The Survivor by Gregg Hurwitz Read Free Book Online

if he could serve the death notifications to the families of the men killed on his watch. His request went up the chain and was quickly approved—it was hardly a sought-after job—and he was handed a pamphlet to read on the flight home providing guidelines for Casualty Notification Officers.
    It is not until he gets to the front door of the McGuires’ house that he realizes how woefully unprepared he is. Every detail embeds thunderously in his brain—the paint peeling on the door frame, the sudden laxness in Mrs. McGuire’s face at the sight of him, the rasp of the screen against his shoulder as he steps inside. McGuire’s father, a hulking rectangle of a man, creaks the floorboards of the hall and then sits across from Nate, his dry hands cracking at the knuckles when he grips the armrests of his chair. Nate doesn’t remember what he says, but then Mrs. McGuire’s eyes are leaking and Mr. McGuire is asking him something.
    Nate musters his voice. “Yes, sir, he died honorably.”
    “Was he in pain?” McGuire’s mother asks.
    Nate thinks of McGuire gripping his severed leg. The screams. He says, “No.”
    Mr. McGuire: “Did you kill the bastard who got him?”
    “No, sir.” Nate rises and, as instructed, delivers a small bag with McGuire’s effects. His stomach burns as McGuire’s mother sifts through the contents—a cross pendant, dog tags, a G-Shock watch with a smashed face—and feels the need to say, “I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a son—”
    “Two,” the big man says sharply. “We lost both.” He looks up and away, a distant glint in his eyes. “How’s the war going, son?”
    “I hope we’ve turned a corner, sir,” Nate says lamely.
    “Yeah, what corner is that?” He snickers at the silence. “We had a name for that corner, too, when I was in the Corps. We called it Clusterfuck Bend.”
    Nate cannot think of a response, so he keeps his mouth closed.
    “His body?” Mr. McGuire asks.
    “It’s been well taken care of. It shipped from Ramstein, full honors rendered at each point of transfer—”
    “I don’t give a shit about that. What kind of shape?” A pause. “Well?”
    “We didn’t recover his whole body, sir.”
    “What’s missing?” Mr. McGuire wets his lips. “Go on, son. If I can take it, you sure as hell can.”
    “A leg. And … and … part of his head.”
    Mrs. McGuire’s eyes move abruptly to the ceiling.
    “Who went down with him?” Mr. McGuire asks.
    Nate lists the names, ending with Charles.
    Mrs. McGuire says, “You tell their mothers and fathers thank you for us.”
    It is a full minute before Nate dares to speak again. Though he has been forbidden to offer any details about the activities surrounding the death, he hears himself start to spill: “It was an IED hidden in a rucksack. Right in front of me. I should’ve gotten to it before it went off. I could have—”
    The deep voice cuts him off. “See, son. Now you’re making your problems our problem. Don’t ya think we got enough problems tonight?”
    Nate’s entire body is trembling. “Yes, sir.”
    “So act like you got some sense in you.” The man’s face has turned ruddy. “Don’t leave us with more to chew on. See, you’ll go on home, eat dinner with your wife, tuck your kids into bed. You’ll move on. We’ll be here. So you think of us from time to time.”
    Mrs. McGuire says, softly, “Jim,” and he silences.
    Nate looks down into his lap for a long time. “May I please use your restroom?”
    She points. “Powder room off the hall there.”
    Nate runs the water to cover the sound of his vomiting. He splashes water on his face, dries his eyes with a pink hand towel that smells of floral detergent. Studying his reflection, he vows to learn how to do this better. He squares himself, emerges, delivers the necessary information as best he can, and shows himself out. As he drives away, his sweat-drenched uniform clings to him like a bad dream.
    Johnson’s family,