Marksmanship was another area in which Abby felt comfortable. She’d done plenty of shooting in her days, with pistols and rifles, and she passed these ranges with flying colors. In shotgun marksmanship, Abby was less experienced, but she still performed well. Along with marksmanship, the recruits were also graded on other weapon systems: machine guns, rockets, hand grenades and grenade launchers, and even shaping, placing, and detonating plastic explosives. Training with these weapons was just as new to Abby as it was to the other recruits, so she struggled along with them but eventually found a groove.
The medical training she received was another key component of becoming a DAS agent. While every squad would have a dedicated medic out in the field, every agent was expected to know the basics of combat first aid and at least a few advanced procedures. Again, Abby struggled initially as this was another new field of learning, but it was good stuff to know so she committed herself to becoming the best damn medic she could be.
And then of course there was the classroom work. Abby sat through hours of classes on everything from American military history to current affairs. At one point, very early in the training cycle, the instructors showed the recruits the DAS’ secret ‘kill list’: a list of known terrorists (members of the ReFounding Fathers) who were to be shot on sight. No arrest, no trial. Abby’s heart rate rivaled that of a hummingbird’s when she scanned the list of names next to pictures, hoping and praying that neither Hiamovi nor Hector were on the list. Thankfully they were not. In fact, the DAS seemed to have very little idea who was running the ReFounding Fathers. According to their list of suspects, the leader was believed to be a white male in his thirties, which of course Hector was not.
Given the repetitive nature of any boot camp, there is little sense in describing much more of Abby’s six months in boot camp. Of the sixty recruits who began the selection course, twenty dropped out along the way: ten could not keep up with the physical standards, three failed the marksmanship ranges, five injured themselves, and two voluntarily dropped out.
Abby, of course, passed, as did one other young woman in her class (five other women had started the course but failed to complete it). She was not the honor recruit, the recruit judged by the instructors to have been more capable and proficient than all the others, but that was mostly by her choice to not stand out.
Graduation day couldn’t have come sooner for Abby. She would finally be able to see Hiamovi again, and she felt butterflies in her stomach just thinking about it. They’d arranged the time and place of their first meeting before she ever left, and it was only supposed to be a quick confirmation that she was still alive, but she hoped they could figure out a way for a separate, more private rendezvous.
But that was for tomorrow. Today, she had to ensure that her new DAS service uniform was flawless for the graduation ceremony: black shoes, shined to the point that they could substitute for a mirror, black trousers, pressed and sharp, a tan, short-sleeved khaki shirt, ironed and fitted, and a long, black cap on top of a tight bun in her hair.
She was busy ironing her shirt alone in her barracks room (Abby’s roommate had voluntarily dropped out about halfway through, leaving her with her own room) in the early hours of that Friday morning when someone knocked on her door. She set aside the hot iron and hurried to greet the knocker. It was Gina, the other young woman with whom Abby was graduating. She was in her black fatigues, the usual uniform of the day for DAS agents, and wore a giddy smile.
“Graduation day!” Gina said in a soft, sing-songy voice. She then stepped abruptly into Abby’s room and hugged her.
“Yay!” Abby replied. Gina was such a nice person, Abby thought, and it seemed so strange for her to be in the DAS. And yet she had proved she had what it takes to join the ranks, despite her seemingly sweet exterior.
“So, after graduation, a bunch of the guys and I are going out for drinks. Can I tell them Abby is coming?”
“You can tell them Abby is definitely coming.”
“Awesome! It’s gonna be a blast! I’m gonna go invite some more people. Anyway, see you at graduation… agent!”
The girl said this last word with such a dramatic flair that Abby couldn’t help but smile at her. Even though she was serving as a mole, Abby felt a tremendous sense of pride in her accomplishment. A full third of her recruiting class had failed, and they were all exceptional, motivated people. She’d outlasted them all, proving she was among the toughest, strongest people in the city.
She returned to her ironing board and finished ironing her shirt, then hung it up alongside her trousers in the closet. She grabbed a flashlight and a tiny pair of scissors and scanned her shirt, looking for any errant threads that would surely bring down the wrath of her instructors. Everything had to look perfect. Satisfied that nothing was out of order, Abby affixed her two ribbons precisely one-eighth of an inch above the left breast pocket of her shirt: a green and blue one to recognize voluntary service after The Crisis, and a black and red one with gold trim to recognize her service in the DAS.
Abby stepped back to give her entire uniform one more look, and she nodded her head once, satisfied that every piece was immaculate. She closed the closet door and got dressed in her own black fatigues so she could go get a breakfast before reporting to the parade deck for graduation. The ceremony itself would take place just north of Arthur Square, at the Salt Lake Temple. It was a beautiful, impressive structure that Abby considered the American version of St. Peter’s Basilica, and many official government ceremonies were hosted there.
Abby took off her short, grey gym shorts and pulled on the black cargo pants and her grey martial arts belt (which would become black after not too long, Abby promised herself). Before putting on the black top, called a blouse for some reason, she rolled the sleeves up tight, which was the standard for DAS agents when not on patrol or a mission. She pulled on her black leather boots and laced them up, then, using a boot band (which resembled a hair tie), secured the bottoms of her trousers so that they ended just above the tops of her boots, looking like they’d been rolled inside themselves. Last of all was her eight-point cap, or cover as it was called, which was just a black version of the Marine Corps’ same headgear.
Abby scanned herself in the mirror, looking over her uniform. She pulled the bill of her cover down so that her eyes were barely visible, per DAS regulations. Wearing their cover this way, DAS agents were forced to hold their heads up high and straight in order to see where they were going, and it also served the secondary purpose of giving them an intimidating visage. Abby hardly recognized herself, but she supposed that was a good thing. This new Abby was a highly skilled, warrior of a woman, a definite improvement over the Abby of recent times.
She walked down to the first floor of the barracks, to the north end of the building, where the barracks chow hall resided. She ate an ample breakfast consisting of a three-egg omelet with cheese, bacon, and tomatoes, a fruit cup, cottage cheese, and one small glass of milk and another of orange juice.
After eating, Abby returned to her barracks room, changed into the service uniform she’d been ironing that morning, then walked herself up to the Temple, enjoying the cool, refreshing air of this beautiful May day. She’d probably be one of the first new agents to arrive, but she wanted to do a little sight-seeing along the way. She’d been around the district, of course, but always as part of training, which means she didn’t really get to know her surroundings yet.
As on the first day she’d stolen into District 1, Abby was taken aback by the decadence on display here in this part of the city. For a girl who’d been in the thick of The Crisis and spent almost three years in the Wild, it was almost impossible to get her mind around it all. There had been times already when she’d genuinely forgotten that in just the next state over walked the undead. The district resembled the richest area of Chicago pre-Crisis, lacking only the towering, record-setting skyscrapers of that city. Abby walked by bars, nightclubs, restaurants, cafes, business offices, warehouses, and an
ything else a well-off city might contain.
Though her anger was more contained by now, Abby still felt a bitter resentment towards these people. Here sat all this material wealth when just outside these walls people were murdering each other for what she’d seen thrown away. And what about Little America, out there in the Wild? Supposedly, that town and a couple others had been getting all kinds of support in preparation for a military campaign to take back the country. But where was this campaign? Abby had heard nothing at all about any such campaign since arriving at boot camp. Maybe it was above her pay grade, or maybe politics had gotten in the way. She wondered what other towns had been receiving federal aid, and if they were asking these same questions, if they had not yet been overrun like Little America.
Abby finally arrived at the Temple, and calling it impressive would be an insult to the majesty that defied description. She’d never been this close to the building before, so she took some extra time to walk around the perimeter and admire the art and architecture.
After no longer than a quarter of an hour, it was time for Abby and the other new agents to assemble inside the Temple and prepare for the graduation ceremony. There they received final reminders about the order of the ceremony and expected behavior, and were placed in formation just outside an extravagant room that must have been the scene of thousands of worship services in the past.
At the appointed time, the new agents marched into the room, perfectly covered and aligned with the agents in front of and next to them. They came to a halt in front of the assembled audience, all seated in pews. The instructor gave the command for the agents to turn to face the podium in front of them, followed by the command to stand at ease.
It was a typical military graduation ceremony. First the lead instructor spoke, then the commanding officer of DAS training, and then the honor recruit. It was the last speaker that surprised everyone: President Arthur himself. His tall, lean stature strode down the center aisle, carrying with it an aura of supreme authority. He wore a fine navy blue suit, a white shirt, and a blue paisley tie that he adjusted as he stepped up to the platform. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the president became aware of an errant strand of coal black hair atop his head. With a grimace, he smoothed it back into place.
“My apologies,” he said to the crowd with a smile, “but you’ll forgive me if I take quite a bit of pride in this hair.” The crowd gave him some amused chuckling. He was not a terribly old man, being only in his mid-fifties, but such a head of thick black hair was still impressive for his age.
“I shan’t speak for long, I know you’re all eager to get on with your weekend, especially our newest agents.” The president paused to allow for scattered clapping. “I was informed last week that the DAS significantly raised their standards this year for new agents, and I can see the results. This class had the highest attrition rate of any class in DAS history, which means you few before me are some of the strongest, toughest new agents we’ve ever seen!”
This was met with vigorous applause. The president paused again, then continued, “I think I speak for all Americans when I say that, come Monday when these newest agents begin their assignments, America will be a much safer place. Congratulations agents! I look forward to hearing the tales of your future exploits!”
The president then waved as the crowd and agents gave a standing ovation, even Abby. She had to blend in, but she didn’t feel the need to conceal her smirk. If President Arthur ever did hear about her exploits, she doubted he would be much pleased. She watched as he descended from the stage and exited the room, followed, flanked, and led by armed agents.
Once the president left, the new agents were congratulated one last time by their instructors and then informed, in much more grandiose terms than these, that they were free for the weekend until 0500 hours on Monday, at which point they were to assemble in front of the barracks so that their new commanding officers could pick them up. There was a loud cheer, and the new agents went hither and thither, most rushing into the arms and beaming faces of family and friends. Abby of course had no family and friends present, her fake parents having given the excuse that they were ill and could not make the journey, and of friends Abby had none, excepting two or three fellow agents.
Instead, Abby hastily made her way back to her barracks room, eager to change out of the restrictive service uniform and into some civilian attire, or ‘civvies’, as she now called her regular clothing. But first she ought to work out, Abby thought. She had skipped that this morning in favor of spending extra time perfecting her uniforms. So she hung her uniform back up in the closet and pulled on a black tank top and a pair of pink spandex shorts, grabbed her headphones and iPod, then jogged across the street to one of the local gyms. Now that she was a brand new agent, she was allowed to go to the gym by herself to workout instead of relying solely on the daily group physical training sessions of the past four months to stay fit.
Arriving at the gym, Abby headed straight for the dumbbells in the back. On the agenda today was biceps, back, shoulders, and abs. After that, she’d work the bag for a bit to fit in some cardio. Abby pressed the white headphones into her ears as she powered on her iPod and scrolled down through her various gym playlists. There was rap and hip-hop, heavy metal, and nu-rock. Today, she selected the rap and hip-hop playlist, and the first song up was a heavy, pulsating track from an Eminem album.
She went through her routine out in the main area of the gym, getting good and soaked with sweat, as usual. Returning her dumbbells to their proper place on the rack along the wall of mirrors, Abby grabbed her duffelbag and water bottle and made her way into one of the smaller side rooms, where some heavy bags hung from chains in the ceiling. Only one other person occupied this room, a young man with short, blond hair, and he didn’t seem to notice Abby’s entrance.
Abby retrieved the white MMA gloves from her duffel, secured them tight around her hands, then went to work with the bag, striking it from every angle with a flurry of punches, hammerfists, kicks, knees, and elbows as the pounding bars from another hip-hop track flooded her inner ear.
The song wound down, and Abby did too, having thoroughly exhausted herself after more than an hour of working out. She stepped back from the bag to catch her breath and drink some water, waiting for the next song to begin so she could finish her routine for the day. She brought her bottle to her lips and tilted her head back, taking a long swig of cold water, and for no particular reason glanced to her right, just in time to catch the young man she’d noticed earlier staring at her. Too late he swung his gaze back to the bag in front of him and assumed a position like he was about to hit the bag, but then he smiled and said something that Abby couldn’t quite hear.
“Hm?” Abby asked after plucking out her headphones.
“I said you caught me,” the young man replied, still smiling.
“Hm,” Abby replied.
“Sorry. In my defense I wasn’t checking you out, it’s just not every day you see someone working the bag like that.”
“You saying I’m ugly?”
“No, which is too bad for you. Ugly people are the best fighters. They’re not afraid to take a nasty right cross to the face because what the hell do they have to lose?”
“So now you’re doubting that I could take a punch?”
“No, but I doubt if anyone could lay a finger on you with speed like that, and those blood stains on your gloves suggest many have tried.”
“You wanna be next up to the plate?”
“No thanks. This face is too pretty to risk in a fight with you.”
Abby smirked, a gesture the young man returned, and she put her headphones back in, signaling that their friendly conversation had reached its conclusion. The young man obliged her by packing up his things and leaving her alone in the room.
She finished her routine on the bag then called it quits as the last song on her playlist ended. She put her gear back in her bag, wiped herself down with the towel, then left the gym and hea
ded back to her barracks room. The gym had showers, but being nude around a bunch of people, even in the privacy of a women’s locker room, was not something with which Abby was comfortable yet.
After showering and changing into some jeans and a red T-shirt, Abby went back downstairs to the chow hall to eat lunch, then spent the rest of the afternoon and evening dithering around the district until dinner time, at which point she was supposed to meet up with Gina and the others for a celebratory dinner and drinks.
The group of new agents all elected to eat at a kind of sports bar, though of course very few live sporting events were played on the big TV’s now (one of the very few things that had changed for these elitist crowds). Instead they watched reruns of famous matchups from before The Crisis. On the TV tonight was a football game, a Super Bowl match-up between the New York Giants and the New England Patriots from the mid-2000’s. Abby had never taken an interest in football before The Crisis, but now the old game had her entranced. Something about the spirit of competition at a sport’s highest levels awoke a passion in Abby, even if she knew little at all about the game or the context surrounding it.
“I said don’t fucking spoil it, Gabe!” Abby laughed as she pointed to one of the young men sitting across from her with a beer bottle in her hand, and everyone joined her in laughing. It seemed that most of her friends here knew who won this game, even if they themselves were just as young as Abby.
“So you really don’t know who wins?” the man named Gabe replied.
“No, and I swear to God I’ll break this bottle over your head if you breathe one more word about how it ends!”
“You know she would, dude,” Gina said, still laughing.
By the end of the night, most everyone was pretty well drunk, Abby included. She walked (and sometimes stumbled) along with the group back to the barracks. She bade them all goodnight, and then returned to her own barracks room. It was late, almost half an hour past midnight, and Abby was still adjusting to the fact that there was no curfew here in District 1. At one point in her night out, she almost said something about the curfew, which would have been weird for someone who supposedly came from a similarly rich district and might have even raised some suspicion, but she caught herself before she could spill the beans.
His Name Was Zach (Book 2): Her Name Was Abby Page 28
