Chuck

Chuck Anderson’s life up to this point had been a shit show, but as he leapt from the bowels of the airplane to the waiting ground below he was nearly overcome with elation.

Two tours of Iraq followed up by three of Afghanistan had changed him. He had once been a quiet man who’d survived high school and a disastrous attempt at community college by keeping his head down and buried in a book. A chance encounter with a Marine recruiter outside of a 99 Ranch Market had changed his life.

Staff Sergeant Collins had worn his full dress blues and his medals had shone brighter than the sheen of sweat across the man’s forehead. The Staff Sergeant had just run toward the sound of a gunshot, rather than away unlike the civilians at the shopping center, and had crossed paths with Chuck, who was there to buy a new phone charger.

At the sound of the first gunshot, Chuck had ducked and turned to run. Then he had frozen in fear. What if the shooter was out there? What if Chuck was a sitting duck?

Then the barrel-chested man dressed in a perfectly ironed uniform had appeared.

The shooter had turned out to be a disgruntled employee who had offed himself after taking out his former manager and an innocent bystander. Chuck, much to his surprise, had followed the Marine into the store and had seen first hand what a dead human being looked like.

Instead of being disgusted with the sight he had found it oddly fascinating.

The shooter had still gripped his handgun. Blood leaked from under his chin but most of the top of his head had been gone, revealing a mass of pink brain matter, skull fragments, and red blood vessels. The shooter’s eyes had been half lidded with one staring right at him while the other was obscured by blood.

“Ain’t that some shit,” the marine had said.

“Over there.” Chuck had nodded at the body of a woman.

Her chest had been drenched in blood but she had miraculously still lived.

Heedless of his perfect uniform, the Marine had rushed to the woman’s side and ripped her shirt open. He’d found the wound and then turned her to the side to look at her back. He’d pressed his hand to a hole that seeped blood.

“She’s not going to make it,” he had said.

“Want me to start CPR?” Chuck had asked.

“No point. The shooter used hollow points. She’s done for. Seen it before.”

He’d known what he’d been talking about because the woman had fixed Chuck with a gaze and then a last breath had escaped her body. A few seconds later her body had given up the ghost and the reek of shit filled the aisle.

Chuck had brushed past the Marine and dropped to his knees. The big guy had nodded at Chuck and joined him, and together they had tried CPR, but just as the Marine had guessed, it was a wasted effort.

Hours later, after the pandemonium of paramedics and police had died down, Chuck had answered an endless stream of questions, and had finally been released. He’d followed the Marine outside.

“You’re braver than most. Why did you go into the supermarket?”

“I don’t know,” Chuck had replied truthfully. “Morbid curiosity. Why did you go in?”

“Because I’m a Marine.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Only reason I needed. You’re young. Have you ever thought of joining up?”

“I haven’t thought about doing much of anything,” Chuck had replied truthfully.

The next day he’d met Staff Sergeant Collins at his office and signed on the dotted line. Chuck had lost track of Staff Sergeant Collins over the years, and he had thought long and hard about staying in the corp to become a recruiter.

One of his friends in the Marines, Marcus Reed, had had this crazy idea when they were in Afghanistan. They had retrieved a stash of AKM’s from a cache near Kabul, and then had them packed up and sent home. It had taken a little extra money to grease palms, but when the guns had finally arrived in the states they had sold very quickly, and Chuck suddenly had an extra five thousand dollars in his bank account.

They had set up a supply route, and then began sending more and more guns back to the states.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

But things hadn’t gone according to plan and a smart clerk had noticed something odd about the shipments. To this day, Chuck had no idea what had tipped off the stupid mail clerk.

A few weeks after Chuck had been kicked out of the Marines, Marcus had contacted him. Within weeks they’d been back in business, but instead of setting up supply runs from the Middle East, they had gotten involved with a cartel out of Guerro, Mexico, who’d needed a way to get drugs into the country.

From then on he had been a gun for hire until he had amassed enough money to live comfortably on for a few years. Unfortunately, it hadn’t lasted. Six months in Vegas had proved that even a smart man, as Chuck fancied himself, could lose his fucking shirt with bad decisions, and even worse bets.

His favorite betting pool had always been Chicken Dinner. He often gave running commentary to whoever was within ear shot. A burly man with a cute brunette on his arm had once shouted down Chuck.

“Put your money where your mouth is Mr. Know-it-all,” a fat fuck challenged him.

Chuck had made the decision, right then and there, that he would indeed enter the game, and when he came home with $25 million dollars, he would buy a casino.

But first he would kick the fat fuck’s ass six ways from Sunday.

#

The ground rushed toward him as his stomach leapt into his mouth. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane felt like a bonehead move, no matter how he spun it in his head. As the wind rushed by it pressed his feet up so he cocked his knees.

The altimeter on his parachute strap read 10,500 feet but the arrow decreased rapidly.

He kept his hands stretched out to the sides and his knees bent. Below him, a long row of houses came into view and to the south lay larger buildings, perhaps apartments or warehouses. As many times as he had studied the game, things looked a hell of a lot different when you were plummeting toward the ground at 150 miles per hour.

The whistling wind ripped at his eardrums. Why in the hell hadn’t they been provided with helmets? His hearing would be shot as soon as he hit the ground.

Off in the distance, someone flailed as they tried to flip onto their stomach, and Chuck couldn’t make out if they were a man or a woman. Whoever it was had jumped out minutes before him and now they plummeted toward the earth. The person’s parachute popped but they were on their back when it gave and the material wrapped around their body. What should have looked graceful became a horror show.

The person flailed in the chute but it was no use. Seconds later they impacted with the ground. Chuck was too far away, but he was sure it would have sounded like a bag of meat being dropped from a five story building.

Chuck waited beyond the point he’d been told to trigger his chute. If he went too early he would be an easy target, because he wouldn’t be the only one watching chutes pop and marking locations.

At 2,000 feet he finally pulled his release.

The silky material trailed above and then he braced as it snapped him upward. The ground stopped rushing but he hadn’t slowed nearly as much as he’d thought he would.

Maybe he had waited too long and he was going to meet a similar fate to the person who had plummeted to his death.

The ground came up fast, but Chuck had seen any number of action movies and trusted that he hadn’t pulled too late. He yanked the bars and the parachute flared as it responded, taking him to the east.

Then he was on the ground, stumbling forward, dragged by the wind, feet grasping for hold, and the only thing he could see was a dump truck straight ahead, because he was about to smash into it.

Chuck dropped to his knees, got pulled toward the front of the truck, and then hit the release on his chute. The cloth floated away as he came to a stop on scraped legs.

“Mother fucking, ow.” Chuck gasped as he sat down next to a panel truck that was missing its back door and all of its tires.

Just a few seconds. He had to catch his breath, and his wits. That had been a hell of a rush, and it had also been terrifying. Jumping for fun was one thing. Jumping with your life on the line, quite another.

The truck’s colors were so faded he couldn’t even read the company’s logo on the side. It might have been yellow but the elements had turned it brown and a bunch of green moss coated its side thanks to not getting direct sunlight.

At least it was warm. He would put the temperature near 70, but it was also early so there was a good chance it would go up. The breeze shifted and carried the reek of rot, like vegetables left too long in the sun, and on top of that rode a light wave of humidity.

He pulled the tablet out of his pocket, spun it over, and considered the display. A map of his location sprang into life on the screen. The number in the top right corner matched his watch: 49.

There were no red warning arrows yet. That would come soon enough.

He guessed he had about half an hour before he would be forced to seek a safe zone, because they usually gave the players a good chunk of time to move out and gather supplies and weapons. Until then he was on his own with just the clothes on his back, the watch, and the ever-present camera.

He lowered his head, tilted the camera up so it could get his face, and grinned.

“Piece of cake.” Chuck panted. “Now, let’s get down to the lord’s work.”

Chuck gasped when he shifted forward and got his feet under his body. His knees screamed in pain. He rubbed his pants and they came away sticky.

Blood stained his right calf. He rubbed his knee and found that he had scraped it raw while landing. He needed to get to cover, lift his pant leg, and inspect the damage.

Chuck worked his way forward and then rose slowly to his feet. If he had his Marine body armor, an M4, and a half dozen magazines, he would be set.

Time to make it happen.

He stepped out from the shade and took in more of his surroundings. The buildings, when he had been airborne, had seemed so close. Now that he was at street level he realized they were scattered much farther away. He had spotted a house a block or two away that would be an ideal position to set up a sniper nest, but now he didn’t even see it. He moved around the other side of the truck and realized he hadn’t come down anywhere near where he had planned.

“Shit,” he groaned.

A church with an actual steeple lay before him.

He glanced up and down the street, made sure he had cover in the form of a little faded blue car sitting on four flat tires, and then shuffled toward the vehicle.

Call it his streak of bad luck. Maybe it was just another player who had spotted him while he fell. Either way, Chuck didn’t even have time to look around for a weapon before a gun fired in his direction.