CHAPTER ONE – JEBEDIAH ‘JEB’ STONE -- MEMORIES


    Ozarks – Arkansas


    ***


    The axe-head flew into the straw target, ripping it’s head off as the long handled bearded axe spun around the man’s waist extending it with his left hand on a back sweep that took another straw head off at it’s shoulder as his thick body moved with the momentum twisting the haft and rotating his body pulling heavy torque as the axe spun over his shoulder bisecting the last of the straw heads as it came down right on the crown of the dome.


    The man was breathing heavy leaning on the handle of the axe with it’s head in the soft loam of the training area he’d built. Up in the hills of the Ozarks there wasn’t anyone around to really judge what he did with his time or his property which was exactly how he liked it. His closest neighbor was Old Man Jenkins over fifteen miles away.


    He put a hand to his aching back, spat on the ground, and gritted his teeth. Damn, getting old sucked big sweaty balls. He didn’t even think he would pass Basic nowadays. From E-8 Master Sergeant in an active zone to an old man with an aching back in less than twelve years.


    His eyes scanned his modest property, a few miles of woods and his one bedroom cabin in the Ozarks of Arkansas. There was at least a small lake down the road that was nice. A couple heavy thunderous barks pounded out from behind him. He smirked and threw a look at his two year old bear of a dog, Bose, sitting on the porch gnawing on a thigh bone.


    Holy hell boy. Those bones were fifteen bucks each from the butcher in town and it was already half gone. The fucker. He’d just given it to him yesterday. Damn dog. Bose was a cane corso, and small bear was appropriate.


    Jeb had thought he was getting the runt of the litter when he bought him at six months old from a neighbor who bred them. Turned out he was just a late bloomer. The fucker was close to 150lbs of love manifest, well, unless you were a squirrel. Bose certainly had something against the little rodents.


    His boy gave him one more meaty bark then went back to gnawing on his quickly dwindling thigh bone. Had to love the fucker even though the dog ate him out of his bank account which was dwindling faster than a middle-aged hooker. He was lucky to have gotten any pension with an OTH Discharge. And he damn well knew if they could have gotten away with denying it altogether they would have. Hell, it should have been a Dishonorable if they could have gotten away with it without the press that would have come along with it. The whole thing had been a cluster fuck. Some said he was a hero, others, the darkest mother fucker since Hitler.


    His fingers on the handle of his axe started shaking as memories flooded through him again. He grit his teeth, sweat pouring off his face, eyes of bloody kids, old folks, mothers cracking his head apart. No, can’t do it, not again.


    He went down to one knee, a hand to his head. IF he could punch this shit out of his mind he would but he couldn’t. The images came harder and faster, the smoke, flames from the grenade he’d tossed on entry, the fury he felt, white hot blood pumping, thumps like some tribal drum, the need for violence, retribution. He’d killed everything that moved.


    A giant tongue slapped against his face accompanied with some whimpers. As always it broke him out of his PTSD. He put a hand on Bose’s big blocky head.


    “Good boy, the best boy.”


    A hefty bark hammered right into his eardrum. Fucker was gonna deafen him one day. His eyes opened to Bose leaping around. Ahh, the vigor of youth. How the damn dog was so nimble at that size was beyond him.


    He was fifty-two years old, entering Grandpa age, and felt every scar, every old broken bone, all of it. His years seemed to grow exponential with every calendar added. He was still in decent shape or at least he thought so. He’d always been like Bose, a big beefy boy.


    He was six foot three but now up to almost two-fifty in weight. Not that far off his fighting prime in the military at two-thirty though the salt n pepper in his hair might have other things to talk about. He’d like to say it was still all muscle but the facts were it was mostly muscle nowadays. He was starting to get a bit of a paunch. Bose curled by his feet giving sympathy eyes towards his pops.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    The VA docs had wanted him on some kind of pills that would keep him calm but in truth it was doping him up to be a zombie. He refused. His entire life had been carved by his quick instincts and ability to be downright feral when he or those around him’s lives were at stake.


    He might not be in the military anymore and not much danger up here in the hills but he would never give up the shit that had kept him breathing in more fuck fests then he could ever recall. Bose was just fine for him. Before his pup he’d be laid up for days with his PTSD, shaking, sweating, nightmares. Now a couple hammer barks and some fridge sized pup licks and he’d snap the fuck out of it.


    “Alright boy. Pops is up and good thanks to you. Let’s get you some chow.”


    As soon as the word ‘chow’ hit Bose’s ears the heavy barks started rolling like a river while he slung that massive weight around like a ballerina. Jeb laughed and ruffled the bear impersonator’s head. He slid over and picked up his axe.


    It was a beaut and he’d had it made a year before. He had too many memories with his Sigma or Gerber Mark II combat tactical knife if he was being mouthy. It still rested in his foot-locker along with Vlad, up in the cabin, but he’d wanted something without the blood or corpses attached.


    The VA Docs said he needed some form of exercise for various reasons, mostly to keep his mind off the bad shit as if that would work. To him they were just tossing eggs in the skillet hoping for something good. They always seemed a bit lost every time he turned down the pill popping. He almost had the niggling fucked-up feeling they got some kind of kick back from the drug companies for how often they pushed that bullshit at him. Regardless, it was a good idea that he’d ran with and was happy as a fat kid with a tub of ice cream. He’d been practicing with it every day since he’d gotten it, even leveled this area and made the straw targets which were a pain in the ass.


    It had reach, could use the different parts of it for offense or defense unlike most axes with the longer solid hickory haft. Damn truth was it fed his little kid fantasy tropes and made him feel like Conan. He’d loved those novels as a kid, bloody, graphic, half-naked women everywhere, good scraps. What else could a teenage boy who played middle linebacker and liked to fight want?


    He chuckled to himself when Bose almost knocked him on his ass with a hip check. He laughed even harder as he looked down at his pooch who had the goofy dog grin on his face and kept hooking his head towards the house and his promised food.


    “Alright you greedy bastard!!!”


    Bose took off towards the cabin as Jeb followed but before he’d gotten ten feet the strangest fucking thing he’d ever seen shoved its way into his vision.


    Congratulations!!! You have the distinct honor of being one of fifty thousand humans who have been chosen to be a Contestant in the Crucible of War!!! You will be given twenty minutes to accrue what you need or say your goodbyes at which point it is required for you to stand within the circle of light that will be presented shortly. If you follow instructions you will be given a boon for your new journey. If you do not. If you run, hide, play with your meat to some old porn mag in some back room, you will still be taken but your boon will be forfeit. Trust me. Don’t fuck around!!


    What the fuck!! He went back to a knee waving his hand in front of his face, once more dropping his axe as he waved both hands shaking his head, even slapping the side of his head, attempting to knock the fucked up visual. The slap against his head seemed to do it as it went bye bye.


    His PTSD had led to some strange ass shit in his life but visual hallucinations looking like some video game fuckery wasn’t one of them. Bose was barking up by the door. Jeb peeled himself up from the ground for the second time of the afternoon.


    “Alright, I’m coming Bose!”


    PTSD was a fucking demon from hell!!! He made it one step before once more the shit kicked off.


    It’s not your PTSD dumb ass!!! This is really happening!! It’s not a hallucination and unless you want to be a corpse right out the window, get moving Soldier Boy, the clock is ticking!!!! Grab every damn weapon you got and I know you got them, trust me, you’ll need’em!!!! And don’t grab food or TP like every nut case survivalist ever!!! Weapons Soldier Boy, Weapons!!!!


    His peripheral caught something behind him. As he turned there was a big ass circle of light ten meters across smack dab in the middle of his training area.


    Alright, deep breaths. Embrace the suck!!! Full Battle Rattle. Don’t be a soup sandwich like some kid just out of boot. Get geared up, minus the food if I was listening to the fucker in the messages. Whoever that was needed a beat down on a hard dime.


    He started hammering out a call for Bose as he blew his legs up the driveway, past his beat up old truck, past his somewhat less beat up Harley, steps, door, straight to the back room going for his foot-locker.


    Whatever the fuck this was and no matter how old he’d gotten, nothing and no one would find Jebediah Stone wanting when Armageddon came a knocking. He did violent better than anybody he’d ever known. It had always been his bane and boon.


    He did his best to ignore the shaking in his hands and the memories clawing to be heard.