Introduction
Before we dig in, thank you for reading. I just want to remind everyone that a lot of this is based on real events, some I experienced, some I learned from those I served with. It has taken me 20 years to be able to get some of this on paper, and I try so hard to make sure I work on it a little bit at a time. Thank you.
Chapter 3
The next day was the same as all of the previous days, on Mars every day was the same. The Orbisun hung in the air, angrily raining beams of light and heat upon those that would walk beneath it. The red-stained dust that carpeted every surface on Mars baked in the heat, and even the air smelled hot and dry. Every day was the same, sometimes the minor details changed. Some days you sat at a bar and sipped whiskey until you passed out. Others you simply sipped whiskey, and tried not to pass out.
Today was a rare day for Griff. It was a day in which there would be no whiskey sipping. The second consecutive, and already worse than the one before. He had woken up early and begun preparing to travel. His conversation with the alien gave him minimal information, but he did find out that they would have to make the hike from Utopia to Sanctuary. The trip would only take a few days, but the dangers of traveling the Martian wastes were very real, so, Griff had laid a few things out on his bed. The bed was a simple cloth laid over whatever items he could find that would pass as a mattress. The frame itself, if you could call it that, was just a large sheet of wood that he had laid on top of some cinder blocks and bricks that were pulled from the rubble and debris that was left after the war.
On his bed he had some canned foods, first aid equipment, and ammunition.
Beans, Bullets, and Bandages, he thought.
He stood in his little room, shirtless, packing his bag. He stared at the bed, then to the ruck. More relics. The ruck had a metal frame, tubing that bent to form a rectangle. Over it rested a large canvas sack that had a draw-string at one end to close it up. A flap could be pulled over and strapped down to further close and seal the sack. The sides of the sack had stripes of canvas stitched horizontally in a way that created little loops. Metal clips slid through those loops and attached to small pouches that hung from the side of the sack. Each pouch provided just enough space for extra ammo and other sundries one might find themselves needing.
“We’ve been through a lot together,” Griff said out loud, still staring at the ruck. It was old and stained. Remnants of a hard life and many battles clung to the fabric. Small blood stains decorated the sack. Little clusters of dark red that served to Griff as a reminder, as if he didn’t have enough of those already.
“Fuck. I need a drink.”
He stopped packing for a moment, and started pacing. Walking back and forth in his small room, kicking bits of clutter out of the way as he did. He was finding himself agitated and jittery, a byproduct of not drinking. He didn’t want the alcohol, in fact he hated it, but It calmed his mind and It steadied him. It masked so many things that Griff just didn’t want to deal with, and it took the antsiness and jitteriness out of him. He walked back and forth some more, pacing. He walked and talked, not really to anyone, just himself. It helped him to verbalize his thoughts, and right now he had a lot of them.
“Are we really going with that fucking monster?” he asked himself aloud.
“Yeah. I have to. I’m the arbiter. The sheriff. Hell, whatever I am, it’s my job”
The pacing grew furious as he spoke, though his tone stayed low and measured. Without much space, he was only able to make it a handful of steps before having to angrily whirl around and resume his pace. As he walked he kicked clutter even harder than before and small items flew into the air and were sent in various directions until there was a narrow and clean path through the middle of his room.
“He’ll kill me. He’ll kill me, then eat me. Nasty ass.” He kept walking, clenching his fists and releasing them methodically in an effort to stay calm.
“Even if he doesn’t kill me… If I die. He’ll still eat me. Jesus.”
Griff’s mind was racing as fast as his walking, thinking of all of the potential outcomes. The war was so long ago, but when he was sober it felt like just yesterday. He could remember so many of those that died, whether to the fight itself, or the war that continued to rage even after peace was made. It wasn’t peace, Griff thought, as much as it was just a stalemate. Humanity had fucked itself up so desperately hard in an attempt to make it impossible for the Death Eaters to come and win this war, but in doing so nobody really won.
“Well. I guess I have two options,” he stopped pacing, and grabbed his belt, a long and wide piece of fake leather made to look like the real thing, and slung it over his hips. He reached down to the bed and picked up the Western Arms revolver that lay on his bed, he opened the cylinder and checked it, 8 rounds. It was a bear of a handgun, and the only possession Griff had that he had maintained. Closing the cylinder he then placed it into the holster that was strapped to the belt. An old army issue, with straps that can secure the weapon to the bearer’s leg.
“I can either help him. Or I can kill him. Maybe see if there’s a reward. Someone in one of the nearby towns was buying their scalps at one point. Whatever I decide, I need to commit. I can’t half-ass it. Fucker will know my intent right away. Goddamn mind-readers.”
He continued this line of thought, but in silence, and after a few minutes of rage-induced pacing he finished his dressing and packing, and he slung the ruck and made a decision.
He pulled the door to his room open, and silhouetted in the Orbisun was the large frame of the death eater, wearing the same hat and poncho it wore before. Its tall body created long shadows through the doorway, and its eyes shone in the darkness of its hat. The light of the orbisun was almost completely blocked out be the creature’s large and bulky frame.
“I appreciate your choice,” the creature whispered into Griff’s head.
“Son of a bitch.” Griff remarked. He stared into those soulless white eyes glowing from under the hat and thought about how much he’d love to put a bullet into each of them.
Griff stepped from the room, shouldering the Death Eater as he did. He turned, closed the door, and stepped fully into the heat. It was so hot. And Griff felt incredibly thirsty.
“So, tell me about this outlaw.” Griff said as he locked his door.
There was a brief silence as the two started walking out into the street. Old run down buildings and shacks lined it, and it looked more like an old rail town than the shining pinnacle of human technology it once was. This street alone was home to Mickey’s, the bar Griff frequented, as well as a general store, The Rec Center,which was an old run down gym that Griff frequented when he wasn’t too hungover, a couple of eateries and a handful of other merchants simply trying to make the best of their bad situation. Griff looked up and down the street before he turned towards the general store. The building was made from the remnants of the old department store that stood here before, patched and cobbled with shipping containers and some poor welding. The whole thing was powered by a solar generator that had managed to survive the war.
“I’m being hunted. Not just me. My kind.” The hoarse whisper scratched through Griff’s mind.
Silence again as they moved a few more paces, then it spoke again.
“I started noticing it when the second one died.” It continued.
“Second What?” Griff asked. He was trying to sound amicable, but was having trouble with it, and just sounded like the angry jaded asshole he was.
“We had a loose network in the area. Generally your younger generation is more accepting of us, but the older ones. They hate us, and it can make it tough to settle in your towns. There aren’t many older ones left, so our plan was to just wait you out.” The voice echoed.
The General Store grew nearer as they spoke, and Griff thought about how much his arm hurt right now, and began rubbing the spot where his real biceps used to be.
“Sounds like a hell of a problem.” Griff remarked sarcastically.
“One of us died,” It continued. “I didn’t think much of it, just a random act of violence. Didn’t go check it out, or anything. It isn’t uncommon for one of us to get jumped by a few of your people. Whiskey and numbers make them much more brave. Few are as brave as you, willing to outright threaten me alone and in person.”
It fixed its eyes on Griff when it spoke, and though they were hard to read Griff could feel the anger it spoke with.
“I’ll do it again. In broad daylight. In front of God and all of these people,” Griff responded, his fingers resting against the handle of his revolver.
The alien stared back at him, and Griff knew he was trying to get a read on him. He had spent some time fortifying his mind, he knew the creature would be trying to probe him incessantly, and the benefits of the training he received years ago had occasionally outweighed the pain and suffering he had seen and endured because of it.
He continued rubbing his arm, and the two stood outside the general store staring at each other awkwardly for another moment.
“My arm hurts. We going to get supplies, or eye-fuck each other all day?”
“It cannot hurt, it’s not real,” the Death Eater responded.
“Yeah,” Griff said softly, turning to open the door, “Explain that to my arm.”
“You old bastard!” a voice yelled as soon as Griff stepped through the door, “You’re not dead yet?”
“Old Tom!” Griff replied, “Hell. You’re at least 10 years my senior.” It was true, He was the oldest of the old timers in Utopia, which is how he got stuck being called Old Tom. He was lean, long in the tooth, and his old wrinkled face showed the weathering of someone that worked hard labor most of his life. His white hair was thinning and receding, but Tom kept it neat and combed back.
“True. But I don’t wallow in whiskey all day. Too much work to be done for us normal folk. Working the law seems to be keeping you drunk and happy.” The remarks sounded rude, but were said in that fond way old friends use when teasing each other.
“Hell, all I do is clean up after the other drunks. Someone has to, might as well make the head drunk be in charge of it.” Griff smiled as he replied, by now he was all the way into the ramshackle store, and the alien was stepping in behind him, looming over the shelves.
Tom looked past Griff and stared at the alien, smiled and nodded. “Who might you be, friend?” Old Tom asked.
Griff followed Tom’s gaze, “Oh. Don’t mind him. He’s with me. Get to play at being arbiter again.” Griff’s voice was heavy with disappointment as he spoke, not from having to work, but from having to work with the Death Eater.
Griff started walking the old shelves, looking for any supplies they may need on the trip. The Death Eater paced the floor nervously, anxiously looking about. Old Tom stood behind the counter, rested his palms on it and leaned forward a bit.
“Ain’t that just the day.” He exclaimed.
“Stop,” Griff said abruptly, grabbing some dried foodstuff from the shelf and taking it to the counter.
“Son. I’m not telling you how to live your life. But you got to let the past be the past. He’s got just as much right to be here as you. And his trade and money are just as good. Hell.. It’s. It’s probably better than yours is, anyway.” Old Tom chuckled as he spoke the last sentence.
“Probably. This is going onto my account.” Griff said. He set the items down on the counter and Tom picked through them to get a tally.
“Holy shit,” Tom said. He looked at Griff suspiciously as he added numbers.
“What?” Griff asked, genuinely confused.
“You’re actually sober. Can’t smell a drop on you. Good for you!”
“Gotta hump to Sanctuary. Can’t have that shit holding me back. Gonna need a clear head on this one.” Griff said
“Just stay that way, Griff. You’ll thank yourself later.”
As if bored with standing there Griff started to shift his weight to either foot, and jostled around a bit.
“Yeah. It just helps with so many things.” Griff said quietly.
The two men stood there as Tom finished adding up the supplies. Griff then unshouldered his ruck and started putting items in specific pockets and pouches. Each one carefully being placed in its home so that the limited space was being maximized. As much as Griff hated packing, it was a necessary part of the trip, and he forced himself to do it, and to do it right.
“We’re being followed.” the alien’s raspy whisper pierced his head.
“You sure?” Griff asked out loud, giving Old Tom a look of caution as he continued to place the cans and supplies inside of his ruck.
Slowly he slid his hand down to the heavy revolver hanging from his hip, and repeated, “You sure we are being followed?”
Old Tom looked around the store, glancing to his makeshift windows to see if he could see anything. He gave Griff a nod and a wink as he crouched behind the counter, when he reappeared an old streetsweeper was in his hands.
The whisper pierced Griff’s mind again.
“Three men. Jackets. Boots. Vests.” There was a brief pause, “funny little hats that don’t really seem to serve any kind of function. And badges… They all have badges.”
Well fuck, thought griff. He looked to Tom and spoke, “Can you finish packing that ruck, Tom?” Then turned toward the door, pulling his hand away from his revolver without waiting for the response.
Tom watched Griff walk towards the exit, gently rested his makeshift shotgun on the counter then smiled as he packed Griff’s bag with the rest of the items on the counter.
“You know these men?” The death eater asked.
“Well, there’s no federal Marshal service on Mars, as far as I know, which means they are either law from Sanctuary or they’re Bloodhounds. Either way, they won’t want a shootout, at least not at first.”
“They’ll bargain?”
“They’ve already killed two of your friends, I’m guessing. So the only bargain they’ll make is for your sorry ass. But there’s only one way to know for sure.” Griff responded as he walked past the shelf the death eater was crouched behind.
Griff pushed the door open and stepped back into the blazing heat of the Orbisun. He squinted his eyes and adjusted his hat as he took account of what was around him. Utopia was a small settlement, small enough that the only law they had ever really needed was Griff, and small enough that three strangers in uniforms and short-brimmed hats were easy to spot on the street.
As Griff had expected, the three men had him tripointed. Each one spread out to prevent his egress, the only escape route Griff had was back into Tom’s store.
Fuck it was hot. You could see the heat radiating from the ground, the rocks, the metal of the ramshackle buildings, and off in the distance the horizon just looked like a hazy blur.
“So. Thirsty.” Griff thought as he scanned the area from under his hat. He raised his hands chest height, showing the men that he was not here to be aggressive. He eyed them as they slowly walked toward him. The dusty streets had already started to empty at the sight of the three Bloodhounds, and by the time Griff had stepped from the store it was just the four of them, though onlookers and busybodies could be seen peering through their windows and cracked doors.
“You the law here?” One man asked. He was lean, sinewy, and had a thick accent. He must have been 20 years younger than Griff, and he spoke like he had never read a book in his life. His face was covered in the ritualistic ink that only senior Bloodhounds get. The mark that sets them apart and lets everyone know that this man is a true Bloodhound. In for life at this point.
Griff looked at the other two. Even younger, probably around eighteen. No ink. One of them a little heavy, the other sporting a fuzzy mustache.
Griff stared at the three in silence, assessing his situation and calculating everything that could go wrong.
“Hey, Pops,” Tattoos snapped his fingers as he spoke, “I said…”
“Yeah. I heard what you said,” Griff cut him off, “You snap those fingers at me again, and it will be the last time they snap.”
All of the men grew silent, then Tattoos let out a low quiet laugh. “Sure, Pops. So, are you?”
The other two laughed, but only after Tattoos did.
“Yeah. I serve as Utopia’s Sheriff and Arbiter. You need help with something?”
The three men slowly crept toward Griff. Inch by inch they were closing the distance.
“We are looking for someone.” Tattoos responded, “Tall. Blue. White eyes. Maybe you’ve seen him?” He raised his hand to indicate height as he spoke, then used his fingers to make circles and held them over his eyes.
His accent was so thick it was hard to understand him. He moved slowly forward. They all inched ever closer. Always pushing.
Griff felt a bead of sweat run down his cheek. “I think you’re close enough, friend.” Why was it so goddamn hot on Mars?
The three men stopped at this, they were about fifteen feet from Griff at this point, which was a safe enough distance for Griff. Any closer and they’d have been able to rush him.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him. What do you need him for?”
“It’s contract. Can’t discuss the details. Send him out and no one needs to be hurt. We all go our own separate ways.” Tattoos spoke again, and pointed to his little Bloodhounds badge on his chest as he spoke.
Silence fell again. Griff shifted listlessly in place. The silence was peaceful, the only respite from the heat and the tension of the situation. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled deeply. He slowly let the air out as he opened his eyes, but didn’t speak.
After a few more seconds of quiet Tattoos spoke again, “Look, Griff, Don’t want to hurt you. Hand him over and you can go back to your bar.”
Interesting, Griff thought to himself, they know me. They know my name.
He wasn’t surprised, but it did let him know that whomever the contract was with was extremely thorough.
“Kid. Silence is golden, and I can’t think when you talk. So just shut the fuck up for a minute, okay?” Griff’s response was not well received. Mustache and Chubs giggled a little under their breath, but a sideways glare from Tattoos caused them to stifle the giggling. He was not used to having people speak to him that way, and it showed. He reacted accordingly. Fire lit his eyes and a menacing grin flashed across his wide mouth. His teeth were all capped with golden outlines and his body took on a more offensive posture. He was a snake ready to strike. Ready to sink his venomous fangs into anything that moved.
“You don’t speak to me that way.” The other two noticed his posture and reacted appropriately, also adopting a more aggressive posture. They appeared to simply try to mimic their boss and the sight was almost comical.
This was the reaction Griff had hoped for, and he twisted his body, placing his phantom arm between himself and Tattoos. He then reached for his revolver for the other. He did it with an intentional slowness. He watched Tattoos react with an almost supernatural speed. Watched the snake-like man produce a pistol from nowhere, and bark two shots out of it in rapid succession.
The shots rang out as Griff drew his old revolver. The bullets buzzed through the air and slammed into his implanted arm, ricocheting harmlessly away from Griff. And the surprise this had produced gave him the time he needed. As the bullets impacted into the arm, Griff’s revolver thundered and Mustache’s head nearly exploded sending brain and bone fragments out in multiple directions.
Twisting much faster now Griff reached under his shield arm and another shot struck like lightning, punching a hole into Chub’s chest and knocking the man back and down. Bloodspray decorated every surface behind him. Griff then stood straight and square to Tattoos, revolver aimed at his head.
He stood in disbelief, staring at Griff. “How..?” Seeing his friends bloodied and dying took the fight out of him, but the answer to his own question came to him while he shook the disbelief from his eyes.
Tattoos went from predator to prey and then simply to a regular person almost instantaneously. He holstered his pistol, “Don’t worry, pops. You won’t surprise me next time. You want to play nanny to that Death Eater, that’s on you. I’ll be coming back. And that trick won’t save you.” After he spoke he turned and started to walk away.
Griff kept his revolver pointed at the man, even envisioned pulling the trigger. “It would be so easy,” he thought. “So easy to blow your back out.”
Once the Bloodhound was far enough away that Griff felt comfortable he holstered his pistol and stepped back into the store.
Here
“Tom. We’re leaving. It all goes on the account. I’ll square up on my return.” Griff grumbled the words as he walked through the aisles and back to the counter.
Tom smiled, and was already putting the shotgun away before Griff had re-entered. He had also finished packing the few remaining items in the mere minutes it took for Griff to settle the altercation. The two men smiled, shook hands, and said their goodbyes. Griff then shouldered his ruck and headed for the door.
“Come on.” he grumbled as he moved past the Death Eater and reentered the blazing heat of the Orbisun.
The two walked in silence, the heat stewing them in a marinade of sweat. Griff pulled his dingy chocolate colored stetson lower to block out more sun. He’d had that hat for years, a remnant he had picked up when sifting through the remains of a blown out gift shop. Beside him the Death Eater towered at least a foot over him. It was draped in the same sand-colored poncho it had been wearing, and a hood was pulled up and over its head, shrouding it in darkness.
Except for those fucking eyes. They glowed like the sun. Griff started swinging his arms and stretching as they walked. All he could think about were those unblinking eyes. They approached the edge of Utopia, the ramshackle walls that surrounded their little town just ahead of them.
“Well, Death Eater, 20 more feet and we are past the point of no return. Are you ready?” Griff didn’t even bother to look at the alien when he spoke, and he continued to fidget while he walked.
“Are you?” it whispered in his head.
They stepped past the gate, a dirty young man sat with his back against the wall, facing out into the wastes. He nodded at Griff as the travelers exited the relative safety of the city walls.
Before them lay the Martian wastes. Craggy rust colored landscape stretched as far as the eyes could see. The smells of hot iron and dirt filled the air and it felt like being in a forge. Little dust devils kicked up occasionally, dancing and swirling across the red rock and sand. The dust tried to dance and swirl its way into everything, and prolonged exposure started to feel like walking through sandpaper. The grit was everywhere, and would climb into crevices unknown. Griff pulled a cloth over his face, pulled some goggles over his eyes and readjusted his hat. He looked over at the alien and noticed a cloth over its face, but the eyes stayed exposed.
“Dust don’t bother your eyes?” Griff asked.
“No.” it responded. Silence. Griff expected that was all he was going to get and began to walk forward. The whisper in his head returned.
“We have a membrane that covers our eyes. It functions. Much. Like your…. Eyelids. Except they are clear. Our eyes never close the way yours do.”
Griff had wondered about this before. He’d been around Death Eaters, but never cared to learn their anatomy. He just needed to know that bullets kill them just the same as people. That would explain why they were so god damned hard to ambush though. Between never closing their eyes and their bullshit telekinetics it could make it damn-near impossible to get the drop on one of them.
Griff thought about what they would look like at night. Especially if they slept. Those white discs staring blankly into the night.
“Well,” he thought, “You’ll fucking learn today, won’t you.” He jostled slightlyand took his first step.
“This shit would take a lot less time if we had a car.” He grumbled out loud. Not really to anyone.
“A car?” The Death Eater asked.
Cars weren’t really common on Mars, and No one under the age of 35 had even seen one outside of pictures. Occasionally you can come across the blown out remnants of military vehicles, but generally on mars trains used to run from town to town and much of the civilians didn’t travel enough to warrant owning one. Many were sold on the idea of personal teleporter devices. Supposedly they were going to be on the market soon. Supposedly we weren’t going to get invaded, also. Go figure.
“Yeah. A fucking car. Has four wheels,” He said, bringing his hands up to mime driving, “motor, put gas in it, goes vroom. A fucking car. You had to have some sort of transportation.”
It just stared at him in response, glowing white discs staring from the deep blackness of the hood.
“I’m just saying. If we had a vehicle we could get there in a day. Going to take 2-3 days on foot. If we hit a way station and we get lucky we might be able to find some sort of vehicle that works. Anyway, You ready, Death Eater?” Griff lowered the cloth, took a swig of water, and walked further into the wasteland.
He felt a large three-fingered hand slap down on his shoulder, the fingers tightening and pulling him backward. Griff immediately unholstered his pistol, spinning into the alien as it pulled and slammed the barrel of his pistol into the being’s abdomen. The alien looked down at the gun pointed at its belly, then looked to griff.
“I have a name.” it said.
“I bet you do,” Griff responded. “Problem is, I don’t fucking care, nor do I care to hear it.”
They stared at each other. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. Dust, sand, and rust swirled around them. Griff’s fist had a stranglehold on the pistol, his heart felt like rapid punches from a boxer setting up for a knockout. He stared into those glossy soulless eyes and he felt the rage and hatred spilling out of him. He felt the Dobner inside of him clawing its way to the surface. Griff struggled to maintain control. He closed his eyes tightly, took in a deep breath and uncocked his pistol. He felt the alien’s grip on his shoulder loosen and he holstered his sidearm and stepped back.
“Fuck. I need a god-damned drink.” He said to himself. He opened his eyes, seeing the martian landscape once again through tinted lenses. He reached for his canteen and poured water in his mouth. He knew it wouldn’t be whiskey, but he still found himself hoping.
He turned once again towards the wastes, and this time they both stepped out. They walked the road to Sanctuary. The roads were in surprisingly good shape given the way the rest of the planet looked.
Griff had remembered some briefing that was buried deep in the recesses of his brain, a memory that hadn’t been destroyed by years of drinking or chronic exposure to head trauma and blasts. He remembered one of those smart science-types talking about self-healing roads, that somehow the concrete they used interacted with the Orbisun so that they continuously repaired themselves. Living Roads, was the term they had used, or maybe Bio Roads.
“Who fucking cares?” he thought.
They stepped out into the wastes in heated silence. Griff leading the way, the Death Eater slightly abreast and behind him. Together they silently walked the old road that led towards Sanctuary. As they moved through the blazing hot light of the Orbisun they would occasionally come across abandoned vehicles that were either too broken down to move or just completely blown out. Either way, they served as sad reminders of what was, and what never came to be. Each vehicle was a relic from a time when humanity had dominion over their environment.
They walked. One foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other
Midday approached, and Griff’s legs were screaming in angry protest. His body was unused to this much movement. Griff still made himself exercise, despite the volumes of alcohol he had consumed. It helped. Just like the alcohol, it helped. But at this point he was simply going through the motions, as opposed to really pushing himself. It, like most things he continued to do, had more to do with habit than anything else. His exercise, his life, everything was on autopilot and he struggled to deviate from the path laid before him.
One foot in front of the other, you fat piece of shit, it’s only walking. You do it every day.
He continued on, forcing his eyes to look up at the horizon instead of down at his feet.
There’s nothing down there for me anyway.
“All right, third platoon, Listen up,” Marvel had already started yelling and it was only 430 am.
“Today we are going to the claymore range, third platoon. Today we are going to learn how to use a classic piece of weaponry”.
Thirty men stood at attention on a concrete slab, the weight of their packs forcing them all to lean forward slightly to counterbalance the pulling of their rucks. This would be their longest march to date. Twelve miles with forty pound packs.
“Today we learn who the men are, third platoon.” Marvel was pacing back and forth in front of the formation while Fitzke stood nearby, his drill hat pushed down and forward and his arms crossed.
Griff stood in the front rank. He was weeks into his cycle, and the newness of basic had worn off. Now he was on automatic. He understood that if he kept his mouth shut and his ears open he could learn and would be left alone. So he decided to do just that.
All of the men were silent. The only noise, outside of Marvel’s bellowing voice, was the creaking of metal framed rucksacks under the weight of their contents. All of the soldiers stood in a trance staring forward blankly as Marvel continued to talk. It isn’t that they weren’t interested, everyone was just so exhausted. Griff zoned out for a moment, the words from Marvel’s mouth pouring into his ear only to have them cascade out of the other with no dam or filter to stop the flow.
“Third Platoon! Attention!” His voice carried through the formation area and echoed into the dark sky. The sun hadn’t even come up yet.
The men were still at attention from stepping into the formation, though many had relaxed a little. Most snapped with a jerk as they straightened themselves out.
The formation was given the order to right face, and then forward march. And thus began the longest walk to date. The men walked. No one knew for how long. It didn’t matter. One foot in front of the other. It didn’t matter how far, it didn’t matter how long.
A soldier began to fall out. As he stumbled behind the formation Fitzke was immediately on him.
“It hurts, Drill Sergeant” he said.
“Of course it does, freak. If it didn’t, everyone would do it.”
He leaned in close to the soldier so that the brim of his round hat was touching him, “Now get back in my formation. I’d hate to have to leave you out here, miles from anything, especially since you’re too much of a bitch to go on.”
And then they walked. One foot in front of the other.
“Okay, third platoon. One foot in front of the other. You do it every day. Too easy.” Marvel’s voice would break the silence occasionally.
At some point the sun had come up, though no one really noticed. At least not until the temperature jumped up. At night time it was almost freezing temperatures, but once that sun started its glide across the sky those temperatures would climb. By mid morning the whole platoon was sweating, leaving trails of salty water behind them everywhere they went.
The road would fade in and out of focus. No one had mentioned that you can get highway hypnosis while walking, so it was a new experience for the soldiers. Men were sleeping standing up, even while they were walking. Snapping back into reality just long enough to make sure they weren’t falling behind. Soon they were turning off of the main road and walking onto a gravel trail. The Drills corralled them into a small holding area and put them into formation.
“At ease. Rest. Keep the ruck sacks on.” Fitzke turned to Marvel and they spoke briefly. Marvel then turned to address the platoon, his voice booming.
“Drink water, third platoon. You have 15 minutes to rest and drink water. Keep your rucks on, we are moving in 15. You have 15 minutes to finish 1 canteen of water!”
He turned his back and began talking with Fitzke again.
Immediately everyone started chatting and drinking. The water was ice cold, the frigid morning air had sucked any warmth from it, and there hadn’t been enough sunshine to keep the canteens at a reasonable temperature. The men all stood around in a gaggle, chattering like geese and trying to drink a quart of water comfortably.
It was in these moments that basic training didn’t seem so bad. A group of men all sharing the same experience, forming bonds and building that sense of camaraderie. These small moments made the suck worth it. That’s what they had called the shitty parts of life then. The suck. It was a phrase that Griff would carry into his drunken stupor later in life.
At this point the men had all gotten to know each other fairly well, so most of the chatter was just about plans after basic, improvements in life, and things of that nature.
“What the fuck?” Marvel’s voice pierced the air like an icy dagger. Every man in the formation immediately fell silent, their stomachs all heavy with the weight of anxiety.
“Third Platoon, how much water did I say to drink?” Marvel’s booming voice echoed in the cold morning air and the whole platoon stood in awkward silence as Marvel paced around behind them.
“Okay, Third. I said one canteen of water. And Private Tate decided it was too much, and he poured it on the ground. Now you can all remove your second canteen and start drinking. It better be empty in five minutes.”
Angry chattering began to sweep over the formation. The men struggled and groaned as they tried to push their way through another canteen. Griff kept quiet. No complaining, no cursing, just quietly plowing through his second quart of water in twenty minutes. The last five minutes were excruciating. Everyone’s stomachs were bloated and full with water, and it was almost painful to move. Soon, though, 30 men stood in formation with their outstretched arm holding a canteen upside down in front of them to show the Drills that they had finished their second water. The torture was over.
Marvel paced around the platoon some more, muttering obscenities to himself as he paced around the young men. Grif had often found himself wondering if there was something wrong with the man, or if it was all just part of the facade of basic training. Griff understood he was being indoctrinated, but he felt powerless to stop it, even if he wanted to.
“Half-Right, Face!” There was a pause between the preparatory command of Half-Right and face. Long enough for a collective groan of pain and frustration to escape the entirety of the platoon. Every man in the formation turned 45 degrees to his right, rucksacks still hanging heavily off of their backs. No one said a word after that. They just stood there in silence. The pause was intentionally placed there to increase the tension.
“Front-Leaning Rest Position, Move.”
The men slowly lowered themselves into the push up position, the water in their bellies sliding and sloshing just like the packs on their backs. Griff did his best to stay quiet. He didn’t want to scream, nor grunt, He didn’t want to complain. He knew he wasn’t the best soldier, but he also knew he wasn’t the worst. But what he lacked in athleticism at the time, he decided to make up for it with heart and determination. So he got down, pack on his back, stomach stretched with liquid, and he pushed.
He looked to his right as he lowered himself to the cadence of Marvel’s voice. A row of men all struggling under the weight of their rucks, bellies crying for help. Basic Training had been a fairly miserable experience so far, but this had been the worst thing he had to endure. Echoes of groaning and the sounds of men swallowing back their full stomachs filled the air. They hadn’t been pushing for more than a minute, but time moved slower during remedial training sessions. The drills seemed to have control over space and time, slowing down the world whenever they were punishing the platoon with physical training.
Another moment went by, and Robbins, a wiry young man in the front of the formation, began heaving. Seconds later Robbins was emptying his stomach on the ground in front of his face. He dared not get up, nor say anything, so the young man continued to push, small ropes of spit and vomit hanging from his lips into the pool beneath him. Marvel continued to drone in the background. An angry bee buzzing around an already agitated platoon. No one heard at this point, and now that the first one popped, the rest would follow suit. As the sounds and smells of Robbins’ stomach contents carried through the formation, one by one more men began throwing up until there were thirty men all doing push-ups with their faces staring into puddles of their own vomit.
“Okay, Third Platoon, get up.” Marvel said.
The formation all rose to their feet, staggering under the weight of their rucks.
“Fill your canteens. You have five minutes. Go.”
Third Platoon rushed over to the large mobile water tank, or water buffalo, and began filling their canteens. Within moments the men were standing back in formation, careful to avoid the puddles of vomit they had left there previously.
“You have five minutes to drink another canteen of water. You puked your water up and wasted it, and now we have to rehydrate.”
Curses and groans escaped everyone’s lips.
“Remember, Private Tate, when I say drink water that means what?” Marvel was standing about ten feet in front of the formation, yelling at Tate, who stood in the back.
“Drink water,” Tate replied.
“Drink water, Drill Sergeant.” Marvel responded, looking visibly agitated.
“Drink water, Drill Sergeant.” Tate Parroted.
“Now. Third Platoon. I want you to thank Private Tate”.
The platoon was confused by this, and they all just murmured thank you to private tate as they shuffled around trying to force more water down their throat.
“Bullshit. I want you to thank Private Tate!” Marvel was starting to yell.
So once again the platoon thanked Tate, this time a bit louder, more agitated, and impatiently.
“God Damn it, Third Platoon. I want you to say thank you Private Tate for Fucking us!” He was starting to get so agitated he was stammering. Once again random noises would come out in between words.
“Thank you, Private Tate, for fucking us” the platoon chorused.
Griff shook the remnants of the memory from his head as they walked. The flashbacks were stronger, more vivid, and he found himself thinking desperately about drowning in whiskey. They had found a break in the barren, ruinous landscape and decided to use this small rocky outcrop as shelter while they ate lunch. As they ate, the Death Eater walked around, seeming to study the nearby surroundings.