Chapter 2

Georgia, United States of America

Aragon, Polk County,

1:27 PM

"…help…me…"

Dennis Orville’s eyes shot open, startled at the dream he’d just woken up from and just as quickly forgotten. He slowly rubbed at his face before getting up from the couch he was resting on, noticing the time as he did so.

"Dennis, can you come down here and help me?” a woman’s voice called from downstairs.

“Coming, ma!” he called.

He stretched before he stood up, then stretched again before grabbing the apron he’d been using as a pillow from the couch. It identified him as an employee even if everyone would recognize him as one, but it kept his clothes clean which was important. His mother's restaurant on the main floor of their home, just a little locale for the relatively small rural town and its workers to enjoy a late lunch before heading back to work in the county’s mines, still needed his assistance.

Theirs was but one community of many in the nation, quaint and peaceful, away from the hubbub of the city, so he knew that at most there would be five or six guys there, all ready to flirt with his comparatively still young mother. He pursed his lips, already hearing some of the men joking and laughing a few feet below the wooden floorboards.

He was sure they were good men... mostly… but still, he accelerated his pace somewhat. Briefly, Dennis glanced at one of the hanging photos in the hallway outside his room, a smiling young man staring back at him, US Army Garrison cap hiding his haircut in the black and white photo, contrasting heavily with his slightly unkempt dark hair and tired expression reflecting on the glass pane of the picture frame. Dennis looked away as he pushed his worry and tiredness back down.

Placing on the apron on, he winced, surprised to see some spots of moisture on the side he’d been sleeping on. He thought back to the forgotten dream he had only moments ago woken up from, but his mind couldn't grasp any concrete memory of it.

Only that it was sad.

Enough to make him cry?

He perished the thought.

Probably drooled in my sleep...

Walking past the recently ironed US Army uniform on his door, he moved down the steps, tying the kitchen apron, ready to help where help was needed.

He wasn’t surprised to see exactly five men sitting by the wooden counter, a few crumbs from the men’s meals littering its otherwise smooth and clean surface. The radio was playing a pleasant tune as they continued enjoying the meal cooked by his mother who had picked up one of the men’s now very empty plates as they all chatted away.

She saw him before moving through the kitchen door, her messy auburn hair tied into a bun as she managed a soft smile in his direction.

“Sleep alright?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks. Headache’s gone, too.”

“Told you, you only needed to lie down for a bit.” She replied warmly.

Dennis nodded, stepping behind the counter and nodding back to the men who greeted him with a quiet, almost cautious, nod in return, understandably focused on their meal after the first half of a day’s hard work, their previous chat likely now concluded. Or perhaps they were keeping quiet around him. He didn’t particularly care, so long they didn’t cause trouble.

The Colt Model 1911 hidden under the counter was a sure solution if one of them ever became a problem.

If...

"Ah, sweetheart, could you get Mister Jones some Cola?" His mother said before disappearing through the kitchen door, dirty plate in hand.

"Sure thing, ma." He said, forcing a smile before grabbing a glass bottle of the soft drink from the nearby fridge and handing it to the man sitting on the counter.

He gave him a coin, saying "So… little Orville all grown up. Heading out of town soon?"

Dennis shifted in place, the sole of his shoe squeaking suddenly on the clean floor, before nodding slowly, trying to convey disinterest in the subject. He wasn’t entirely good at it, the other men staring at him expectantly then, as if he had to entertain them while his mother cleaned the plates out of sight.

So, he spoke.

"Yes, sir. Hope to do some good serving Uncle Sam." He answered, hiding his excitement and the worries it came with.

He glanced behind him, noting that his mother was by the kitchen sink, washing some dishes and not eavesdropping through the door. Dennis immediately turned to Mister Jones and quietly asked "Sir, what's it really like? The Army life, I mean."

The man sipped his drink, rubbed something from his eyebrow, and said "Boring mostly… pain in the ass quite often… frustrating… not really satisfying. If I were you, I would stay here. The Army life isn’t as glamorous as some of them Hollywood types like to say. At least here you can care for your ma and get decent enough pay. It's quiet, it’s pretty..."

Dennis forced down the urge to frown, replying instead with "Yeah, well… pa used to tell me that if a country’s good enough to live in, then it's good enough to fight for… I think that holds true."

He proceeded to ignore the look the older man gave him, where his lips formed a thin line, making it obvious he disagreed but wasn’t going to be vocal about it for the sake of polite conversation.

One of the younger miners didn’t have such reservations.

"Bah, we aren't really fighting anyone right now, and if last year's Cuban Crisis taught us anything, I think we’d all be dead before we got to fire any shots. War just isn't what it used to be."

Dennis once again, pursed his lips, doing his best to suppress a disapproving frown, because, despite his opinions and his thoughts, he knew he technically didn’t know better. Every man in the room was, technically, a veteran. A title he couldn’t boast yet.

Not really.

He Knew Mister Jones had been in the Army right as the Korean War began a cease-fire that, technically, was still ongoing. He knew the other men had been in the military at some point, be it Navy, Marines, or Army, and they were all relatively well-rounded men who worked in the county’s mines and went home to their wives and dogs. Unlike him, they had contributed to fighting communism, fascism, national socialism, enemies of his country and its values, and he knew he couldn’t really challenge them on their opinions because, as far as he was concerned, they knew more.

However, as far as Dennis knew, none had seen combat. So, what did they really know? They had served, but how had they served, exactly? Done their part, certainly, but surely, Dennis Orville of Aragon, Georgia, USA could do just as good if not better than them.

Surely...

"Alright, Mister Carlson, I have your steak sandwich right here!" His mother’s words interrupted his train of thought, the door closing behind her as she cheerfully exited the kitchen with the warm lunch, ending the conversation there and then.

The miner with a thick beard grinned, saying "Aw, shucks, Miss Orville, your food makes the heart of this old man happy!"

"Anything for the workers of Polk County!"

The younger of the miners said, “Anything, you say?”

Dennis observed the man’s lecherous smirk with disgust, his hand drifting over to Mister Jones’ empty plate, his mind wondering if the trouble he would get in for smashing it over the man’s head would outweigh the satisfaction.

Despite that, his mother appeared more than happy to respond.

“Oh, if it’s within my ability, then certainly. That said...” she began in a tone that suggested she wasn’t putting up with the miner’s less than pure question before the pleasant music abruptly cut off into a brief static that caught the attention of everyone in the small family-owned diner.

There was the briefest moment of silent confusion as the small group wondered if the power had gotten cut off, noticing nothing else had been shut down. The lights were still on, the fridge was still running, and the fans were still spinning.

Then a voice came over the airwaves, speaking with both urgency and calmness as it relayed the information.

"We interrupt our regularly scheduled program for a breaking story: From W-F-A-A: Dallas, Texas, attacks on the city have and are currently being reported. The enemy is as of this moment, unknown, but eyewitnesses can attest to it not being a Soviet or Cuban attack. We repeat... The attackers are as of this moment unidentified, but eyewitnesses have denied them being Soviet or Cuban. Many are injured and are being moved to hospitals away from the city, President Kennedy’s exact whereabouts are unknown at this time, however…"