Tales From A Walking Dead Man
Philisophical question: how many lives does one have?
For me I don't remember the first time. Then again considerin' I was born dead already I've no memory what it was like to die the first time, and that'd make sense.
Now it wasn't a normal declaired death or anythin'. My grandmother and great grandmother - both exsperienced midwives bless their souls - had delevered almost 40 live babies between them. Let's not even mention how many animals they'd helped into this world. So yeah they knew all the tricks to bring a babe back from the brink, and in one or two cases from what looked like still born. *upwards nod* No - I was a weird case. I resisted all treatments that they knew.
Gran (my paternal grandmother) used to whisper quietly when she thought I couldn't hear her that I was some form of the walkin' dead. "Dead body, who knows what he has for a soul."
Or she'd call me "Changeling". Which in most cultures that believe in them are summarily killed so that the other baby would come back.
Yeah instills alot of confidence.
Ok well I'm here obviously so that means I got the breath of life in me somehow. That's neither here nor there, it's not important how that happened to the thoughts I've got in my mind at the moment.
Second time - well that time wasn't so bad I guess. I drowned - no heartbeat and no breathing for 8 minutes. Ok that's not good, but it's not the worst. Irreprable brain damage doesn't start happenin' 'til about 10 minutes I think. That one happened durin' a surfin' accident for the record.
Third time - Afganistan. Not so bad either, went much like the drownin' one. Heart stopped for a few minutes, a few electric shocks to the chest and voila - Vee back in business.
Fourth time was a doozy. Hell it actually was more than once durin' that time. Counts more than once because they lost me and I came back, then got lost, then came back a few times. Also Afganistan. Now I'm gonna edit and omit some things for various reasons. I'll just give you the pertinant information.
Can't tell you where I was or what I was doin'. But what happened was this - as a good feild comander in that position you make sure that all your men are out before you yourself leave. At least that's how I was taught by Dad who's got more field exspeirence in one finger than a good many 'soldiers' out there today.
Yeah so I was the last one, was holdin' them off for a bit - well more like buyin' time for my guys to get a headstart. My usual tactics. Nothin' heroic or anythin' - not like runnin' in and blowin' shit up or shootin' shit up. Nope just good tactics. Heros die young. Heros make horrible soldiers by the by.
Yeah so I got shot up - and bad.
That gun powder and flint smell mixed with dust and dirt and rock along with my blood and sweat - never will forget that. And I wouldn't want to. It's too integral to who I am, to my nature for me to forget that.
Time's fuzzy of then though.
Milo - my second in command, and one of my closest friends (hell you live with someone day in day out for most of your adult life and see if you're not close! I dare you) came back for me. See when retreatin' not only do I stay back, but I send my third in command to lead the men out, and the second to guard the middle of the line as the guys leave. I hold off until we're all out.
Nah - see Milo made sure they were all on their way and then dipped out to find me. Loyalty, friendship, love. Determination. It sent him back for me even though he was most likely sure that if I was takin' that long that I hadta be dead or wish I was dead. He came back and found me about half a kilometer in the opposit direction of the route our guys were makin' tracks in. Collarbone shot and shattered. Ribs busted up from bullets ricochetin' offa'em. Right thigh a mangled bloody mess. Those were the biggest and most obvious injuries. I'd taken about 7 bullets they think - most of them either passed through or left fragments. Two are still in me.
He thought I was dead except I was still eatin' dirt and squirmin'. Probably looked like a partially squished snake on the road that is still tryin' to inch it's way to safety. I distinctly remember hearin' the crunch of his boot near my ear. I remember tryin' so fuckin' desperately to roll over and pain rippin' through my body so goddamn bad I can't describe it, but I was still hangin' onto life and wasn't gonna let some fuckin' person try and kill me or torture me. Was gonna try and take that guy down.
Thing was I don't remember after tryin' to roll over and bein' unsuccessful.
Well next thing I can hear is my body bein' dragged accross the terrain. Scrape, scratch, crunch and a weak groan. The raspin' sound of my breath. Taste of blood in my mouth. Flashes of that come to me.
After that I remember even more pain in my chest. Milo was givin' me CPR. Musta cracked another one of my ribs. Wound up puncturin' my lung eventually.
Nights get cold in the desert. Sometimes it dips below freezin'. And there ain't much to use for a fire.
"Blood's got everythin' y'need." Dirty wrist pressed to my cracked and bleedin' lips.
He didn't have any water to give me. Had to use it all to try and clean my wounds some. Milo cut his wrist and gave me blood. Yeah gross you may say. But the Huns used to drink horses blood when they had no food. Other societies do that kinda thing too. I wouldn't do it if I were you though unless it was an emergency.
Another time I was sorta aware I remember Milo mutterin' about not loosin' another one. Another one what you may ask? Or you may assume another soldier. Nah - he meant son. Milo's older than me. I'm gonna be 25 on the 15th of this month. I won't go into detail but he lost a baby - toddler to be exact - alittle bit before he met me. Was a boy.
But so I sorta took that place in his heart. And in alot of ways he's more of a father to me than Dad is. But that's not the issue on the table today.
Took us about a week for us to get to our base. Mainly cuz Milo himself was wounded, and then there was me. A veritable corpse.
The accounts vary as to people's reactions to seein' Milo draggin' me. Kev's was the most.. heartwrenchin'ly detailed.
I thought you were dead. I thought Milo was almost dead. You were hanging limp on the ground, head lolled to the side. Milo was dragging you by one arm. Like a broken doll. Uniform slashed to shreds, drenched in dried and crusted blood, bits of pebbles crushed into your skin. You looked like hell. And then some. I thought I lost you, man. I remember screaming when I saw you. And almost collapsing. But Milo collapsed first. Alyx and Dan and Chris, and others - we were running to you two. And Milo was making weak gestures for us to look at you first, to treat you first. There was no way you should've survived all that. Not out there - not without high grade medical treatment.
That may not seem too "heartwrenchingly detailed," but the look on his face and the sound of his voice if you ask Kev about it. That is what makes it so bad. They lost me a total of 10 times on the table. Spent about a total of an hour if you add up the minutes, dead over the course of a week.
Then they got me to a 'real' hospital.
"He'll be a vegitable for life if he survives a day more."
"If he manages to actually come out of it - and that chance is nil - he'll never be able to move on his own."
"He may be out of the comma but he'll never walk again."
My recovery was nothing short of miraculous say the doctors.
I can walk.
I can run.
I can play sports.
I can do all the shit I used to.....
But with pain.
I didn't let the pain stop me when I taught myself to blink my eyes on my own.
I didn't let the pain stop me when I lifted my hand for the first time.
Oh no - I've never let it stop me.
Gran was right though - I am just a walkin' dead man. A zombie fuled by a terrible energy. My will.
So - how many lives does a dead man have? I'll tell you so far that I've had quite a few. Everyday is a gift. Everyday is a bonus.
I wasn't even supposed to have a minute. Yet I've had well over 24 years.
No I'm not immortal. And I don't think of myself as it either. Invincible? Possibly. Stubborn? Fuck yes. Driven? Always.
You'd think in my line of work I'd be familiar enoug with death to not take my ability to recover for granted. But I do. "Recover or die."
My life wouldn't be worth much if I couldn't do the things I want. Or at least some of them. I'm not wondering about my mortality or anything. Because I'm well aware of my status as a man and the frailties inherent. But I don't think I'll ever let the fear of my own death stop me from doing something if I deem it worthwhile. I guess I make such a 'good' soldier because I've no fear of death. I've faced it, eventually it'll come for me and I won't make it through it. But y'know what? Since I am just a walkin' dead man - I've got nothin' to loose and everythin' to gain. I started out with nothin' and now I got alot.
I'm just not affraid to loose it.
You can't take it with you.
You can tell me I'm fulla shit. But you weren't there so you know nothing. Nothing at all. But if you read this and do take somethin' away with you: value what you got and enjoy it.