They were not men anymore. Their will had been broken. They had been stripped of their humanity. They were scarred skin stretched over bone, nothing more. A look into the eyes of these empty vessels gave no hint as to what they once were. Most lay in unnatural positions, twitching and moaning, too weak to rise. For a while, the ones who could walk shuffled their skeletal remains aimlessly, oblivious to the chaos around them. Then, they all started to die. Not from bullets. Not from fire. These shattered men simply had no more life left in them.

* * *

     It used to be the paperboy would walk up to the porch and carefully place the newspaper inside the screen door. Now, the paperboy isn’t even a boy and just drives by, chucking the paper somewhere near the driveway. This is the kind of thing that had really started to bug Avery Stiggs since his mandatory retirement. The whole world has gotten lazy, he thought.

     Avery was sixty-six years old and still in terrific shape. His forty-six years in the Army had kept him in tip-top condition. He was just over six feet tall and had a muscular build. His cold, steel blue eyes and geometric features gave him an intensity that always commanded respect. He had a full head of hair that was short, neat, and efficient. Avery looked like a military man. He carried himself with confidence and discipline. Although he was wrinkling and going gray, he still looked like he could kick some ass.

     An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay was Avery’s motto. He could not stand laziness and despised ineptitude. He had always pulled his own weight; always got the job done, always put food on the table. Those who did less were worthless in his mind. Nor could he tolerate whiners and excuse makers. Life is hard for everyone, he believed. Anyone who couldn’t suck it up didn’t deserve to live in a free society.

     Avery saw combat in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, but nothing prepared him for the horrors of retirement. He was used to getting up before the sun and working hard until it set. Now, he literally had nothing to do. It was killing him inside. He never spent a dime on anything frivolous, even though he had a generous pension. Most people enjoyed the rewards from their years of hard work, but not Avery. It just wasn’t in him.  He considered relaxation to be little more than loafing.

     Avery had turned down promotions throughout his career because he didn’t believe that officers worked for a living. Paperwork and politics was for the physically weak and the morally bankrupt. He wanted to earn his money. Most of his time in the service was as a master sergeant. He was a warrior, not a pencil pusher.

     Immediately following his forced retirement, Avery tried his hand at consulting work. He took a job with a military contractor, acting as a liaison between the Pentagon and the corporation. This line of work did not suit him at all. He felt like he was just taking tax dollars to fly around the country for meaningless meetings. The meetings were worthless, achieving nothing. It was a complete waste of time and money, and it made Avery sick to his stomach.

     His next attempt at a post-retirement career was as a mercenary. Conflicts around the globe could benefit from his years of combat experience. He was good at two things: fighting and training others to fight. He had contacts in the international soldier-of-fortune scene but, because of his age, no one would give him a chance.

     What made the days of nothingness unbearable was the fact that Avery had no one to share them with. His wife Jean had passed away sixteen years earlier. Officially she died of pneumonia, but Avery knew she had died of a broken heart. While he was serving in Vietnam, a typical military slip up had listed him as killed in combat. Within a week of hearing the false news, Jean was dead. She went to the grave never knowing that her husband was fine.

     The loss of Jean devastated Avery. She had been the one true love of his life. They had met later on in life than most passionate lovers do. She was in her mid thirties, and he was in his forties. Before meeting Jean, Avery had been married to the service. She was the first woman to get his eye to wander. They felt an instant connection. He worshiped her. Those who knew Avery as a hard-assed non-com were surprised at how tender and attentive he was toward his beloved Jean.

     Before Avery shipped off to Southeast Asia, he and Jean had been blessed with a baby boy they named Peter. When he returned, he found himself a widower with a five-year-old child. He was not suited to raise the boy. Peter needed attention and patience that Avery couldn’t give him. After a few futile years of acting as a father, Avery shipped Peter off to military school, where he could get a solid foundation in discipline and respect.

     Peter, unfortunately, was a continual source of disappointment. At the military academy, he failed to distinguish himself in academics, athletics, or anything else. Peter did just enough to get by. After graduating, Peter kicked around at the community college and a few trade schools. He never earned a degree. Avery was disgusted by his son’s inability make anything of himself. Avery loathed Peter’s lazy attitude. The tension between the two eventually reached a boiling point. Avery disowned his son. They had not spoken in nearly six months.

     Each day as read the paper, Avery could see society crumbling before his eyes. It was there in black and white. Whether it was Marines giving secrets to Russian sex spies, crumbling banks, or men of God fleecing the masses, civilization was in its decline. Everyone was trying to get rich quick. The American work ethic was gone, and history’s greatest democracy would soon follow.

     Drugs were Avery’s biggest sore point. The way in which people poisoned their bodies and destroyed their lives was beyond comprehension. The druggies’ lifestyle of lies, deceit, and murder was both un-Christian and un-American. Mrs. Meade from across the street had lost her grandson to drugs. He had taken PCP and jumped off a bridge. It was hard for Avery to feel sorry for someone who had willingly taken a dangerous narcotic and ended up dead. He did feel bad for Mrs. Meade, though.

     Avery’s home was in immaculate shape.  He had re-tiled the bathroom, replaced the windows, and re-roofed his house. There was nothing obvious left to do, so one day he decided to replace the water main. It didn’t really need it, but he had to keep busy or he’d lose his mind. He was excavating the old galvanized line that ran through the front yard to the street when a sleek black Corvette pulled into his driveway.

     He disdained for people who flaunted their wealth with flashy cars and such. He also didn’t like strangers who assumed it was okay to violate his private property. Avery was prepared to chew out the inconsiderate individual behind the tinted windows of the Vette, when his son Peter emerged.

     Peter was a good-looking twenty-two year old. He was lean, with dark, slicked-back hair. He was wearing a shiny white suit with a flower print shirt and no tie. Avery thought he looked like a homosexual. Would that be the latest disappointment?

     “Hiya Pop,” said Peter, taking off his designer sunglasses.

     Avery barely acknowledged his son. He continued to dig the trench. Peter walked up to his father.

     “What do you think?” Peter asked.

     “About what?” replied Avery, still digging.

     Peter wanted Avery to notice his nice car and expensive clothes. He desperately wanted his father’s approval, but in his heart he knew he wouldn’t get it. He told Avery that he was working in the entertainment industry. He was a producer and was making great money.

     Avery thought very little of the movie business. He had the impression that all film people were lazy, amoral phonies. He was nevertheless slightly impressed that his son apparently had finally focused on something, even if he disapproved of the way Peter was showing it off.

     “I just flew out from the coast, rented this fine automobile, and now I’d like to take you out for a big juicy t-bone,” said Peter in a cocky way that irritated his dad. Avery was less than enthusiastic about the dinner invitation. After some cajoling from Peter he agreed. Secretly he felt he’d end up paying for the meal given his son’s history of irresponsibility.

     Peter beamed with pride as he took his father to the best steak house in the county. Peter told Avery that he was living in Los Angeles and working for a film company called Lay Lines Pictures. He even had his own business cards. When he gave one to Avery, he finally felt like a big success.

     “A producer, huh? What the hell does that mean,” asked Avery.

     Peter’s face lit up.  “I line up the talent, make sure everyone is doing what they’re supposed to be doing, solve the little problems that arise. I do it all, Pop.”

     Avery thought for a moment. “So you’re a professional bullshit artist.”

     Peter was deflated by his father’s lack of respect. All he was trying to do was show Avery that he could not only make a living, but do well enough to enjoy some of the finer things.

     “Do you always have to tear me down? Can’t you accept the fact that I’m different than you?” Peter replied angrily.

     Avery had a medium-rare hunk of steak on his fork. He looked at it for a moment then put it in his mouth. He knew he was too hard on Peter, but he didn’t know how to apologize. Sentiment was a sign of weakness.

     “This is a damn good piece of meat,” Avery said with something as near to a smile as he ever gave.

     Peter knew that was as close a compliment as he would get from his father. As they finished their dinner, they had their first real conversation. It wasn’t Avery barking orders or Peter making excuses. It was just two people discussing the events of the day.

     Peter returned to Los Angeles the following day. Avery was glad that he and his son had finally been able to connect. They agreed to exchange regular phone calls and promised to take some father/son vacations. It felt good to have a workable relationship with his boy.

     Soon after his reconciliation with Peter, Avery found a part-time job at a shooting range teaching firearms safety. His life seemed less empty. He once again had a purpose. At long last things were finally starting to fall into place during his retirement.

     His contentment was short lived.  A few weeks after Peter’s visit, Avery received a disturbing phone call from his son. The connection was bad. He could hear static and faint echoes of other people’s conversations.

     “I messed up real bad this time, Pop.” said Peter in a panicked tone. “I need for you…”

     As Peter’s sentence trailed off, the line went dead. Avery didn’t know what to make of it. He was used to Peter screwing up. Avery had fielded plenty of pleading phone calls from Peter when he had been in military school. This call seemed different. In the previous cases, Peter had always sounded apologetic. This time there was genuine fear in his voice.

     Avery called the Los Angeles police department and told them what had happened. The police couldn’t have cared less. They said if Peter went missing for a week, they’d take a report. Other than that, they said there was no evidence that a crime had been committed. Avery then tried to find Peter’s address or phone number through the phone company, but no listing existed. The only thing Avery had was the business card Peter had given him. He called the number, but it was after hours and all he got was a recording.

     Avery was not an indifferent man. He didn’t react, he acted. He had learned this lesson all too well in the Army. In the Pacific Theater, his inaction led to the deaths of a hundred American soldiers. It continued to haunt him. He wouldn’t make the same mistake with his son. He knew it would drive him nuts if he waited around hoping for something to happen. He packed a bag and headed to the airport. The airline had a special discount for veterans. He hopped a flight to L.A.

     The plane touched down in the early afternoon. Avery rented an economy car and picked up a road map. He’d been in Los Angeles after the Korean War, but the city had changed a lot since then. He decided to drive to Peter’s office—it was the only thing he had to go on.

     The film company was located on a sleazy street in Hollywood. This wasn’t exactly where he’d pictured a big-time studio would be doing business. He spotted a sign above a storefront that read: Lay Lines Pictures. He parked the car and entered the door. He had to walk up a flight of stairs. He found himself in a messy reception area. No one was manning the desk.

     Posters on the wall featured scantily clad women in a variety of suggestive poses. They appeared to be film promotion posters with titles that mocked popular movies: Fatal Erection, Poonstruck, and The Secret of My Suck-cess. Avery guessed the company was in the business of making blue movies. A short stocky man with an excessive amount of body hair entered the room. He gave Avery the once over.

     “We’re not doing the sexy seniors thing any more. Nobody’s buying it,” said the hairy man.

     Avery absorbed this, then said, “No, you don’t understand. I’m looking for my son Peter Stiggs. He’s a producer.”

     The hairy man started to laugh. “Producer? He’s my mule, baby.”

     Avery knew that a “mule” was a drug courier. Even Peter couldn’t be that stupid, he hoped. He assumed it was Hollywood jargon like “gopher”. After he convinced the hairy man that he wasn’t a cop, he explained the situation. The man finally introduced himself as Jack Hammer, president of Lay Lines Pictures and star of more than five hundred features. He told Avery he hadn’t seen Peter in a couple of days, but that was not unusual.

     Jack gave Avery Peter’s home number and let him use the office phone. No answer. Jack jotted down Peter’s address on the back of an 8x10 glossy of a naked young woman. Avery left with a sickening feeling in his gut. He couldn’t believe his son could work for such a filth merchant.

     Peter’s apartment was in an even worse neighborhood than his office. Derelicts and near-catatonic drug abusers milled about. It reminded Avery of a movie in which radiation from a passing comet brought the dead back to life. Now in the year of the 200^th anniversary of the U.S. Constitution, a document Avery had fought for more than once, these scumbags were using their freedom to fry their brains. What a pathetic waste, he thought.

     Avery entered the decrepit building and knocked on his son’s door. When no one answered, he sought out the building manager, She was a funny old gal, and Avery had no trouble persuading her to open the door to Peter’s apartment. As she turned the key in the lock, she offered Avery a drink and a not-so-subtle invitation to a romp in the sheets. He politely declined and entered his son’s living space.

     The single-room apartment was a shambles. Avery couldn’t tell whether it had been ransacked or if his kid was just a big slob. The place was filthy and infested with vermin. Avery looked through Peter’s meager belongings but couldn’t find anything that provided a clue to Peter’s situation. He sat down on a rickety chair. He didn’t know what to do next. He didn’t even know if Peter was really in trouble.

     A young Latino suddenly appeared at the door. His dark hair was encased in a hairnet, and he wore a blue flannel shirt and khaki pants.

     “Where’s he at?” the man spit out.

     Avery stood up and approached the man. He didn’t know who this young thug was, but he knew trouble when he saw it.

     “Who wants to know?” Avery replied coolly.

     “Smith and Wesson want to know, homes,” the man said, lifting his shirt to reveal a handgun tucked in his pants.

     The hoodlum had underestimated the veteran. Before he could blink, Avery had disarmed him and dropped him to the floor with a right cross. He trained the gun on the reeling young man and demanded some answers. The man’s name was Jesse Hernandez. He said Peter owed him five thousand dollars for some cocaine he gave him on consignment.

     It just keeps getting worse and worse, reflected Avery. First, he learns that Peter works as a pornographer, and now the suspicion that he’s involved in illegal drugs turns out to be true. He still wanted to find his son, but not to save him from anything. He wanted to knock some sense into his thick skull.

     Avery told Jesse who he was and asked repeatedly if the Latino knew where Peter was. Jesse was elusive and uncooperative. Avery had no leads. He had nothing to go on. The scumbag on the floor represented his best chance for learning the truth.

     “I want you to help me find my son.” Avery said.

     Sullenly, Jesse said, “Why the hell should I help you?”

     “You say he owes you five grand. If you help me find him, I personally guarantee you’ll get your money back.” Avery’s voice carried indisputable integrity.

     Jesse said he’d ask around and see what he could find out. He’d meet Avery the next day at a taco stand down the block. Avery unloaded the gun and handed it back to his new business partner.

     Avery checked into the nicest moderately priced hotel he could find. As he sat in his room, his mind raced with the possible fates of his wayward son. Given all of Peter’s sleazy dealings, he very well could be dead. Waiting around with his thoughts was pure hell. On the battlefield, he could force the issue, but time was an opponent he could not match.

     A couple of minutes after noon the next day, Avery sat at a table in front of the taco stand. Jesse was late. While Avery wasn’t really expecting the street scum to produce miracles, he hoped he’d turn up some useful information.

     “Did you bring the money?” Jesse’s voice came from behind.

     He turned to look at the Latino.  Avery was no fool. There was no way he was going to show up at this meeting, in this neighborhood, with five thousand dollars in his pocket. Jesse moved to the table and sat down. “You come up with some information, and you’ll get your money,” Avery said evenly.

     “Your kid’s a punk. You should let this one go,” Jesse said.

     Jesse told Avery that Peter had become mixed up with some big-time drug dealers. He said Peter ripped them off for a hundred thousand or more. Jesse was nervous and didn’t want to volunteer too much information. Avery pressed him. The drug dealer was named Paulo Orosco and he was so big that governments feared him.

     “Word on the street is he screwed up and they took him,” Jesse said candidly.

     Jesse wouldn’t elaborate. Avery wasn’t sure if Peter had been kidnapped or was murdered. In any case, Avery had gotten what he wanted and was a man of his word. He took his street informer to the rented car parked down the block. Avery had drawn five thousand dollars from his Federal Credit Union account and hidden it under the floor mat. He handed the cash to the young Latino. Jesse pocketed the five thousand dollars and asked that Avery forget that they ever met. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the situation. He left in a hurry.

     Back at the hotel, Avery called a friend of his at the FBI. He didn’t explain the situation, but wanted to know about Paulo Orosco. His old pal told Avery that Orosco was a major importer of cocaine. He ran a cartel out of Castigo Roca, an island off the coast of Colombia known for drug trafficking and the sex slave trade. The feds estimated that he was responsible for seventy-five percent of all coke on the streets in the United States.

     How in the world could Peter be involved with a man like that? Avery wondered. He was furious that his son would get into a mess this ugly. But maybe he should give Peter the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe there was a logical explanation for everything. Avery had come this far, and he wasn’t a quitter. He owed it to his only child to follow through as far as he could.