by Shawn Inmon
He turned toward an empty table, but Max, whose voice carried through the quiet room, said, “Hey! Hey, new boy! Come on, come on. Sit over here with us.”
Michael did not want to eat with Curt and Max, or with anyone, for that matter. However, he also did not want Max to continue speaking so loudly and drawing attention to him. He reluctantly turned toward their table and sat down.
God, I hope he doesn’t want to talk all during dinner.
As soon as Michael sat down, though, Max seemed to be satisfied. He graced Michael with a beaming smile, then tucked into a large mound of mashed potatoes with bites of Salisbury steak mixed into it. Curt ignored the whole situation and ate in silence, staring at his food.
Michael cleaned his plate and contemplated a second helping of potatoes but decided against it. As everyone dispersed, Michael approached Max, who seemed to be far and away the friendliest person he had met at Hartfield.
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Max said. His voice came out of his mouth, but it sounded like it took a U-turn through his nose first. “What’s your name? I’m Max. You can call me Max.”
“I’m Michael. Can you tell me where the library is?”
Max smiled, an unconcerned smile that showed off too-small teeth. He reached down and put an arm around Michael’s shoulders. Michael pulled back, repulsed at being touched, but Max did not notice.
“Come on, Michael. I know you are new here, so I will show you where the library is, and anything else you want to see. You tell me, and I’ll show you, okay?”
Michael managed to free himself from the embrace, but nodded.
Max led him outside, past several of the barracks, and into another one-story brick building. The interior was mostly one large room, with every inch of wall covered in tall shelves filled with books.
“Nice library.”
Max nodded emphatically. “Da says it’s the best military strategy and reference library outside of Washington DC.” He seemed to be repeating something he had memorized. “There’s no one here in the summertime, so you can only read the books here; you can’t take them to your room. It’s open until ten o’clock, though. That’s lights-out.”
“Okay. Got it. Is it just military stuff? No science fiction or sports books?”
Max looked at him, mouth agape. “This is the best military strategy and reference library outside of Washington DC.”
Michael got it, but he couldn’t resist.
“So, no Archie Comics or Dr. Seuss?”
Max frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”
Michael did his best to put a smile on his face and waved his hands. “No, no. Just kidding around. Okay, thanks, Max. I’m really tired. I’m gonna go to my room now.”
Max’s frown melted away. “Okay, Michael. Night-night.”
Fifteen minutes later, Michael fell face-first across his bed and was fast asleep. There would be no fact-finding missions on this night.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next few days were just like the first—breakfast, work, lunch, work, dinner, then exhaustion. Eventually, his muscles grew used to the physical labor, and by the sixth night, he had enough energy to explore the school again.
He had found an old flashlight that still worked in the tool shed at the back of the Academy. Between that, the moonlight, and his good, young eyes, he was able to cover a lot of ground. He kept returning to the cliffs, looking for a path that might lead down to the water. After an hour of poking and prodding the entire length, he was convinced there was no way down.
He stood with his back to the ocean, arms outstretched, envisioning the layout of the campus. Essentially a square, with the driveway bisecting it at the top, the buildings in the middle, and these cliffs as the bottom of the square. Only one way in, one way out.
He looked south. There was a forest of dense foliage, underbrush, sycamores and alders extending from the very edge of the cliffs. He pushed into the forest, but found it slow going. He was just about to give up when he stumbled across a game trail. He followed that along for fifty yards, until it dead-ended into a rock wall.
Jesus. It’s like this place is walled on all sides.
He turned to leave when the beam of the flashlight crisscrossed some vines hanging down the sheer wall, stirring a memory. He took a few steps forward and tentatively poked the vines.
The way they hang and move in the wind. There’s something so familiar about that.
He used the flashlight to push some of the vines to the side. It was the mouth of a cave.
His legs nearly gave way.
A cave. A fucking cave.
His mind flew to another cave. Another lifetime. Images of himself, kneeling down in the dirt and dark, doing terrible things. Tiny skulls, arranged neatly on a natural shelf in the cave. He broke out in a cold sweat, even though the night air was cool and a stiff breeze rustled the leaves and brush around him. He twisted his head from side to side, cracking his neck.
No. No, this is a different life. I am different. I am not that person any more.
He swept the hanging vines away and explored the mouth of the cave with the flashlight.
Not that big. Maybe fifteen feet deep. Looks tall enough to stand up in, though. Terrible smell, too. Something’s using this cave from time to time.
He swept the beam across the uneven floor and saw scattered piles of small bones and fur.
Gonna have to come back here in the daylight and check it out.
Michael stepped back and forced himself to focus his eyes. He made a mental note of where he was and how he had gotten there, then followed the trail back to the open air. He was relieved when he crawled into his bunk.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The hours turned to days, the days to weeks, as they always do.
Michael spent his days pulling more weeds, polishing staircase railings, vacuuming the huge rooms, and doing whatever else Peterson could think of for him to do.
He spent evenings in the library. There really was no fiction there, but military nonfiction didn’t have to be dry or boring. The Art of War by Sun Tzu may have been published 1,500 years earlier, but the accompanying text, which gave examples of each truism in the book, plucked from conflicts ranging from the Revolutionary War to a recent battle in Vietnam, brought the book to life. Helmet for My Pillow, by Robert Leckie, Run Silent, Run Deep, by Edward L. Beach, The Guns of August, by Barbara Tuchman, and The Rommel Papers, written by Erwin Rommel himself, all turned out to be fascinating reading for Michael. Every day, the stack of books he still wanted to read grew.
Several weeks after first arriving, Michael was back in the front flower beds, waging war against the treacherous weeds that would not accept defeat, when Curt rolled up with Max in the same Jeep he had used to pick him up the first night.
“Iggy’s sending me into town to pick up supplies. Want to come?” “Iggy” was Peter Ignovich, whom Michael had once thought of as “Cook.”
Michael stood, adjusted a crick in his back, and said, “Captain Peterson’s got me on weed patrol.”
Curt lowered his head and looked at Michael over the top of his sunglasses. “We’ll only be gone a couple of hours. The weeds will still be there when we get back. C’mon.”
Michael realized he hadn’t been off the grounds of Hartfield since he had arrived. He nodded and had started to climb up and into the back seat when Max turned and yelled “Shotgun!” from the front passenger seat.
Curt laughed. “No need to call it when you’re already riding it, Max.”
“Right, right,” Max said, memorizing another important rule to get him through life.
Curt turned right out of the academy’s long driveway and headed down the coast toward Crescent City.
“So, where’s Jenkin’s Cove actually at?” Michael shouted at the front seat.
“Do you remember the gas station I picked you up at?” Curt met Michael’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
Michael nodd
ed.
“That was it. There was some hope that more businesses might spring up around it to service the Academy, but that never really happened. It’s just a name that stuck.”
“So where are we going?”
“Grayson’s Mercantile in Crescent City. It’s not far.”
Half an hour later, they pulled into Crescent City, which wasn’t a metropolis either, with a population barely over 3,000. Still, it was busy enough to have a few stoplights and a downtown business district.
Curt drove past a large store with a Grayson’s Mercantile sign out front, turned right at the next block, and another down an alley behind the row of businesses. He stopped the Jeep and backed it neatly into a loading area.
“We’re not picking up that much stuff. But the rules are, we pick up at the loading dock.”
The three boys got out of the Jeep. Tall, acne-cursed Curt, short, moon-faced Max, and the even smaller Michael, all dressed in identical Hartfield uniforms.
The loading dock was empty, so they walked up the ramp, empty except for a large green industrial machine in one corner.
“You stay here and make sure no one messes with the Jeep, okay?”
Sure. What am I gonna do if someone does mess with it? Kick ’em in the kneecap?
Michael sat down on the edge of the loading dock and dangled his feet against the concrete. He wasn’t interested in going into the store, anyway. He had no money, and there was nothing he needed.
Curt and Max disappeared inside for a stretch, then reappeared pushing a low, flat cart with half a dozen boxes stacked on it. Behind them were a boy and a girl wearing long red aprons with Grayson’s in script across the front. They both looked to be Curt’s age. The boy was a few inches shorter, but might have had Curt by fifteen pounds. The girl had shoulder-length brown hair and a pretty face.
Michael saw something pass between the girl and Curt—an unidentifiable look—but it flickered away.
The boy carried a stack of broken-down cardboard boxes over to the large metal machine and tossed them in. He shut the lid and pushed a button, and the machine went to work with much fury and noise. Thirty seconds later, the boy opened the lid. The cardboard had been compressed.
Meanwhile, Curt, Max, and Michael each picked up a box and began loading the Jeep.
Looks like we’ve got just enough room for this stuff and, maybe, me. I might have to ride home on top of a case of creamed corn or spinach, though.
The three of them were walking back up to get the last boxes when the boy in the red apron laughed loudly—a mean laugh, full of menace. Under his apron, he wore a white T-shirt with the left sleeve rolled up with a pack of cigarettes. He shook one out and laughed again, looking at Max.
Curt flushed but didn’t say anything. Michael slowed down, then stopped, halfway up the ramp.
The boy lit his cigarette and flicked his ash toward Max. The girl snickered.
Under her breath, she sang, “Retard boy, you’re my little retard boy,” to the tune of “Soldier Boy” by The Shirelles.
Red apron boy laughed again, hawked, and spit a loogie toward Max.
Curt stepped between the boy and Max and said, “You’re a real asshole, George. Just knock it off, will you? We’ll be out of here in two minutes.”
“Gotta go back and train to go kill some gooks?” He mimed using a submachine gun, complete with sound effects.
It was the girl’s turn to laugh. “You kill me, Georgie. C’mon, let’s go back to work.” She pointedly put her arm through George’s.
George nodded, then flicked his lit cigarette toward Max. It hit him just under his chin and fell down into his uniform shirt.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Max cried. “It’s burning me! Curtis, it’s burning me!”
Michael leaped toward Max, pulled his shirt out of his pants, and shook it until the cigarette fell out.
“It’s okay, Max,” Michael said. “I’ve got it. It’s okay.”
Curt turned and swung on George, but George knew it was coming. He easily ducked out of the way. He followed up with a roundhouse of his own that caught Curt flush on the nose. Blood spattered and Curt stumbled back, blinded.
George was off-balance from throwing the haymaker and Michael was already moving. He threw himself across the much bigger boy’s knees in a full body block. George teetered on the edge of the loading dock, then pitched over backwards.
He hit the pavement beside the Jeep butt-first, but his head slammed into the concrete with a sickening thud.
For a moment, everyone stared down at the fallen boy.
Oh, shit. Didn’t think that would actually work.
After a few seconds of quiet, George rolled over onto his side, revealing a red blotch on the pavement where his head had been. The girl screamed, a sound so piercing that Michel was sorry he had ears.
Curt, one hand over his nose, ran to Michael to help him up. He collected Max, who was crying, and hustled them both down the ramp and into the Jeep. He jumped into the driver’s seat, threw the Jeep in gear, and sped away.
As they roared down the alley, Max yelled “Shotgun!” from the front seat.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Carrie had learned a few things. It didn’t matter whether she opened her training manual at the beginning, middle, or end; she saw exactly the message she was supposed to. Also, when it came to a battle of patience and wills between her and the manual, the manual always won.
More practically, she had learned that she would have a lot of freedom in her job. She didn’t have to do anything other than observe her charges if she didn’t want to. She didn’t have to do mean things to them just to get a reaction. Also, she had no say about whom she watched over. No matter what Bertellia said, it kind of was like watching television; it was just watching real life instead of something scripted.
She hadn’t gotten anything but fortune-cookie answers—If you seek light, turn your gaze inward—in what felt like eons, though. She blew a gust of air up at her bangs. All around her, others were dutifully turning pages, working, working.
I must be the only idiot in the group that can’t figure out how to work this thing properly.
She rolled her neck, loosened her shoulders, took a deep breath and held it.
I can’t do it. I give up.
The book became a pyxis.
You have got to be kidding me.
Bertellia appeared at her side. “Congratulations, you have finished your training.”
All around her, the others raised their eyes and stared at her. Carrie could read their thoughts: What makes her so special?
I have no clue.
“How in the world can you say I’ve finished? I couldn’t make it tell me anything. Finally, I gave up.”
“You have answered your own question, and you are correct. You couldn’t make it tell you anything. It sometimes takes novitiates millennia to learn that. You managed it in a surpassingly short time.” Bertellia fixed Carrie with a thoughtful look. “The true key is that you gave up.”
“Giving up is a good thing?”
“Of course. There are times it is the only path to the next level. We must admit how much we do not know before we can learn the things we need. Come, now.”
Carrie had thought the room she was in was immense. Now, she was suddenly in a structure that made that one feel like a broom closet. If there hadn’t been a ceiling, she would have sworn she was in a vast outdoor world. There were two rows of desks that stretched as far as she could see.
“This is your desk. It is time for you to work. To feed the Machine.”
Carrie sat at her new workspace. The pyxis turned slowly in a clockwise motion. A picture began to form.
“This will be your first charge. You will be able to learn anything you want to know about who they are. The pyxis will do the work of collecting for you. You will start with just one. Others will be added over time, as you become expert at your job.”
Bertellia bent closer to the picture, which glowed a go
lden white at the edges. “Oh, my, look at all that emotion. That’s a promising beginning for you.”
Carrie focused on the picture, which showed a young boy, riding in the back of a Jeep.
Chapter Twenty-Four
No one talked on the way to the Academy. The combination of the roar of the Jeep’s engine and the whistling wind made an involved conversation impossible. Curt dabbed gingerly at his nose with a handkerchief, Max hummed the tune to “Soldier Boy” over and over, and Michael thought furiously.
Have I screwed myself already? Shit. That kid’s head was bleeding. If I killed him, what happens then? I don’t love being here, working as a free labor force all day every day, but there are a lot worse places I could end up. If I get kicked out of Hartfield, then what will Father come up with to torment me?
Curt slowed to a stop at the same spot he had picked Michael up. “Jump out here, let me look you over.”
Michael did as he was ordered. Curtis examined him. A small scuff on the knee of his pants; his uniform shirt was untucked. But Michael wasn’t much worse for wear.
“You look okay. Good. Just go back to what you were doing here. Report for supper when the bell rings. I’ll do my best to keep you out of this. And, Michael? Thanks.”
It was the first time Curt had ever called him anything other than “Cadet” or “Hollister.”
Michael knelt down in the flower bed and started pulling weeds again, but dread weighed heavily on him.
An hour later, the bell rang and Michael dusted himself off and headed for the latrine to wash up for dinner. He was intercepted by Captain Peterson.
“Did you go into town today with Curtis and Maxwell Hartfield?”
Michael looked at the ground for several seconds. I’d like to say “no,” but if he’s asking the question, he already knows the answer.
