to a head that most haven’t handled a weapon before this week. “Great,” I mutter.
Cory shoves through to the front, despite my new leadership role. He doesn’t care what Sergeant Nolan says. An Army boy through-and-through, he can’t handle sharing the spotlight.
I shrug and follow. At nineteen, Cory’s the oldest on our team, and a Special. He’s got some kind of mind thing. No clue what that means. Not sure I really want to know. When he turns to grin at me, I guess I’ve just found out.
So that’s how he knew I was a virgin.
“Yup,” he says, without looking back while we march.
Vero elbow-nudges me on her way to her new team, fixing her helmet while walking backwards and giving me a wink before jogging off. I want to tell her to be careful, but I’m conscious of Cory’s regard. She and I had the unlucky draw of being in different platoons this last shuffle of companies. I’ll miss her, but it’s a relief not to have to watch her back. I’ve got plenty on my plate as it is, trying to keep track of Joelle.
“That’s right,” Cory says under his breath.
I ignore his woo-woo mind reading. He’ll play any game to keep me on my toes. I’m not interested in games. We’re already going to fight for our lives, for the rest of our lives. I’m not out for his job.
We come to the ridge above the jungle where, down in the thick, bombs, wires, and other teams wait with real rounds to ambush us. Hiding somewhere in the green are zombies and just about everything but the boogie man. In the center sits a small village that you can barely see out in the distance. Our mission is simple: take control of that village.
Out of habit, I roll my neck, and the popping makes Cory grimace.
We start down.
So far, the jungle isn’t bad. Cory’s Spidey sense doesn’t reach long enough to hear the other parties, he says, plus we won’t risk being caught using any Special on a mission since it’s automatically an article fifteen. That used to mean a loss of rank and paperwork. But in Sergeant Nolan’s special army, it means they beat the hell out of you and take your rank, and if you live through his blasts on the pavement after that, you’ll wish you were dead anyway.
One of our guys, Defoe, is a tracker. Even without his Special he’s a real-deal Navajo who can spot wires, traps, and anything else that’s ready to blow us up. He’s checking a few directions now, head shakes for the ones that are a no-go, until he chooses the narrow one that’s gonna need us to cut back brush, of course.
We have real casualties in live-fires. I’ve seen them. And we lose a lot of good soldiers, so they keep these training sessions to a minimum. But Sergeant Nolan’s right when he says they would have died anyway. If we can’t take a small village in a somewhat controlled environment, how can we expect to take America back? We can’t. And live-fire is a saving grace for those who get to die quick with a medic on hand, rather than alone and slow in the wilds of what used to be our great country, with stiffs gnawing on them.
Defoe spots another trip wire, and he signals for us to change formation. Cory nods, and we leave the wedge (like an arrow of birds in the sky) and get into a single-file line behind him.
The deeper we go, the more stuff we run into, and Cory decides to move into the lead again. I’m not gonna argue with that. Brave. Stupid. Take your pick.
He stiffens at my thoughts.
“Well, that’s what you get for listening,” I mutter to his back. “Change your frequency.”
Defoe snorts, his M-4 bumping into me when I pull up short to avoid crashing into a pissed-off ex-team leader who’s spun around. I’m about to tell him that now’s not the time, when a grey hand snags his fatigues and pulls him into the jungle.
There’s empty space where Cory had once been, and it takes me wasted moments before I rush through the way he’d gone. When I finally catch up, the zombie’s already latched its
Cory shoves through to the front, despite my new leadership role. He doesn’t care what Sergeant Nolan says. An Army boy through-and-through, he can’t handle sharing the spotlight.
I shrug and follow. At nineteen, Cory’s the oldest on our team, and a Special. He’s got some kind of mind thing. No clue what that means. Not sure I really want to know. When he turns to grin at me, I guess I’ve just found out.
So that’s how he knew I was a virgin.
“Yup,” he says, without looking back while we march.
Vero elbow-nudges me on her way to her new team, fixing her helmet while walking backwards and giving me a wink before jogging off. I want to tell her to be careful, but I’m conscious of Cory’s regard. She and I had the unlucky draw of being in different platoons this last shuffle of companies. I’ll miss her, but it’s a relief not to have to watch her back. I’ve got plenty on my plate as it is, trying to keep track of Joelle.
“That’s right,” Cory says under his breath.
I ignore his woo-woo mind reading. He’ll play any game to keep me on my toes. I’m not interested in games. We’re already going to fight for our lives, for the rest of our lives. I’m not out for his job.
We come to the ridge above the jungle where, down in the thick, bombs, wires, and other teams wait with real rounds to ambush us. Hiding somewhere in the green are zombies and just about everything but the boogie man. In the center sits a small village that you can barely see out in the distance. Our mission is simple: take control of that village.
Out of habit, I roll my neck, and the popping makes Cory grimace.
We start down.
So far, the jungle isn’t bad. Cory’s Spidey sense doesn’t reach long enough to hear the other parties, he says, plus we won’t risk being caught using any Special on a mission since it’s automatically an article fifteen. That used to mean a loss of rank and paperwork. But in Sergeant Nolan’s special army, it means they beat the hell out of you and take your rank, and if you live through his blasts on the pavement after that, you’ll wish you were dead anyway.
One of our guys, Defoe, is a tracker. Even without his Special he’s a real-deal Navajo who can spot wires, traps, and anything else that’s ready to blow us up. He’s checking a few directions now, head shakes for the ones that are a no-go, until he chooses the narrow one that’s gonna need us to cut back brush, of course.
We have real casualties in live-fires. I’ve seen them. And we lose a lot of good soldiers, so they keep these training sessions to a minimum. But Sergeant Nolan’s right when he says they would have died anyway. If we can’t take a small village in a somewhat controlled environment, how can we expect to take America back? We can’t. And live-fire is a saving grace for those who get to die quick with a medic on hand, rather than alone and slow in the wilds of what used to be our great country, with stiffs gnawing on them.
Defoe spots another trip wire, and he signals for us to change formation. Cory nods, and we leave the wedge (like an arrow of birds in the sky) and get into a single-file line behind him.
The deeper we go, the more stuff we run into, and Cory decides to move into the lead again. I’m not gonna argue with that. Brave. Stupid. Take your pick.
He stiffens at my thoughts.
“Well, that’s what you get for listening,” I mutter to his back. “Change your frequency.”
Defoe snorts, his M-4 bumping into me when I pull up short to avoid crashing into a pissed-off ex-team leader who’s spun around. I’m about to tell him that now’s not the time, when a grey hand snags his fatigues and pulls him into the jungle.
There’s empty space where Cory had once been, and it takes me wasted moments before I rush through the way he’d gone. When I finally catch up, the zombie’s already latched its
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