Hope's Ante

By Floyd Yamyamin

Can tragedy ever lead to triumph? Can doubts ever propel convictions? Can transgressions deliver one into redemption? Can gut wrenching agony spark epiphany? Can someone ever love another so much that they would be willing to trade places with them even as they are about to die? Thom Vines used his decades of spiritual searching and then the horrible pain of losing a child to propel the story of the novel Hope's Ante.

"I've laughed, cried, questioned, believed, sat on the edge of my chair... in short, gone through the gamut of emotions in this roller-coaster ride of a read."

-Debbie Thompson

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468559057

Floyd Yamyamin

La-Toya S. Facey is a charismatic elementary school teacher. She was born in Brooklyn, N.Y and she currently resides in Pembroke Pines, FL with her daughter and her inspiration, Brielle. She graduated from Florida Memorial University with both her Bachelor’s and Master’s Degree in Elementary Education. As a new author, her goal is to leave a lasting and influential impact on every child that reads her books. She is a firm believer that all children should have access to a GREAT book and she is dedicated in achieving that goal.

Book preview

HOPE’S ANTE

THOM VINES

Illustrations by:

Floyd Yamyamin

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2011 Thom Vines. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 3/26/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-5907-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-5906-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-5905-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012903973

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.

And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you."

Friedrich Nietzsche

Dedicated to my mother and father.

Many people contributed to the development of Hope’s Ante. The first draft took five years and was completed in April, 2001. It was an astounding 1,500 pages (it even had cartoons). Wanda Evans took this monstrosity and helped me cut it in half. Ellna Henry helped edit the grammar of that earlier version.

My agent, Carolyn Jenks of the Carolyn Jenks Agency in Cambridge, Massachusetts, provided valuable insight and careful guidance at several key junctures. She told me what I needed to hear, not what I wanted to- that is the true hallmark of compassion.

The final copy was edited by Debbie Thompson, who poured herself into it, and simply made the manuscript better in terms of grammar, style and continuity. JoEllen Henderson then took out the hard breaks and prepared the final version for submission.

But the person I am most indebted to is Becky, my wife of 35 years, who- as she reminds me- faithfully read every page of every rewrite, of which there were so many we have lost count. You are too wordy, was her common refrain.

It was the diligence of my Becky and of the others noted above that helped turn a pile of notes into a novel to serve the Lord.

January 14, 2012

CHAPTER ONE

SOMETHING GREAT

1954

It had been only four hours since his mom and he had left the prison after the execution of his father for treason. Four hours, that’s all. Yet somehow it already seemed like a different lifetime. As if a giant cleaver had swooped down and severed present from past, leaving both parts twitching and shivering in the new reality. Four hours. However, two years ago, when they were all together as a family in freedom for the last time, seemed just like yesterday. But that was before the betrayal. Before their lives all turned to hell. Then a whisper. Who betrayed whom?

Ross McGunter looked up at his mother, her pale face devoid of emotion. A gray slate of a shadow. No pain, no anger, no guilt. Just blank. Nothing. How can that be!? How can she just feel nothing? His eyes dropped to her hands as she quartered the sleeping pill with a steak knife. Three parts for her, one for him. Typical of her view of the world. He looked up at her with a scowl. Is this supposed to help somehow? Make me numb? Were not the events of today enough? Had not the last two years already done that? He frowned, but dutifully stuck his part of the pill in his mouth and chased it with water. It did not go down the first time, and he gagged. A second swig did the job, but it left his face contorted with a grimace from the aftertaste, a medical metaphor for the day.

Ellen McGunter tucked her son in bed without giving him a good night kiss or joining in his bedside prayer. Ross watched her close the door. Must not want anything. From God or me. Ross had long ago learned she only prayed when she needed God to be Santa Claus, and did not give her son a good night kiss unless she wanted something from him. But after all that had happened today, how can she not want to give me a kiss? Is there something the matter with her? Is there something the matter with me? Something I lack that makes her unable to show her only child some minimal affection? After a day like today. It’s as if she blames me for what happened.

Ross slid from his bed to his knees, and prayed for his father’s soul. He knew he should also pray for his mother, but he just couldn’t form that prayer in his mind or heart. Each time he started he would gnash his teeth and stop just after Dear God…

The next morning the headlines of the Washington Post blared the new reality:

George McGunter Executed for Treason. Just under it a photograph of Ellen and eleven year old Ross McGunter leaving the prison. Ross stared at his mother in the photograph and shook his head in anger. She always wanted to be a movie star. Anything to be famous. Be careful what you ask for…

The news article also gave their unlisted phone number. Within the hour, the calls began, spewing filth and threats, blaming the victims for the father’s treasonous acts. Just like two years ago after the initial arrest. Then the threats had gotten so bad that Ellen had to change their phone number, and finally move them to a different section of the city.

Now the phone rang incessantly again. After two days, Ellen announced they were leaving, which they did that very night. They threw some clothes and a few possessions in the back seat of their ’46 Nash and headed west. Three hard days later they pulled into her parents’ home in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The next day, Ellen drove to the courthouse and began the process of changing her name back to her maiden St. Cloud. Fame, it seemed, was just another promise that betrayed. Part of the lie that was life itself. Ross, however, was stuck with his now infamous and notorious moniker.

The people of Albuquerque did not leave them alone either. The front door was smeared in chicken blood by even bigger chickens, scrawling with their pathetic fingers the simple word Red. A rock blasted through the small window of Ross’s bedroom, and the front yard was stabbed with a sign that said, Traitors belong in Moscow.

Welcome to New Mexico. Ross had a hard time praying for them, too, but managed to get out at least a weak prayer asking for God to understand them- and God’s help in getting them to understand the plight of his mother and him. If God answered the prayer, Ross figured the answer had to be a big, fat No. For at school, Ross was Pariah Number One, ostracized immediately and completely for the sins of his father. Ridiculed in the classroom, even by teachers. Teased and taunted on the playground. Bullied in the neighborhood. Ross took it all stoned faced, holding back the tears until he was alone in his room.

Only one classmate befriended him, Glynnis Brody, who hated meanness to her very core. She became so outraged at the cruelty that she stood up in class and told off not only the other students but the teacher, as well. Then she took Ross by hand and moved him into a corner desk at the back next to her. Mature and brave beyond her eleven years, she was a Christian in name, as well as in practice. Besides, the new boy was kind of cute.

Glynnis became Ross’s best friend, his only friend. He clung to her like a lost puppy dog- each day walking to school together, sitting next to each other in class, sitting off by themselves at lunch and recess, then walking home side-by-side. Inseparable. Shielded.

However, the shield was bound to be challenged eventually. One day while walking home they were ambushed by four cowards. Swooping in, surrounding their dual prey, yelling, pushing, shoving, they seemed even madder at her than him. After all, it was she that had given cover to the prey. Ross and Glynnis walked on, enduring the taunts and the pushes until one stepped in front and blocked their way. Turn the other cheek, she told herself, though her emotions at the moment ran directly counter. She swallowed and forced herself to do the right thing. She took hold of Ross by the arm and led him around the boy, who quickly side-stepped and blocked their way once more.

Glynnis fixed her eyes on the boy and said sternly, Let us go.

No way, commie lover, he said through a scoff and a laugh, then jabbed Ross in the chest with both hands, sending him staggering back a step.

Leave us alone, she said louder and took a step to the other side. Again, the boy blocked. Now he was smiling. Glynnis set her jaw and said, Leave us alone or-

Or what!? What are you going to do, commie lover?

Ross had had enough and certainly was not going to let Glynnis take the brunt of the bullying. He stepped forward and said, "Or I’m going to stop you, that’s what."

"Oh, yeah, Ross the Red? Well, I want to see that," giving Ross another shove.

"No more," Ross said, through a growl.

Ross, just ignore the idiot, Glynnis said.

No more what? the boy said and reached to push Ross again, except this time Ross grabbed his hand and flung it away. The boy arched his arm back and stepped at Ross, but Glynnis stepped in front, believing that the boy would not hit a girl. She was wrong. The punch hit her in the stomach. She collapsed to the pavement, her mouth gasping for air like a fish on land. Ross took one look at her and something snapped. All the pent-up rage from the last months and years erupted at once. He lunged at the boy and dug his fingernails into the boy’s eyes, and then pulled his fingers down his face, clawing ten sets of tracks as he did. The boy let out a shriek and a scream and fell back in shock. The other three boys jumped Ross from behind and drove him to the pavement. At first, Ross curled into a ball, and tried to protect himself as best as possible, but quickly realized the futility of such strategy. So he grabbed onto one of the arms that hit him, slid down to the hand, jabbed the boy’s forefinger into his mouth, and clamped down with his molars. The boy let out a shrill scream. Ross refused to let go, biting down harder than ever, grinding as the boy squealed and tried to jerk his hand away. Glynnis stared in shock at what she was seeing.

The others pounded on Ross, but he would not let go, determined to inflict his measure of pain. Downward he pressed on the finger with as much force as he could muster. Crunching it like a vice. Finally, Ross felt the finger snap under the pressure of his teeth. Ross opened his mouth, and the boy fell backwards, clutching his bloody, broken appendage. The other two turned to inspect their friend, and when they did Ross went after them, teeth first. All four boys scattered like leaves in the wind.

Ross watched them flee, then turned to Glynnis, who still lay on the sidewalk, grasping her stomach. Her eyes flashed wide with surprise. He knelt beside her and said through a moan, I’m so sorry, Glynnis. I’m so sorry.

She looked at the cuts and abrasions on his face and hands. …Are you okay? she said through a cough. Are you hurt bad?

He shook his head. She’s the one who’s hurt, but she is worried about me. …I’ll make it, he assured her. I’m sorry they hit you.

She smiled back. Guess you showed them, then giggled. A nervous kind of giggle.

Here, let me take you home. He helped her up, but she doubled over in pain as she tried to walk. Ross picked her up in his arms and carried her. And though tears welled in his eyes, and every step was a reminder of the bruises forming all over his body, he carried her the rest of the way home. He sat her down on the swing in the front porch and cradled her in his arms. They rocked back and forth in silence for several minutes, then Glynnis reached up and kissed him on the cheek. She giggled again, except this one was more of an infectious type, a happier type, a type that bespoke of an abiding innocence.

Ross chuckled in surprise. Such a pleasant sound amidst such pain. How can she find it to giggle at a time like this? A smile slipped across his face. The first smile in so long. Ross rocked on, the tears of pain now mixed with tears of joy.

They swung slowly and silently for several minutes; then Ross punctured it with a hollow, low voice: …Why are people so mean?

She did not open her eyes and answered softly with a hint of resignation, …Cause their hearts are bad, which she literally meant to be the Devil.

Ross thought some more, then said in a voice that a thought had just now come to him. Some day I’m going to do something that’s going to shut them up.

I think you already did, then giggled again.

He smiled. He loved her giggle. Then he forced himself to be serious. …No, you don’t understand, he said with a sudden gravity in his voice. "I mean something great. Something so great that they cannot help but notice, and then they’ll shut up. Then with a determination in his voice: I’ll show them."

She opened her eyes, reared back, and inspected him. They held each other’s gaze, and a slight smile caressed the corner of her mouth. She said with a quiet conviction, …I believe you will, and giggled again. Then she remembered what her Sunday school teacher said about the dangers of pride. Just make sure you’re doing it for the right reasons.

That night Ross prayed for forgiveness, as he always did, except this time he prayed a little harder and longer. The next day they walked home from school in peace. Despite the fact that the boy who was clawed, and the one who was bitten were not at school, word spread of Ross’s aggressive self-defense. Ross saw the apprehensive looks out of the corner of their eyes and noticed that there were no more taunts or teases. They did not say anything nice or good, either- but they had never done that. The change was the abstinence of bad, which to Ross was a net plus. He would gladly take it for now. Fear, he found, was one road to respect, albeit begrudging. And he was resolved that in time he would find and travel the other, more positive paths.

When Ross and Glynnis reached her home, this time in peace not pieces, she went inside. Stay right there. I’ve got something I want to show you, then giggled again. Ross was not allowed in because her parents feared the public reaction of having the son of an executed traitor invited into their home, although she did not tell Ross that. To her parents, there was a definite limit to Christian charity: when the costs outran the benefits.

Glynnis returned with a large piece of paper. Here, she said with a soft smile and a short giggle. I drew it last night. Ross unfurled it, and it was a knight on a horse. You are my knight in shining armor. She stepped to him, and kissed him right next to his mouth, this giggle belying her uncertainty on how her approach would be met.

Ross moved to meet the kiss, and when he did the front door flung open. Glynnis Brody! her mother said through a glare, "you get in here right now."

Glynnis frowned to Ross. See you tomorrow.

But he didn’t. She was gone. Just like that. Glynnis’s father sold insurance, and he could not have his daughter consorting and kissing known communist traitors. When Glynnis refused not to see Ross any more, she was immediately given her exit visa- shipped off to Dallas to live with her aunt. So fast it was mesmerizing.

Then Ross’s mother shipped out, as well. Simply did not come home from work one night. She called her parents and told them to take care of Ross. She had found a man, a truck driver, and was going on the road with him. All he had left now was his aging grandparents. His mom had deserted him, his dad had betrayed him, and his Glynnis had been jerked from him, leaving just his grandma and grandpa.

That night he knelt beside his bed to pray and looked up at the small wooden cross his grandma had placed on the wall. What should I pray for? God’s blessings? He scoffed. That’ll be a short prayer. My mom? Why should I care about her? She doesn’t care about me. Glynnis? He thought for a second. Yes, I will pray for her.

He started his prayer, then stopped in mid-sentence. He looked up at the cross again. Suddenly, it seemed bare and forlorn. Nothing is there. At least, no one that is listening. He rose and slipped into bed. I shall not pray again. I shall leave God. Before He leaves me. Like everyone else has left me.

He looked straight up at the ceiling. Leave me alone. I’m on my own.

CHAPTER TWO

BLOOD DRIVE

Laos, December, 1967

Ross arrived early at Lima Site 85, a meadow amidst the mass of mountainous jungle turned into a make-shift airstrip just miles from the border of North Vietnam.

He was there to rendezvous with the Meo, the native tribesmen. Together they would collect the medical supplies from a Red Cross plane due within the hour, then carry it to their village a few miles away. As a Red Cross worker, Ross had been to Lima 85 several times before. Usually the Meo beat him to the airstrip. But not today.

He climbed the hillside to get a better view of the valley. He found a shade tree in a comparatively level spot halfway up, plopped down against it, and pulled out his book. Every mission he packed something to read. Last mission had been Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground. Before that Voltaire’s Candide, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, Sartre’s Being and Nothingness, Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged (that took several missions), Skinner’s Walden Two, and Freud’s Moses and Monotheism. Existentialism a flower. Personal freedom. Individual responsibility. Nothing on God’s plan. Never ever His love. And always about being alone. Ayn Rand had taught him well: I live for no man, and expect no man to live for me.

This mission he had brought Camus’s The Stranger. However, Camus brought little comfort for the Frenchman had set his searing novel amid the baked sands of the Sahara. So as Ross sat amidst the swelter of Asian jungle, his reading only made him hotter. Sweat dripped from his nose and blotched his book with a grimy perspiration. Maybe I should have brought Call of the Wild.

He took a long drink of water from his canteen, closed his eyes, and took a mind drug. Back to that front porch in Albuquerque. Back to the drawing. To the kiss. He could almost hear her wonderful, infectious giggle. Glynnis, letting her name tumble from his mouth. Then he scoffed. How ridiculous is this!? I haven’t seen her in thirteen years, and she never answered any of my letters after she got shipped away to her aunt in Dallas. Give it up, McGunter. Get a life. He looked at the jungle below him, the humidity rising from the jungle floor like steam from a sizzling pavement after a summer rain. Is that what I have now?

His thoughts shifted to his father, of visiting him in prison every Thursday. He’s been gone for thirteen years, as well. His mom, too. Ross shook his head in disbelief. Sometimes, he still could not believe everything that had happened. Denial died hard.

He jumped his mind to cold waves crashing on a rocky shore in Big Sur, but as if to say no-you-don’t, his subconscious pushed up memories of a tropical rain forest in Central America. After college in California, where he went because life there was more liberal and his family history plagued him less, he did a stint in the Peace Corps in Costa Rica. Then he joined the Red Cross, who shipped him off to Southeast Asia- like several hundred thousand other young people of his generation. He just didn’t get a gun.

All of this was part of his grand plan born on Glynnis’s porch: do something great, and thus, somehow undo the sins of his father- although he did not think of it as sin anymore. Sin assumed a divine judge, and he wanted no part of any such scheme. He was on his own and accepted that stark reality. He may not have God working for him, but at least this way God was not working against him. He would settle for that.

His plan for greatness was never more specific than that. Just anything great. Something that would shut up everybody. And when he thought of this life goal his mind inevitably jumped to Glynnis. The bullies. The fight. The determination. Then the reward: the kiss. That wonderful kiss. I must do good, spying the Red Cross on the side of his sleeve. I must be great. Then I will be free of my past.

He heard a low hum in the distance. He trained his binoculars and saw a single-engine aircraft approaching from the south. He looked at his watch. Right on time. But where are the Meo? Ross gathered his gear and scurried down the mountainside. As the Red Cross plane landed, and rolled to a stop, yet still idling, Ross emerged from the jungle into the meadow.

Where’s the Meo? the pilot asked, yelling over the noise of the engine.

Not sure. They’ve never been late before.

Well, I’ll help you unload the supplies; then I have to get back to base. Sorry.

No problem.

They unloaded two crates of medical supplies, shook hands, and Ross watched the plane take-off and lift into the sky. He looked at his watch again. No Meo. Well, I can’t carry both of these boxes. He decided to at least remove them from the airstrip. As he reached down to pick-up a box, he heard a low hum again. The pilot is returning? He looked up and, indeed, a single-engine aircraft was approaching. He forget something? Ross looked around the airstrip for some object. Nothing that was the pilot’s.

Ross moved the two boxes out of the middle of the clearing. As he did, his eyes caught the sun reflecting off something in the bushes circling the meadow. He focused and saw a man in black pajamas crouching behind a bush, AK-47 machine gun in hand. Further to the right, he spied another, then two more: Pathet Lao, local communists. They had never bothered the Red Cross before- as long as the Red Cross maintained their neutrality, which Ross was under strict orders to do. So why were they here now?

However, the plane did not land. It leveled off and flew over the airstrip. Ross waved as it flew by, then instantly wanted to jerk his arm down. The fuselage bore no red cross on its side. Instead, the raised wings and shield of Air America. CIA. Ross’s head jerked towards the Pathet Lao. An ambush! And he was right in the middle of it. That’s why the Meo had stayed back. Maybe the plane won’t land.

No such luck. The plane circled and slid into a glide path. Ross looked again at the Pathet Lao, hunkered down, ready to spring their trap. Now what? I can’t just sit by and watch Americans get slaughtered. Though technically neutral, he had no intention of watching his countrymen ambushed- even if many of them still thought the name of McGunter was synonymous with the greatest traitor since Benedict Arnold, as his hometown newspaper had once labeled his father.

As the plane descended, Ross began waving his arms back and forth in a wide sweep, hoping the pilot would recognize his signal. If he did, he ignored it. The plane touched down, and rolled to within twenty feet of Ross. Ross turned and looked at the Pathet Lao, still crouching. They must be waiting for those inside to exit. Ross scurried to the pilot’s side of the plane, noticing the pilot was a Negro. The Pathet Lao were on the opposite side of the field, so the plane shielded Ross from their direct view. Just as the pilot turned off the engine and popped open the door, the Pathet Lao opened fire, spraying the cockpit, engine, and fuselage with automatic weapon’s fire. Ross ducked behind a tire just as it exploded in his face. Then the engine exploded. Ross used the smoke as a screen and raced across the clearing. Bullets sprayed the area around him, chasing him as he attempted to stay within the cloud of smoke. As he reached the edge of the jungle, he dove into the vegetation. Bullets ripped through the bushes just inches from him.

The gunfire continued for another minute, but it seemed like ten times that. When the guns finally fell silent, Ross peeked at the aircraft- at least, what was left of it. Riddled from engine to tail. Every window had been shot-out. Ross was sure that anyone with the misfortune to be inside was dead, or would be soon. Too late to save them, he assured himself. Ross ran into the jungle and up the near hillside.

From atop that hill, Ross watched a solitary soldier walk tentatively into the clearing and approach the smoking plane from the rear. Carefully, gun at ready, the soldier peeked inside, then waved at the others to approach. Four Pathet Lao soldiers ran across the airstrip and immediately began searching the jungle for Ross.

Ross turned and ran farther into the jungle, stopping atop the next hill. The Pathet Lao scoured the area lining the airstrip, yet did not pick up Ross’s tracks. Half an hour later, Ross saw them walking back across the airstrip, past the still smoking engine, and disappearing into the jungle on the other side of the airstrip. Ross reminded himself not to use his binoculars in case the reflection gave away his position.

Shortly before dusk, with the sun now below the mountains to the west, Ross trained his binoculars on the trail where the Pathet Lao had moved. There was no sign of them. He spied the crates of medical supplies, trying to ascertain if there was enough left undamaged worth returning for. Looked pretty shot up. Almost as an afterthought, he scanned the airstrip and the plane. He jerked in surprise when he saw something moving inside the plane. Was that possible? Ross looked again. Sure enough. Someone was moving in the pilot’s seat. How can that be? The Pathet Lao were usually not so careless.

Now what? Ross trained his binoculars on the Air America plane once more. This time he did not see any movement, but he knew earlier he had. I did not imagine it. I can’t let this go.

He looked at the dying sun. Wait ‘til dark.

One hour after dusk he crept into the clearing and out onto the grassy airstrip toward the decimated airplane. Other than the gauze and bandages, little of the medical supplies remained.

He peeked inside the plane, but it was too dark to see anything, so he opened the pilot’s door and peered inside. In the shadows there was something hanging. What is that!? He let his eyes adjust and discerned the object. It was an eyeball dangling from the left eye socket of the pilot, like some prank toy for a Halloween haunted house. As Ross gasped, the pilot groaned, then mumbled something incoherent.

I’m Red Cross, Ross said lowly. Is the passenger alive?

…Don’t know, the pilot mumbled.

Ross walked to the other side of the plane, while listening for any movement or sound in the jungle. He opened the door and nudged the passenger in the shoulder. He did not move, so Ross felt his pulse. Faint, but pumping. Ross blew out a slow breath as the implications settled on him. Two gravely wounded men. The Meo village was a few miles away.

Can I save both, or should I concentrate my efforts on just one? But which one? I could concentrate on one, and he could be the one that dies…

He decided he would not choose. Try to save both even if that meant both could die. Ross looked across at the pilot. Can you walk?

The man nodded and groaned a yes.

Okay, I’m going to help you out, carry the passenger over my shoulder, and you lean against me as we walk. Think you can do that?

The pilot nodded, but did not open his mouth or one good eye. Ross helped the pilot out and leaned him against the side of the plane. He stood for a few seconds, then crumpled like a folded chair. Ross walked back to the passenger’s side and pulled him out, and onto his left shoulder. The man flopped over Ross’s back like a worn-out rug.

Ross carried the passenger across the airstrip, into the edge of the jungle, and as gently as possible, slipped him off his shoulder and laid him on the ground. Then he went back for the pilot and walked him to the same spot. The pilot’s left eye bounced with each step, like the iron ball on one of those chain weapons from the Middle Ages. Once more, the pilot sat down within seconds.

Ross walked to the crates of medical supplies, pulled out gauze, bandages and tape. The bottles of anesthetic had been ruptured by bullets. He returned to the two men and as gently as possible, pushed the eye ball back into the socket. The pilot moaned and grimaced, but endured the pain. Ross applied gauze, then a bandage, and wrapped tape all the way around the pilot’s head, securing the tape under the chin.

Then he tended the other wounds of both men as well as possible. Having worked in a war zone for nearly a year, he had seen what bullets from automatic weapons could do to flesh and bone. He knew both men needed a surgeon, and if they did not get one, they each would probably die within the day. He was still amazed the passenger was alive. He had lost a lot of blood. His right side had three gaping bullet holes, one of which had exited his left side.

He helped the pilot up, leaned him against a tree, then knelt, picked up the passenger, and slung him over his left shoulder. When he turned to the pilot, the pilot slid down the trunk. This is impossible, Ross mumbled.

…Leave me, the pilot forced out.

Ross did not answer him. He carried the passenger a hundred feet into the jungle. Sat him down. Went back for the pilot. Carried him to where the passenger was, then another hundred feet, and sat him down. Then back for the passenger and carried him a hundred feet passed the pilot.

For two hours, Ross leap-frogged through the jungle, a crescent moon giving a slither of light. By then, Ross’s shoulders and back throbbed with pain. He rested for ten minutes, then carried the men for another hour. His pace had slowed significantly, but on he trudged. As he rested once more, he checked each man. Still alive.

I wish at least one of them would die… But which one? The passenger? The pilot? The Negro? Ross shook his head in dismay and disgust at himself. What’s the matter with you? You think you got it tough. How’d you like to be one of these guys?

Through the night, Ross bore the burden. And as he lifted, carried and walked, Ross found his mind slipping away from the pain of the present to the pleasure of the past. To Glynnis. To the kiss. Fantasy that served as function.

As the pain got worse, his mind jumped to the bullies and carrying Glynnis to her home. An anger surged through his body as he remembered each taunt, each slug, every kick. Oh, if he could get hold of them again. He’d do a whole lot more than just bite.

Fueled by this rage, he plodded on with a bitter determination. Then his mind jumped to his high school physics teacher, Mr. Rodale, one of the few teachers who had treated him kindly. Mr. Rodale, during a break of a private tutorial, had posed a challenge to him: find me a single example of a human acting truly unselfishly.

Ross took up the gauntlet. Gifts? Rodale had chuckled. The gift giver is thought well of by the receiver. And probably gets a gift in return. Expressing affection? Rodale had scoffed. That’s easy. Does not receiving affection back make one feel good? Do not humans need love almost as much as they need food and water? Ross had to nod his head at that one. Afterwards, Mr. Rodale had given Ross a copy of The Fountainhead, and the piercing mind of Ayn Rand entered the battered world of Ross McGunter.

But what about now? Ross thought, as he set the pilot down once more, and prepared to carry the passenger. What about carrying these two? It’s not even my job. In fact, it is a violation of my sworn duties. And if I get caught, the consequences will, indeed, be severe. What would Mr. Rodale say if he was here now to witness this struggle? How would he say I am still being selfish? Maybe Rodale would argue this is the great thing that I want to do to rehabilitate my public image. And a little voice added: he may be right. If so, does that demean my endeavor? Tarnish and spoil it?

Ayn Rand would argue just opposite. In fact, she would say that my endeavor purifies it. Even makes it moral. I’m living for my own self-interest. So am I doing this because it will help me publicly? Certainly, my conscious mind at the time did not whisper that to me. Instead, I knew it was my duty. As a person. As an American.

Am I doing it as a matter of self-respect? Yes. But isn’t that selfish? Don’t I gain something from that? Besides, self-respect only goes so far. …Or is it because down deep I know I am so desperately lonely, and I need others? Anyone. Even from strangers who will probably die, and never know what I have tried to do for them.

On and on through that night the questions came. Questions without answers. By dawn, there were not even questions any more. Just waves of pain fogging his mind.

As he finally approached the Meo village, he realized the memories of love and hate, the dreams of glory, and the thoughts of philosophy had got him through the night. But instead of being relieved, he was angry. Where had the Meo been?

He checked the men again, both still barely alive. Then he stomped into the village. He quickly learned the Meo had, indeed, had a single man at the airstrip, and he was getting ready to enter the clearing at the airstrip, but saw the Pathet Lao. He did not dare yell because he feared the Pathet Lao would shoot Ross. Then Air America showed up. Once the fire fight broke out, he vacated the area. The Meo