Solitaire

By Leland Duncan

Brian Thompson was trained to be a soldier, but nothing could prepare him for this. His life will soon become the most difficult struggle he has ever had to endure, and time is not on his side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leland Duncan
• Release date: Aug 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301886951

Leland Duncan

I have always enjoyed writing stories and daydreaming. I love suspense thrillers and anything science fiction. I love my career and my family, but always wanted to share a little something with the rest of the world. Writing my novel has given me that opportunity.

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Solitaire

By Leland Duncan

Copyright 2013 Leland Duncan

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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A large explosion on the rooftop of the building caused a ringing in Brian’s ears that did not stop for what seemed an eternity. They were under heavy fire from the insurgents who were bunkered down a block away. A self-propelled grenade had hit the façade of the rooftop where the soldiers were pinned down. As Brian tried to regain composure and assess the damage, he realized two of his men had expired due to the blast. Men were screaming for cover fire, while the radio operator was requesting evacuations of the wounded along with air support. It was total chaos. Hell had been dropped into the lap of his platoon. They had taken post on top of a 6-story apartment building in downtown Baghdad to assist in the protection of a diplomatic convoy due to arrive at any minute. The convoy had been rerouted due to the heavy gunfire, but that did not help their dire situation now.

Brian peered over the 3-foot high wall that surrounded the rooftop to get a better look at where the pressure was coming from. He could see tracer rounds coming from a storefront down the street. Something whacked him in the helmet. As he fell back onto the hot concrete rooftop, the sun faded from his eyesight and the sounds of the assault became muted.

He sat straight up in his bed as if someone had poked him with a needle. Cold sweat raced down his face. Every night he relived his military experiences in dream. The Baghdad rooftop was the moment he dreamed about the most. It had more of an impact on him than the others. It was the reason he was in bed at his small home in Boulder Colorado instead of on tour with his platoon in Afghanistan. He had been shot in the head by an insurgent’s rifle. His helmet had slowed the round to the point of knocking him out. By the time he had regained consciousness, he was back in Kuwait, at a military hospital, hooked to wires and tubes. He was discharged from the army with a pat on the back, a purple heart, and the thanks of a proud nation.

Brian was a man of large stature. Six foot 3 inches and 240 pounds of muscle, He was quiet and gentle most times, but had a mean streak when he consumed alcohol. He did not drink much. He knew better. The army docs had warned him of the dangers of alcohol mixed with his pain meds. He now took the meds more out of habit than necessity, but nonetheless, he steered clear of temptation.

He walked down the hallway of his home, which sat in a cozy cul-de-sac where the neighbors kept to themselves. Colorado was cold this time of year, though the trees had turned such bright and vibrant colors, you could have sworn they were on fire. He stumbled through the dark of night into his bathroom. With a flip of the light switch, he was momentarily blinded by the fluorescent glow above the mirror that reflected a man who resembled a beat up old leathery saddlebag. Years of desert sun and sandblasted skin had left Brian weathered.

He splashed cool water from the sink onto his cheeks, bringing a pink hue back to his reflection. If only I could sleep without any brain activity to keep me awake he thought to himself. He left the light on in the bathroom as he made his way to the living room. The glow from the light lit the hallway just enough that he would not trip over the tattered boots that lay on the floor in his path.

He sat on the sofa he had acquired at a yard sale the previous year, a couple months after he had returned from Iraq. It was not the finest piece of furniture, but it was comfortable and added character to his abode. Nothing was on the TV but infomercials of exercise equipment and food processors. The programming at 3:00 in the morning did nothing more than provide background noise and a ballet of light, which flickered on the walls of the living room. On the wall hung a large picture frame that proudly displayed his military discharge certificate. Every room in the house provided some sort of reminder of his glory days as a grunt in the desert.

After channel surfing through the nonsense on the tube, Brian stood up and walked back down the hallway. At the end of the hallway was a closed door. The light switch next to the doorjamb was a light tan color, while the faceplate was a dark brown. Whoever installed it sure wasn’t an interior designer. He flipped on the switch and proceeded through the door and down the old staircase that led to the basement.

The basement of his house was constructed around the 1920’s. The walls were constructed of mortar and field rocks. The staircase dove down into the damp room along the south wall. Along the west wall stood a rickety old workbench constructed of dingy rough-cut oak. Directly across the room from the staircase stood an old washer and dryer. They were not a matching pair but labored along nonetheless when there were clothes to be washed. Just next to the dryer, was a large steel door, which looked almost alien amongst the rocks and mortar. As Brian walked across the room, he could still hear the television upstairs ranting and raving about the food processor of the future. It could dice and slice and was dishwasher safe. Who the hell would pay 200 bucks for a piece of junk? he asked aloud as he turned the doorknob of the large metallic door.

Behind the door was pitch black. Inside the small room, he felt around in the musky air until he found a string. With a tug of the cord, a light flooded the small room, illuminating its cold walls, floor and the memories that had been stored there. The room had originally been constructed to house large blocks of ice and meat, which had been covered and packed in salt. This had served as a primitive meat locker when it was built. The walls were stone and mortar like the rest of the basement, but the room was a quarter of the size.

He was looking around, searching for what he had come down there for, when he heard a large mind-numbing sound, coordinated with a cataclysmic wind slamming into his back. It flung him into the small room and slammed the steel door shut behind him. He had no time to think. He bounced off the far wall of the little room, head smacking stone. Darkness took hold. Dreams of battles past played repeatedly in his mind.

A gasp. Wheezing. Cold. The smell of burning. All his senses had come back online but his vision. He was in the dark. His last memory was turning on the light in the meat locker, but the light was off now. What had happened? Was he dead? Was he still in the little room? He fumbled around in the dark, pain creeping through his head from the thump it took. He found a large canvas bag. It was his rucksack from his military career. He found the zipper and pulled. Inside, he felt through his past until he found what he was seeking. He pressed the button, and light blinded him. His TAC light was very powerful. It wasn’t one that was issued to him. He had bought this while on leave during his tour of duty. Bright white light poured out of the LEDs. He found the cord that dangled from the light fixture, but realized it was of no use. The bulb had shattered.

He stood up, his legs somewhat shaky. He felt weak. How long had he been unconscious? He reached for the door. The large steel door was hung in the doorjamb to swing out into the basement, not into the room. He turned the doorknob and pushed, but the door only moved a few inches. It felt like the weight of the world was leaning on the other side. He looked around and seen a shovel leaning in the corner. Using the handle, he stuck the shovel through the gap between the doorjamb and the door. Prying with all his strength, the door started to move. Creaking and scraping sounds came from the other side as the door slowly gained ground. Smoke started to wisp into the room. He had moved the door about two feet. It was just enough room for him to squeeze out of. As he shined his light into the basement, he soon realized what was against the door. His house was now in ruin and had filled the basement.

He struggled through the doorway and climbed over the smoldering wood and sheetrock, which had been 10 feet above moments earlier. The image of a tornado went through his mind as he tried to make sense of his now mangled world. It was cold. The smoke was suffocating with the smells of burning plastic and foam. There was nothing left. What had been a two-bedroom house now filled the basement with nothing more than splintered and charred remains of timbers and memories. As he crawled up the damaged staircase, over the rubble, he saw stars in the night sky. He looked to his neighbors’ houses, but nothing stood where they had been. Everything was gone. Whatever was left was on fire or had already burned. As far as he could see, there was complete devastation. Not a single structure stood within his line of sight.

The cold night air was silent except for the crackling of fire that surrounded him. This was no tornado. This was the apocalypse. Nuclear? His heart raced. Had the country been attacked by nuclear weapons? Who would have been responsible? Iran maybe? Brian’s military training took over. He hurried back into the pile of rubble that used to be his home and through the door that he had struggled to open earlier. From his rucksack, he pulled out a wadded-up ball of vinyl. It was his chemical suit. Along with a chemical suit, the rucksack also contained a gas mask, a first aid kit, and several pairs of BDUs. As he struggled to put on his chemical suit, he realized that he was barefoot, and his feet were in severe pain from climbing over the broken and burning debris. He located his boots inside the sack and put them on. No socks, but that didn’t matter. He took his time in gathering essentials from the room. There was a long black case on the shelf. It contained his hunting rifle and handgun. His father had given him the rifle years ago, while he was still in his teens. The handgun was a recent purchase after he had returned to civilian life. He carefully loaded the rounds into the rifle, and then turned his attention to the handgun clips. He had purchased a spare with the gun, and now filled both with rounds. Whatever had happened, he knew that he was on his own.

His truck, a ‘98 Chevy 4x4 had been in the driveway, but the force of the blast had either incinerated it or blew it away, probably a mile from his residence. The streets that had once been busy with daily commuters were ghostly still. The ruined remains of the homes and businesses that had once made up the beautiful city were smoldering and charred from the heat wave that accompanied the blast. It was hard to breath in the gas mask. The vinyl suit clung to his bare skin like duct tape. His rucksack was getting heavy. His feet were on fire from the fresh wounds they had sustained. He had to put the misery out of his mind. To survive meant to carry on, no matter what. He had made it several blocks to where the convenience store he visited frequently once stood. Mangled metal and brick lay strewn about the parking lot, while a raging fire fed upon the charred remains of a fuel pump. The stench of gasoline was present, but thanks to the gas mask, Brian could barely tell. He climbed over pieces of the awning that once protected motorists from the rain as they filled their shiny cars with petroleum products. Most of the goods that the store once held had perished in the blast. As he dug through the rubble, he hoped beyond hope to find a Slim Jim or a bag of chips.

He was so weak. He still hadn’t realized that when the blast knocked him out in the basement room, he had been unconscious for nearly three days. Three days without food and water had wreaked havoc on his body. He lifted some shelving to examine what lay underneath, and to his amazement, his flashlight illuminated a bottle of water. It had been untouched by the inferno. The plastic bottle was pristine. He immediately grabbed it up from its nest of debris and sat it next to his rucksack. He continued to rummage through the filth. After searching the site for more than an hour, he had managed to find five bottles of water, 12 beef jerky sticks, and various snacks. He took shelter from the bitter wind by huddling by what was left of the counter. As he sat there, he debated how long he could go without his mask on without causing himself great harm.

He finally built up the courage to remove his mask, which had protected him from unknown harm. As he took a breath, the air felt good. He proceeded to scarf down a bag of potato chips and one of the jerky sticks and chase it with a bottle of water. He didn’t get to enjoy his meal. He was in a hurry to get his mask back on. As he stood up to start his journey, he saw something partially hidden from view. A digital wall clock had fallen during the blast and was buried under pieces of the brick façade of the building. He dug it out. As he examined it, a realization came over him. He had realized how many days he had been passed out. He had missed three days of his life after the blast ripped his existence apart. Ironically, he didn’t figure this out because when he had gone downstairs, it was still pre-dawn. The sun was just now starting to come up.

Three days. Had someone come to look for survivors and he had been missed? What the hell happened in the first place? He looked to the horizon. West. The mountains stood firm against the dark sky, as the sun came up behind him. He started to walk towards the mountains. As he started walking, his mind raced back to before the blast. He had gone down to the room to retrieve a scrapbook. It was a collection of photos from his childhood, memories of his life and his family before he had become government property. It was good times. The scrapbook had always cheered him up when he felt overwhelmed by the nightmares. It seemed as though the scrapbook saved his life. But why was I spared? he thought. Where is everyone? Brian wondered if he was the sole survivor. It was as if a crazy sci fi movie had taken hold of reality. He stopped along the road heading out of