CHAPTER 1
It was back again. The hideous nightmare slithered out of the darkness like a rapacious viper, wrapping, tightening its venomous coils around Clay's brain. The dream seemed to be reappearing more frequently these days. Though he was in a deep sleep, his subconscious mind sensed the rivulets of sweat coldly coursing down the sides of his body, beading up on his fevered forehead.
In the dream, Clay found he had just struggled out of a fetid, rotting, steaming jungle that lay behind him. The whole ordeal was the latest mental purgatory he had been forced to endure. The sweat really started coming as recognition came that he was back on that malodorous Philippine island. Yet, he knew in his heart he had left it behind so many years before.
Out of the humid mist to his front, the hideous apparition of the three men appeared, slowly moving toward him. He once again felt shock that he knew those battered faces as they had at one time been his best friends. Now as they seemed to glide over the ground, their bloodied hands reached out as if inviting him into their macabre group. He could see their mouths silently beseeching the words to come and join them in death. He struggled in vain to back away from them in a terror approaching outright panic. He tried to flee, but as they slowly moved closer to him, it was as though he were tied securely in place with ropes and chains. As hard as he struggled to escape, he could not move. Cemented in place as they closed in on him, he felt complete terror by the apparition. He just wanted to scream.
In immobilizing fear, he looked in every direction for any escape from this advancing horror. Glancing to his rear, he saw the dense, brooding, man-eating depths of the green jungle hell behind him. A solid, impenetrable wall. There would be no escape. The memory of the oppressive, cloying, moist heat cloaked him like a warm, wet blanket. He could actually smell those rotting jungle scents of decay all over again.
Why was this happening to him? The images were so real in his mind, he believed he was back there, yet he did not recognize this particular location. He instinctively knew that if he had ever been there, he would have recalled it immediately.
The three images of what passed for the remains of men, pressed closer. He was appalled in his dream world by the appearances of his friends. He could easily remember where once they had all been youthful, handsome with smiling faces. Now they were hideous apparitions, bullet riddled, and covered in blood. He could see the open, festering wounds from bayonets and machetes. Horrified beyond words at the images, he recoiled backward in abject fear.
In the next instant, they were all around him, reaching out, grabbing hold of him, pulling him into their cadaverous group. He opened his mouth in a voiceless, terror filled scream, shouting over and over again, "No! No! No! Please! Please! I'm sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I couldn't help it!"
His voice trailed off as they circled him in a dance of death. His heart pounded harder as he shrank back in horror when they roughly grabbed hold of him, pulling and tugging. He tried vainly to jerk himself away from the horrid images, a silent scream on his lips. Guilt and overwhelming self-loathing washed over him like a dam bursting. He should have been with them; he should have been there to share their fate. He kept repeating this to himself over and over again.
Their bloodied hands were on him now, pulling him and jerking him into their horrid visages. Trying to tear away from their grip, he felt himself being roughly shaken and pulled forward into a strangely lit, mist- filled, tunnel to their rear. They had a good, solid hold on him now and were forcibly dragging him forward toward their hell. He gave one last terrifying scream and then the shouted words penetrated his consciousness.
"Clay! Wake up! Wake up! Damn it! Stop it! Stop! You're having that damn dream again! Stop it!"
Clay Dixon opened his eyes and squinted at the glare from the lamp on the nightstand. He was shocked to see that he was still in his bedroom and not in the steaming, green hell of the Philippine jungle island. Sitting up on the sweat soaked bed sheets, it became fully vivid in his mind all over again - that final night at the end of his tour of duty. He had been a short-timer with only a few days left and then back to the world, as they all liked to say. Remembering the wild party, they had all promised to stay in touch after returning to the states. He'd been with his favorite bar girl and as the night wore on, he became very drunk. She had taken him upstairs to her apartment and after making love, he had fallen into a deep sleep.
He awoke at dawn the next morning to find that his buddies were long gone and he was alone. In a panic, he threw on his clothes and virtually ran all the way back to his base. He had originally been assigned to go on one last scouting mission with his buddies before being reassigned stateside.
When he got to the flight line, he found that the chopper had left him behind. He felt stupid and disgusted with himself that he had been so drunk. He knew they would razz him unmercifully when they returned. Clay waited on the flight line until late that night, but they never came back. Several search missions came up empty handed; they had just literally disappeared into thin air, never to be seen or heard from again. No traces were ever found. He never forgave himself. In his heart he knew he should have been with them. Clay carried this anchor around his neck every waking day of his life.
His wife looked down at the pathetic, sweat-drenched figure of her husband. He looked up at her with guilt-ridden eyes. All pity she might have felt in the past was gone. Clarice felt herself cross an invisible line of her own making. There was no turning back. No one should have to constantly put up with this, she thought angrily. I should have done something about it a few years ago when those crazy nightmares began. Doctors didn't seem to be much help, she now acknowledged. Where could she go from here? She knew the answer in her heart, but didn't voice it, even to herself.
He was about to say something in useless apology, as usual, she knew. She quickly cut him off, raising her arm and facing her palm outward at him to stop.
"I don't want to hear it!" she said tersely. "I've heard it one hundred times before. It won't wash with me anymore!"
"I can't help it!" he said in anguish. "It just comes and goes. I have no control. It won't go away."
"How much do you expect me to endure? I just can't take it anymore. I've had it! Either you find some way of making it stop or we need to go our separate ways. That's final! Even the doctors have totally given up on you!"
Clay recalled his own doctor, a family practitioner, an old friend, had tried desperately to relieve him of the nightmares, but could not help. He had referred him to another physician he knew who had experience in dealing with these kind of matters, what he considered to be post-traumatic syndrome.
Sitting there on the bed, Clay remembered the sessions when the kindly, older physician had tried to help pry the demons out of him. After a number of visits, the doctor had strongly suggested that he suspected Clay was experiencing an unconscious and deep-seated guilt feeling, and that if he kept these feelings inside of him, they would eventually tear him apart emotionally and ruin his life. The physician inferred that Clay was not opening up and telling him the whole story. Incapable of bearing his guilty soul to anyone, Clay could not dare reveal the secret he kept locked in the deepest, darkest part of his heart. He found it impossible to talk about it to anyone. Although he had tried on a few occasions, but only ended up breaking down in emotion-wracked sobs before he got the first few words out of his mouth. He had forced the memories down over all of these years. By totally throwing himself into his job, it had worked to some degree. Now he was under tremendous pressure at work and the memories and dreams had started to surface again on an intermittent basis and only in his dreams. He wondered how could he possibly relate his deepest secret to anyone? Thinking about it again, he would rather be dead than tell it to anyone close to him.
"Look, I'll go back to Doctor Obermayer and really work on it this time," he offered pleadingly to his cold, stone-faced wife.
"At this point, I think we're beyond that," she said frigidly. "I will have to give this some thought."
"The children ..." He felt trapped.
"You always throw that at me, don't you?" She was screaming now. "Well, let me tell you something, I don't think they care one way or another\ because you've been more married to your job than to the children and me. You haven't been around long enough to get to know them. So, don't try that on me. It just won't fly!" Turning, she went into the bathroom and shut the door, closing the issue and leaving him alone to his thoughts.
Well, at least I've succeeded beyond anyone's expectations in my job, he thought, and have that to fall back on. Clay could still vividly remember how he had started on the bottom rung of the ladder right after he'd gotten out of the military, happy to even get a job. They'd thrown every shitty job that no one else wanted at him, but he was proud that he had endured and succeeded.
Clay could recall the many unpaid for, extra hours he had gladly put in, frequently acknowledging to himself with a twinge of guilt, at the expense of his family life. But he knew there were other reasons also. He had immersed himself in his work to push down that deep feeling of guilt he had carried around on his overburdened shoulders all these years. His wife's very expensive taste in style didn't help matters.
It was still very early, but he decided to get up anyway. He knew her mind was closed to discussion, so his only recourse was to get ready for the day and head for the office. He had a pretty good feeling that something momentous was about to happen soon, maybe even today. He had certainly worked hard enough for it.
That afternoon of the same day, the call came in. It was expected. Clayton Dixon had been anticipating it for a long time, but when he took the call, he still felt a tremendous surge of excitement and pride. He had given several years of his life and a lot more for that call, he inwardly acknowledged.
"Mister Dixon?"
He knew immediately from the flat, dry tone of the voice on the other end of the line when he said, "Yes, this is he."
"This is Lorraine, Mr. Campbell's secretary."
As if he didn't know who she was. A mental picture of the gray haired, rail thin, austere private secretary to Jordan Campbell, the president of the company, appeared in his mind. He could almost see the dry, lined face that was all business and rarely showed any emotion. You could never tell what she was thinking.
This humorous thought briefly crossed his mind that when she finally retired she had a whole new, lucrative career waiting for her as a poker player in Vegas. He chuckled briefly about that thought. No one ever knew what was going on behind those old style granny glasses, nor what secrets lay behind those cold, gray eyes of hers.
"Yes, Lorraine, what can I do for you?"
"Mr. Campbell asked me to call you. There will be a meeting at the home office. It will be in three weeks on Friday, the 31st. Can you be there?"
"Certainly," he replied, his heart skipping a beat. With bells on, he thought to himself. Finally he would be receiving his reward of the Vice Presidency that he knew he so richly deserved. The years had flown by very fast. He recognized, even though he was in his early thirties, he was still very young to hold such a lofty position in this company. He knew too that there would be some resentment.
"What time would you like me to be there?"
"At four-thirty sharp."
"Thank you, I'll be there." The timing will be perfect, he thought, just before quitting time and just in time for a big celebration.
"Thank you, Mr. Dixon" she said, "We'll see you then."
He hung up and sat quietly for a few minutes, letting his mind drift. "No Frills Lorraine," they called her, was living up to her reputation and certainly wasn't letting anything out, he thought. The very least she could have done was hint about him taking over the Vice President slot, but of course, with that dispassionate personality of hers, saying nothing was expected.
He felt confident that old Herb Sanderson, the Vice president and his mentor, was finally going to hang up his spurs this year. The old duffer had gone way beyond normal retirement, but they had let him do so because he had been one of the first employees with the company. Clay recalled hearing stories that the company was so poor and struggling to stay alive in the early days, they had paid old Herb part of his salary in stock certificates. Over the years during the booming economy, the stock had grown so much in value that he really didn't have to work. Even now, during these sluggish economic times, the stock still performed well. But Herb was finally bailing out, and when Clay thought about it, he wondered because it was so sudden. He'd thought the lovable, old coot was going to stay for at least another two years. Clay truly liked Herb and had learned a lot from him.
Of course, the ever-present rumor mill within the company was saying that old Herb was now spending a lot more time on the golf course than in the office here lately. The thought occasionally crossed his mind as to who was covering Herb's desk when he was absent. He often wondered if it was that opportunistic son-in-law of Campbell's that he instinctively mistrusted.
Six years ago he had recalled spending two weeks at the home office, filling in, while some of the upper echelon in management were ostensibly at a management seminar in the Bahamas. However, he had overheard later, during a coffee break, that they had spent more time on the golf links than in the seminar.
During his temporary assignment to the home office, he'd had a chance to closely observe Herb Sanderson, who was known as the workhorse. He recalled surreptitiously watching the older man at work at his desk. Herb had a squat, almost pear shape, accentuated by his baggy trousers that were held up by old-fashioned suspenders. He had once had blond hair, but it was now white and rapidly receding up his forehead. Clay remembered the old wire-rimmed glasses that perched almost on the end of his nose as he waded through the mountain of files and other work stacked haphazardly around his desk.
He remembered too the older man was always the first one in the office in the morning and was still there, hard at work at the end of the day when everyone prepared to leave. He claimed he did this to beat the heavy freeway traffic inbound during the morning rush and outbound in the evening, but Clay was now not so sure about that.
Looking back now in retrospect, a tiny bit of doubt crept its way into his mind. With the huge mound of work the older man had to deal with in his position, he almost had to spend those extra hours just to keep his head above water. Herb claimed that he could get more work done when no one was around, and that was probably true to a great extent, because his phone seemed to be constantly ringing and people were continuously interrupting him with their own problems. Regardless, he still seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time at his desk. Clay also remembered that old Herb had appeared to be a lot healthier looking in the earlier years, shortly after Clay had started with the company. That was not the case the last time Clay was in the home office. Herb looked very tired.
Clay paused in his thought train again for a moment as that little shred of doubt crept back into his mind. With a smile and no argument, he had already given his all to the company, taking on every crappy little job that no one else wanted. He didn't want to end up another "Herb Sanderson".
The cost had been high and there were moments when he sometimes wondered if it had all been worth it. The first victims were his adopted family. He had met his wife shortly after he had been released from the military. She had lost her husband to an auto accident and was a single mother with two young babies. He had volunteered to take on the responsibility and then married into instant family.
He loved his two adopted children. Clay had spent a lot of time with them in the beginning, but as he had to devote more and more hours to his job, they slowly grew away from him. Their mother had to take on the dual role of father and mother because he was either at the office or out of town on some company business. He seemed to be always at work, trying to meet some deadline. She never let him forget it. He felt his adopted children had grown up, coming to view him as just the guy who was rarely home and never seemed to have time for them.
