by Mic Shannon
But this morning, she was more concerned with something else. She watched the older lady, observing. The woman never rubbed her eyes, never looked like she just woke up. She had been out at the riot. She was one of them. Cynthia wasn’t sure how she felt about it; partial to the thought of her being a good person. She couldn’t imagine her being some sort of savage, smashing people in some false hypocrisy of positive change.
By the time they made it outside, Cynthia was shocked at what she saw. The State Police had been cleaning for several hours, and the square, although dirty, was nowhere near as bad as what she had imagined. The front gate was opening, and another bus was arriving.
The boys emerged from their SWA hut, staring at the damage from the night before. Cynthia rushed to tend to them, maintaining her bright cheery demeanor even amongst her own frustrations. She hated being there too. Her humanity had been restricted by the shackles of government. They had no freedom.
The square was once again busy with activity as they made their way toward the café. One man was yelling in the middle of the square, going on about decency and honor for humanity. He was a man of a large build, with an unmistakable mole on his nose. It had caught her attention, his message, and she agreed. This whole situation was deplorable. It was surreal. How had it come to this?
Behind Cynthia and the boys, the older woman was walking with her head down, yawning. Cynthia dropped back to stand next to her, watching the boys as they continued toward the café in front of her.
“I like your chain,” she said to the older lady, leading with a fake compliment as a polite gesture, “I’m Cynthia.”
She looked up, pausing for a moment to read her, “Natalie. But you can…just, you know, Nat.”
“How long have you been here?” probed Cynthia.
Nat looked at her, flashing a smile then placing a cigarette in her mouth and lighting it, “Since the beginning.”
Cynthia paused, collecting her thoughts, “And that picture that you stare at every night, who’s that?”
Natalie exhaled the smoke, then paused and scrunched her eyebrows, looking at Cynthia and wondering what her motives were. She was guarded, sure, but Cynthia wasn’t. Those green eyes stared back with complete trust and comfort, almost to a fault, and had Natalie been the type it would have been a clear sign to take every bit of advantage.
“My husband Larry,” she replied, dropping her eyes, then staring off into the distance, “He’s in the Army Reserves. I’ve been told he’s missing somewhere in South America. But, you know, that’s life.”
It angered Cynthia, that statement, ‘that’s life’. This wasn’t the way it was supposed the be. This wasn’t something that happened every day. But she had no rebuttal, because this was their life.
“So, who are all the kids?” Natalie asked, taking a drag and motioning toward them. If questions were going to be thrown around, she was going to ask quite a few herself.
“They’re umm,” Cynthia smiled and flipped her hair, “we all came here together.”
“And you’re their guardian?” asked Natalie.
“Well no…I mean, Ms. Tanya is their guardian, but she’s in the medical facility outside of the gates. She’s having, like, diabetic issues or something.”
Natalie nodded, then took another drag, contemplating, “How old are you?”
Cynthia paused, “Seventeen.”
Natalie again contemplated. There was something about Cynthia, something pure. Something innocent and kind. She had seen it from the beginning, but she chose to observe. To see how she adapted to being a beautiful butterfly stuck in this jar of a facility. Bottom line, she determined, she liked her. She wasn’t sure if she would do yet, but she was exceptional at reading people, and this one was a rare find in today’s day and age. This one had a heart.
“So, what’s that song that you always listen to at night?” asked Cynthia, trying to change the subject.
“Well, when we were younger, Larry would deploy a lot,” she began, flashing another smile, “so our song became…well…I’m showing my age here,” she chuckled for a moment, “but it was a song by a lady named Tracy Chapman. It’s called ‘The Promise’. It came out when I was very young.”
They made their way through the square, staring at the newcomers as they got off the bus like they were fresh meat at some large prison facility. For some, they were; eyeing their items, making plans for what they wanted to steal for themselves. It was a savage environment, so many different types of people in one place.
By the café, the State Police had setup a station, issuing new clothes and toiletries from the back of a few eighteen wheelers. They tossed down boxes labeled ‘underwear’, ‘tops’, ‘bottoms’, and ‘footwear’. The line was long, but Cynthia felt it necessary. The yellow armpit stains on her tee shirt and brown dirt on the knees of her jeans disgusted her, and to top it off she had been washing her underwear in the shower with her each day and hanging it up to air dry in the SWA hut.
She made the boys stay with her while she waited in the line, taking count of what they needed. The sun was peering over the horizon, and the day was just beginning to heat up. Fanning herself with her hand, she felt moisture begin to build up underneath her arms. It made her cringe.
After about an hour of standing in line, they finally made it to the front. She took care of the boys first, making sure they had extra clothes and underwear. The volunteers handing them out held the clothes up like matchmakers, tossing them to the children and moving the line along. When they got to Cynthia, they held up an oversized, drab, dingy hoodie with the words “College of the Arts” on it. They matched it with a pair of loose denim jeans, some oversized cotton panties, and a bra about a half of a cup size too big.
“Can I have those running shoes?” asked Cynthia, pointing to an old pair sitting inside the trailer.
“What size do you wear?” asked the female officer inside of the trailer, grabbing the sneakers and peeling back the tongue to look.
“I wear a seven,” replied Cynthia.
“Well, I guess it’s your lucky day,” said the officer, handing her the sneakers, “size seven just for you.”
“Here’s some toiletries,” said another female officer, handing her a small plastic bag full of the essentials, “do you need tampons?”
“Huh?” said Cynthia.
“Tampons,” said the officer, “do you need them?”
She thought about it for a moment, then shifted her weight and looked at her wristphone. It was June 12th, and her last period had been…well she had come off it three weeks before prom. After that…she couldn’t remember.
“Umm, no. I think I’m okay,” she replied, touching her lower stomach with her hand.
TUES, JUN 20th, 2034
Fort Benning, GA, USA
6:12 pm
M ichael slung his rifle over his shoulder as he left the chow hall and got into formation behind Tee. The Drill Sergeants still managed to yell at any and everything even though the recruits had been progressing rapidly, leaving behind their old lifestyle.
“Let’s go, get in formation, hurry up!” yelled Sgt. Masterson. The platoon rushed into position and stood at attention.
“Oh great,” screamed another Drill Sergeant, “recruit Dinkins wants to move at the position of attention! Everybody down into the pushup position! We are going to do pushups until recruit Dinkins is tired!”
“Sir, yes sir!” they all yelled in unison, getting into their pushup position.
“PUSH!” the Drill Sergeant yelled, making certain to show each recruit an equal amount of unwanted attention.
They were used to these types of games. Michael had concluded that there really was no reason for them to be getting yelled at, it was just a part of the program. He wasn’t even sure if recruit Dinkins had ever moved at all. And the most troubling part, he felt like they chose these specific times just to make them miserable; after they eat, when they first wake up, in the middle of the night.
; As he began to do his pushups, his mind wandered to another place. He thought of his mother, wondering how she would have handled a situation like this. She was tough, and he knew it ran in his veins as well. Still, he wondered if he was the same person that he used to be, somewhere deep down inside. Was it all gone or did he still have his sense of identity? He missed Cynthia and Manny more and more every day, and the deprivation of boot camp just amplified his emotions.
They spent about ten minutes getting in and out of push up position. Each time, another ridiculous reason why they had to do more pushups. The Drill Sergeants knew that they had just enjoyed a meal and tried to push them to the point of vomit, sadistically enjoying the infliction of harsh treatment on the recruits. Recruits that they felt were less than human until the day they graduated; only then would they look at them as worthless privates running around not knowing anything about the Army that they held so dear to their hearts.
The sun dipped below the horizon, signaling that the time for games was over. Shaken up and breathing heavily, the recruits got back into formation to return to their barracks. After their evening shower, Drill Sergeant Masterson gathered them together to hand out mail.
“Hearowe,” he yelled.
“Here, sir!” replied Michael, anxiously hoping for a letter from Cynthia. Luckily, today, his prayers had been answered.
He smelled the letter first, hoping to catch a scent of her natural smell. A smell that he had fallen in love with, subconsciously filing it away into his mind during their very first conversation. Turning it around, he slid his finger underneath the flap, tearing the envelope open and retrieving the letter.
“Dear Mike,
I’m so glad to hear that you’re safe. Me and Manny made it to the facility okay. I worry for him all the time. He’s so scared. He tries not to show it because he says he has to take care of me, but I can tell. Your letter brightened my day, though. I was afraid that I might never hear from you again.
The conditions here are bad. At first, it was just nasty because of all the people crowded into one place. Now, we have rats, roaches, and it seems like everyone is getting sick from some new cold going around. We’ve been wearing the masks that they gave us to cover our faces, but I feel like it’s just a matter of time before we get sick too. There’s nothing to do here really, but I did get an old pair of running shoes, so I get to run in the mornings to take my mind off things.
Some crazy lady spit on me the other day and told me to go back to Mexico. Oh, and the police are crazy too! This big guy with this weird mole on his face like keeps a count of all the police shootings and tells everyone in the morning. He said there were 67 in the last month. It’s so crazy! I just wanna go home. I hate it here.
I really miss you. The woman that sleeps next to me says that her husband is in the Army and he’s missing somewhere in South America. She cries every night because she doesn’t know whether or not he’s still alive. It makes me cry when I see her so sad and think of you. She keeps listening to the same song over and over. She said it’s an old song from the 1980’s (I know, right!), called “The Promise” by Tracy Chapman. I know you don’t have FreeTunes or anything like that where you are, but the lyrics always remind me of you. My favorite part is when she says:
If you wait for me
Then I'll come for you
Although I've traveled far
I always hold a place for you in my heart
If you think of me
If you miss me once in a while
Then I'll return to you
I'll return and fill that space in your heart
Remembering
Your touch
Your kiss
Your warm embrace
I'll find my way back to you
If you'll be waiting
God Mike that songs makes me cry just thinking of you. It’s so beautiful, it’s comforting to me just like your smiling face. Please come home to me, I can’t stand it any longer. Please come home. I love you.
Love,
Cynthia”
Michael folded up the letter and hung his head, attempting to hide his sadness. Tee approached, reading the subtle cues but unsure of how to comfort Michael. He knew that everyone was hurting, but for Michael, he knew from their short time together that this had been the worst year of his life.
“You okay, man?” asked Tee as he placed a hand on his shoulder.
Michael looked up, sniffing and wiping his face as he scrunched his eyebrows, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Tee could sense the canned response in his voice, although he wasn’t sure what to say. He had experienced bad things in his life, but it had been so long ago that he had time to understand and let go. Michael had a much rougher time, moving from one unfortunate event to the other. Having known Manny and Cynthia, he could feel the empathy flowing through him.
“I miss them too, Mike,” said Tee, apologetically, “but you can’t sit and sulk. It won’t do you any good.”
“Yeah,” said Michael, putting on his mask to try and hide his feelings, “you’re right.”
Tee had become quite popular among the men. As squad leader, they respected him. He was young, but he was strong. He had come in first on the company run. He had the highest physical fitness score. He had even finished the company run, and then gone back until the last man had crossed the finish line. He flourished here, and he enjoyed being good at something. Being successful.
“We all bleed green, man,” said Tee, “I got your back. I’m groovy like that, you hear me?”
Michael smiled briefly. Tee always had a way of cheering him up. He got up and shook his hand, then headed toward the bathroom, his shower shoes flopping along the floor of the squad bay. As he approached the front, there was Bucky, again with his bunkmate. They were staring at him menacingly, Bucky’s eye still purple and red from the last fight. Michael cut his eyes to his left, rolling them and then returning his gaze. “Here we go again,” he thought.
This time Bucky was bolder, braver, both him and his bunkmate already standing and waiting for him. Michael kept walking, staring at them as he approached to make it known that he wasn’t afraid. Bucky waited until just the right moment, as Michael was about to pass him, to lean into his face.
“I’ll beat your ass crimmigrant,” he said, this time much louder than before. Several recruits in the squad bay turned around when they heard it, surprised at what had just happened. None had heard him say it the first time, instead they had just seen Michael jump on him like a deranged animal. This time, the young man had made a mistake, saying it loud enough for all to hear around them.
Michael turned to attack, slapping Bucky across the face with a loud pop. It shocked Bucky, causing him to spring forward, swinging wildly as the young boxer dipped and weaved two punches, then stepped back away from them. The bunkmate lunged forward, and Michael jabbed, striking him in the nose and causing him to slip and fall. Bucky followed behind him, swinging and catching Michael in the jaw, then dropping his head and reaching down to wrap his arms around his waist. Michael took a step back and threw two uppercuts, hitting him twice and dropping him to one knee.
By then the Drill Sergeants had rushed into the squad bay, yelling and screaming at Michael, the only one standing over two injured recruits. Everyone locked their bodies at attention, still in shock at what had been said to Michael. Sergeant Broot came into the room, fuming at the familiar faces. Michael had been receiving extra attention since the last incident, threatened with being tossed in the brig for assault.
“THIS IS GETTING OLD!” Masterson yelled, grabbing Michael by his lapel and lifting him onto his toes.
“It wasn’t my fault, Sergeant,” Michael said, still angry, but calm in his plea, “it was them.”
Sergeant Masterson looked around the room, the other recruits hanging and shaking their heads in agreement. He looked over at Tee, the squad leader, who gave an honest slight nod. The recruits’ body language said everything that needed to be said, an
d he was not unfamiliar to this type of thing in the Army he held so dear.
He let go of Michael’s lapel and lowered him back to the ground. He understood where the kid was coming from, seeing some of himself in that kid. But he was a hard-ass; he had no time for weakness.
“I don’t care who’s fault it is,” he retorted, “YOU TWO BOYFRIENDS ARE GONNA LEARN TO LOVE EACH OTHER! You’re gonna be battle buddies! All three of you, outside! Since you have extra energy, we’re going to exercise until you’re no longer tired!”
WED, JUN 21st, 2034
Somewhere in Honduras
4:12 am
T he Chief woke up in a full sweat and frantically reached for his rifle, pointing it at the young CIA agent. The early morning air was crisp in contrast to the sweltering heat of the day. The clear fog still surrounded them for miles in every direction, their only comfort knowing that the barely visible, thin odorless gas wasn’t killing them…yet.
“Relax, it’s me,” said James, lying prone on his stomach and jotting notes into his little black book.
“I thought I was in Syria again,” said the Chief, wiping the sweat from his forehead and reaching into his pocket for a fresh pinch of dip.
“Ha!” scoffed James, “you wish!”
“What are you writing,” asked the Chief curiously.
“Well,” said James as he finished his sentence, then sat up and closed the book, “we were sent out here to collect intel and that’s what I intend to do. We still don’t know how to destroy this thing.”
“Yeah,” he replied nonchalantly, stuffing the wad into his lower lip and shaking the excess from his fingers, “eh, that’s what bothers me.”
The Chief always had a lackadaisical way about him; from his facial expressions to his demeanor. No matter the situation, he would never panic. James had once heard that he was the only one to walk away from a firefight in the 2019 Battle of Raqqa when he was a young eighteen-year-old Marine Lance Corporal. The SEALs had always been waiting for him. He was ice cold.