Authors: Kristopher Mallory
Tags: #madness, #bloody, #alan goodtime, #all in good time, #jon randon, #jon randon series, #the death agreement
Jon Randon Series.
The Death Agreement
Jon Randon Series
Copyright © 2014 Kristopher
Cover Art Copyright © 2014
ISBN-13 (EPUB Version):
Edited by Em Petrova
eBook License Notes:
You may not use, reproduce or
transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written
permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical
articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws.
All rights are reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are products of the author's
imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
The Death Agreement:
"This is all so confusing and mind
I Know What They Are:
"This is absolutely amazing. Has me
a bit paranoid as I get deja vu quite a bit, hopefully not too many
good futures have passed me by..." –
"Hands down one of the best short
sci fi books I have read" –
These Bad Dreams
"No idea WTF is going on here, but
I'm fascinated!" –
Amber Whelpley, Em Petrova, J. W.
Zulauf, James Fincham, Janiel Escueta, Jonathan Hasara, Terry
Colley, Thomas Thompson, NoSleep Readers
Shout out to the Hypnophobia
"It's just a flesh wound."
~ The Black Knight
Dedicated to memory of Major Jesse
We made a pact. He lived up to his
end by dying. I tried to live up to my end by following The Death
What you will find within these
pages is a true recounting of a man's life as seen through my eyes.
It's almost an impossible task when some of what you see can't be
real and what is real you may refuse to see.
Human beings have a capacity to
dread the truth, to distort facts when they don't fit our
predefined notions of how the world should work. We forget that
reality isn't what we want it to be. We ignore the signs that our
universe doesn't care about us. It constantly changes to suit its
own needs. Nothing is perfect. This includes the focus of my story.
People come and go. Pieces don't fit neatly together. Doubt clouds
judgment. Mistakes are made. All hell breaks loose when no one is
looking. I guess that's how life is supposed to be.
For me, it doesn't matter anymore.
What happened, happened, and I'm still bound by the terms
Please consider this dedication a
warning sticker. Come in if you dare, leave if you don't. Some
might call this experience horror. It is that, no doubt, but at the
root I suppose it's a tale of transformation.
Speaking of transforming: Have you
ever stood in a dim bathroom and stared at a mirror? For the past
18 months, I've done that every day. What I see in the glass
consumes me. My silhouette fades into a thousand different
terrifying faces; each sharpens to crystal clarity before morphing
into someone else. I don't know who these people are, but I
recognize them all. I've learned that what we see isn't a
are the reflection.
My name is Jon Randon and I'm
going to tell you a story.
Taylor and I used to joke about dying
Looking back, it started as a way
for us to show off to our friends in West Point—one of America's
most prestigious schools. We wanted to project this fearless image
like a lot of young cadets do. We were arrogant and had a smart-ass
answer for everything.
"If we keep this up," Taylor said,
laughing, "we're not going to make it past thirty."
"Not a chance," I
Driving a car down the highway at
over twice the speed limit?
Jumping off a cliff into shallow water?
another trashy barfly that cruised Highland Falls?
High five me, brother.
The Academy professors all called
us Cadidiots behind our backs. I'd say that's an accurate term. We
knew we were young, dumb, and full of cum.
Even so, we lived by a code: A
cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those that do. And we
took pride in our motto: Duty, Honor, and Country.
General Douglas MacArthur summed it
"In my dreams I hear again the
crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter
of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory I come back to
West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor,
I first crossed paths with Jesse
Taylor on Reception Day. The Commandant told us which platoon we'd
be joining and assigned us a room in the Ike Long Barracks. Between
the constant barrage of screaming and running around we had to
endure that day, I don't think we had a chance to even say hello to
each other, let alone the other new Cadets.
Death jokes started the first week
of Cadet Basic Training. Though our backgrounds were extremely
different we had the same morbid sense of humor. We quickly became
best friends, and it wasn't just because some system of random
selection told us we were going to be roommates.
Most days as a Plebe went by in a
blur. None of us got more than four hours sleep each night, but
people can get used to anything, or so they say. I guess to sum it
up, we all had a tough time that first year.
Life drastically improved after we
joined Corps Squads. We gained access to a team house. Someone knew
a laid back Major who on occasion would provide us with some booze.
Not much at first, just a swallow here and there, almost as a dare
to see who'd risk taking a shot.
Fast forward to a night when we
were sophomores: 50.5 miles from West Point, at a bar, attending a
birthday party for one of the guys. The Corps Squads team captains
were pressuring each other to see which squad could drink the most.
I figured the row of tequila shots would kill us. Taylor figured
we'd be executed via firing squad when the Tactical Officers found
out we were drinking underage. None of us really thought we'd get
busted, so we drank, and drank, and drank some more.
From then on that's how things
were at West Point. We became juniors, and during the week, all us
Cows studied hard and acted the part. Come the weekend we lost
control of our ability to act like rational human beings,
oftentimes nearly killing ourselves during our extracurricular
Somehow we made it through the
four years of school without dying or being expelled. Only one of
the guys in our company ever got punished for an alcohol violation.
The poor bastard had to walk for 100 hours, marching back and forth
on the weekends, unable to talk anyone. It took him over six months
to work off the time. I still laugh about that.