"Ninja what-the-fuck now?" Addy said.
"You know, Ninja Tur—" He sighed. "Forget it. Kemi was obsessed with the twentieth century."
Addy rolled her eyes. "Kemi this, Kemi that. Forget about her."
Elvis, Beast, and a few other male recruits whistled and stepped closer.
"You got a girlfriend back home, you hound dog?" Elvis said.
"I bet she's very beautiful." Caveman sighed wistfully.
"Does she have big hips like Russian woman?" said Beast, largest in the platoon. "You sleep with her yet? You make her a woman? In Russia, you not real woman till man fuck you."
Marco groaned. "Can we stop this?"
Addy nodded. "He did! He slept with her."
The boys' eyes all lit up. At once, hands were slapping Marco on the back, and a few other recruits approached, adding their congratulations.
"You make me proud!" said Beast, his slap to Marco's back nearly knocking him down. "We drink vodka later."
"Marco is a pimp!" Elvis announced. "He—"
"Recruits!" Sergeant Singh shouted, marching toward them. "Shut your mouths. I don't care who Recruit Emery used to fuck, so long as he can fuck up scum with his T57 machine gun. Now go grab your weapons."
The recruits' eyes lit up, Marco's conquests immediately forgotten. They raced toward the farther bin, and Marco followed reluctantly. He wasn't comfortable with the boys talking about Kemi that way. Sure, their appreciation of him seemed earnest, and maybe he had earned some respect among then.
But I don't want that respect to be at your expense, Kemi, he thought. He remembered how they had made love that last night, the worst and best night in his life.
Fuck, I miss you, Kemi, he thought, surprised at the thought. He had never cursed before joining the HDF, and now he was cursing even in his thoughts.
The second bin was full of oil—a giant, metal bath of odorous oil. Addy leaned over the bin, reached inside, and pulled out a dripping assault rifle. Her eyes gleamed, and she seemed about to shout out in joy when she saw Singh and shut her mouth. Other recruits followed her lead, pulling out weapons. Marco rolled up his sleeve, reached into the oil, and felt a weapon. He pulled it free. It dripped, splattering oil onto his pants and boots.
"These here are your T57s," said Sergeant Singh. "They're almost four feet long, weigh nine pounds, and will fire a thousand rounds a minute to tear scum apart from a kilometer away. These guns are now your lovers, your best friends, your gods, and dearer to you than your dicks."
"I don't have a dick, sarge," Addy said.
"You do now," he replied, pointing at her gun.
Marco hefted his weapon. The weight was comforting—heavy enough to have substance, light enough to easily wield. The handguard was a good foot long, ridged and black, hiding most of the barrel. The stock flared out, just the right size to press against Marco's shoulder. He gripped the hilt with his right hand, held the handguard with his left, and peered through the front sight at a distant dune. There was no magazine loaded into the gun, but Marco already felt stronger than he ever had. He tried to imagine a scum crawling over the dune and his bullets spraying the alien.
"Soldiers, lower your weapons!" Sergeant Singh shouted. Several other recruits had raised their guns. "Grab straps and sling them across your backs."
They grabbed straps from a bucket, attached them to the guns, and slung them across their backs. With their helmets, knee and elbow pads, and machine guns, they looked almost like real soldiers.
The muzzle of Lailani's gun nearly touched the sand; the weapon was almost as long as her. Marco tried to meet her eyes. She had not spoken to him since their awkward exchange in the mess hall. But the short recruit kept avoiding his gaze. Her chin was raised, her lips tight. The dragon tattoo on her collarbone, her hard eyes, and her massive gun made her seem like the toughest soldier in the platoon, Marco thought—despite her height.
I'm sorry for offending you, Lailani, he thought, though he wasn't even sure what he had done.
"Hell yeah, this is more like it!" rose a hoarse voice from behind, and Marco's stomach sank.
Fuck me.
He turned around, his belly soured, and he had to curb the instinct to grab and aim his new gun.
Peter "Pinky" Mack was sauntering back toward the platoon, grinning and showing nearly all his crooked teeth. Corporal Diaz was walking with him, escorting the runty recruit toward the bins.
"Watch it, Mack," the corporal said. "Unless you want to spend the night in the brig too."
Pinky snorted. "No, Commander. A few hours in that fucking cell were enough for me. I want to shoot scum!" He reached into the oily bin, pulled out a weapon, and mock-fired toward the dunes. "Pow, pow, pow! Dead fucking aliens! Pow! Emery killed by friendly fire! Pow!"
"Recruit!" shouted Diaz. "You will respect your weapon, and you will respect your fellow soldiers, or you will spend your five years of service in the brig."
Pinky nodded and slung the gun across his back. "Sorry, Corporal. Just excited to fight for the HDF. I want to kill scum like you did. I'm tough. Not like some." He shot Marco a withering glare, then barked a laugh.
"Lovely," Marco muttered, leaning toward Addy. "Give the little psychopath a gun. Makes perfect sense to me."
Addy patted his back. "Don't worry, Poet. Little dude's so insane he'll probably end up shooting off his own balls. That'll save us from a future Pinky."
"Latrine duty!" Sergeant Singh shouted, reeling toward them. "Both of you, Emery and Linden. Tonight. Next time you'll keep your mouths shut."
This elicited groans and laughter from the recruits. Marco and Addy cringed, but all they could do was nod and shout out, "Yes, Commander!"
As if kitchen duty wasn't bad enough, Marco thought, heart sinking.
"Now march, platoon!" Sergeant Singh shouted. "In formation! Recruit Ray, call out the march!"
"Yes, Commander!" Elvis said and began to march, shouting out. "Left, right, left, right!"
The rest of the platoon followed, marching across the sand, as Elvis cried out time.
As Marco walked, sudden pain stabbed his back. He cringed. He turned around to see Pinky walking behind him, pointing his gun forward. Marco realized the source of pain; Pinky had jabbed him in the back with his muzzle.
"You better watch your back, Canada," Pinky said. "Might end up with a bullet in it someday."
Marco wanted to reply, but Corporal Diaz was walking closer, and Marco didn't relish double latrine duty. He walked silently, trying to ignore the jabs in his back. As if Pinky's jabbing wasn't enough, Marco's muscles ached from hours of training. Blisters were blooming across his feet, and the damn heat was baking him. It was hard to believe that this was only his second day in the military. He felt as if he'd gone through months of deprivation.
They climbed a hill and descended into a valley. A concrete platform stretched across the sand like a boardwalk, and a few hundred meters away rose—
Scum! Marco thought, heart thudding, sure that the aliens were invading. But he quickly relaxed and cursed his antsiness. Those were only wooden figures in the desert, carved into the shape of rearing centipedes, ten feet tall and lined with claws. Paper bullseyes were plastered onto the wooden figures.
"This guy almost pissed his pants!" Pinky said, pointing at Marco as their commanders conferred together. "He thought they were real!"
"Fuck you, Pinky," Marco said.
Pinky's face flushed, but before he could reply, the platoon's three corporals approached them, carrying sacks full of magazines.
The platoon split into its three squads, and they all sat in the desert. Each corporal spent a few moments displaying their own weapon—loading, unloading, clearing out jams, flicking the safety off and on.
"Remember, soldiers," said Corporal Diaz. "These weapons were built to kill scum, but they'll kill humans too. Never point them at another soldier. Not on purpose, not by accident, not if your gun is slung across your lap—never. Not if the safety is on. Not if you're sure the gun
isn't loaded. Not if you hate your comrade's guts. I see anyone pointing a muzzle at another soldier—you'll spend a month in a reeking dungeon with no company but your own shit. You have these guns to protect life, but they'll just as easily take it. Understood?"
"Yes, Commander!"
"Good." Corporal Diaz slammed a magazine into his gun. "To fire these bad boys, you load, then charge with two fingers." He raised rabbit fingers, grabbed the charging handle, and tugged back until the gun clicked. "This weapon is now loaded, but the safety is still on. In this military, you will fire only in semi-automatic mode. Never in fully automatic."
Addy raised her hand. "Why not, Commander?"
Diaz turned toward her. "Because automatic is a good way of getting all your buddies killed. You fire these T57s in automatic, they'll spray out bullets like a machine gun so long as the trigger is pressed. In the heat of battle, with scum charging toward you, with the kick of a thousand rounds per minute driving into your shoulder, you're likely to lose control. The gun will start spraying everywhere like a loose hose. Automatic mode kills more soldiers with friendly fire than it kills scum. Semi-automatic only!"
Caveman raised his hand. "What's semi-automatic, Commander?"
The other recruits turned toward Caveman and guffawed. The heavyset brute was a humorous sight, perhaps. His bottom lip was thrust out, his brow furrowed in confusion, his heavy eyebrows pushed low over his beady eyes. His fatigues were in disarray, and polka-dot underwear thrust out from his pants.
"Silence!" Corporal Diaz shouted, glaring at the laughing soldiers. "I bet half of you don't know the answer to this question." He turned toward Caveman. "When the safety switch is on, the gun won't fire. When it's set to automatic, it fires like a machine gun; you'll empty an entire magazine within seconds. With semi-automatic, your weapon will fire one bullet at a time. Each time you pull the trigger—and you wait two seconds between trigger pulls to let these babies cool off, unless you want them to jam—a bullet fires. Now remember! Semi-automatic means new bullets are always being loaded. You only have to load the first bullet. After each bullet is fired, a new one is automatically loaded into the chamber for you, no need to cock the charging handle again. Once you're done firing, you'll have one last bullet in your barrel. You remove that bullet yourself, manually, after every firing session, or you're likely to blow your own brains out next time you put down your gun." He pulled open the barrel of his gun, exposing its innards, and fished out the bullet he had loaded. "Like this. Remember—each time you fire one bullet in semi, another is loaded. Never forget to remove your last bullet from the gun. Understood?"
"Yes, Commander!" they shouted.
Diaz tossed them a sack. "Now put on these earmuffs. This is going to get loud."
Hearing "earmuffs," Marco imagined pink fluffy things for warmth. But here were hard, plastic devices that looked like heavy headphones.
When everyone's ears were covered, the three corporals stepped toward the concrete platform. They lay down on their bellies, propped up on their elbows, their machine guns pointed toward the distant wooden targets. They cocked their weapons, pressed the stocks into their shoulders, and gripped the handguards. The recruits watched from behind.
Elvis leaned close and pulled Marco's right earmuff off his ear. "Corporal Pizza's got a nice ass," he whispered.
Marco glared at him. "Don't call her that. And don't say that."
Elvis grinned and punched Marco's arm. "I can't believe you fucked Kemi, you player, you. Proud of you, brother. I—"
The corporals fired, and furious, roaring, impossibly loud sound flared.
Marco and Elvis cringed and pressed their earmuffs against their ears.
Bullets roared.
Fire blazed.
Empty casings flew.
The sound was so loud that even with his earmuffs Marco winced, and his ears rang, and he swore that he'd kill Elvis if he suffered hearing damage from that first bullet.
Holes appeared in the wooden targets. The corporals shot again, waited two seconds, again, again. Bullets peppered the scum. One of the wooden targets spun, its mock claws whirring, and collapsed into the sand.
The corporals lowered their guns. All three removed their magazines, pulled open the barrels, and fished out the last loaded bullets.
The three corporals returned to their platoons, guns smoking. The recruits removed their earmuffs.
"Bad. Ass," Addy whispered.
Caveman whimpered, eyes screwed shut, pressing his hands hard against his earmuffs and pounding his feet. Marco tilted his head. He wanted to approach the heavyset recruit, to comfort him, but Corporal Diaz stepped back toward them.
"There are three ways to fire your T57s," Diaz said. "Lying on your stomachs, kneeling, and standing. We'll start from the ground up. When you lie on your stomachs, you want both elbows on the ground, one hand on the gun's handguard, and the magazine pressing against your forearm. And don't forget to keep that stock against your shoulder unless you want the gun to kick back into your nose. Now go kill those wooden scum."
The soldiers stepped onto the platform, where they took magazines of bullets from crates. They spread across the platform, facing their targets.
"Magazines—in!" barked Corporal Diaz.
With clicks, the recruits slammed their magazines into their guns.
"On your stomachs!"
They flattened themselves on their stomachs. Marco lay between Addy and Caveman. He peered over the latter's back, trying to meet Lailani's eyes, but the little recruit was staring ahead at her target, oblivious to all else.
Caveman let out another whimper. "It was so loud," he whispered.
"Cock your guns!" shouted Diaz.
Marco grabbed the charging handle and tugged back. He heard a click as a bullet left the magazine and entered the chamber.
"Switch to semi-automatic!"
Marco flipped the safety switch to semi, careful to avoid the automatic mode.
"Aim!" shouted Diaz. "Fire!"
Forty-five recruits pulled their triggers. Bullets roared out toward the scum targets.
Marco missed his first shot. The bullet hit the sand by his wooden scum. He frowned, stared through the sight, and adjusted the stock against his shoulder. He pulled the trigger again. He couldn't tell for sure from this distance, but he thought he hit. No sand, at least, flew this time. He fired again. Again. Across the platform, the other recruits were firing too. Empty casings flew from the chambers. When one shell grazed Marco's hand, he winced. The damn thing was hot.
"Die, you fuckers!" Addy was shouting as she fired bullet after bullet.
"Die, fucking scum!" Lailani could be heard shouting.
Caveman was wailing. The stocky recruit dropped his gun and scampered back.
"Halt your fire!" Corporal Diaz shouted. "Platoon, halt your fire!"
A few more bullets rang out, and they lowered their guns. Still lying on his stomach, Marco turned to see Caveman retreating several steps from the platform. Corporal Diaz approached him. The two soldiers stood a few feet behind Marco.
"I'm sorry, Corporal." Caveman mewled. "It's just so loud. So loud! Even with my earmuffs, I can't take it!" He seemed close to weeping. "I'm sorry."
Corporal Diaz had spent the day shouting, berating, and cursing his recruits, but now the soldier's face softened. He placed a hand on Caveman's shoulder.
"You did well, soldier," the corporal said. "I'm proud of you."
Marco's eyes widened. He had already admired Diaz for killing scum in the Appalachian Mountains, for suffering horrific wounds but remaining in the HDF to train new soldiers. Now his admiration for the wounded warrior grew further.
"Fabian, we need a soldier to guard the perimeter of the firing range," Diaz said to Caveman. "Go patrol the field. You'll fire your gun again tomorrow."
Caveman gulped and saluted. "Yes, si—"
Corporal Diaz, suppressing a smile, pulled the beefy boy's hand down. "Don't sir or salute me, I'm not your ensign
. Now go."
"Yes, Commander!" said Caveman and lolloped off, face red.
They spent another hour firing their guns, lying, kneeling, standing. After each magazine emptied, they headed toward their targets, and soon Marco was able to hit the wooden scum every time. But wooden stationary scum were one thing. Marco had seen the creatures move, scuttling at incredibly speed. Next time he encountered a living one, would he be able to even load and aim in time, let alone hit it?
At sunset they left the field. Marco tried to think how many days he had been here. When was the last time he had slept—back in RASCOM? He couldn't remember sleeping here at Fort Djemila yet, but it seemed like he had been here for days, weeks already. Time moved differently in the army. He was a veteran of two days, but he could barely remember his life as a civilian. Toronto now seemed a different world, different life.
As the soldiers headed toward the mess hall for dinner, Sergeant Singh stopped Marco and Addy.
"Not you two," the turbaned sergeant said. "You two don't eat tonight. You start your latrine duty. I want them spotless by the time the rest of your platoon is done eating."
Marco groaned inwardly. He wanted to object, to blame Addy, but refusing this stern commander seemed a bad idea.
Sergeant Singh isn't here to lead us like Ensign Ben-Ari or teach us like the corporals, he thought. He's here to discipline us, and if we argue back, we'll end up in the brig like Pinky.
"Yes, Commander," both Marco and Addy said.
The sergeant led them toward a small concrete building. They entered to find showers and rows of toilet stalls.
At least these weren't just outhouses like back in RASCOM. They had spent the day pissing in the open desert, and just the sight of actual stalls was such a relief that Marco almost—almost—didn't mind having to clean them. Again there were no toilet seats; the HDF was all about squatting over holes, it seemed. At least those holes weren't in the open, which already put the army ahead of prison, which was a little something to be grateful for.
Sergeant Singh handed them bottles of ammonia and mops.
"Clean the showers and the toilets. You see all that mold? I want it gone. I want this place clean enough to eat off."
Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1) Page 11
