Clarence realized he couldn’t get up.  He lay flat on his back on the hard ground.  Slowly, he rolled over on his stomach trying to remember what had happened.  His legs had given out.  But why?  That’s right, I was shot. Damn legs are worthless now.

It was dusk but the heat of the day was still emitting from the ground below his prostrate body.  He looked behind him, but in his mind he knew what he would see.  Yes, they’re dead.  All dead.  The bodies of his comrades—all members of Seal Team Six—lay strewn along the ground, motionless and silent. 

Clarence surveyed his surroundings.  He was next to a large shrub and a plastic green recycle bin which shielded him from view from the small field littered with his fallen comrades’ bodies and a deserted country lane just beyond.  To his left was a steep canyon.  And in front of him was a narrow wooden deck running along the side of a non-descript country house.

But this was no ordinary non-descript country house.  Inside, terrorists had set a thermo-nuclear bomb that would level the nearby city, killing hundreds of thousands of people.  That’s why Clarence and his team was sent here.  Neutralize the terrorists and defuse the bomb.  But something had gone wrong.  The terrorists must have known they were coming.

Clarence saw no signs of any terrorists.  Most of them must have fled, he reasoned.  The bomb was set to go off in less than an hour, and now that they thought his Seal team was all dead, there was no reason to stick around.  But they must have left someone behind to guard the bomb—some brainwashed tool willing to give his life for the “great cause.”  For some reason, they’re never in short supply.

Slowly, Clarence pulled himself onto the deck.  Damn, I’m too old for this!  It was literally true.  The president himself had pulled Clarence out of retirement for this mission. 

“Clarence,” the president had said, “you’re the best damn Seal there ever was, and I wouldn’t want to rely on anyone else to lead this team.”

Clarence had to admit that that was all probably true.  But look where he was now.  Wounded.  Crawling on his belly.  His team all dead.  But there was still a chance he could pull this off, and he was determined to get the job done.

The moon was rising and time was running short.  With great effort, Clarence used his forearms to drag himself across the wooden deck.  His progress was slow, and with every few inches covered, the old, splintery wood cut into his forearms.  But still, he saw no signs of life from within the house. 

As darkness fell he pulled to within a few feet of his object—a wood-framed glass French door that exited onto the deck.  And that’s when he saw some movement.  Behind the glass he could just make out the shape.  It was a small grey cat.  He could only hope it would not make some noise and alert any guards of his presence.

Slowly, he pulled himself in front of the door.  He peered in through the glass, but could see nothing except for the cat, which starred back at him with what he considered a bemused expression.

It would take some effort to reach the door handle, and it would leave him in a dangerously exposed state, but he had no option.  He had to get through the door, and there was no time to waste.

Clarence reached up and pulled down the handle and carefully pushed the door inward.  Making barely a sound he dragged himself into the house.

The room was dark, but next to the cat was a chair.  He struggled to pull his tired and wounded body into the seat.  Then he closed his eyes and rested.  He wasn’t sure how long he sat there resting—fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.  And then he felt it.  Something brushed up against his legs.  He looked down and saw the cat.

“Okay, okay.”

He summoned all his strength and pushed himself out of the chair and onto his feet.   His legs were weak but steady.  A light from an adjacent room provided just enough illumination to allow him to see that he faced a kitchen.  He took a few careful steps forward and flipped on a light switch, instantly flooding the kitchen with brightness.  Propped up against an island in the middle of the kitchen was a cane.

“Ah! I should have taken you with me!” Clarence exclaimed as he stepped forward and grabbed the cane.

Then there was a noise.  The cat, which had followed Clarence, was looking up at him and started to meow.

“Okay, okay, I’ll finish it up.”

With alacrity that stunned even the cat, Clarence lifted the cane to his shoulder, aiming it like a rifle at some unseen object across the room.

“Blam! Blam!  Terrorist dead.”

Then he grabbed an orange from a fruit basket on the island and brought it up close to his face with his left hand, examining it intently.  He wiped the back of his right hand across his brow before making a cutting motion next to the orange with his middle and index fingers.

“Clip, clip.  Bomb defused.  City saved.”

Clarence shuffled over to the kitchen sink and examined his bloody and bruised forearms.

“Damn blood thinners!”

Meticulously, he cleaned up his arms.  Then he made his way to the refrigerator, pulled out a jug of iced tea and poured himself a glass.  He deserved it.

Triumphantly, Clarence made his way to a chair in the living room, lowered himself gingerly into the cushion and took a long swig of the cold tea.  The cat jumped into his lap, purring.

“Being 90 may be a pain in the ass, but there’s no reason you can’t make it interesting.”

– Brandon Crocker