Chapter 12
After packing up my camp in less than a minute, instead of hitting the trail, I took the time to stretch out a bit. Hiking uses certain muscles but not others. Then I spent fifteen minutes doing katas.
My stop yesterday had put a number of people who I’d already met ahead of me on the trail. So, as expected, it was early morning when I came upon Tom, sitting on his rucksack, his prosthetic off, staring at his stump. He had not made it far past the shelter where he’d probably spent the night.
There was a new bandage on it, red from fresh blood. His face was pale, jaw clenched so tight I was worried about his dental work.
“Don’t,” he said when he saw me approach. “Just don’t.”
Maggs trotted over anyway, because she had no respect for human boundaries when she sensed someone was hurting. She sat down right in front of Tom and put her head on his knee—the real one, not the prosthetic side. Smart dog.
Tom’s hand automatically went to her head, scratching behind her ears. “Your dog’s a pain in the ass.”
“She tried to join the Marines, but they said she was too smart.”
“Funny guy,” he said.
I dropped my pack and sat down without asking permission. “You rebandaged?”
He shook his head. “Some woman. Said she’d been a nurse. Had this old dog with her, a yellow lab.”
“Claire?”
He nodded. “Yeah. That was her name.”
That was strange. She’d acted like she didn’t know how to take care of her blister. Had she played me? Was looking for someone to talk to? Or could take care of others but not herself? People are odd.
“Doesn’t look like any bandage is going to work,” I noted.
He was unwrapping it. What he revealed wasn’t pretty. The skin on his stump was angry red, with the beginning of an open sore.
“That looks bad,” I said.
“Yeah. She told me the bandage wouldn’t hold. Told me it was getting infected and to get off the trail and get help.”
More irony; Claire telling someone to get help.
Time to push things. “That’s going to get infected, if it isn’t already.” I opened my ruck and pulled out my first aid kit. “Let me at least clean it.”
“I don’t need—"
“Yeah, you do. Unless you want to explain to some ER doc in two days why you let a perfectly preventable infection turn septic because you were too stubborn to accept basic first aid from a fellow vet. And unless you want to lose the rest of that leg, if not your life.”
He glared at me, but there was exhaustion behind it now. The kind that came from fighting your own body for too long. “You always this pushy?”
“My girlfriend says I’m ‘aggressively helpful’. I think she meant it as a compliment.” I moved closer with the kit. “Let me look.”
Tom hesitated, then nodded. Up close, it was worse than I'd thought. The socket had been rubbing the same spot for days, creating a pressure sore that was now raw and weeping. There was red all around which meant an infection. No red streaks up the thigh so it was somewhat localized.
“Okay, this is no bullshit bad.”
He gave a slight nod. “I know.”
I pulled out the Ziploc bag of antibiotics. “You need to start taking this now. And finish the whole regime. A week.”
He nodded and popped one in his mouth and downed it with a swig of water.
“Those are courtesy of Louis, by the way?”
“’Louis’?”
“The guy hauling that huge ruck,” I clarified.
Tom nodded. “They call him the Mountain. For the size of the backpack. He’s big too.”
“Well, he had these in his mountain.”
“He’s a weird dude,” Tom said.
Then I cleaned it as gently as I could, but he still hissed through his teeth. Maggs pressed closer, and his hand tightened in her fur.
“Your prosthesis isn’t working at all,” I said. “In fact, it’s hurting you.”
“I know. Fucking VA.”
“You need to get to a doctor.”
“I’m not stopping.” His voice was quiet but firm. “I didn’t come out here to quit after a week.”
“Okay.” I finished bandaging the wound as best I could and sat back.
“So what’s the plan? Push through until you literally can’t walk anymore?
Damage the tissue so badly you can’t wear any prosthetic at all for months?
Wear it down to the bone, exposing it? Hope the antibiotics work, even though it might be too late?
Maybe have the infection spread, go septic, and really make it interesting?
Have it give out some place where we’d have to call a chopper in to medevac you? ”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Tom, I’m not trying to tell you what to do—"
“Yeah, you are. Everyone is.” His voice cracked slightly.
“Physical therapist said I should wait another year before attempting this. VA doc said I shouldn’t attempt it at all.
My ex-wife said I was running away from my problems.” He gestured at the mountain.
“So yeah, maybe I am. But this is the first thing I’ve actually wanted to do since I lost my leg.
The first thing that felt like it mattered. And if I stop now . . .”
“You’ll think you failed.”
“I’ll know I failed.” He looked away. “I survived an IED. Survived the surgeries, the rehab, the phantom pain, the whole nightmare. And I thought, if I can survive that, I can do anything. I can walk the AT. I can prove that I’m still . . .” He trailed off.
“Still whole?” I offered quietly.
“Still worth something.”
Maggs whined and pushed her head harder against his leg. Tom’s eyes were bright, but he blinked hard, refusing to let anything fall.
I sat there for a moment, trying to figure out how to say what needed to be said without sounding like every other person who’d told this guy what he couldn’t do. “How many did you lose to the IED?”
His head snapped up and he looked at me. “Three. I was the only one who survived.”
“Survivor’s guilt,” I said.
“Fuck you.”
“I once went through a door we blew open. Shoulder to shoulder with a buddy. He got shot in the face, died instantly. I think about him all the time. Think how easily it could have been me. But I can’t change what happened.”
“So it’s just fate?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I think there’s a superior being, not exactly God, but something, I call it the entity, looking over my life and it likes to fuck with me every so often. But it didn’t that day.”
I could tell this wasn’t getting through to him.
“Can I tell you something?” I asked. "And feel free to tell me to fuck off after but just hear me out.”
Tom shrugged. “Why not. Already having a great day.”
“I knew a guy. Tier One. One of the best operators I ever worked with—smart, fast, tactical genius. He was the guy you wanted covering you in any situation.” I paused.
“Until he wasn’t. Got injured during rehearsal for a mission—nothing as serious as yours, but bad enough.
Refused to let someone replace him. Got on the chopper with us even though he wasn’t 100 percent. Hell, he wasn’t 50 percent.”
“And?”
“And he got two people killed because he couldn’t perform the way he used to, but he couldn’t admit it.
He thought pushing through pain, refusing to acknowledge limitations, that was what made him strong.
” I met Tom's eyes. “Turns out, the brave thing would’ve been to say ‘I’m not ready’ and step back. ”
Tom’s jaw worked. “That’s a hell of a story. Not sure I believe you.”
“Unfortunately, it’s a true one.” I gestured to his leg. “You want to finish this trail? I get that. But not like this. Right now, you’re not hiking—you’re destroying your body inch by inch and calling it perseverance.”
“So you think I should quit.”
“I think you should stop.” I emphasized the word. “Not quit. Stop. Heal. Do the trail next year when you’re really ready. Even though you’re a Marine, understand the difference between a tactical retreat and a surrender. Sort of like the Chosin Reservoir.”
A hint of a smile. “Fuck you. Advancing by retreating.”
“That’s the spirit.” I pointed ahead. “About a mile or so that way is a hardball road. Russell Scenic Highway. I’m pretty sure there will be a trail angel there or at least a shuttle to take you into the closest town. Get that looked at by a doc at the very least.”
“And if I don’t?”
“You’re going that way anyway,” I pointed out. “And if I’m not next to you, I’m going to follow you at a distance like a creepy stalker until you collapse. Then I’m going to have to carry you, and honestly, neither of us wants that. It’ll be weird for everyone involved.”
He actually laughed—short and bitter, but real. “You’re kind of an asshole.”
Tom sat there for what felt like forever, his hand still buried in Maggs’ fur. Finally, he let out a long breath. “Fuck.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Not next year,” he said, putting his prosthesis back on. “One month. I get this sorted, heal up properly, and I come back in a month.”
“Sounds like a plan.” I extended my hand. “Deal?”
He took it. His grip was strong, steady. “Deal.”
I helped him to his feet.
Foot.
Damn.
But just before we moved out, Maggs alerted, looking back the way we’d come. I looked that way, but no one appeared. I had the sense someone was watching, but not approaching.
Shit. But I had to help Tom. So we moved out.
It was a Catch-22 walking with Tom. I didn’t want to see him in pain, but the worse it got, the more likely he was to quit. He had to stop more times than he wanted to. Get my help several times where the trail was tough.
We finally staggered out to the road. There were a couple of vehicles parked there.
A shuttle, which we knew was one because the pickup’s driver had a cardboard sign advertising himself as such.
He already had a dispirited hiker sitting on the road next to the pickup.
There was no trail angel passing out food or drink.
We went over to the shuttle driver, who saw us approaching and opened the door to the back seat and helped me wrestle the pack off Tom’s back and toss it in the bed.
“You need a doctor,” the driver said.