Flame Guardian

by Kristin D. Van Risseghem

  My brother nods as if not surprised, his eyes weary.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We are kicked out on Saturday morning. This gives Smoke time to look for jobs before he goes back to school Monday.

  “I’ve been applying for jobs on the weekends,” he says. “But as soon as I get there for an interview, it gets awkward. They dismiss me as quick as they can.”

  I was afraid of this. And he has a perfect record and a resume to boot.

  We split up as he looks for work and I look for a place for us to sleep.

  I venture into busy Lower Wacker this time. The underground stretch of old road zooms with cars. There is a little section with concrete half walls separating a triangular area from the busy street. The lights douse the whole area in a sickly yellow-orange.

  Several homeless people are here, with a variety of items to provide makeshift beds and tents. A dented bike lies on its side amidst paper bags, broken glass, and empty cans. Somehow this seems safer, with the lights and the busy cars and people. Maybe we can make room here.

  Late in the day we meet up, scrounging for cardboard, old blankets, jackets, anything we can find. Often there are things left out in the alleys by the trash, or out in front – crap people don’t want anymore. You can furnish a whole apartment with the things you find.

  We manage to find thrown-out food behind a Mariano’s grocer and tried a couple of homeless shelters, but we can’t find one that will take both of us. They’re all either for men or for women, and they’re far apart from each other. Four of them were so full they wouldn’t let us in the door.

  We go to Lower Wacker and squeeze into a spot between two others, with ratty sleeping bags on the ground and old people sleeping on them. At least we won’t get rained on here.

  We lie down, exhausted as hell. The roar of the zooming cars echo, and the ground shakes, but we soon get used to it, like white noise. The concrete pillars and walls are riddled with faded graffiti letters and drawings. Everything down here glows in the orange light.

  “Our bus passes run out next week,” Smoke says. “This is too far for me to get to my classes every day. Should we try calling Torrent? We’ll have to go back above ground for better reception. Plus, it’ll have to be quick since we don’t have much battery life. Tomorrow when we’re out, we’ll need to find an outlet for a while. Maybe the library or something.”

  “I’ll find a new place closer, I promise. We could look into shelters or some more transitional places like New Steps.” I hang my head. “As much as I want to see Tor. I don’t want him to see me, us, like this. Let’s get established and then reach out to Tage and Torrent and see if they want to hang out for a while. Tage knows we’re together now since I texted her yesterday.”

  “Okay. Ash?” I look at my twin. “Happy Birthday.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m woken by a drunk climbing onto me, his boozy breath so strong it punches me in the face. “Get off, get off!” I yell.

  “Come on, pushy-cat,” the bristled-faced middle-aged man slurs.

  Smoke wakes and hauls the man to his feet, where he stands stupidly, swaying. “Get out of here,” my brother shouts.

  I stand.

  “Quiet down,” “Hush,” “Shut up.” A chorus of grumpy, half-awake voices yell at us.

  The drunk lunges forward and grabs me. Red explodes around me as I push him back with all my might.

  Bright orange flames light up the man as his dusty liquor-stained clothes ignite. He screams in hysterics.

  “Put it out – put it out – put it out!” The man runs, crazed. He tumbles over the half-wall and falls right into oncoming traffic. Tires screech, followed by an echoing thump.

  By now everyone is standing, in shock. Another car careens into the first one, flames licking up its sides from beneath. The screaming stops.

  Smoke grabs me and we run.

  We jog through dark streets and alleys, keeping under the L tracks and out of view. Finally, we halt to catch our breath.

  “I thought you had it under control.” Smoke’s voice is crackling with tension.

  “I do, sometimes.” I don’t know what to say.

  “I think you killed him.”

  I clam up. I killed that man. I killed him. My body trembles as a black horror drowns me. I can’t breathe. Am I the bad guy?

  Who am I?

  ***

  By Sunday afternoon, we find several cardboard boxes and make a kind of shelter under the L train, not far from where we camped last night. We scrounge some old blankets to line the inside. I have to stay here all day on Monday, to claim it, while Smoke takes his classes.

  When he gets back, I go look for food and other essentials. The dumpsters behind the stores are always well-stocked. I start to really stink, though, after climbing into the dumpsters night after night. We have nowhere to shower.

  We continue to check into more homeless shelters, but we still can’t find one that will take both of us. Someone tells us about a soup kitchen a few miles away and to get there early as sometimes they do run out of food since there are a lot of people needing their services now that it’s summer and schools aren’t feeding the children.

  “We don’t want to go there anyway,” I tell Smoke. “Someone from juvie said she was picked on by other kids, and they beat her up the next morning when they were turned out. She stabbed one of them with her knife, that’s why she was in juvie.”

  “Yeah, Torrent told me he once got lice at a shelter. He had to shave himself bald to get rid of them. His stuff was stolen, too.”

  Tonight it rains so hard the cardboard falls down around our heads and we are soaked. We find a Red Line subway station, open all night, and jump the turnstile to sit on the platform, leaning against the white-painted wall under the billboard ads, miserable.

  “We can’t keep doing this, Ash.” I stare at the empty tracks, receding into the black tunnel, into nothing. Like our lives. “I’ll have my diploma soon, I’m almost done. I can start filling out applications to state colleges. I bet we’d get a ton of financial aid considering we have no parents, no income, but good grades. If that option doesn’t pan out, then we’ll join the army.”

  “No one will accept me with my juvie record,” I say. “You’ll get in without a problem, leaving me behind. What am I supposed to do while you’re attending classes? Work at some fast food joint?” I sigh.

  “It’s better than this, Ash, you know it is. Just four years, then they’ll pay for college for both of us. I bet they could waive your record after you’ve fulfilled your duty. It’s our way out of this shit hole.”

  The hours drag by, so slowly that time stops. We try to doze. Not many people commute in the middle of the night, but it picks up as dawn approaches.

  “You there, no loitering,” a cop barks.

  We jump up and make our way back outside to the July dawn. The sky is just turning blue-gray.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stare straight ahead as the bus lurches toward Fort Jackson, South Carolina for basic training. Guys and girls are chatting in nervous excitement. I wish they’d shut up.

  We had signed up together, all four of us, Torrent, Tage, my brother and I. Smoke convinced everyone. We thought we could do boot camp together, the recruiter promised us. Only the M-Fer lied. After we went through initial processing and signed up for four years, we were separated and sent to different states. Smoke got Fort Sill, Oklahoma, Torrent to Fort Benning, Georgia, and Tage to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.

  I bet they did it on purpose, fucking army.

  It’s around one in the morning when my cattle bus pulls into the base, everyone quiet and nervous. As soon as the bus doors open, a guy with a fancy, broad-brimmed hat gets on and yells at us.

  “All right, listen up, everybody. Take your cell phones out and hold them up.” Rustling sounds fill the bus as we all fish in our pockets and bags for our phones. “On behalf of Lieutenant Commander Jones and Sergeant Major Wallace, welcome to 12
0th AG Battalion, Fort Jackson, South Carolina. All you need to know is that I’m a drill sergeant and there are two more outside. You haven’t earned the right to call us by our names yet.” The man standing in the aisle of the bus is young, maybe a few years older than me. He’s in uniform and wears it well. His body is slender, but muscular from all the working out he does and I bet we’ll be doing soon. “Take your phones, turn them off, and stow them in your bags.” We obey, the tension of almost forty recruits tightening the hot, humid air. “Anyone wearing a hat like this or something similar is a drill sergeant you will address us as ‘Drill Sergeant’ do you understand?” He points to his head and then to us.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” we all chant.

  “You will only address us as Drill Sergeant?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “I didn’t hear you; what did you say?” He brings up a clipboard and writes something down. Great. More demerits or some sort of point system.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

  “I want to hear you answer at the top of your lungs do you understand?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!!” Our words are one giant shout.

  “From here on out the last three words out of your mouth will be ‘yes’ or ‘no, Drill Sergeant’ do you understand?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “There are two things that are going to happen: first when I tell you to get off my bus—Females, you’re going to leave first, and you’ll go to the vertical yellow line on your left, that’s marked on the ground—Males, you’re going to the vertical yellow line on the right side. Second, your paperwork will be in your left hand, and your bags will be in your right hand. Paperwork in the left hand, bags in the right hand, females on the left, males on the right, you will have your heels, both of your heels together on the vertical yellow lines do you understand?

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “You have two minutes to get off my bus. Go!” He deftly jumps off as we scramble to grab our various bags and get off as fast as we can. As I land on the concrete, I pass by two other drill sergeants flanking the doors, yelling into my ears so loud they’re ringing as I line up.

  “Move, Move, Move!” the taller sergeant on the right yells. It won’t be difficult to tell the difference between these guys. This dude has a huge nose. Not that I’ll tell him that. Ever. “Hurry up, you guys are a sorry bunch of freakin’ turds–Move!”

  “Get that bag up–put that phone away – hurry, hurry, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.” The left sergeant is much shorter than the other two.

  “You–get up there, even the lines, look straight forward, let’s go, Recruits!” At this point, it doesn’t matter who is yelling at us. They all are.

  I swear we’re all out and lined up in less than two minutes, but the sergeants don’t seem to think so.

  “Female recruits with long hair, put your hair in a tight bun behind your head–put it in a tight bun, do it now,” Big Nose Sergeant yells.

  Over half of the nine ladies search for bands and pins and pull their hair back. I was smart enough to have Tage cut mine short for me the day we signed up for boot camp. It doesn’t look awesome, but I don’t have to mess with it, anymore. The heat is stifling, it’s mid-July, and beads of sweat crawl down my neck.

  “At this time, you’re going to turn and face that building, do you understand?” Short Drill Sergeant asks.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” We all turn to face the building in our orderly lines.

  “Now, turn and face me!”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” We turn around to face the sergeant standing near the bus.

  “Now, turn and face my building!”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Now, turn and face me.” This turning goes on several more rotations. I try not to smile, and I catch one new guy’s lip curl up a tiny bit.

  Bus Drill Sergeant spots him and zooms in like an eagle dropping on prey, Big Nose Drill Sergeant joins screaming in the Recruit’s face. “Do you think this is funny?”

  “No, Drill Sergeant!”

  “What’s so funny private?” Short Drill Sergeant asks. “Wipe that grin off your face! A laughing soldier is a dead soldier, do you understand, you rotten piece of scum?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!” I shift my focus to the drill sergeant, the one now instructing us, while the other two hunt for the next victim, like sharks circling in the ocean.

  “Now, face that building.” Short Drill Sergeant points. “At this time ,you are going to lift your left hand directly in front of you, so you are not touching the person in front of you.” Our arms go up as he comes to the front of our lines, the concrete building bathed in an orange fluorescent glow behind him. “If you’re in the front, there’s no one in front of you so put your hand down. Make it so you don’t touch anyone. If the bus is behind you, step to the front of the line and create a new row.” The last four men in the back run up to form a new line. The old first line raises their arms extended. The women only form one line on the left side. There’s an open space between, then three and a half lines of men on the right.

  “Put your arms down,” Short Sergeant continues. “Put your bags in front of you now. Take your paperwork and put it on top of your bags. Males, face your left. Females, face your right, do it now.”

  We place our papers on our bags, but mine slides off my old, black, backpack and onto the ground. Quick as a flash ,I grab them and put them back onto my pack. I see movement from the corner of my eye, and I straighten to the taller sergeant screaming in my ear. The second joins in, all their attacks in my face putting the fear of God in me.

  “Did I tell you to get those off the ground?” Bus Sergeant asks. “Pay attention! Did I say to do that, you piece of poop scum? Who do you think you are? Do only what you’re told to do, Female!”

  My heart clogs my throat, but I manage to squeak out, “No, Drill Sergeant” as loud as I can. My body trembles and prickles with heat. No one likes being yelled at, least of all me. But this is what I signed up for. An errant flame erupts from my palm, but I quickly dampen it. I blow out a breath to calm myself.

  Big Nose Drill Sergeant adds his instructions from the front of the line. “Those who are wearing a hoodie, jacket, coat, or any type of outwear and you have an appropriate shirt on underneath—take it off and put it in your bags. Do it now.”

  We all shrug out of our jackets and stuff them into our bags.

  “We should not see skin!” One guy’s shirt had slid up.

  “We should not see skin,” Bus Sergeant echoes.

  “Let’s go. Anything you do, you do fast–hurry up,” Big Nose says.

  “Now,” Bus Sergeant continues, “if you are wearing any jewelry, earrings, body piercings, anything other than a wedding band or an all-black watch, take it off now and put it in your bag. Wedding band, all-black watch, anything else goes.” Most of us already have our jewelry off, as they warned us at check in, where we got our physicals and everything.

  “Keep your hands by your side. Heels together. Heels on the yellow line,” Short Sergeant barks.

  “Unless you are wearing athletic pants, yoga pants, jeggings, leggings, ball shorts, sweatpants; unless you are wearing one of those athletic pants, you will tuck your shirt in—when you do this, do not unbutton, you will not undo any belts, you will do it so we see nothing but you tucking in your shirt—do it now.”

  “Quickly, quickly, let’s go,” the sergeants outdo each other in their yelling. With all three shouting it’s confusing to tell who to listen to. But at least Shorty is the loudest, the voices of the others punctuating him here and there.

  The girl next to me tucks her shirt into her yoga pants. The sharks attack within a split second.

  “Do you wear athletic gear? You do not tuck your shirt in–attention to detail–pay attention!”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” she yells, her voice quivering as she pulls her pale blue t-shirt back out.

  “Now listen up
, you have already failed your first task–the only task I’ve given you–two minutes to get off the bus,” Bus Sergeant continues. “You were moving too slow. Only one person for every five was actually moving with purpose. So now everyone needs to get into the push-up position–do it now.” We drop to our arms, holding ourselves in plank.

  “The position you are in is called the front leaning rest position–also called right half face.” Shorty walks between a row of men. “If you ever hear your superior say front leaning rest position or right half face, then move when they say ‘Move.’ That is the command of execution–when a higher rank than you says, ‘Move’ you will get into this position – this position is the front leaning rest position, or right half face.” Shorty pauses and leans toward a guy in the middle row. “Male Recruit, I recommend you fix your face because you need to make your attitude less visible.” He straightens and continues, moving away from yelling at the individual and then addresses all of us. “Check it out, I have a few simple tips for you to live by while you are here. All questions require a simple yes or no answer. When given an order, you move with purpose and if you have attitude, you need to put it away, and if it’s showing on your face, you really need to fix your face. Now start your pushups.” Shorty’s voice is a lower tenor than the others’, with a slightly dry rasp.

  “There are simple things that we will tell you–very simple things.” I listen as I do pushups, but my arms tire quickly and I’m struggling. “We make it so you do not have to think–we will tell you everything you need to know–we will tell you the who’s, the what’s, the where’s and the when’s–you do not need to know the why’s. And you will do it exactly as we say, or you will fail.” I can’t push up one more time and a shark is on me immediately.

  “Get off the ground, hips off the ground you goddamned weakling!” I push with all my might, and my arms lift me in slow, trembling, motion. I can feel heat simmering just under my skin.