by Nate Allen
Chapter 6
A falling friendship had been reconciled with complete understanding. Sometimes Grant found Bobby more understanding than even Chelsea. He sat in the seat, finally understanding what closer-than-skin-to-bone actually meant. It had been something indescribable until now: warmth. They were completely opposite people in appearance. Bobby had long dark blonde hair, and thick rimmed glasses. Grant had short brown hair, and perfect vision. But, inside they thought the same thoughts, got the same jokes, and understood the others' mind.
For another hour, the bus drove on a dirt road until coming to a small deserted town: a sign saying HIGHLAND, ARIZONA was tipped askew, and a ghost town sat beyond it. The men thought about the Arizona heat plucking them dry of hydration. It was all too quiet.
The bus drove another two miles, passing a church shrouded in dying Palo Verde, a fire station with shattered windows, and the charred remains of a grocery store that had been on fire. The bus passed through, took a left on Palo Street, and continued on for another mile until the town of Highland was behind them.
As soon as it came into sight, all minds stood at attention. The training camp now sat in seeing distance. Every moment brought it closer, until the bus stopped, and the door opened. Patrol Sergeant Hetel stood up. He brought attention to himself with nothing but strict presence. "This is where you will train. In a single file line get off the bus,"
Grant and Bobby stood along with the others. And just as Hetel had commanded, they lined up in a straight line, and got off the bus. The second bus was parked behind the first. Forty two came from each, becoming one line of eighty four.
They remained in a straight line that was beginning to separate. The quiet of the bus ride melted away with the desert heat. For the forty two men who had heard it, the shock of Patrol Sergeant Ricks' speech had withered into mind static.
At the front of the line, the four Patrol Sergeants stood shoulder to shoulder. Between the four of them, height differed by five inches. Hetel was the tallest at six two. At the other end of the four men, Patrol Sergeant Liese stood. He was the shortest, at barely five nine. But, his strength made up for whatever else he lacked. Patrol Sergeant Ricks now had a face that was pure stone. Whatever emotion had been shown on the bus was gone. Patrol Sergeant Scott was the thinnest man, with a face of clean black skin, and brown eyes three shades lighter than Hetel's.
"Quiet down and listen up!" Hetel commanded, as the other three stood with their hands behind their backs.
The talking stopped.
"One by one you will enter the tent in front of you and get your hair buzzed off. After that, you will get your uniforms on, and wait for further instructions under this hot sun. Is that clear?!"
"Yes!" they all said.
"Yes what?!"
"Yes, Sir!" the group answered.
"For anyone who doesn't know who I am, my name is Patrol Sergeant Hetel. This man next to me is Patrol Sergeant Ricks, next to him is Patrol Sergeant Scott, and at the end is Patrol Sergeant Liese. In the near future one of us will be the only Patrol Sergeant you work with. But, for now we will have an evaluation period. Patrol Sergeant Ricks covered some of it on the bus. You don't need to know the in depth working of this new system, only the things that affect you. And what affects you is this: there are no beds to sleep in; there are no other chains of command. The four Patrol Sergeants you see are all there is. If you get out of line, you will be disciplined. And I assure you it will not be pleasant. The Arizona heat is dry. If you need discipline, we know just how to keep you in line. Now proceed!"
They proceeded forward one by one. Grant found himself somewhere in the middle of a line of eighty four men. Bobby stood behind him, and the tall Timothy Fane stood in front of him. He was a quiet black man. His eyes were dark brown. He stood six and a half inches over both Grant and Bobby.
Timothy Fane cast a shadow, long and thin. Grant and Bobby stayed quiet for the most part. They continued, until each of them sat in a chair, and watched their hair fall to the ground in clumps. Each uniform was in its own plastic, with the name of the trainee marked on the outside. They dressed and waited for further instruction. Their war costumes had been fit, shaved head and all. But, they were just children playing war with real guns in place of tree branches. It all was for nothing. They would come to realize this soon enough.
It wasn't the town of Miles. It was empty desert, with a ghost town somewhere in between. Even though the Arizona heat was scorching, Grant's blood was cold. His new lease on life was fading back into a blank existence. On the bus ride there, it still was only his mind painting possibility pictures. But, now it was real. His head was shaved, and his casual jeans and t-shirt were now fitted camouflage. His possibility pictures had included some desolate Arizona desert, shaved heads, and fitted camouflage. It was as he had thought it to be, but still something was different. He wasn't prepared.
Another thirty minutes passed. It was time to proceed with further instruction:
"Evaluation begins today." Sergeant Liese was a raspy man, with a voice that didn't fit his face. "Line up behind Patrol Sergeant Ricks and Hetel. Patrol Sergeant Scott and I will monitor from the sides. Follow!" The Patrol Sergeants began to jog, as did the line of eighty four.
Grant jogged without knowing his destination. All he knew was to follow.
"I should have known we would be running the first day." Bobby said while glancing at Grant.
"Yeah, I thought it would be different." replied Grant. "I guess I was wrong."
"At least Tim here is a giant." Bobby smiled.
Timothy Fane looked back. "What?"
"Oh nothing, man," said Bobby. "I just want to thank you for shielding me from the sun."
"No problem."
They continued their pace. The long line of men ran below a scorching sun and a dry heat for an hour, until finding themselves back in Highland.
"Just a little bit farther," Liese informed.
And like he commanded, the men ran a little bit farther, until being told to stop. Heavy breaths, sweaty skin, and a beating heart all increased when Grant stopped. He was wet from head to toe. Every man breathed heavily, hacked up accrued phlegm, and felt faint.
Grant stood in front of the singed grocery store, finding shade beneath Tim Fane's cast shadow.
"These are war games!" Liese said loudly, grabbing the attention of the fellow men in front of him. "In no way will they be fun like hopscotch or hide and seek! These are meant to teach you survival! Pick a group of six people each."
Grant and Bobby chose Timothy Fane, Charles Prate, Michael Sertch, and Leon Trale. They shook each other's hand, gave names, and became a group.
"There are eighty four of you here. I should see fourteen groups of six." said Liese. He counted, and then nodded his head. "Alright, the building in front of you is lit by two road flares. Your objective is to successfully work as a team, and pull out three mannequins trapped beneath fallen shelves. Easy enough right?"
"Yes, Patrol Sergeant!" they replied.
"Each group will be given a different colored rag. Tie it around the mannequins' arm, carry it out, and place it on the ground. Each time you come out, we will give you another rag, and you repeat. Is that clear?!"
"Yes, Patrol Sergeant!"
"Does a group volunteer to go first?"
Grant looked at Bobby, Tim, Charles, Michael, and Leon. They thought with wandering eyes, and then nodded their heads in agreement.
"We'll go, Patrol Sergeant." said Grant with a raise of the hand.
"Good. Follow me." the six of them followed Liese over to a table holding surgical masks. "Put these on."
"Yes, Sir." they replied. Each put on the masks, and waited further instruction.
"Enter when ready."
"Are we going to be timed?" asked Bobby.
"No, just finish."
The six of them gathered up. "Alright," said Grant. "When we get in there, no matter what, stay together."
"Alright," they all agr
eed, and stepped forward. Grant breathed heavily behind his hospital mask, blinking his eyes erratically with preparation. Before taking another step, Grant looked both ways. He stared at the gaping hole in front of him, and clicked on the flashlight.
"Let's go." he said softly. Grant stepped in until finding himself surrounded by darkness. The light from the road flares was already fading back by the entrance. The only form of light was being cast from his flashlight, and the five behind him.
"Where do you think it is, Grant?" Tim Fane asked quietly.
"I don't know."
"Save her!" something shrill screamed. "Please!"
"Do you hear that?" asked Grant.
"Hear what?" Bobby inquired. "It's silent."
"Save her, Grant!" it only intensified. The voice was constant, and sharp. Grant grabbed his head, only to shake it away.
"What is that?" he asked again, almost desperately.
"What are you talking about, Grant?" asked Bobby again, now with wandering eyes.
"The voices-she needs my help!"
"There is no voice! Get ahold of yourself."
"She needs me." Grant ran ahead, passing tipped over shelves, and burnt displays. "I'm coming. Tell me where you are!" the light cast from his flashlight unveiled a rainfall of dust from the ceiling. Grant breathed erratically. His lungs were expanding, only to find a shrinking rib cage.
And then Grant found himself surrounded by silence. The calls of his fellow five men were lost in a realm of deafness, until it was broken by something soft:
"You keep running, Grant. You keep running, only to find yourself closer and closer."
"Closer to what?"
"Hell."
"Shut up."
"It scares you doesn't it?" his father asked. "It scares you to know every word I say is true. My son is in the army. My son will die in the army."
"Why can't you die? I hate you!" Grant yelled into the darkness.
"I'll eat you in hell. I will eat you over and over again. And yes my son, it will hurt!" the horned figure appeared within the cast light. His father's lifeless head smiled. "Hell is fun. Trust me. It's like a game of hopscotch or hide and seek."
"This isn't real." whispered Grant, while tripping back the way he came. "I can leave."
"One of these times, Grant, it will be real." he smiled as he disappeared into the darkness.
Grant opened his eyes to the men yelling. All around him it sounded like a swirl of snakes hissing. Something then crawled up his face and burned his eyes. It seemed to strip the skin around and in his mouth clean off, and then slipped down into his stomach where discomfort became Sick.
He could hear the men scatter as their voices spread thin. They were running back toward the entrance. Through a stinging squint, he saw only Bobby left with his shirt pulled halfway over his face, eyes still exposed.
Grant saw lights fleeing from him, as his own rolled across the floor. And then a cloud ate the things around him, leaving him alone. He could hear Bobby coughing. He could feel that the Sick in his stomach was now nearing the back of his throat. He took deep breaths into a hospital mask that was already moist throughout.
His eyes were red and swollen. When opened further than a struggled squint, they burned. When closed, they seemed to burn even worse. He cried out only to find an uncontrollable cough. His lungs felt shriveled within a rib cage that seemed to be shrinking. Vaguely, he could hear Liese speaking into a megaphone, though the words were just sounds within the cloud.
Grant's steps were slow and disoriented when he tripped over something that felt like a pair of legs. He fell to the floor, finding eyes staring back at him. For only a moment they were his own dead eyes, and then they were the eyes of a mannequin.
"The rag," he whispered, digging in his pocket. "The mission." it was a statement that quivered out of him, as his Sick soaked hospital mask broke from his face and fell to the floor. He could only taste bile. He could only feel the sensation of suffocation. The cloud was dissipating, but the effects remained.
When Bobby called for him, it sounded far away, even though he was nearly next to him.
"Ma-move towards the light!" Grant's sentence was already stronger, as the effects began to wear away. "I have the first ma-mane-" he began to cough. And then it stopped. "I have the mannequin." it was the strongest his sentence had been. Grant grabbed the flashlight, tied the black rag around a plastic arm, and dragged toward the light. He could hear Bobby behind him, crawling without reply.
The sunlight revealed them to be red faced men with Sick dripping from them. Bobby's hospital mask was off as well.
"Good!" it was somewhat distorted coming from Patrol Sergeant Liese. The other eighty two men were in their groups of six, forming a circle. They looked down with wide eyes at both Bobby and Grant. The skin on their face was swollen to a point that it bulged out around the eyes; the bile dripping from their lips was clear and rank. They could smell it from where they stood. It almost made them sick. They looked into the entrance, knowing that before the day was done they too would look like Grant and Bobby.
"Two more!" Liese said. "The worst is over. Two more and your day is done." The words were enough to push them back inside and find two more mannequins. When they did, the applause was scattered from men that were preparing for the same struggle.
Two bottles of water and a word of congratulations were provided from the Patrol Sergeants.
Hetel simply nodded his head with a good job attached. Liese said roughly the same thing. Scott was more expressive than Hetel, attaching a very impressive with a pat on each back. Ricks made a claim that created a bond: you are men the world needs more of. It had an air of sadness to it, as if he were saying, "What a waste."
"Thank you, Sir." they said with their eyes closed, taking one deep breath after another.
"You deserve a rest. Find some shade, and drink your water. You did well." Liese said, as Ricks slipped back inside of himself.
"Sir, yes, Sir." Grant found himself blinking the blur away. After sitting for another minute, Grant and Bobby got to their feet, walked over to a dying Palo Verde, and sat against the bark.
The effects were wearing away. It was temporary, but blinding when in effect.
"Day one." said Grant in a tone of disbelief.
"Yep." Bobby answered with his eyes closed.
Grant took a few deep breaths as he watched the next group of six enter the grocery store.
"Tell me something, Bobby." said Grant softly.
"What?" Bobby replied with his eyes still closed.
"Do you think we'll die?"
"I don't know. How can I know that, Grant?" his eyes were now open. His face was still pale. "I can't help but think about it. But, I can't know. I think we'll die when we give up on living."
"I don't think it's in our control. If it was, no one would die over there."
"You and I know better than anyone that masks are meant for the public. Here, masks aren't worn. We are all bare." Bobby paused. "Even though in a few months we'll be walking into the war, I feel free. It has been so long since I have been able to present myself without masks. These people don't know me, and I don't know them. It's a new start."
Before replying, Grant thought about Patrol Sergeant Ricks. That man was nothing but a mask beginning to fall apart. "Do you want to die?" asked Grant while scratching his shaved head.
"It all really depends on the day." Bobby smiled as he scratched his head. "I feel like a cancer patient."
"You mean without your hair?"
"Yeah, my hair was part of my personality? but hair grows back. Everyone back home knew me as the freak with long hair, and thick rimmed glasses. I was a clown. It was part of my daily ensemble. And I guess right now having a shaved head just lets me escape from the monotony of life back in Minnesota, you know?"
"Yeah, I guess it's that way for me too." Grant looked at Bobby with understanding. These were moments he had missed, moments that had disappeared with Bobby's seclusion.
But, now they were close like they had been before. Not only was the surface friendship being reconciled, but the layers beneath it as well. They had never felt more like brothers, than on that Friday in May, sitting beneath a dying Palo Verde...
