Jason D. and the Blood of Heroes

In a Flash

A brilliant white flash danced in the cloudy night sky, followed by a deep rumble.

Rain tapped on my face as I lay trapped. Both of my eyes were swollen shut and the only thing I could hear was a loud ringing in my ears, mixed with some sort of muffled babbling.

I tried to move but couldn't. The left side of my body was totally numb and the right side was both wet from the rain and hot from the fire. I tried to call out for my dad and great-grandfather, but only heard a weird humming echo in my head.

'– their way, just hang tight kid!' someone shouted.

'Help me…I think I'm hurt… Dad?' I called, trying to wiggle my way free from the heavy weight that was pinning me down.

'I said don't you move!’ the voice shouted once more. ‘Okay, the fire department is here—just hang in there!'

The sound of sirens cut through the air as I strained my neck over to see what was going on. I managed to crack one eye open, but could only make out the intermittent flashing of red lights. I turned my head to the other side and saw warm, flickering colors of orange and white. Steam rose up from the fire as the rain continued to spatter down, and the smell of gasoline was starting to make me nauseous.

Another white flash from above was followed by a cackling of thunder.

Suddenly the rain stopped. I turned my head to see that someone was now standing over me, wearing a helmet and long dark coat.

'Oh my God... What's your name, son?' the man asked, panting. He knelt down beside my head, sheltering me from the rain.

'…Jason,' I answered, confused and tasting the unpleasant tang of blood.

'Jason, we're going to have to cut you and the old man out of the car. You're going to be fine. We’re going to contact your next of kin, and they’ll meet you at the hospital.'

I didn't understand what he meant.

'My great-grandfather… Is he alright? What about my dad? I can’t see my dad,' I said, my voice rising in a panic.

I tried to get up, but the numbness had faded, and I felt an intense jolt of pain shoot through my left side. I gasped, and the firefighter immediately pushed me back down to the wet pavement.

'Now, Jason, I'm going to need you to remain calm and stay as still as you can, okay? Do you understand what I'm saying to you? There is a –'

The man's voice started to blend in with the white noise of the rain. I closed my eyes and knew that the situation was bad. Forcing myself to open my eyes again, I strained to look for my dad as two, three, four more people now emerged from out of nowhere.

A mask was put over my nose and mouth and I started to feel light-headed. I felt a sharp stab in my right arm, but that was nothing compared to the pain in my left side.

It must have been close to midnight by now, and the intense weight was still crushing me. The rain poured down as shadowy figures moved in a dizzying motion around me. I was drifting in and out of consciousness, and at one point thought I was back at home in my bed, dreaming. Then I heard the sudden strain of grinding metal, and relief finally came. I felt at peace, calm, numb again.

One more white flash lit the horizon, but the thunder had started to fade.

Two Years Later…

Calm Before the Storm

I rubbed my stump as a thunder clap rolled in the distance. My arm—what’s left of it—always acted up whenever it stormed, which was annoying as it always seemed to rain in the city of Olympia. Since the accident you might say that my talent for swimming has been replaced with an uncanny ability to predict the weather.

Hardly a fair tradeoff.

I’m a competitive swimmer—used to be. Before my accident I never slept later than 5:00 am during the week, and 6:00 am on weekends. That’s tough on a kid growing up. But Dad always said that if you’re born with a special talent, in my case the ability to do things in the water most kids couldn’t, it’s irresponsible to take time off. In his words, the competition never sleeps.

Growing up, I knew that my regimented schedule was having an effect on me mentally and physically, I just didn’t know how profoundly until I was forced to hit the reset button on my life. After Dad died in the accident, all aspirations he had for me died with him. Suddenly I was twelve, fatherless, and missing an arm. Change of schedule? How about change of life.

‘Jason, get your butt down here! Your breakfast is getting cold,’ Mom yelled.

‘Okay—hang on!’ I called back.

I threw on a long-sleeve shirt and some pants and opened my door. The stench of extra-strong coffee assaulted my nose like a punch. How she could drink that stuff was beyond me. The smell of burnt bacon helped to mask the coffee odor, making my stomach rumble in anticipation.

I sauntered into the kitchen, grabbed a plate and set it down on the counter beside the frying pan. Trying to scoop up runny eggs with one hand was always a challenge, but I was hungry, and managed to get most of it onto my plate, along with a few of the least burnt bacon pieces.

‘Must be nice to sleep in until all hours of the day,’ Mom said with her back to me.

‘It is summer holidays,’ I answered. ‘And I’m fourteen… What would you like me to do?’

When I lost my arm two years ago, I wasn’t taking it very well. That’s putting it mildly—I was suffering from depression. Mom figured that sending me off to school after the tragedy would only lead to more difficulties, so she decided to have me home-schooled.

I’ve been at home for two straight years. I’m pretty sure Mom’s forgotten that I haven’t been sitting around on my butt this whole time, but have been actually doing work. I suppose to her, me staying at home while learning and me now having summer holidays are one in the same thing.

To say that Mom’s been having a tough time dealing with the loss of her husband and with her son’s disability would be a gross understatement. I sometimes wonder who’s having a harder time dealing with all the changes, me or her.

Mom clanged some dishes together. ‘Anyway, someone’s got to go out and earn a living, so I won’t be back for a few days. I’m heading down to Portland again. I think I might have a buyer for my designs.’

‘Nice. I hope it works out this time, Mom,’ I said, chewing on some bacon.

‘Me too. Make sure and call Grandpa while I’m gone.’

‘Okay.’

That was the most that Mom and I had spoken to each other in a while, so I wasn’t too put off by her curtness. I knew she meant well and I knew that she was still having a hard time dealing with the loss of my dad. I had a handicap, but I wasn’t blind. She was lonely and stressed and bitter—I could see that, but it was frustrating feeling like there was nothing I could do to help her.

Soon I’ll be out of her hair. After this summer, I’ll be attending an actual school for the first time in two years. But not your average school. Now that my Olympic dreams have been dashed, Mom wants to ensure that I get a top education, and is willing to pay whatever it takes to get me one. We applied to the private school, Olympia Academy, and are waiting for an interview. It’s a prestigious school, apparently, and only the brightest within the state of Washington can attend.

I can’t help but think that I’ll be at an obvious disadvantage right off the start, literally speaking.

I scraped up the rest of my breakfast and dumped it into the garbage. Mom kept hovering around the house, packing and re-packing her bags and slamming drawers. Finally, with her long hair done up in a messy pony-tail and juggling her suitcases, she darted past me for the door.

‘Bye, Mom. Drive safe,’ I said as the door banged shut behind her.

Outside I heard muffled voices talking to each other, and took a peek through the front window. It was my grandpa standing in front of Mom on the sidewalk, and the look on his face was anything but happy. Mom’s good cheer was spreading fast.

I sprang from behind the curtain and ran back to my room to finish getting ready. Grandpa was taking me to see Spy Chasers 2 today. We saw the first one together last year and have been talking about the sequel ever since. Back then not many things could get me out of the house, but I’ve always been a sucker for movies. Grandpa single handedly gave me a reason to stop feeling sorry for myself, and leave my cocoon of solitude I’d built up around me.

It’s a good thing Grandpa’s a big old kid at heart, because Mom’s act really started to wear thin during the first year of my disability. If not for Grandpa and all the time we spent together, I cringe to think what might have happened. With mom having to take on a second job after Dad’s death, it was Grandpa who cared for me most of the time. I’ve often wondered how an 85 year old man and a 14 year old boy could get along, but whenever we’re together we’re like two peas in a pod. He may be 85, but he’s going on 25. Youthful enthusiasm and longevity sure run in the family, because my great-grandpa William is the oldest man in the state of Washington, maybe even the country.

Everybody loves Grandpa—he’s Santa’s twin, from his balding white hair and full beard, to his portly belly and year long cardigan fascination. I swear the man never wears anything else. It could be 80 degrees outside and there he’d be with his cardigan done up to the second button from the top.

I heard the front door open and close again while I quickly brushed my teeth. I scampered down the stairs to see Grandpa sitting on the front bench with one arm crossed over his chest and the other stroking his white beard. He continued to stare, like he was in a trance, without acknowledging me. I hesitated to break the silence, but still sat down beside him.

‘…Grandpa?’

‘Good heavens!’ he gasped. ‘I’m sorry, my boy, I didn’t hear you come down.’

‘Is everything okay?’

‘I wish I could say yes.’ His piercing blue eyes continued to stare blankly.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid that your great-grandpa William has passed away,’ he answered bluntly.

‘Wow…I was just thinking about him. How?’

‘Well it happened rather suddenly, I’m afraid. By the looks of things, he was up on the roof during that storm last night. You know how he can be, probably trying to find that darn leak he’s been telling me about. Well, I found him on the grass on his belly beside the ladder this morning. He was as stiff as a bottle of gin.’

I looked down at my hand. ‘I’m really sorry, Grandpa. Is there anything I can do?’

‘As a matter of fact there is, my boy. In light of recent events, I’m going to have to cancel our little outing today. Plans need to be made for the memorial service and people need to be contacted. And, frankly, my mood has become rather sour.’

‘Sure, Grandpa, whatever you need to do,’ I said, trying hard not to sound too disappointed.

Grandpa put one of his giant hands on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Then, as if his sweater had suddenly caught fire, he began to frantically pat himself around his chest and sides.

‘Before I forget, there’s something…ah, here it is.’ He pulled out a wrinkled brochure from inside his cardigan and handed it to me.

‘What’s this?’ I asked, grabbing for the yellow paper.

‘That’s exactly what I said when I found it. It was the oddest thing. After finding my father lying out in the rain, I happened upon that inside his coat pocket,’ he said, gesturing to the brochure.

I unfolded it and read the front heading aloud. ‘The Youth Amputee Society.’ I looked up at Grandpa, who was studying my reaction. ‘What’s this all about?’ I said, almost insulted.

‘I assume that he had stumbled upon this brochure and meant for you to get it. He knew all about my involvement with you during the last two years, and of your sufferings. You may not have been aware of it, but your great-grandfather was quite fond of you; he talked about you often.’

I rubbed my stump nervously, feeling my cheeks start to burn.

I read more of the front page. ‘A social group developed to help young people cope with their losses. It is a chance for fellowship, healing, and bonding within the group, and for the individual. Meetings will be held twice a week for as long as the interest remains.’

I started to fold the brochure—not bothering to finish it—until Grandpa put his hand on mine.

‘Son, I think that you should at least take in a meeting and see what the fuss is about. See if it’s for you, and if it’s not, then so be it.’

I stuffed the paper in my pocket instead of the garbage before getting swallowed up in Grandpa’s embrace.

‘Now I must be off. There are many things to be done and people to call, but rest assured that we will see each other again very soon,’ he said with a wink.

I shut the door behind him as he left, and walked back into the kitchen. Finding a spare magnet on the fridge, I stuck the brochure to it with the schedule of events facing me. The first meeting was July 2nd.

Tomorrow.

Y.A.S.

Today started out with about as much enthusiasm as a funeral, which was ironic considering my great-grandpa William would be having his very soon. No tingling in my stump meant the skies were clear, but I was still relieved to see some sunshine cutting through the blinds as I peeked out from under my covers.

Ever since that freak accident, my reaction to thunderstorms was bordering on phobic. I’ll never forget the sound of the lightning hitting our car that night: it was like a giant sword swooping down from the sky and slicing us. That night changed my life forever, and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to storms for as long as I live.

I coaxed myself out of bed with the promise of an empty house and a breakfast that didn’t consist of anything resembling prison food. Mom tried her best, but a cook she was not.

I stumbled to my closet and yanked open the door. Not much to look at—lots of sweatshirts and button-ups, along with a couple track jackets and other light coats. The main criterion for my clothes these days was the bulkier, the better.

I laughed out loud as I looked at my prosthetic arm dangling from a hanger. A thin coat of dust covering it made it look fuzzy. It had been two years since I tried it on, and I wasn’t about to dust it off anytime soon. But every time I saw that ugly piece of equipment hanging there, I couldn’t help but feel guilty, like it was silently shaming me into wearing it.

I randomly chose my shirt, and closed my closet matter-of-factly on the artificial limb.

Once in the kitchen, I reviewed the pamphlet that Grandpa had dropped off yesterday. Today’s first meeting was at 10:00 am with a lunch and gathering afterward. It was on the other side of town, too, which meant I’d have to catch the bus now to get there on time.

The ring from the kitchen phone shook me from my sulking stupor.

‘Hello?’ I answered.

‘Well good morning, my boy, and how are we this morning?’ Grandpa bellowed.

‘Fine. You’re sounding better today, Grandpa.’

‘Well, I was gathering up some of my father’s things last night, and I suddenly realized that I could either decide to be sad and regretful, or accept his death and move on. Perhaps it is easier for someone my age to accept death, rather than for a younger person.’

‘I guess,’ I said, chewing my toast. Grandpa noticed the skepticism in my voice.

‘What it really boils down to is life experience. I learned to deal with loss, if from nothing else than by being on this earth for eighty-five years. You, on the other hand, experienced a very tragic death at a very young age, which made it exceptionally more difficult to deal with. That’s why I believe that this support group, this Y.A.S. club, could do wonders for you in terms of learning to cope with loss.’

‘I hope you’re right, Grandpa, because it sounds pretty lame.’

‘Oh, come now. There’s nothing to worry about. If anything, your story is a fantastic one, albeit somewhat depressing, but whose isn’t? By sharing your unique experience with others, they may gain a great deal from you, and vice versa.’

‘Maybe so, but –’

‘But nothing! Now, the reason I’m calling is to let you know that I would be more than happy to drive you to your group session today,’ he announced.

‘Great! You must have read my mind,’ I said, feeling a bit more optimistic.

‘Excellent! I felt bad about yesterday’s cancellation, so I thought the least I could do was to get you where you needed to go today,’ he said.

‘The Y.A.S thing starts in an hour; when do you think you’ll be here?’ I asked.

‘I’m on route as we speak, my boy.’

‘Grandpa! You shouldn’t be talking on your cell while you drive, you know that.’

‘Come now, I may be eighty-five but I’m not dead—not yet,’ he said with a laugh.

‘I’d probably be safer walking through traffic than getting in the car with you,’ I joked.

‘Oh hush! I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said, and hung up.

* * *

Olympia Elementary, where the Y.A.S. meetings were being held, was a good distance from my house. Taking the bus would have been a nightmare. The car ride was quiet and Grandpa did his best to calm my anxiety, but my hand still clutched the armrest like a vise-grip.

‘Just relax, Jason, everything will be fine,’ he said.

‘I know. It’s not that, it’s just…’

‘What then?’

‘I can hardly stand myself with a limb missing, let alone being in a whole room filled with us cripples.’

‘Very tactful,’ Grandpa remarked.

‘That’s the other thing—I tend to rub people the wrong way, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Just remember that you are no different from any of them. Perhaps there may be some differences physically, but emotionally you will all have experienced something in common,’ he said.

‘I guess.’

‘Before I forget, the funeral for your great-grandpa is tomorrow at 9:00 am. Make sure to let your mother know, please.’

‘I haven’t heard back from her yet. She usually calls the day before she comes home, so I don’t think she’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘No matter. As long as you can accompany me to the service, that would be more than enough,’ he said softly.

As we pulled up to the school, the sight of parked cars lined up along the curb made my heart start beating faster. I had been secretly hoping that nobody would show up and I’d be off the hook.

‘Thanks for the ride, Grandpa,’ I said, studying the outside of the school.

‘I’ll be visiting an old friend down the road from here. Just give me a ring when you’re ready for a pick up, and I’ll be here in two shakes,’ he said.

I grinned nervously and took a deep breath before getting out of the car. I walked up to the front doors as Grandpa’s tires squealed out of the parking lot. I turned to give him a wave, but he was already out of sight.

I reached the front of the school and read the sign that was taped to the door: WELCOME to Y.A.S.! Our gathering will be held in room 3C at 10:00 o’clock.

I stepped into the school like a cat-burglar, trying to keep my presence unnoticed. The halls were dimly lit, and the whole place felt abnormally cold. I walked to the end of the hall and spotted a familiar Y.A.S. poster on the wall in front of me, pointing me to go right. I followed it, and other strategically placed arrows, towards a brightly lit section of hallway.

Rows of small lockers and bare display boards lined the walls as I continued down the lonely hallway toward the light. I noticed a table set up outside one of the approaching classrooms: 3C. Sitting at the table was an elderly couple. The man’s name tag read Arthur, the lady’s read Suzanne.

‘Welcome,’ Arthur said, nodding at my hollow left sleeve. ‘I trust you’re here for the Y.A.S. club?’

‘What gave it away?’ I quipped.

‘Oh, come now, love,’ said Suzanne, ‘we’re all in this together.’

She wheeled herself out from under the table—with one leg missing—while Arthur raised his left arm to show a metal contraption on the end instead of a hand.

‘Please fill out this form, make yourself a name tag there, and find a seat inside. Drake should be in there setting up if you have any questions, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I muttered, scribbling down my name on the sticker badge. I peeled off the back, slapped the badge to my chest, hurried through the form, and then headed into the classroom.

When I entered, there were three things I noticed instantly. First, the floor was so overly polished, every step I took echoed high-pitched squeaks throughout the room. I tried to slow my pace, but it didn’t make a difference.

So much for going unnoticed.

Second, I couldn’t disappear into the back of the class due to the neatly arranged circle of chairs and tables, which meant no hiding spots. I spotted an empty chair that was free from anyone on either side, and I awkwardly made my way there, feeling all eyes in the room watching me.

Third, everyone I saw sitting in a chair seemed to be wearing their respective prosthetics. I fidgeted with my floppy sleeve and eventually tucked it into my jeans pocket as I sat down and smiled guiltily at my onlookers.

If I had been self-conscious before about my missing arm, my defenses were now on full alert.

When I felt comfortable enough to raise my head back up, I quickly took inventory of my surroundings. We were a sorry looking bunch. Close to half of the kids had a hand missing, with half of those due to a missing arm. Some had a leg missing, and a couple of the others had both arms missing. One boy had both legs missing and a girl directly across from me had no arms or legs at all. She was in one of those high-tech wheelchairs that you controlled with your mouth.

I tried my hardest not to stare at her, but realized I was doing just that when she gave me a polite smile. I quickly smiled back, and then rubbed my eye, pretending like I had something in it.

There was actually a fourth thing that I noticed a short while later, and he was a beauty. I didn’t think much of him at first, other than he was missing his right arm. But I also notice that, aside from me, he was the only other person in the room not wearing a prosthetic.

My curiosity was instantly peaked as I watched him bustle about the classroom arranging chairs and setting up flipcharts. From the back he seemed relatively normal, but then he turned around.

The best way I can put it is that he reminded me of someone out of a horror movie, or maybe even a comic book. It was like he had been divided down the middle by a precision laser, as the entire right side of his body was terribly burnt. From the top of his head—which was completely bald—to the bottom of his ankles, the skin looked shiny and too tight, as though it had been stretched like shrink wrap over his muscles and bones. The fact that he was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts didn’t leave much to the imagination.

He was a guy obviously comfortable in his own skin.

Our eyes met briefly and he gave me an acknowledging nod. The right side of his mouth had no lips, and his right nostril was completely gone, smoothed down to just a hole. His right eye seemed fine, but the socket was completely smoothed over and the brow gone, giving him an even weirder look, as if he was wearing half a mask.

It was difficult to peg his age, but he seemed to carry himself like he was a senior, or perhaps just out of high school. He pushed a couple more tables together and darted past me towards the elderly couple.

His name tag read J.J. Drake.

Everyone’s eyes followed him as he and the elderly couple huddled together outside the door. A few minutes went by before the three of them re-entered the classroom, with the scarred teen closing the door behind them.

‘Good morning, and welcome to the first Youth Amputee Society meeting,’ the older man started. ‘My name is Arthur McNeil, and that lovely lady at the back of the room is my wife, Suzanne.’ She raised her hand with a smile as she maneuvered her wheelchair into position.

‘This is really an exciting time for me and my wife, because this type of support club had been in the works for several years, but for one reason or another, was never able to get off the ground. It wasn’t until a young man by the name of J.J. Drake introduced himself to us, that the project was finally launched.

‘All we ask during the next couple of weeks is that you please be patient with us, as this really only came together a few days ago. We’re obviously still going through some initial growing pains which should resolve themselves as the meetings progress.’

A few days ago? How did my great-grandpa find out about it so quickly, and just before meetings got under way for the summer? He must have had his finger on the pulse of the amputee community for a long time.

Arthur took a step back, handing the floor over to Drake.

‘Thank you, Arthur, and thank you all so much for having the courage to step out and make it here today. I know that confronting our fears and hopes and regrets with total strangers can be a bit frightening, but rest assured that you’re not the exception. We’ve all been there.’

His voice was very commanding, and seemed to fill the entire room. As he spoke he looked into each and everyone’s eyes like he knew us personally. I was instantly hypnotized by his passion and apparent sincerity. After a while, I didn’t even notice the scars covering his body.

‘As Arthur mentioned, my name is J.J. Drake, but everyone just calls me Drake. A year ago I was a junior up in Seattle and on the school’s lacrosse team. One night, after a very intense win against a rival school, our team went out to celebrate a much needed victory. Our bus wasn’t two miles away from the school when an explosion rocked the front of it. We collided into some trees along the side of the road, and our bus caught on fire.

‘In the panic, I saw that the driver was slumped over in his seat, not moving, and I bolted over to help. With the aid of another teammate, we managed to pull him out the back of the bus. When I saw that the driver was responsive and out of danger, I rushed back to the bus to see if there was anybody else that needed help.

‘As I reached the back door, the gas tank suddenly exploded, spraying half my body with diesel fuel, and sending a chunk of the exhaust pipe through my arm. Witnesses said that I was lying on my side, covered in flames, for a good five minutes before anyone could do anything. The funny thing was, while I lay there—essentially being flame broiled—all I could think about was if I’d be okay for next week’s match.’

As Drake continued, I knew exactly what he was talking about. When I was lying pinned under our car, I had the same kind of thought. As much as I resented my inevitable swimming legacy, I had also wondered if my dad would be upset if I couldn’t make practice the next morning.

As he went on, I noticed how Drake’s experiences and mine seemed to mirror each other in an uncanny way. But he was so