The Walking Dead


    On his way to the Lost Soul Saloon for his nightly cognac and Padron cigar,
    Pierre Tibatoux strolled down Main Street admiring the Victorian
    architecture and original gas lamps, breathing the warm night’s scent of
    Monrovia and Azaleas and genuinely appreciating life’s good things.

    Spirit Mountain was set deep in the North Carolina side of the Smoky
    Mountains.  It was once an Indian village but as the settlers moved in, the
    Native Americans felt a crowding of spirits and quietly slipped away farther
    West.  There was never any fight, no burning of homes, no pillaging, no
    raping. It just got too crowded for comfort.

    Pierre was in great shape for his sixty-two years.  He attributed his good
    health to his Cajun genes and the clean mountain air, even though he
    smoked Lucky Strike non- filters, fine cigars, and drank a glass or two of
    cognac on a daily basis. His face was deeply lined, especially around his
    eyes, which always made him look slightly amused at the world.  His pitch-
    black hair, ruddy complexion and Indian nickel nose often made people
    mistake him for a Native American and he never corrected them.

    Only a handful of people knew him well and most of them were men his
    age. “Old Tib” they called him even though he was at most a year or two
    older than the oldest. His relationship with these men was as close as
    human beings could be with one another, but no one in town questioned
    the why or where of it. And he was well liked by everyone town, as much for
    minding his business as for his generally good disposition. He never got
    caught up in politics or moral stances. He never argued over sports events
    and bad umpires. He just listened and smiled. His priorities had changed
    many years ago; he chose his battles wisely now. Always there to lend a
    hand when needed, he was thought of by some as the oldest Boy Scout.

    So on this particular evening, as he walked down the street, fully intending
    to unwind from his day, he heard a woman screaming.

    “Help me, please someone help.”

    In an instant, his body reacted to the training it had endured forty years
    earlier, and in one swift motion he grabbed his K-Bar knife from his boot
    and ran toward the scream to a near-by ally.  

    A stream of light from a window lit her assailants face just enough to show
    the gapping scar  across his jaw and the pitted holes left from shrapnel
    forty years earlier.  Pierre stopped dead in his tracks instantly recognizing
    him. The Gunny, he thought; has found us.  

    The assailant looked at Pierre but he didn’t have the instant recognition of
    his fellow Marine. He recognized the lack of fear though as he look into the
    eyes of someone who would not hesitate to kill him in an instant, if he
    needed to.  

    “Stay out of this; it’s none of your business.”  The assailant said.
    “I am afraid I can’t do that.” Pierre replied in a calm voice. “Let her go; if you
    need a fight you can fight me.”

    The old Gunny had long forgotten his code of honor. He roamed the streets
    in search of enemies, no longer caring if there was a reason for his private
    war.

    Pierre hesitated. He wanted to help this old man, but knew it may cost him
    and the others their own peace. It was always a risk they always took.  His
    mouth was dry, but he swallowed anyway. Then he spoke.

    “I know you Marine. We share the same tattoo. Let go of the woman, she’s
    not your enemy.”

    Pierre pushed up his shirt sleeve and held his arm out to the man. There
    was enough light coming from the gas-lamps and windows to see the
    faded ink of a hooded skeleton holding a rifle. Below the image were the
    words, The Walking Dead. Every man in his unit, the 1st Battalion 9th
    Marines received the same tattoo over forty years ago in Saigon. It was a
    name given to the unit by Ho Chi Min, warning of what was to come.

    The assailant studied the arm of the old Marine and then looked again at
    his face. He let go of the woman, and slumped against the wall.  The
    memories flooded his head and the effect left him legless. He could still
    smell the burned flesh and bloodied bodies of his men.

    “You better get on home now Missy.” Tibatoux said to the woman. He was
    not going to lecture her about alleyways and old men lurking, looking for
    something they shouldn’t find. Tibatoux turned his attention to the man he
    remembered as the woman scurried away.

    “Bad times Gunny?” Pierre asked.

    The assailant shot back with a glare in his eyes and annoyance in his voice.
    “Nam was bad times, this is nothing. Not dying with your men is bad times,
    this is shit.”

    “Gunny, you saved the lives of many men that day, including mine. Let me
    help you out sir.” Tibatoux slightly relaxed his grip on the K-bar as he spoke.

    The Gunny had not been called sir in over thirty- five years. Suddenly he
    stood a little taller and pulled his shoulders back. He was only three years
    older than Tibatoux, but he looked twenty years older. He was still muscular
    but normally stood like a sea-legged sailor, trying to get his balance. Now
    he stood straight, like a Marine again.

    “I remember you now” said the Gunny as he studied Tibatoux’s  aged face.
    “Yes sir, I am sure you do. You didn’t like me much.” Tibatoux admitted.
    “Still don’t. Why are you here? Why am I here?”  asked the Gunny.
    The Gunny’s confusion was Tibatoux’s opportune moment.

    “Sir,” said Tibatoux. “We have men here from the unit; we’ve all wandered
    into the mountains and ended up here, we don’t really know why. You’re
    welcome to join us and live here. This place has something for us,
    something that gives us peace. I know, I probably sound like a crazy old
    coot. But come see your men and you’ll see what I mean.”  

    Tibatoux knew there was no turning back now. If the Gunny was as troubled
    as he thought, this small bit of paradise might not work for him. But he
    owed the Gunny, he owed him his life.  He knew the others would follow his
    lead, as they had in Viet Nam, but he wanted to be sure this home
    remained a safe haven for those who needed it. Pierre knew, many more
    were on the way; from a brand new kind of war.

    The Gunny followed peacefully though, and once again Tibatoux saw the
    miracle of Spirit Mountain.

    That night and for the next few, the Gunny slept on Tibatoux’s sofa. Pierre
    would sit in his chair and let the Gunny know he was taking first watch so
    the Gunny could get to sleep. Once or twice the Gunny woke from
    nightmares and Pierre or one of the other old Marines would be in the chair,
    on watch and ready to tell the Gunny everything was ok.  Detoxing the
    alcohol was the easy part. Forty years of bad dreams would take some time.

    The old Marines often spoke of the how and why they all ended up in Spirit
    Hills, they all agreed though, that they felt at peace there.  Pierre Tibatoux
    liked to think it was the spirit of warriors past, perhaps brothers of the
    Cherokee Nation that led them to this place of healing. Or maybe, he
    sometimes thought; it was their fellow Marines, Semper Fidelis, long gone
    and eternally young guiding the old Marines through life.



    This story is dedicated to the 1/9 Marines, past, present and future