1. Creed

CHAPTER 1

CREED

My body convulsed awake as if electrocuted by a surge of power. Every muscle tensed like a coiled spring. My eyes snapped open and darted frantically around the cramped confines of the vehicle, searching for any sign of danger lurking in the shadows. Heart pounding, I felt as if it could burst out of my chest at any moment.

Exhaling, I pushed myself into a sitting position, drawing my knees towards my chest as I wrapped my arms around myself and heaved out a breath.

I was safe. There was no threat to my life. At least not yet.

It wasn't the nightmares that woke me this time. Nor the discomfort from the cramped position I'd been forced to lie in for the past weeks. Or the heartache from being betrayed by the ones I'd stayed faithful to. It wasn't any of that, even though it all factored in. It was biting cold this time. The type of cold that didn't hesitate to freeze the blood of those who failed to take the necessary steps to keep their heart and core warm.

I shivered violently, my breath shallow as I let my mind wander, guiding it steadily to avoid the confusion that came with hypothermia.

Outside the windows of my Corolla, a snowstorm raged. It'd been the same way for hours and now the sound of hard, icy snowballs pattering against my car roof had faded to a dull thud.

Parked in the empty car lot of a fast food outlet, I sat up in the backseat of my car, trying to control my chattering teeth. My mind-over-matter chant didn't seem to be of much use to me anymore.

It wouldn't be of any use to me when I froze to death either. What I needed was a job. And a roof over my head so I could survive the Chicago winter. But then, I wasn't used to having miracles happen for me so a job, any job, would be fine for starters.

And if I didn't get the job before the weather worsened, then there was a chance I wouldn't see next winter, which might not be the worst possible thing. But I let my mind dwell on the existential crisis and the futility of everything I'd gone through before this moment.

Semper Fidelis.

The words crossed my mind with an intent of their own. I bowed my head, willing the wave of emotions that followed this memory to roll over. I missed my brothers, the feeling of my firearm tucked in its holster, and the thrill of executing intelligence operations.

Of course, it wasn't all rosy, especially considering the dangers it posed. Pushing past my endurance levels on days when all I wanted to do was sleep. The friends that had dropped dead beside me. Standing there helpless as they gasped their last breaths, trying to mutter final words for the loved ones they'd be leaving behind. I still heard their voices sometimes, the desperate way they clung to life, and how their eyes found mine, pleading for me to remember.

And then, the days when I accompanied the CACO to knock on a door I wished would never open. Officially, it wasn't my job to deliver the news, but sometimes, they asked me to be there because I knew the family—knew the stories that never made it into the letters sent home. The shock on their faces, the way their knees buckled under the weight of it, the way mothers clutched onto uniforms like they could somehow bring their sons back.

Returning their belongings... that was another kind of hell. The small things—dog tags, letters crumpled at the edges, a photograph with a corner folded over. Items that held so much more than the war could ever claim. I'd place them in trembling hands, try to find words when there were none, and all the while, the pain would claw its way through my chest as if their pain became my own.

The memories floated in my head, one overlapping another. I shut my eyes, trying to get some extra sleep in preparation for the long day I would be having, but then my jumbled thoughts had other plans.

With a groan, I pushed the car door open, stepping into the chilly morning.

As usual, there was hardly anyone on the street except the homeless addicts lounging strategically in front of abandoned buildings. Judging from the weather and stillness of their figures, I was sure that they were out of it and would probably be out of the world in no time too. It was what hypothermia did to humans.

I trudged my way to the train station, grateful for the waterproof safety boots I had on—a relic of my time in the US Marines. Even though the bitter memories haunted me, at least I didn't have to wade through the snow-filled asphalt path in soaked shoes.

I grimaced at the way my favorite sleep sweatpants were quickly getting sodden and soon I broke into a slow jog, headed toward the station's bathroom.

The bathroom was empty save for the cleaner resting against the doorway, puffing out air from his lips. As I drew closer, I breathed out a quiet "Good morning."

As I did my business in the bathroom, I chose to let myself feel only the positive things in my life. Unfortunately, they weren't much and soon I found myself having to start all over again.

I splashed some water on my face and returned to the waiting area of the train station. I glanced around and that was when I noticed the newspapers and magazines dropped on the steel seats. The owners had either dropped them in their excitement to get aboard their rides or no longer had any use for them. Either way, I wasn't about to let them end up in the trash when I could make good use of them.

I grabbed as many as I could carry and headed back to my car, parked not too far from a coffee shop. As I climbed into the old vehicle, I could feel the impact of my weight on the tires. I sighed resignedly. That was an indication that I needed to pump my tires. It seemed like the world devised new ways to deplete one's finances. My stash had taken a hit and there was only one option left for me.

Get a job.

It would have been much easier for me to do that, except after years of service, I'd been 'dishonorably discharged' for an indiscretion. No one had cared to listen to me long enough to get an explanation about what had happened, and now, just like my alcoholic father, an ex-Marine who had drunk himself into his grave, hopelessness would push me to mine.

I got my brush from the car trunk, where I had stacked the leftover papers for future use, and took out the carpets, dusting the remnants of my dinner off them.

To others, it was just a car, a total throwback on wheels—nothing special—but for me, it was the only remnant of my old life I had left. Whistling to the tune of an old Marine song, I laid carefully folded newspapers on the car's floor. I taped the remaining ones to the back windows, the panels of the door, and on the roof as well, in careful criss-cross patterns. The extra insulation was a must in this type of weather.

When I was done, I stepped out of the car and carefully observed my job, hoping that it looked aesthetically pleasing enough to be taken as a fun DIY project instead of lending credence to my homelessness. Working damn hard to keep ole Betty clean wasn't a hardship, but I did it for practical reasons too. I couldn't afford to get ticketed for violating some vehicle ordinance.

Glancing at my watch, I realized that despite all the time I had spent working, I still had three more hours till the interview at the coffee shop. It was scheduled to start at 8 a.m. I groaned and climbed into my car again. Maybe, I could fix my tires and get some gas in the meantime.

I turned on the radio, letting Drake's "God's Plan" boom from the speakers. It was true that I no longer believed in a big daddy above the bright, blue skies but that didn't stop me from hoping for a miracle.

Beyond exhausted, I willed time to magically race forward at a faster rate so I could see what my luck had in store for me. The constant pulling of the car to the right side and the shaking of the steering wheel had finally stopped, at least.

I drove slowly, staring hard to see clearly out my window. I didn't doubt that my tired face was contorted in a frown. The onset of the headache I'd been fighting since I woke up spiked another notch. I wondered if it was because I hadn't had my breakfast yet.

I heaved a sigh of relief as I spotted the gas station, my self-deprecating thoughts fading into the background. I focused on pumping gas, contemplating how to call the gas attendant's attention to my snow-covered windshield and windows.

"Couldn't have had a bad enough day without the fucking snow ruining it for me," I groaned to myself. I whirled, about to put the fuel pump back in place, when I noticed a gas attendant standing behind me.

"It's a mix of rubbing alcohol and water," she said, tossing a spray bottle to me. "Should do the work."

I caught the plastic bottle.

Her red hair swished as she made her way back to the main building. I yelled out a loud "thank you" as she ambled out of sight.

I sprayed a miserly quantity on my windshield. There was no telling when I would need it again.

A few months ago, none of this would have posed a problem to me. I was paid twice every month and with no one else in my life to cater to, I barely had any need for the money so I had stashed it away. It was what now kept me from being on the streets.

Losing my job suddenly taught me a lot of lessons, chief among them being the importance of financial investments. Just saving wasn't enough. That was what had me getting doors slammed in my face, especially when they found out how I'd been discharged.

My dishonorable discharge makes me ineligible for veterans benefits. But I joined the Marines as soon as I turned eighteen, and all the skills I had were what they taught me, and what my Marine father taught me before that. I'd bet my last buck that getting a DD was what slammed every job door shut before I could even blink.

But I fucking refused to grift like my dad had ended up doing; I'd find honest work, thank you very much. Even if "honest" meant "Nine-to-Fiver at the Bottom." Or "Low-Cash Crusader." So I put some air in my tires, used a couple bucks for gas, and de-iced my windshield. When I was satisfied with the condition of the car, I drove out again. I tucked my lip in between my teeth, gnawing the skin as I tried to focus on the upcoming interview.

My stomach growled like a beast hunting for prey, and I'd have killed for a hot cup of coffee, but I didn't have time to wait in line at a soup kitchen (or the patience to listen to the obligatory church sermon that came with it, as if God didn't abandon me a hell of a long time ago) and still make the interview.

Maybe when I got to the coffee shop, they'd at least give me a cup of coffee before they rejected me. Right? Maybe I could just let go and stop trying to fix my life when it was clear that I was part of the percentage that were likely to remain the underdogs, despite how hard they tried. There was no assurance that the management of the coffee shop would overlook my records. If they didn't, then all I could do was hang around and wait for the end to come. It wasn't like it was much further.

The negativity isn't going to help you , I mentally chastised myself. It wasn't what I'd learned from training camp. Marines weren't losers. Besides, the negativity wasn't going to change anything. All I had to do was walk in there, confident that I was just as good and deserving of the position as anyone else. Surely, there had to be someone who would take a chance on me.

Trying to make my face hold the expression of someone not having the worst months of their life, I headed to the interview.