Jayson: Part III

Trigger warning for depression and suicidal ideas.

Jayson didn't move for almost an hour. The horror of what he'd seen -- what he'd done, gnawed at him, playing repeatedly in his mind like a song on a loop. The screams, snarls, and then cries for the soldiers' mothers had been permanently etched into his brain, piling onto the stuff he'd done in Afghanistan to survive, things he'd tried to move past and pretend didn't still give him nightmares.

He sobbed, screamed, rocked, and punched the back of the seats, unable to reign in the emotions from the past few weeks. Everything from his lack of medication and the state of the world culminated to this moment, leaving him vulnerable and bare, stripped of his humanity on the most primal level. He was alone, and now he was killing to survive. With all he'd done, he didn't know if it was worth it. He didn't know if mankind deserved to endure. All they'd done was trash the planet, drain its resources, and create a virus that had wiped out the United States, possibly the world.

The rifle he'd used earlier dug into his thigh, and he looked at it. The safety was turned off, still on fire, and Jayson recalled his time in Afghanistan, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. He blinked, trying to quell the panic as the memories flooded him without warning.

His second deployment was almost finished. Just two more months and he'd be out of the hot-as-hell Afghanistan desert. In less than sixty days, he'd be home with Pamela, planning their wedding. Two months. He could do this.

He sat behind the wheel on yet another convey, trying to get from Point A to Point B. He kept a close watch on the road as he drove, half listening to the soldiers in the vehicle around him. Besides him, only the gunner up top remained silent, vigilantly searching for threats best seen from a three-hundred and sixty-degree angle. Specialist Hart sat behind him, going over the mission details with Sergeant Holloway.

He understood their desire to chat. More specifically, he sympathized with Specialist Hart's need to talk. This was her first deployment. She hated being overseas and knowing there was a possibility she might not make it home. Not that it stopped her from enlisting in the Army. She was proud to serve, just like they all were. Even soldiers who hated being in the military couldn't help loving their country. It was part of what defined them as warriors.

Specialist Hart already knew the mission. They'd been briefed before they left and she'd been the first to memorize it. She was interesting like that. She could learn anything at the drop of a hat. Going over the mission now made it easier to cope with the tension, but didn't lessen his as he kept a constant eye on the road, always on the lookout for signs of the enemy nearby. He tuned them out, just like he did with anyone unless the talk had to do specifically with the success or safety of the mission.

He dug the heel of his hand in his eyes. Heat shimmered on the road and sand, sparkling in the sunlight. In that one split second after rubbing his eyes, he saw it. A piece of debris in the middle of the road, perfectly camouflaged and barely big enough to make out in the glinting mirage.

He cursed and tried to swerve out of its path, but it was too late. He had no time to register what happened as the entire vehicle rattled and blinding pain pierced his side. Holy shit, he was going to die. Popping gunshots echoed across his mind, but he couldn't concentrate. He forced himself to open his eyes and wished he hadn't. Everything moved in slow motion as bullets flew back and forth between his convoy and the enemy in the distance. The heat seemed to be getting worse; stifling and suffocating. He couldn't breathe.

"Sergeant Recklaw, we you need to get out!"

He heard someone shouting. He was sure of it. Move, he commanded himself. Shaking, he unbuckled his harness and reached for the door, but the pain in his side doubled and he almost blacked out. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of someone dragging him. He tried to focus, but he was losing too much blood.

A scream cut through the background. Or maybe that scream was the whistling from an IED. The sounds were too close to tell the difference. He tried to turn to the noise, but stumbled as he was yanked away from the vehicle. He was going to pass out soon. He tried to fight it, but his head spun too violently. All he knew was that the heat suddenly wasn't so intense and the noise was fading around him.

Jayson snapped back to reality with a gasp. He'd tried so hard over the years to forget that day. Specialist Hart didn't make it out of the vehicle, trapped by the jammed door, when the tank exploded. It was his fault she'd been killed, all because he wasn't vigilant enough. He'd closed his eyes for one second -- that fraction of a moment was all it took to change everything.

He'd come out with heavy scarring on the left half of his body, but Hart didn't have enough remains left to send back to her family. He'd visited them shortly after arriving home, had visited her grave marker in Arlington Cemetery, pleading for forgiveness -- begging for peace that wouldn't come.

He remembered when Eric pulled the firing pin from his rifle, saving Jayson from himself. But Eric wasn't here. Monica, Taylor, and Jeannie -- all of them were left behind at that bunker, and he'd be with them now if he hadn't been so erratic. There was no one to stop him from pulling the trigger this time. No one to care or miss him if he vanished from the face of the Earth.

Moisture from sweat and tears coated his cheeks, and his chest ached until he thought his heart might burst. The guilt and loneliness threatened to crush him. All it would take to ease his pain was one bullet. One squeeze of the trigger and his torment would end.

He picked up the rifle and laid it over his lap, touching the warm, hard metal. Trailing the grooves of the barrel casing until he reached the handle, he slowly lifted the weapon until the muzzle touched the flesh just beneath his chin. His finger touched the trigger, preparing to squeeze.

He closed his eyes and drew a slow breath, preparing to squeeze the firing mechanism.

"I didn't pull the firing pin out of your weapon so you could act like a dumbass after I died."

Jayson's eyes snapped open and the rifle fell from his hands. Next to him, sitting cross-legged, was Eric, but that was impossible. He died. Jeannie had killed him. Even if she hadn't, she'd told him that Eric had been infected. He shouldn't be here.

"You're not real," he whispered, fumbling for the M-4 in his lap. "You're a hallucination brought on by stress."

Eric lifted a sandy blond eyebrow, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. "So? Hallucination or not, you know killing yourself is wrong."

"What do you know?" he spat. "You're gone! You didn't survive to see the world go to Hell in a handbasket. Surviving is not living."

"So find something to live for," Eric huffed, rolling his eyes. "The world was shitty even before the apocalypse. People killing other people is nothing new. We've been doing that since the beginning of our existence."

Jayson already knew this. Wars had always been part of human history, dating to neanderthal times. People would always find a reason to fight and make the world a harsh, unforgiving place. Sometimes, he wondered if he was already in Hell, living here as punishment for crimes in another life he didn't remember.

The migraine from this morning throbbed more than ever, forcing him to close his eyes and lean his head back, cradling it in both hands. "Go away," he muttered, swallowing back bile threatening to come out. A tear slipped from one eye, rolling into his beard. Eric was a manifestation of his deepest insecurities; he'd experienced this after Hart was killed. She'd come to him at first in his dreams, and then during random periods of the night when his stress inhibited his sleep. A visit to the doctor resulted in pills and no more phantom visits.

The problem was that he didn't have a doctor to visit, and his meds had run out weeks ago. He was well and truly on his own.

"Jayson, pull yourself together, get off your ass and find a reason to live. You're better than this. Your mental illness does not control or define you."

Mental illness. A term that carried stigma in and out of the military for as long as he could remember. Something that had factored into him being medically discharged from the Army with a Purple Heart and honors. Except he didn't feel like he'd done anything honorable except survive when Hart hadn't. She should have been pulled from the vehicle, not him. If he didn't pull the trigger, that meant he had to live with his crippling pain. He had to carry it with him each day, like the world heavy upon his shoulders, persisting in crushing him until he could no longer function.

"I don't know what to do," he murmered in a thick voice.

"You'll find your way," Eric intoned. "Have some faith that you're still here for a reason. Your cause will come to you when you least expect it to."

What cause? He had nothing and no one, and it was his fault for pushing his friends away.

"Why'd you have to die?" he croaked, opening his eyes and meeting Eric's emerald gaze. Jayson knew he wasn't real, but here in the vehicle next to him, his best friend might as well have been present. Everything from his sandy hair to his dimpled cheeks and measured expression was the same. If he reached out, he imagined he could touch warm skin, the flesh of someone who was alive.

"We all die," he uttered matter-of-factly. "It's what we do in life that matters. You have so much potential. Sure, there are zombies everywhere, but that doesn't mean this is the end. People have managed to survive and band together. Seek them out. Build new relationships. Most of all, find joy in whatever you do, even if it's something as simple as being grateful for waking up in the morning."

"You make it sound so easy," Jayson sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Not easy, but worth it in the end. You can do this. And when you feel alone, remember that you are loved. Know that the people you care about are always in your heart."

"I never knew you to be a sap," he said with a soft laugh.

"Who says I'm the sap? You said yourself, I'm not real. This is all on you."

Jayson chuckled. He was talking to himself, in a truck at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere. He felt better though, as if a fraction of the pressure leaving his shoulders was enough to breathe a new sense of purpose into him.

After a moment, he said, "I miss you. Every day, I wish you were still here so I didn't have to go through this on my own."

"I'll always be with you. Just hang in there."

Then, Eric disappeared, as if he'd never been there. Aside from Jayson, the vehicle was empty, leaving him bereft. With trembling hands, he shoved the rifle out of his lap and searched through the packs the soldiers left behind in the vehicle. In one of the outer pockets was a bottle of Excedrin, and in another compartment, a canteen, half-filled with water. Unscrewing the cap and popping open the pill container, he downed the medicine. Then he lay down, using a bag as a pillow and curled into a ball, waiting for the migraine to subside. He couldn't do anything while his head throbbed, and he had at least a couple of hours before anyone suspected the soldiers didn't survive. He'd rest for an hour before moving on again.

When he opened his eyes again, the moon had replaced the sun, downing out every source of light except for the stars and waning rock overhead. The vehicle was completely dark, and for a moment, Jayson didn't know where he was.

His head had gone from pounding to mildly pulsing, and his stomach cramped from not eating. He searched through his bag, feeling for the chocolate bars somewhere between his gear. When he found it, he tore the wrapper with his teeth and took a bite, sighing in relief.

Silence hung in the air, unlike his previous wakeup when the coyote had attacked the soldiers. The stench of death wafted into the vehicle, inducing Jayson's gag reflex, and he placed the candy bar down as he shimmied between the front seats and settled in front of the steering wheel.

Fumbling for the ignition, something hard scraped his hand, and to his surprise, he realized the soldiers had left the key in. That indicated they'd left the vehicle with the intention to come back, most likely getting out to take a piss if they'd left their weapons behind so carelessly.

Thinking of the soldiers again, Jayson wondered if he should burn the corpses before he left. The only problem was that if he did, it meant stepping outside when other animals could be waiting and risking being bitten. But if he didn't, more scavengers were sure to come and spread the disease.

With a loud sigh, he flipped the ignition, and the engine roared to life. Then he switched on the overhead light before reaching for his rucksack. He still had his cigarettes and lighter, and inside one of the other bags was a small, pocket-sized notebook. Tearing out several sheets of paper and grabbing the M-4 he'd discarded earlier, he opened the door and cautiously stepped outside. He turned a slow three-sixty before moving to the front of the gas station where the board covered the window. He pried it loose, bringing it to one of the pumps before wedging it between the card reader and trash bin. Then he rushed to the exposed window and struck the lighter, setting the paper on fire and dropping it onto the dusty, wooden floor. Running back to the pump, he did the same with the plywood, waiting for it to ignite before bounding back to the vehicle. He closed the door, shifting the gear into drive and stomping on the gas.

If he was right, the old tanks would carry residual fumes, even if there was no gasoline in the underground tanks.

He drove for a mile before putting the truck in park and turning in his seat. The fire had grown, catching the roof and illuminating the sky with red and orange flames. He waited until an explosion rocked the abandoned building with a boom, shaking the ground beneath the truck. The inferno belched out a plume of black smoke amidst the flames, and soon, a chain of blasts followed the first. Blazing debris soared through the sky, creating a greusome display of fireworks and destruction as the fire continued.

The detonation would be seen for miles, and Jayson put the shifter back into drive. The last thing he needed was to be caught after all the effort he'd gone through to hide in the building to begin with. He'd put distance between the facility and himself, and perhaps drive east and search for his family. He didn't know what he'd find when he arrived, but a renewed sliver of hope was better than nothing at all.

As he pulled onto the main highway and drove, his radio crackled. "Beta two, come in, over."

Jayson eyed the radio, considering turning it off, but thought better of it. Even if the military was after him, he could learn the status of other survivors and find potential settlements. Besides, this was an opportunity to send a message. Grabbing the microphone, he pressed the talk button. "Your soldiers are dead. Don't come after me. Over and out."

It didn't matter that their deaths weren't his fault. If Benson managed to bring him back, he'd pin the blame on the mentally unstable soldier who couldn't keep his temper in check. No one would think twice to question the validity of the accusations.

He threw the mic down and ignored the staticy response, garbled from the sketchy connection. Then he sped down the highway to his next destination.

Hi there!

I don't like leaving a lot of author notes, but I wanted to take a moment to talk about Jayson. I've known his backstory for years, even started a story with him and Monica at one point that I sadly didn't finish. It was ultimately what led to me writing 'In Loving Memory,' but I kept the files on one of my flash drives, hidden away until now. The memory of Afghanastan is one of those scenes that somehow survived the past decade, and I'm glad to finally share it with you all.

Jayson's past is a huge reason why he acts the way he does. I totally understand everyone's reactions this far, especially when he hit Taylor. Yes, he crossed a line, but I do believe anyone would be jacked up after a deployment. I was in the military for eight years, and though I never deployed (I still don't know how this happened), I saw all the soldiers who did. They're so screwed up mentally and emotionally, and even though a lot of them can do some messed up things outwardly, they're hurting on the inside. They're haunted by memories only they can see, and it doesn't go away. I knew a seargent who was in a hotel in Faluja, right next to the building that had been bombed. I knew another seargeant who was forced to kill, and I know it bothers him. That kind of trauma is something that tears apart the soul, and through Jayson, I am relaying the horror of what many of these people live with on a daily basis.

I did research on hallucinations and what causes them, and intense stress and migraines were two contributing factors, along with mental illness and problems sleeping (don't forget, he has PTSD). The research was interesting, and I wanted to integrate just how low he is right now.

Jayson has his issues, but I think he's a great character because he's so morally gray. Harsh sometimes, but a wounded man who bottles everything up. But deep down, he does care about his friends. He wants to keep them safe, but he just made bad decisions along the way that got him to this point.

I hope this chapter has helped bridge the gap between you and his personality. It was a difficult chapter to write, because his pain is mine for different reasons, but it's cathartic to put words to my pain. I'm a bit blunt myself, and in ways, I really can relate to how he compartmentalizes everything as he goes into survivor mode.

Another thing I want to talk about is depression and mental health. I talked about it somewhat in the first book, but it's a crippling pain that wraps you in chains until you feel like you're suffocating. If you are depressed, don't bottle it in or try to bury it. It always comes out, and death is not the answer. There are resources available, and you deserve to be happy. Never forget, you are loved by someone. <3

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

For more resources and information, see:

https://www.cdc.gov/suicide

www.webmd.com/schizophrenia/auditory-hallucinations

With love,

Kristi