The Death Agreement

By Kristopher Mallory

Dedicated to memory of Major Jesse Taylor.

We made a pact. He lived up to his end by dying. I tried to live up to my end by following The Death Agreement.

What you will find within these pages is a true recounting of a man's life as seen through my eyes. It's almost an impossible task when some of what you see can't be real and what is real you may refuse to see.

Human beings have a capacity to dread the truth, to distort facts when they don't fit our predefined notions of how the world should work. We forget that reality isn't what we want it to be. We ignore the signs that our universe doesn't care about us. It constantly changes to suit its own needs. Nothing is perfect. This includes the focus of my story. People come and go. Pieces don't fit neatly together. Doubt clouds judgment. Mistakes are made. All hell breaks loose when no one is looking. I guess that's how life is supposed to be.

For me, it doesn't matter anymore. What happened, happened, and I'm still bound by the terms set.

Please consider this dedication a warning sticker. Come in if you dare, leave if you don't. Some might call this experience horror. It is that, no doubt, but at the root I suppose it's a tale of transformation.

Speaking of transforming: Have you ever stood in a dim bathroom and stared at a mirror? For the past 18 months, I've done that every day. What I see in the glass consumes me. My silhouette fades into a thousand different terrifying faces; each sharpens to crystal clarity before morphing into someone else. I don't know who these people are, but I recognize them all. I've learned that what we see isn't a reflection. We are the reflection.

My name is Jon Randon and I'm going to tell you a story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stealth Fiction
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311702852

Kristopher Mallory

Kristopher Mallory lives in Glen Burnie, MD with his wife, two children, and two dogs. Prior to working as an I.T. Specialist, he was enlisted in the Air Force.

Book preview

The Death Agreement

by

Kristopher Mallory

The Death Agreement

Jon Randon Series.

Copyright

www.StealthFiction.com

The Death Agreement

Jon Randon Series

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Kristopher Mallory

Cover Art Copyright © 2014 Kristopher Mallory

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ISBN-13 (EPUB Version): 978-1-31170-285-2

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Edited by Em Petrova

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eBook License Notes:

You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

Other Books by Kristopher Mallory

I Know What They Are

Master Stargazer

These Bad Dreams Combined

Mega Millions

What People Are Saying about Kris's Books

The Death Agreement:

"This is all so confusing and mind blowingly awesome.

" – Jesslikewoah

I Know What They Are:

This is absolutely amazing. Has me a bit paranoid as I get deja vu quite a bit, hopefully not too many good futures have passed me by... – Niamhel

Master Stargazer:

Hands down one of the best short sci fi books I have read – Ricky G.

These Bad Dreams Combined:

No idea WTF is going on here, but I'm fascinated! – Ali

Special Thanks

Amber Whelpley, Em Petrova, J. W. Zulauf, James Fincham, Janiel Escueta, Jonathan Hasara, Terry Colley, Thomas Thompson, NoSleep Readers

Shout out to the Hypnophobia Crew.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Book List

People Say

Special Thanks

SEVERITY

PREAMBLE

RECOUNT HISTORY

LOOK AFTER FAMILY

OBITUARY

ATTEND FUNERAL

SHARE FINAL WORDS

WISHES

CELEBRATE LIFE

VISIT THE DEAD

EX POST FACTO

FAMILY PORTRAIT

REMEMBERED MOST FOR

YOURS TRULY

A Word on Alan Goodtime

Message From Jon Randon

About the Author

What's Next?

More from Kristopher Mallory

More from Stealth Fiction Publishing

SEVERITY

It's just a flesh wound.

~ The Black Knight

PREAMBLE

Dedicated to memory of Major Jesse Taylor.

We made a pact. He lived up to his end by dying. I tried to live up to my end by following The Death Agreement.

What you will find within these pages is a true recounting of a man's life as seen through my eyes. It's almost an impossible task when some of what you see can't be real and what is real you may refuse to see.

Human beings have a capacity to dread the truth, to distort facts when they don't fit our predefined notions of how the world should work. We forget that reality isn't what we want it to be. We ignore the signs that our universe doesn't care about us. It constantly changes to suit its own needs. Nothing is perfect. This includes the focus of my story. People come and go. Pieces don't fit neatly together. Doubt clouds judgment. Mistakes are made. All hell breaks loose when no one is looking. I guess that's how life is supposed to be.

For me, it doesn't matter anymore. What happened, happened, and I'm still bound by the terms set.

Please consider this dedication a warning sticker. Come in if you dare, leave if you don't. Some might call this experience horror. It is that, no doubt, but at the root I suppose it's a tale of transformation.

Speaking of transforming: Have you ever stood in a dim bathroom and stared at a mirror? For the past 18 months, I've done that every day. What I see in the glass consumes me. My silhouette fades into a thousand different terrifying faces; each sharpens to crystal clarity before morphing into someone else. I don't know who these people are, but I recognize them all. I've learned that what we see isn't a reflection. We are the reflection.

My name is Jon Randon and I'm going to tell you a story.

SECTION I - RECOUNT HISTORY

Taylor and I used to joke about dying young.

Looking back, it started as a way for us to show off to our friends in West Point—one of America's most prestigious schools. We wanted to project this fearless image like a lot of young cadets do. We were arrogant and had a smart-ass answer for everything.

If we keep this up, Taylor said, laughing, we're not going to make it past thirty.

Not a chance, I agreed.

Driving a car down the highway at over twice the speed limit? Fun. Jumping off a cliff into shallow water? Hell yeah. Sleeping with another trashy barfly that cruised Highland Falls? High five me, brother.

The Academy professors all called us Cadidiots behind our backs. I'd say that's an accurate term. We knew we were young, dumb, and full of cum.

Even so, we lived by a code: A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those that do. And we took pride in our motto: Duty, Honor, and Country.

General Douglas MacArthur summed it up best: In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country.

I first crossed paths with Jesse Taylor on Reception Day. The Commandant told us which platoon we'd be joining and assigned us a room in the Ike Long Barracks. Between the constant barrage of screaming and running around we had to endure that day, I don't think we had a chance to even say hello to each other, let alone the other new Cadets.

Death jokes started the first week of Cadet Basic Training. Though our backgrounds were extremely different we had the same morbid sense of humor. We quickly became best friends, and it wasn't just because some system of random selection told us we were going to be roommates.

Most days as a Plebe went by in a blur. None of us got more than four hours sleep each night, but people can get used to anything, or so they say. I guess to sum it up, we all had a tough time that first year.

Life drastically improved after we joined Corps Squads. We gained access to a team house. Someone knew a laid-back captain who on occasion would provide us with some booze. Not much at first, just a swallow here and there, almost as a dare to see who'd risk taking a shot.

Fast-forward to a night when we were sophomores: 50.5 miles from West Point, at a bar, attending a birthday party for one of the guys. The Corps Squads team captains were pressuring each other to see which squad could drink the most. I figured the row of tequila shots would kill us. Taylor figured we'd be executed via firing squad when the Tactical Officers found out we were drinking underage. None of us really thought we'd get busted, so we drank, and drank, and drank some more.

From then on that's how things were at West Point. We became juniors, and during the week, all us Cows studied hard and acted the part. Come the weekend we lost control of our ability to act like rational human beings, oftentimes nearly killing ourselves during our extracurricular exploits.

Somehow we made it through the four years of school without dying or being expelled. Only one of the guys in our company ever got punished for an alcohol violation. The poor bastard had to walk for 100 hours, marching back and forth on the weekends, unable to talk to anyone. It took him over six months to work off the time. I still laugh about that.

Taylor and I had both wanted to pilot helicopters, so we signed our names to our career selection sheet which contained sixteen careers that we'd wanted, then waited for Branch Night to find out if we would get Aviation. We'd passed the exams but knew only about ten percent would make it.

On branch night, we were ushered into one of the large briefing halls, where we waited for the order to reach under our seats. When the order came, I reached down and found an envelope. Inside was my branch insignia, but I didn't open mine right away, and instead watched the reactions of everyone around me.

Most guys cheered and shouted. They offered high fives and fist bumps to anyone willing to accept. Not everyone seemed happy though. Some cadets stormed away or cursed. No one dared to ask.

I'd seen enough. I swallowed hard, opened my envelope, and my jaw dropped. Despite all odds, I had been chosen to attend pilot training.

Dude, Taylor said. Congrats.

I can't believe it. I never thought— I paused. In my excitement I'd failed to register Taylor's somber tone, slumped shoulders, and half-hearted smile. Aw man, I'm sorry. What did you get stuck with?

He looked away.

I sighed. That bad?

Yeah. Those bastards. He shook his head. When he looked at me again, a smirk had replaced his frown. They're sending me to pilot training, too. Real bad news, right?

We laughed like a pair of hyenas, then joined the others who had been chosen for the aviation branch, and went out to do keggers. I don't think I'd ever gotten more wasted in my life.

That night, Taylor and I did a blood pinning as well. We took the backs off of our insignia and punched them into each other's chest. As drops of blood dotted our shirts, we joked about dying of a tetanus infection.

Post night came that spring. We had known we were going to Rutger after we finished the Basic Officer Leadership course, but weren't prepared to learn that we would be going separate ways after that. It came as a shock that my best friend would be half a world away.

***

Then came Rucker. It wasn't the hell we had thought it would be, but it wasn't a vacation either. The training instructors were hardasses, and we were still a pair of jokers. Even during the annual combat exercise, they couldn't strip us of our sense of humor. After that day of crawling through the mud with live ammo fired over our heads, we still managed a few wisecracks.

We did have real problems, though. Most everything came at us in the form of tests and memorizing ridiculous amounts of information.

Taylor had nearly flunked out of the preliminaries, and I nearly got kicked out of the program for slacking off in the simulator.

Late one evening, Taylor stopped by my apartment and found me passed out on the couch with