I Become Shadow

by Joe Shine

  “Nice one,” Junie said with a nod. “Who’s next?”

  We all took turns and before long we were standing up and walking around the tables to find our celebrities. Some people, like Junie, were good at the game and named a lot of folks. I only did one. I found a very pretty boy who looked like Anne Hathaway and aptly named him Manne Hathaway. It was a stumper but when they all found him they loved it. I knew I’d never top it and quit while I was ahead. I was having more fun looking for the celebs than naming them anyway.

  After that we slid right into a good old Cole-bashing session. We mocked his looks, his skinniness, even made up stories about his parents so we could make fun of them too. We finished on his broken nose. We made up rules for it. Every time it whistled, we had to cough. When it would leak, we had to scratch our ears. Whenever he touched it, we had to sneeze.

  We spent the rest of lunch laughing. As in real laughter. If those in charge were watching (and I knew they were), they kept silent. Would we actually follow through on any of the CNRs, or Cole Nose Rules? Junie was adamant we would. For the briefest of moments it felt like we were all in regular old high school together, that this was a normal place and we’d be off to math or history next.

  And that was my first lunch. It was the perfect break. I later came to understand that this was exactly the point. While we were to become killing machines, even they understood we were still young and needed time—even if only for a bit—to goof off and be ourselves. Learning to be human weapons was our new vocation, but underneath it all, we were still just fourteen-year-olds. Every day we would get a one-hour break from the constant training to be ourselves. To be kids again.

  IT WAS TOUGH TO leave the cafeteria. But I felt a new strength. I was determined to make a better effort to stay conscious through our morning sessions of hand-to-hand combat with Cole. Lunch was not something to be missed.

  We worked our way down the maze of hallways and ended up outside Armory 6H. The numbering made me wonder how many armories this place had. The answer: a lot.

  Inside the room and immediately to our right was a short, stocky young woman. Only the first thirty or so feet of the room were lit; the rest was completely blacked out, but I could tell by my echoing footsteps that it was a pretty big space. There was nothing special from what I could see: rows of long tables similar to what I’d had in my science classes back home, situated between the vast black nothingness and the door.

  There was a bottleneck, so we all stopped, unsure of where to go.

  “Two to a table, please,” said the stocky woman. Her voice was strong but feminine.

  Junie and I, without needing to speak, found a table in the middle. Not right up front like brownnosers, but not in the back like the C students either. The woman watched everyone find their places. Once in place she scanned each of our faces. When her eyes fell on me she stopped. “Ren Sharpe?” she asked coldly.

  Crap. Had I kicked her in the face too? Cole’s sister maybe? I nodded slowly but kept eye contact with her.

  From beside me Junie whispered, “Oh, great.”

  “You …” the woman said. She walked and stopped on the other side of my table. There was nothing but silence as she glared at me. I gulped. It was so quiet I heard some kind of venting system kick on. AC? Heat? Who knows? Why am I thinking about vents?!

  “On the night you were taken, did you kick someone in the face?” she asked in a calm voice.

  I nodded.

  “Have you figured out who that was yet?”

  “Think so,” I said, then quickly added, “Ma’am.”

  She smirked at the ma’am bit. “And then yesterday did you attempt to attack your instructor?” The great lie of my bravery was now common knowledge.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said softly.

  The corners of her mouth flickered. Then she smiled as she exclaimed, “That’s awesome!”

  I gaped at her.

  She grabbed my hand and shook it. “You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to kick Cole in the face.”

  Is this chick for real?

  “You got guts, kid,” she said.

  I was so surprised by the whole thing I failed to notice her vice-like grip until she let go. I figured it’d be a week till I got all the feeling back in my fingers.

  She looked around at the rest of the class and said, “Lighten up, folks. It’s okay to have fun around here.”

  As she made her way back to the front of the class, Junie leaned over and whispered, “Being your friend is exhausting.”

  I shrugged. “Try being me.”

  “My name is Leslie Tanner. I’ll be in charge of your weapons training. Specifically, these weapons.” The wall behind her slid apart to reveal a display of guns. Hundreds of them. There were small pistols, machine guns of all sizes, rocket launchers, and everything in-between. I have to admit, I felt a kick of adrenaline. It was like an action movie.

  She allowed us a moment to take it all in before continuing. “When I’m done with you, you’ll be able to disassemble, reassemble, and fire every weapon on this wall. Using them will become second nature to you, as easy as breathing.”

  She pulled out a black pistol. It looked like the kind of gun you see on cops. She pulled back some thingy and a bullet popped out. She caught the bullet in midair. Then she removed the clip (I was glad I could at least name that part) and placed both the clip and the bullet on the table behind her. Then she held the empty gun up in front of her.

  “This is a standard nine millimeter Glock. It’s relatively light, simple, dependable.” We passed the gun around, each looking at it. I was surprised at how heavy it was when I finally got to hold it. I passed it along to Junie who passed it to the next table after a brief look-see. Once it got back to Leslie she put the clip back in the gun and pulled the little thing back again. In a flash, she pointed it at us and fired. Instinctively we all ducked. Leslie grinned as she said loudly, “And it’s damn accurate.”

  Even though she’d yelled, I could barely hear her from the ringing in my ears. She nodded and pointed behind us. About 300 feet away, illuminated by a spotlight, was a human cutout. Leslie clicked a remote and the target came zooming toward us. She took it off and showed us the hole in the dead center of the head.

  She admired her work. “Now let’s fire some guns, huh?”

  Leslie had us line up across the room and face our own targets—much closer, about twenty feet away. She gave us instructions on the weapon, as well as firing techniques and safety. I don’t remember much of what she said because the moment I had the gun in my hand my heart was beating so loud in my ears I couldn’t hear anything. My hands were sweaty, and I could barely hold it. I almost dropped it once but luckily saved myself from the embarrassment of that.

  When she pulled her ear protectors down and told us to do the same, I was giddy with excitement. Then she gave us the signal to fire away. Holding the gun in my hand meant I had a weapon, and for a fleeting moment I considered shooting my way out. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who had this inner struggle either. But I think we all came to the same conclusion. How far could we expect to get? We’d had a taste of what these people were capable of. None of us wanted to sample the whole dish. Plus, none of us had a clue how to get out.

  I cocked the gun, or “pulled the thingy back,” as I had been calling it, slid the safety off, and raised it up to eye level. I sighted the target and tried to control my breathing as instructed. Shaky hands were making it hard to aim. Around me the others had begun to shoot. Each pop made me flinch a little. I can’t hit that thing. I didn’t want to be the worst shot in the group, but I also didn’t want to be the one who hadn’t fired anything either. To hell with it. Without really aiming, I gave the trigger a squeeze and fired.

  I wasn’t ready for the kickback though. The gun flew out of my hands and landed on the ground behind me. How the hell do I play this off? I looked around, terrified someone had seen it, but luckily everyone was too focused on their own shooting.
I sighed from relief and quickly reached down for the gun. When I straightened up I saw Leslie, laughing her butt off near the room’s entrance. She mouthed “nice” to me and gave a thumbs-up. I smiled shyly and went back to my place.

  I quickly fired off the rest of my clip and holstered the gun. I was one of the last to finish after the tossing debacle. Then we got to see our results. I had fired thirteen shots but had only hit the target once. And it wasn’t even the body. It was the white background.

  “But that one would have scared the hell out of the person. Maybe even given them a heart attack,” came Junie’s voice from behind me.

  “Is it sad that the safest place for a person is where I’m aiming? How’d you do?” I stopped short. It looked like he hadn’t missed at all. He’d even gotten some head shots, the jerk. Junie was far and away the best in the class.

  “Being your friend is exhausting,” I said.

  He laughed and held up his gun. “Wanna shoot our way outta here?” I knew I wasn’t the only one!

  I looked over at Leslie, who was doing some gun tricks to the amusement of some of our classmates and asked, “How far do you think we get?”

  “Not very. I don’t even know where my room is, let alone the way out.”

  “Let’s reexamine this option later, deal?”

  He nodded.

  Turned out I wasn’t the worst in the group. I know, right? A few hadn’t even hit the target. Losers. Okay, now I feel bad. I take the loser comment back. No one else’s weapon had jumped out of his or her hand though—that shame was all mine. Queen loser gun dropper, right here.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon in the range shooting, varying up the distances. I got progressively calmer and thus better with every shot, which was probably the point of the repetition. And wouldn’t you know it, I eventually began to hit the target on a regular basis. I remember I couldn’t stop giggling the first time I got a head shot. It was so satisfying. I mainly hit the white part of the target and that was good enough for me on my first day of shooting anything.

  The final hour we spent taking apart the guns, studying the pieces, and then putting them back together. I was surprised at how few parts went into making those things. Taken apart and in pieces it looked like a pile of scrap metal. But when put back together there was something scary about it. So simple yet so powerful. While I played with the weapon in my hands I got a sudden sense of dread. I did not like this thing, but I was destined to wield it for the rest of my life.

  As the session came to an end we had to clean up the gun grease from the tables and sweep up the used bullet shells and clips from the floor by the range.

  At one point Junie picked up an empty shell and said, “Remember when picking up shells meant you were at the beach?”

  I picked up an empty clip and said, “Remember when clips were for hair?”

  We didn’t know it then, but that would become our private joke for the rest of our time here. Whenever we were doing something odd, dangerous, or just plain nuts, one of us would say something along the lines of “Remember when knives were for butter?” or “Remember when tanks were for fish?”

  What I did know was that being next to Junie felt good. It felt natural. He made me feel warm and safe in a place that was cold and dangerous. Again, inappropriate feelings, feelings that didn’t belong here, welled up inside me. I laughed them off though. Yeah, right. What could it ever lead to? Midnight romps in the used bullet casings pile? But that didn’t stop them.

  Back in the world I would have totally put out the vibe as best I could for at least six months: silently waiting for him to talk to me, avoiding all direct eye contact, and keeping my distance before giving up because obviously he didn’t like me. But this was not the place for such rash behavior.

  I reminded myself that I hardly knew this kid. I only knew his name. Sad since he was already my closest friend here. Scratch that, only friend here. I glanced up at him and caught him looking at me, as if waiting to say something. It was now or never.

  “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” I asked. Good one, I told myself. Just the right amount of curiosity, but not enough to seem flirty. Innocent would be a good word for it.

  “Just growing up I guess. Did a lot of hunting with my dad.”

  “Ew.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Hunting’s stupid and disgusting.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s a fun sport,” he said defensively.

  “Football’s a sport. Hell, I could even give you golf. But sitting around drinking beer, waiting for an animal to come eat from an electric feeder so that you can shoot it does not a sport make.”

  “I think the entire South would disagree with you,” he said.

  “Well the entire South is a hot, stupid place.”

  “You know you jinxed yourself and you’ll be assigned there now, right?”

  “Dangit!” He was right of course. Señor Jinx had a cruel sense of humor.

  He smiled. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll give you some pointers, show you where to eat and stuff.”

  “Deal,” I said. And we shook on it. His hands were strong and hadn’t been wrapped around video game controllers their whole lives.

  We all lived on the same hall. This was old hat to the others but new to me since I’d spent our first night in the hospital. I liked that we were all here, that the whole team of kids without lives was together.

  “So where should I hope to be assigned if I really am jinxed to be there?” I asked. A cunning way to ask where he was from, if I do say so myself.

  “Falls Church, Virginia.”

  “Sounds creepy.”

  “It’s awesome. Right near DC, a couple hours from amazing camping and backpacking. There’s everything. It’s the best.” He choked up talking about his home. He tried to play it off with a cough, but I knew better. I thought about calling him out on it, but figured who was I to do that? I was a crying mess. I’d let it slide for now but be sure to bring it up when I knew him better.

  “Virginia’s not really the South though,” I teased. “It’s like the fake South. It’s like the Splenda of the South.”

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “I mean, Alabama, now that’s the South. Mississippi’s the South. Virginia? Meh.” I added a shrug for good measure.

  “Well, where are you from then, all high and mighty?” he asked me.

  “A little place I like to call … oh look I’m back to my room.”

  “Not cool,” he said, but he was smiling.

  I pretended to think about it and crossed my arms. “How about this? You help keep me alive and conscious through the week and I’ll tell you then. Deal?”

  “An impossible task,” he said flatly, but playfully.

  “Take it or leave it, smart-ass.”

  “Fine. Deal.”

  There was the briefest of awkward moments as we stood outside my door. I know what my body wanted to happen, but, again, not cool in this place. Bad body! Bad!

  Junie gave me a forced smile. I got the feeling, or maybe hoped, that he was dealing with a similar issue. He raised his hand awkwardly and said, “Up top.”

  Confused, I raised my hand above my head, and he slapped me five. Seriously? Obviously embarrassed, he pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. “Night, Ren,” he said before scurrying away.

  “Night, Junie,” I called after him.

  The moment the door shut I began giggling Up top? Really? I fell into my bed. That made two good conversations in a row. Up top. That’s something I would have done. I was still smiling as I got back up, peeled off my warm-up suit, and tossed it in the dirty clothes bin.

  The day was finally over, and I actually felt glad to see my room again. It was the one place I knew my other grunts couldn’t see me. Where the mask and lie that was “She Who Attacks Teachers” could come off. I could be me, the real Ren.

  I glanced around, really taking in my room. I’d been so scared waking up in here that first morning. It
was less intimidating now. Yes, the room was institutional and ugly, but it was mine.

  On my desk I noticed a small pulsing light that looked like a button. When I pressed it, a drawer slid open, delivering me a nice warm bowl of dinner mush. I pulled out my tiny bag of rosemary contraband and sprinkled some on top. Not Mmm Mmm good, but good enough. Since I knew it was inevitable that I would soon be in the hospital wing again, I made a mental note to try and walk away with some other spices.

  The best part about dinner was realizing that the surface of my desk was actually some kind of computer screen. I was so tired of never knowing where I was supposed to be, or how long I was going to be there, that I nearly cried when I found a daily schedule. I slid the bowl aside to look at it.

  Every morning I had hand-to-hand combat with Cole. Ew. But each afternoon was something different. Tomorrow afternoon I had Evasive Tactics, or as I would call it, being sneaky. There was some kind of knives training where I was sure I’d find a way to lose a finger, something on explosives, some surveillance crap, and more time with Leslie at the range.

  The smile Junie had put on my face had long since faded. My whole life had not only been decided for me, but it was scheduled out by the hour now too. They really were going to turn me into a machine.

  Exhausted, I turned away from my scheduled life and almost missed it.

  My eyes widened. I reread the word. Excitement coursed through my weary bones as I said the word out loud. “Driving.” It was something I’d been looking forward to since I was ten, and now I was going to get to start two years earlier than was allowed out in the world! And after driving was, Doth my eyes deceive me? Free time?! I gave an excited “Ha!” I leapt up and did a little happy dance that included a mash-up of three turns, quick hand clapping, and a few mini-jumps. Driving and free time!! That day was shaping into the best … day … ever. Okay, maybe not the best day ever, but when compared to the turd days it was being surrounded by, yeah, best day ever.