NOVEL NEXT Chapter 1: Vietnam?
I was old.
I had gotten no more than a hundred yards away from the cabin, and every bone in my body was already protesting. The cold morning air did not help, creeping through my joints and adding to the pain. For a moment, I thought of going back. Many had told me that hunting alone at 75 years old was not the best idea.
The thought did not last long in my head, and I chuckled to myself. I had become weak, not only in body but in will. I knew someone well into his 80s who was still dropping deer. The joint aches could be ignored… I had endured more in Korea and Vietnam.
I held my old rifle closer to my chest as the cold made me shiver. My Pre 65 Winchester rifle was the most prized gun in my collection. I had inherited it from my father, who told me he got it the same year I was born. And as soon as I was old enough to hike the Appalachian woods, it had been my meat getter and my constant friend.
And what a good looking friend it was. Nothing was more handsome than a vintage bolt action rifle.
I was sad again, and I was to be blamed for it. Thinking about the good old days always plunged me into melancholy.
The needed distraction came from a crackle.
Whether it was from a twig breaking or the crackle of a dried leaf being stepped on, I could not tell. But that meant movement, and movement meant potential prey.
The last time I had ever brought home a deer was five years ago. What a messy shot it was, having hit the animal in the gut. The poor thing had to scamper away with some of its entrails out. It took me more than an hour to track it down.
My most desired wish before I died was to be visited again by my children and grandchildren after what had been more than a decade. Squarely hitting a buck, hosting a barbecue for my friends with the meat, and crafting knife handles from its antlers was a close runner up. But as the years swiftly went by, ignoring this old man, I started to believe I would get neither of those wishes.
The sound came from my four o'clock. There was movement behind a patch of rhododendron thicket. Whatever it was, it was not a buck. I would have seen the antlers poking out. I would be fine with a doe or even just a rabbit, and I might call it a day.
Very slowly, the best my arthritic legs could do, I moved behind the cover of the trees and bushes, trying to get a better angle and a glimpse of what I was dealing with.
I dropped my aim when I saw what looked like clothing through the gaps of the thicket. My eyes were not as sharp as before, so I pressed them shut and looked again. I was not mistaken. The orange beanie broke away from the greenness of the covering leaves.
A shot rang in the air just as my fingers were about to enter my mouth for a whistle. The wind was pushed out of me. I looked at my chest and saw a small hole had been torn through my orange vest. Something warm and wet began to form near my left breast as I dropped to my knees.
A young man emerged from the thicket. He stared at my kneeling, wounded form with horror. For a moment, I thought he would run. But he dropped his rifle and rushed to my side.
"What have I done?" The young man's words stumbled out of his mouth as he pressed his hand on my wound. "We need to get you out of here!"
"Don't bother," I replied, surprised at myself for not being angry. Perhaps because death would be taking away something that had little value. "Help me lie down…"
The young man eagerly did what I asked and gently laid me down from my knees to my back. I saw the clear blue sky, fringed by the leaves of the trees. It was pretty, like it always was, and pretty enough to be the final view of a dying man.
"I messed up, didn't I, mister? I'm too young to go to jail," the young man started to sob.
I let out a chuckle, and it intensified the pain for a few moments. "You'll be alright, young man… no one will be looking for me."
It hurt to say that, and not just physically. The few friends I still had were about my age, and we only met twice or thrice a year.
I shifted my gaze to the face of the young hunter kneeling beside me. He did not look like a thug to me. Just a careless greenhorn.
"How old are you?" I asked.
"I am 19… sir." What I said seemed to have brought him some assurance, as he began to calm down.
The young hunter would be the same age as my grandson. I last saw his face eleven winters ago when he was but a toddler. After that, my son, who was never close to me, decided to move to Florida with his live in partner. They never visited me again.
"Can you stay with me, son?" I asked as death breathed down my neck. "I will be dead soon… and you can carry my corpse somewhere more hidden."
The young man nodded. I took one last look at the beautiful clouds and then closed my eyes.
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The world of unconsciousness was similar to the world of dreams. You never know exactly when you enter and when you exit.
But I remembered that the gentle caress of the wind was the first thing I felt, and it felt like the touch of a woman's hand. Then I heard the fluttering of the curtain, the tweeting of the birds, and the rustling of the leaves outside.
I slowly opened my eyes. The initial blurriness cleared away, revealing the first colors from black and gray. I was on a bed in a room I had never been in before.
Everything was wood… varnished wood. The room had a vintage feel—wooden panels, a polished hardwood floor, candlesticks, a chandelier… it looked like a room from more than a hundred years ago.
Increasingly confused, I sat up. As I scanned the room for clues, I caught sight of my arms. I was Caucasian, 100% white, so it did not make sense that I suddenly had an olive skin tone.
A sudden headache sent my fingers to my temples. My skin crawled as I remembered that I was supposed to be dead, having been shot in that forest. Then, almost at the same time, another set of memories surfaced… memories that were never mine.
I pulled the blankets off me and stumbled out of bed. I was so confused that I wanted to vomit. I walked toward the open window and thirstily breathed in the fresh, cool air.
As I saw the houses and the coconut trees, three questions reigned in my mind: Why was I not dead? Where was I? And why did the place look like Vietnam?