BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A couple hours later, lush greenery gave way to open expanses and the wide ocean to their right. A few cars and pickups passed them. Shacks and bungalows appeared here and there. They were entering a community. “Next stop: Hilo Side,” said the local kid.

They shifted in their seats. All had surely entered the edges of a town before a battle, and all knew what it meant. It could change a life forever, not to mention who a person was.

“What I don’t get,” grunted the ex-paratrooper. “Why didn’t they issue us weapons?”

Lett had been wondering the same, since they were riding like a patrol after all. He could figure why. They didn’t want anyone jumping ship on this, their first outing—it might be an assignment, but it was still a test. Lett was relieved not to be carrying.

Soon his lungs started constricting, which let him know they were close. And the more they constricted, the more he wanted a weapon. He recalled what he’d told Kanani about his wartime nightmares. He had kept killing just to make it all stop. Then he didn’t want it to stop. And sometimes he thought about doing those things again, and about what it would be like. What weapons he would use. He almost looked forward to it. I’m not broke—I’m retooled, he’d confessed to her. They put a lever inside me. A gear. It can be turned on, activated.

He thought about his various weapons. It had been so long since he’d wanted to. He told himself it was okay, healthy, part of the process. He liked his M1 carbine the best because it was so light strapped on his shoulder, so forgiving yet compliant in his grasp. His fingertips still knew that wood grip and now they tingled with that feeling. He broke the rifle down in his mind. He sighted it. Then he made himself stop. In his head he put the rifle down. And suddenly his head ached a little and he had to stand for a moment in the truck, his hands hanging off the canvas roof supports above like a prisoner in some medieval torture restraint, hovering over the guys. They told him to quit staring and they jabbed him and joked, “If you got to take a shit, bub, why not just hang it off the back?”

***