the town of Ludlow up ahead, he would finally clinch the title that had eluded him these last 15 years, ‘Ohio’s Salesman of the Year’ awarded by the computer manufacturing company he had slaved for all these years. It wasn’t just the prize of a brand new Buick or even the fat bonus that had spurred him on, although that was great of course. Nope, it was finally beating Jonesy, Bob “you’ll never beat me you loser” Jones, the arrogant S.O.B.

  If everything that Eilenne in the office had said yesterday over the phone was true, this time Jones was truly beat, unless of course he happened upon a major earthquake, the epicentre of which, occurring in the township up ahead. The deals were all but signed and the computers were ready to freight, he couldn’t lose and he felt good, well as good as it could be in the circumstances. Would he have decided to take early retirement at the end of this year if he hadn’t beaten Jones? He doubted it; their rivalry had turned into a bitter feud, stepping out of the bounds of work and into each other’s private lives. He had lost Jeanette to Jones, oh, some six years ago now, so it was just as well they hadn’t had any kids; her medical problem, not his, but, even so, there was a hole there; a feeling of something lost. Who said you don’t miss what you never had? Crap! He‘d lost his wife and his best friend. He didn’t blame Jeanette at all actually, quite the opposite in fact. He had given himself tirelessly to his work hunting down sales that needed longer trips. And he had to admit on some of those longer trips he had sought some company on occasions. It was a hollow comfort though; a waitress from a diner, a female client or two. He wasn’t proud of it, and he never mentioned them to Jeanette, but when he got home his guilt manifested itself by him being short tempered with her. She had given him the most precious time, the early years when they both had their youth and vitality, moving around the country every few years to a new office with Jeanette following and setting up a wonderful home, and that’s how he had repaid her sacrifice. Ironically now he was single those irregular nocturnal interludes happened less and less frequently as he aged. He looked into the shaving mirror some mornings and saw his own father frowning back at him. His short brown hair peppered with grey, the laughter lines a little deeper and the frequent TV dinners and beer had started to transform his once athletic body. Young women may not find him as attractive as they once used to but he still got the occasional admiring looks, and he could still sell with the best of them, and this year he had proved it! He had come out fighting and won, but even now, after six years he still thought of her most days, not with jealousy or hate, just with a fondness for the good times and regret for lost times.

  Ed knocked the windscreen wiper stalk. WHOOSH, WHOOSH. The windscreen wipers moved just once lazily across the windscreen and settled back into place but they made little impact on the dust-encrusted windshield. Just looking at the horizon through the shimmering heat haze hovering above the blacktop made Ed’s throat feel like part of the parched terrain passing by, the late afternoon sun beat down relentlessly, thank heaven for air-conditioning. The miles and miles of wheat crops surrounding him looked to his untrained eye as if they were struggling and desperate for water. He sipped the last of a warm Mountain Dew soda then tossed the can onto the passenger seat, the few remaining drops of soda escaping and soaking into the grey cloth upholstery. Tuned into the local radio station, Ed started to hum along to an old Britney Spears song; he looked ahead into the blue-tinted world seen through his Ray-Ban Aviators, seeking out signs of the town across the rolling landscape. He thought he could just make out a couple of the larger chimneys and grain elevators on the outskirts of the small farming town of Ludlow, in the north-west of Ohio. Over to his right, he could make out the silhouette of a small mountain range. Geography wasn’t one of his strengths but he thought it would be the Allegheny Plateau, a low mountain range that ran all the way from New York down through western Pennsylvania, parts of West Virginia and down into Ohio. Steering with his knees Ed rummaged through the debris of old burger wrappers, empty coke cups and gum wrappers, searching for something. He wrapped his sun-weathered hand around a road map of the state and tugged, spilling more junk onto the floor. Not for the first time he pondered on the bonuses of getting himself one of those GPS things. Considering he sold technology, he freely admitted to being a bit of a luddite and fought against getting the latest gadgets from Silicon Valley. He glanced briefly at the map to make sure he had taken the correct exit off of Route 71 then threw it over his shoulder onto the back seat. The cars built-in compass told him he was still heading generally northeast towards Cleveland which was the right direction at least, and he was definitely in Marion County. His fingers drummed the wheel in time to Miss Spear’s toxicity. Relief at seeing the sign for Ludlow town limits turned to mild frustration as static charged from the radio, he pressed the SEEK button to find a stronger signal but static was the only station now available. Ed’s five-year-old Mercury Sable rumbled passed the town limits sign while he fiddled with the tuner, trying to be rid of the noise of swarming insects emanating from the radio.

  The brilliant white light and piercing pain in his head arrived with no warning. He let go of the steering wheel and radio, and held his head on either side, pressing hard as if to stop his brain from exploding. He realised just in time that h
e still had his foot on the gas pedal as the car was about to leave the road. The ageing salesman hit the brakes and grabbed at the wheel, steering the car over to the right, bumping heavily onto the dusty side of the highway. As the Mercury came to rest in a patch of wild grass it was as much as he could do to switch off the ignition before collapsing against the soft padding of the steering wheel. All Ed could hear now was his laboured breathing and the pulsating beating in his head. With thoughts of aneurisms, haemorrhaging and death, he closed his eyes and pushed his hands hard against his head again. The burning and bright light behind his eyes increased, he cried out, and then sank into welcome blissful unconsciousness, ceasing the torture in his skull.

  “Be-Bop a Lula.”

  Ed came to with a moan. He was hunched over, cradling the steering wheel and leaning heavily against the door. How long had he been out for, he wondered? He slowly sat upright and tentatively touched his forehead. The pain had gone completely. He blinked and looked out of the windshield. The sun seemed a lot lower in the sky, almost as if it was just coming up, not setting, but nothing else had changed; well maybe the crops looked a little fresher but the dusty two-lane blacktop leading ahead looked the same, and he could just make out the large grain towers on the outskirts of the town on the horizon, but something wasn’t quite right. The strains of the old Gene Vincent tune finally seeped into his consciousness. He looked over at the radio fitted down in the center of the dash and saw the bluey-green illumination of an old chrome-covered selecto-matic radio.

  “What the hell?” he blurted. Stunned, he looked around the rest of the cockpit of the car. His battered old Mercury had gone and he now found himself sitting behind the large white steering wheel of a chrome-encrusted 1950’s cruiser.