by Ginger Booth
It was not. The right side of Dima’s head was covered in hideous burn scars. Her hair was cropped in short scraggly tufts around the scar tissue. The rim of the ear facing Ava was nearly gone. Dima was lucky. Just an inch farther, and the burn would have marred her clear olive complexion and gaunt oval face.
Captain Stevens gasped, and drew back in revulsion. He dropped the scarf into the empty salad bowl, where it soaked in a pool of buttermilk ranch dressing.
Calderon, arrived only seconds too late, thoughtfully extracted the fork from Fang’s grip. Ava was impressed. Calderon really was on the ball.
Stevens wheeled on him. “Sergeant, religious garb, especially Muslim, is not permitted!”
“Yes, Master Fitness Trainer,” Calderon acknowledged, keeping his face neutral despite a glance at Hijab.
“Is this the same group of recruits I saw turned away from me on the marching field?”
“Yes, Captain Stevens.”
“I don’t think you understand what we’re trying to accomplish here, Calderon!”
“No, Captain Stevens.”
“What?”
An older black sergeant appeared, his pocket labeled ‘Walker,’ accompanied by a female lieutenant labeled ‘Mattey.’ “Captain Stevens?” Mattey said. “Captain Deluca is this way, sir.”
Walker waited until the lieutenant got the MFT out of earshot. “Hell,” he said, looking at Dima. “Does her cap help?”
Dima didn’t bring her uniform cap, since she was wearing hijab. Ava tried her own billed cap on her. Dima shrank away, eyes silently overflowing with tears of humiliation. Ava’s cap nestled right above the destroyed ear, and did little to mask the patchy tufts of hair and molten-skin neck. Ava considered her linen napkin from her lap, but it wasn’t big enough to fasten.
“I’ll kill the bastard!” Fakhir hissed, rising. Puño and Doc seized his arms and pinned him to his seat.
“Maybe a wig,” Walker mused.
“Sergeant Walker, could we speak of this privately?” Calderon urged.
“Huh? Ah. Yeah. Later.” Walker turned and walked away.
“Recruit Hijab, I’m sorry,” Calderon said. “After you’ve eaten, you have permission to repair your head scarf. If anyone else challenges you, tell them you have my permission and send them to me.”
Hijab swallowed, considered that, then slowly sat up straight and returned the cap to Ava. She met the squad leader’s eye with a dead stare. “I’m fine, sergeant.”
Calderon looked torn, but left it at a nod of respect. “Up to you, recruit. The rest of you.” It went against every grain of his sergeantly being to admit command fallibility, but he drew it out. “This is new to all of us. There will be some rough patches as we work things out. That may take time. As you were.”
“My fork, sergeant?” Fang hissed.
“Use your spoon. And your head.” Calderon bopped a light fist on Fang’s head in parting, and drifted on to other tables.
Ava pulled the hijab scarf out of the salad bowl, and found two of the pins Dima used to secure it. “We can wash this in the bathroom. And you can put it back on.” Wet, unfortunately, but given the rain today, their clothes were all wet, anyway.
“I don’t need it,” Dima said.
“You should wear it. You have permission,” Fakhir urged.
“It doesn’t hide anything anymore,” Dima said. “You’ve already seen. You cannot unsee.”
“That’s b.s., Hijab,” Ava said. “People try to look their best. That’s just self-respect.”
“Dima. I no longer wear hijab.”
Yoda leaned forward. “I respect that. Panic, maybe you should back off.”
Ava would sooner have expected her soup bowl to talk back to her. She pursed her lips and stared him down. Yoda dropped his eyes fast, to fidget with his napkin.
“Explain, Yoda,” Marquis said.
Yoda swallowed and meekly addressed his lap. “What Dima said. We saw under her scarf. What, is she supposed to be ashamed? Looked to me like she felt ashamed. Then she decided to show her scars and let people deal. Their problem, not hers.” He leaned forward to look past Ava at Dima on her other side. “I thought that was brave, Dima. I thought you were really cool.”
“Thank you, Yoda.” Dima shifted her gaze onto Ava. “Tomorrow maybe. Today I wear no hijab.”
Ava sat back and raised hands in surrender. “OK.”
Marquis still looked at Ava thoughtfully. But in the end he just nodded, and didn’t say anything.
After lunch, the platoon eagerly took advantage of an opportunity to stand in line to get a haircut instead of marching practice in the cold downpour. Dima elected to crop her whole head to a half inch of dark hair. The guys looked radically different, especially Yoda, who’d worn his lanky ditch-brown hair at shoulder length.
Ava herself had been the rare girl during the Starve who hadn’t lopped off her hair in despair over lice and fleas. She washed and brushed it religiously, in ice water from the Hudson River in winter if need be, and kept it trimmed and in excellent condition. She let them cut it to mid-shoulder blade length. But that was as far as she would go.
Then they had to show off their new-learned marching skills in the rain in front of their new brigade commander, one Lt. Colonel Carter Newsome, a white-haired white guy. He gave a speech to say he was unimpressed. The feeling was very, very mutual.
Alas, he handed the microphone off to the Master Fitness Trainer, Captain Stevens again. The sadist ordered them to do squats and lunges.
With everyone in formation under the watchful gaze of the brigade commander, the platoon sergeants couldn’t slip their recruits off the quadrangle quietly. As five minutes of squats turned to fifteen, sergeants worked their way up the non-com chain of command. Delegates reached the review platform, and were rebuffed.
Ava’s hamstrings and lower back were killing her. Most of the squad had long since given up and plopped down onto the blacktop. But she wouldn’t give in. Eventually Calderon wandered over to her and pressed down on her shoulder.
“Sit down, dammit,” he hissed in her ear.
“I won’t quit, instructor,” Ava said. “I’ll take whatever that bastard dishes out.”
“Sit.” Calderon pushed her down. He continued down the line to make sure everyone else under his command rested on the ground, too, while the MFT exhorted lazy cowards to get back up and work those legs. Marquis and Puño looked like they wanted to bounce back up and pop the bastard as badly as Ava did, as well as some toughs from Midtown. Calderon made them stay down.
Sergeants were doing the same thing across the square. Ava’s view from the ground improved greatly.
Eventually, the MFT was forced to concede that his little calisthenics session was over, whether he said so or not. “Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. This is the sorriest lot of weaklings I’ve ever seen. You think you can become soldiers? I don’t see a single one of you worth training! I should send you cowering toothpicks back to your mommies and daddies right now!”
Most recruits held up middle fingers. Some held their arms up high to display the middle finger prominently. Ava ignored them, and the MFT. Instead she watched her sergeants intently, with growing rage.
Clarke, Singh, and Calderon had their backs to the MFT. They conferred behind their hands, and kept an eye on their charges. Ava caught Calderon’s glance, her eyes narrowed to slits, silently demanding he do something, before she did. He patted air to tell her to stay put, then put hands over his ears to suggest she not listen. She saved her middle finger for him. He returned it.
13
Interesting fact: The three muscles of the ‘hamstrings’ connect the knee and hips, at the back of the thigh. The four-muscle ‘quadriceps’ serve the front of the thigh. All of them are crucial to walking and climbing.
After lunch the next day, Calderon took the whole platoon on a placid stroll around the muddy greensward between the Washington Statue and the Hudson River. While the day was dark, cold, and clammy,
the rain took a break temporarily.
Ava spent the morning in bed. Calderon and Singh lined everyone up in the hallway before breakfast and watched them perform one squat. Everyone who failed this test got painkillers, an energy bar for breakfast, and the morning off. Her hamstrings were killing her, completely seized up from all the squats and lunges and stair-climbing the day before. The sergeant escorted them down to lunch on the elevator, normally off limits. There was a security code pad.
“Remember, when you get tired, just stand still a minute,” Calderon encouraged them. Sergeant Singh brought up the rear of the straggled recruits. When enough dropped out, he would collect them to do something less onerous than a walk.
To her disgust, Ava needed the slow pace. Marquis and Puño matched her. Though not as bad off as she was, they were likewise guilty of trying to do all the exercises yesterday.
Calderon appeared to decide that everyone was limping along at the correct turtle speed. He dropped back to walk with the three of them. “Did we learn something yesterday, recruits?”
“The MFT is an asshole,” Marquis observed.
Calderon said, “Aside from the obvious.”
“Hijab is tougher than she looks,” Ava said.
“The elevator code,” Puño said. “It’s 6-8-3-7,” he added for Ava and Marquis’ benefit. They nodded, committing the code to memory.
Calderon snorted amusement. “Use that wisely. Back to my point. Are you listening?”
“No, sergeant,” they chorused.
“Right. My point was, all these recruits who are weaker than you are? Have you noticed a difference today, between you and them?”
“They can walk. I can’t,” Ava said, limping along.
“Exactly! They respected their bodies. When it was too much for them, they stopped.”
“Whereas we obeyed orders,” Marquis said primly.
“Oh, that’s why you did it, huh?” Calderon returned. “Looked to me like the three of you were spitting mad. Ready to bite someone. Damned if you’d let the MFT get the better of you. Am I wrong?”
The recruits glowered at him. “We did obey orders,” Ava countered.
Calderon nodded. “You did. But they can walk. You can’t. It’s going to take a while to solve our command issues. In the meantime, I want you to get this order loud and clear. Are you listening?”
“No, sergeant.”
“Right. You need to listen to your bodies. Respect their limits. And mind your own business. That being your hamstrings, Panic. Not Hijab’s hair. All three of you are now useless for days. Can’t make any forward progress on your strength training. Because you wanted to make a point, instead of working on your own bodies. Because you want to be a leader, instead of working on yourself. Your job here is to work on yourself.”
“Right,” Puño said. “Following orders is a mistake. Got it, sarge.”
“Wrong, pinhead. What I’m telling you, is to mind your own business. The MFT? He’s a problem. But he’s not your problem.”
“With respect, sergeant, he really is,” Marquis objected.
“Nope. Not my problem either,” Calderon corrected him. “Above my pay grade. My problem is leading you, best I can under the circumstances. We don’t control circumstances. What the enemy does. Stupid orders from on high. We cope with those, and do what we need to do. What is it that you need to do?”
Kill the MFT, sprung to Ava’s mind. None of them answered.
Calderon sighed. “You need to take care of your bodies. Make sure they keep getting stronger. Hamstrings so screwed up you can barely walk, is not how to do that. Look, guys, I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m saying you need to get smarter. And about leadership? You three, I can tell. You think you’re the leaders here. But you’re not. I am.”
“Yes, sergeant,” they muttered ungratefully.
“But sergeant,” Ava couldn’t help herself, “you guys don’t understand us. Christ, yesterday the MFT talked about ‘sending us back to our mommies and daddies.’ Completely clueless.”
Calderon nodded. “Point. But what you need to do about that, Panic, is tell me. And let me handle it. Maybe I’ll hand it back to you, maybe I won’t. But I need the three of you to get more selfish, here. Are you listening?”
“No, sergeant,” they growled angrily.
“You hear me,” Calderon denied. “Not everyone here is going to make it as a soldier. You know what? That’s not up to you. You’re not going to agree with orders. Not up to you, either. What’s up to you is your bodies, and your heads. I take control of everything else. That’s to make you focus on your jobs. You know, I need to appoint recruit squad leaders. All three of you? Not on the list of candidates. Because you really need to learn this. Panic, get back here! All three of you, stand at ease.”
As she got angrier, Ava had ignored her screaming leg muscles and pulled ahead, walking faster. Now, pulled out of line and trying to stand still, she bounced, arms crossed over her chest, jaw clenched.
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Marquis growled.
“I know,” Calderon agreed, unflappable. “None of you did.” He let that sink in. “But you’re not the leaders here. I am. Panic. Who’s the leader here?”
The first time Frosty hit her was over this. Say it, Panic! I’m the leader here! You will obey me! The gang, only the first few dozen yet, watched on in dark glee. He hit her halfway across the room. Then he grabbed her by the biceps, digging his fingers into the muscle til she crumpled to her knees in agony. Say it!
Ava closed her eyes, blew out. She bent over, a move her aching thigh muscles appreciated not at all. Breathe out.
“Guys, go on ahead,” Calderon ordered Marquis and Puño. They ignored the order mulishly, of course. “Just once. Pretty please, with a fucking cherry on top. Go!” With great reluctance, they shambled away, frequently looking back at him and Ava.
“Take your time, Panic. I’ll wait,” Calderon murmured.
Face burning, Ava tried to unbend and open her eyes. Too soon. She bent down and blew out again. Having Calderon stare at her while she tried to control a flashback made it that much harder. She wanted to be tough, to stand up to him. She couldn’t do it.
“You have a safe place in your head where you can go, Panic?” Calderon suggested. “There was this summer camp I went to as a kid, Upstate. On a lake. Early morning, that lake was like glass. Throw a stone into it, the ripples would spread out forever. You ever been to a place like that?”
Ava sighed and straightened, steeled herself against him. “I’ve seen a lake.”
Calderon shook his head. “Not my point. Now’s not the time. But think of your own place, like my lake. We’ll work on that.”
“Yes, sergeant,” she hissed.
Calderon asked quietly, “Can you tell me what just happened, recruit?”
“Bad memory.”
“Bet you’ve got plenty.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“What I’m trying to tell you, Panic? Is that I lead here, so you can deal with things like that. Get them squared away. Hijab, the MFT, your hamstrings. Those are all distractions. Pretty convincing ones, too. But you need to focus on mastering yourself. Not making Hijab feel better. Nobody outside your skin. You haven’t done anything wrong. But you need to focus on you. Are you OK?”
Ava gave a stuttering sigh, nerves still jumping from the adrenaline rush. “Sure.”
“Right. You walk, super slow, back to the statue. Be nice to your hamstrings, alright? Sergeant Singh’s going to take the walking wounded for arts and crafts. You can go color.”
“What?” she spat out.
“Coloring. Like crayons? It’s soothing.”
“I’m not a toddler.”
“No, you’re a grown woman. Who needs to sit and calm down. Because you shot your hamstrings. So you can’t do what we should have done yesterday. Baseline fitness test. You won’t be fit to take it for days. In the meantime, work on your inner game.” His tone was apologetic.
Calderon knew this was not good news. “Go.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
Frosty toyed with her hair, and drew her in for another kiss. Sex hurt the first time, but not anymore. They’d been honeymooning several days now, alone in the dark dojo in Chelsea.
In the way of dreams, they cuddled in satin sheets. Their proper four-poster bed stood in a sea of practice mats, surrounded by punching bags, with a romantic candle on the nightstand. Mirrors lined the walls, and ceiling. The room was pleasantly cool, and redolent of teenage sneakers and rose petals. Goosebumps of pleasure followed Frosty’s fingers and tongue across her breast. In return, Frosty’s resilient skin and buffed physique felt exquisite to her wandering fingers. His beautiful tender face, skin clear and unmarked. They were young, and happy, and in love…
No, it wasn’t like that. Ava irritably rolled over in her narrow loft bed.
In mid-caress, a gang crashed through the storefront windows of their romantic dojo boudoir. A black gang wielding razors. Rank clothing hung from them in zombie rags. Twelve against two.
Frosty leapt out of bed naked, and took up a wicked sharp Japanese katana, an heirloom sword. Ava huddled like a damsel in distress. Her hero Frosty fought a dozen single-handedly to defend her.
That’s not how that fight went down. Ava tossed again.
But she couldn’t let them hurt her beloved! She leapt out of bed herself.
Satin sheets bound her. She fought the sheets. She tangled in the sheets. She was drowning in the damned sheets.
First blood, as the black leader sliced darling Frosty across the cheek. Another fiend dashed in to slash at the shapely pecs she’d been exploring so lovingly.
Suddenly, she was out of bed, armed with nunchucks. Still naked, she faced off against four of the attackers, one arm modestly shielding her breasts.
Ava growled in her sleep, and flopped onto her back.
She spun, she ducked, she kicked, she danced, and the nunchucks clattered. And a black zombie, a foot taller than her, caught her from behind. He pressed her to him, and held a razor to her throat. Five guys pinned Frosty while their leader cut on him. They decided to gang-rape him right in front of her –
