Vengeance: The Program Book 4

by N. M. Catalano

  I want to vomit. And smash his face in.

  I suck in a breath. “I bet the deed. And I lost. Sir.”

  For one tremendously long heartbeat, I can feel the entire room condemning me, judging me, thinking I’m everything I am. A loser, worthless, scum.

  “Why would you do that, Private? Why in the hell would anyone put their family’s livelihood on the line like that? Are you stupid, boy?”

  It takes everything within me to remain standing in position and not grab him and pull him out of his chair to rip his fucking head off.

  “Sir, my father got sick. He refused to let me quit school and work the farm full time. The bank was going to foreclose. I tried to win the money so we wouldn’t lose our home. Sir.”

  What I didn’t say is that now it’s used for illegal drug manufacturing, cock fighting, a whore house, drug running, and home to a gang. God only knows what else. I handed my family’s life over to criminals, threw them out on the street while my father was sick, and left them homeless, broke, and the laughing stock of our community. I practically killed them. But I didn’t. What I did was so much worse.

  I had to get out of there. I couldn’t see my parent’s faces every day and their humility and shame.

  “Goddamn, boy,” he shakes his head. “I’d have kicked your ass.”

  You do, sir. Every single day, right here.

  He slams his palms down on the desk and stands. “Okay boys. Now that the introductions are over, you will get your things and meet back here at 0500 hours. A jeep will take the four of you to your new post. From today forward, the four of you will eat, sleep, think, and breathe together. You will become so intertwined, one of you will begin a thought, and the rest of you will complete it. If you don’t,” his eyes lock onto each of us, “you will die five minutes into the first assignment. Do you understand?”

  “Sir, yes sir!” the deep chorus bounces off our bodies

  “For the next several weeks, you will be put through rigorous training, almost to the point of torture. Make no mistake, it will be that intense.” His glare fixes us once again. “Prepare yourselves now. The Bible said when the iron is ready, the weapon will be forged. The coming weeks will be getting you ready.”

  My heart is pounding. Not from fear, but from hope. The first time I’ve felt something other than despair and repulsion in a year.

  “We are going to destroy you, soldiers. Then we’re going to make you the best.”

  “SIR, YES, SIR!”

  He turns sideways and peers off into the distance. “Dismissed. Go and write your letters telling your loved one’s goodbye. Because when this training is over, you are not going to be the same.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Me, Silva, DeJesus, and Priest leave the commander’s tent.

  I don’t know where I’m going, and I have no idea who I’m going with or who these men are. What I do know is my life is about to be undeniably changed.

  A tremor ripples through me.

  Thank God.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rock/Silva

  Three Weeks Into Training

  “You are worthless scum! Get those arms up, soldier!” the man in the fatigues spat in my face as his nasty breath fanned across my sweaty skin. Again.

  This shit is nothing new.

  I’d been whipped, beaten, insulted, everything, you name it, growing up. I believe only psychotics bring kids into their homes from the foster care system, a legal way to give someone an opportunity to live out their violent and insane fantasies. And be able to get away with it. I gladly accepted the shit they did to me to keep the younger ones from suffering the inhuman cruelties. I could take it because I was used to it. The newbies, the ones there on a hiatus from the mom who’d gotten busted for prostitution, or the dad behind on child-support, those were the ones who the psychos really loved to mess with. When they screamed, their tears were the sustenance to the bastard’s evil souls. Seeing them suffer was what wrecked me. Every. Time.

  The cinderblock room we’re spending most of our waking hours in, the place where our ‘training’ takes place, smells like a sweaty armpit shoved between ass cheeks covered in skid marks. It’s hot as hell and stinks like shit. The air is putrid and stifling, so much so, I don’t know how we can breathe. Our exercises over the past weeks have progressively gotten more and more severe.

  They’re not working our bodies, but our minds.

  Most of the time the four of us are in here together. Sometimes we can see each other, other times we only hear what’s happening.

  “Yes sir!”

  The reply comes automatic and mindless. Mindless because I have to turn off feeling, become detached so my body doesn’t collapse from the punishment it’s been forced to endure and survive.

  I don’t know how long we’ve been in here this time. It could be hours or days. The time has run on an endless loop, getting woken up after a million grueling hours in this hole to an ear shattering siren, or a punch in the stomach or face or testicles. Then we’re released when it’s pitch black and allowed to crawl into our bunk, only to do it all over again a few hours later, (if we’re lucky).

  This is hell.

  Only if we break.

  We’re not gonna fucking break, not even one of us.

  There’s no doubt they’re not even close to being finished with us. They’ve been playing with us. I’ve got news for them.

  Fuck you!

  I’ve been through hell, I’ve met the devil and all of his sick cronies. These peckerheads ain’t got shit on the perverted old bastards who got off on having little girls touch their shriveled up cocks, or playing with little boy’s dicks until they come. Then they beat them for doing those horrible acts.

  That’s the shit that goes through my head in this hole, every muscle in my body screaming for the end, threatening to shred from bone, and my head ready to explode. That’s what fuels my fury.

  Smack!

  The cane lands across my back again, crisscrossing with the old wounds as another shot of fire sears through my body from the sweat pouring into the open gashes. I still don’t drop my arms, the dead weight from the bricks in my hands pushing against me like fucking boulders. It would be excruciating if my mind was present.

  Somewhere a few feet away I hear the clang of metal, then a splash. Then choking.

  “You wanted to ruin your family!” A snarl.

  “No sir!” Smith chokes.

  “You’re lying! You wanted them destoryed!”

  SPLASH.

  More choking, rasping, and the sounds of wood slamming against cement.

  “NO SIR!” Smith’s retort is breathless but loud as hell.

  I don’t know what the hell they’re doing to him, but there’s NO WAY they’re taking him down!

  On the other side of the wall in front of me comes another loud splash.

  “You like killing little boys?” The question is laced with condemnation.

  “NO SIR.” It’s DeJesus.

  “You’ll wish it was you by the time I’m finished with you,” his tormentor laughs. He fucking laughs.

  The lights in the entire space flicker and dim, followed by a loud hum.

  Jesus Christ, what in the name of God are they doing to him?!

  The lights flicker again. “Not such a tough guy now,” he taunts DeJesus.

  No response.

  My entire body flinches and my arms drop for a fraction of a second, the bricks almost slipping off my palms.

  WHACK! The cane lands across my back again. More fire scorches through me.

  “I knew you were a pussy,” my superior laughs behind me, his rank body odor filling my nostrils. “You’ll be going home.” WHACK. “Is it going to be in a box, Private?”

  Go to hell!

  “NO SIR,” I grit out, not from the pain, but to keep from smashing his head in with a brick.

  The sound of water turned on full blast comes from the direction where I heard Bull.

  “You’re goi
ng to be pissing and shitting yourself, Private,” the same man who’d taunted him laughs.

  Water splashing, coughing, choking, thrashing. It goes on and on.

  Son of a bitch!!

  Behind me comes squeaks and cracks.

  “Your hands are weapons, is that right, Private?” He’s talking to Priest.

  “Yes, sir,” Priests’ voice is tight and strained.

  “Shame they won’t be doing you any good,” he laughs.

  More creaking followed by popping and snapping.

  “YES SIR!” Priest. His voice is tight as he groans the reply.

  “You’ll be nothing but a ragdoll when you leave this room!” he yells to Priest.

  “Yes sir,” Priest sounds…there are no words.

  I don’t know what’s happening to Smith or DeJesus or Priest. My imagination is creating some terrible shit from the sounds I hear.

  I know I’m eventually going to find out.

  As the time passes, the minutes and hours are filled with flies and stench and shouts. There are more blasts of water and more choking. The lights flicker in a haphazard dance. More insults and belittlement. But never a wail or a moan.

  Not one.

  “At ease, soldier.” After I have no idea of how many more lashings hit my body and what I can only imagine has been happening to the other guys, my tormentor barks the order.

  My muscles scream for release. I can’t give it what it’s begging for because I know the pain that’ll shoot through me if I drop the bricks. Fighting every instinct to submit, slowly, inch by inch I lower my arms and give myself time to acclimate to the change in position.

  A gust of fresh air rushes into our hole. Someone’s opened the door.

  “Fifteen minutes to eat, bathe, shit, piss, then it’s lights out, boys.” It’s the commander.

  My body reacts to his words, my mouth almost in pain from dehydration, my bladder and bowels kicking me in the gut.

  “Sir, yes sir!” all four of us respond.

  It’s weak, but we’re not fucking beaten.

  The squeaks begin again at my back. Finally, my arms are straight to my sides, aching and trembling and completely fucking useless. I turn to see what was happening with Priest.

  Holy motherfucking hell!!

  Ropes are attached to his arms, legs, and neck. They were hanging him while they were tearing him the fuck apart! He’s still strung up as the wheels and pulleys creak and the bindings slacken. It’s obvious his body has been pushed and pulled past it’s limit as he crumbles into a heap of rubbery flesh on the filthy floor. I try to rush toward him to help, but I have no control over my own limbs. I collapse when I turn around. A crash from the direction where Smith was jolts both and Priest’s and my attention. Something hits the wall accompanied by a solid thud.

  Smith has landed.

  DeJesus comes around the wall in only his underwear. His entire body is covered in circular red welts and he’s soaking wet.

  What in the fuck?!

  DeJesus stumbles, but never does he fucking fall. He comes over to me as Smith approaches Priest.

  “We good?” I ask hoarsely.

  I’m not speaking just to DeJesus or Smith or Priest, I’m talking to all of them. We’re in this shit together.

  “Yeah,” DeJesus rasps out as he reaches a hand for me, “we’re good.”

  “Damn straight,” comes Priest’s cocky reply, barely audible.

  “Never fucking better,” Smith is hoarse as hell.

  “Good,” I breathe out as I push myself up.

  “Your back looks like shit,” DeJesus comments.

  I snort what’s supposed to be a laugh. “Your body looks like shit.”

  We walk out of that shit hole. Together.

  None of us were broken.

  It’s us against them.

  They’re totally fucked.

  CHAPTER 3

  Gringo/DeJesus

  Seven Weeks Into Training

  I thought I’d known anger.

  I didn’t know shit.

  Maybe that’s not quite accurate. Maybe there are different degrees of fury. Maybe Dante had been right in his depiction of the different levels of hell. Maybe this is hell and once we go, the torture will finally be over.

  Maybe I’m the good guy.

  Right, and I’m suddenly going to start farting rainbows and ride a unicorn.

  Not likely.

  Life is a cruel bitch, and irony is her favorite game. It always gives you what you’ve wanted when it’s too late.

  I’m not, nor have I ever been, naïve enough to believe I joined the army to make a difference or to serve my country. I never wanted to be a hero.

  I’m here because I didn’t belong anywhere else. Out there in society I’m the guy you tell your children to run from, I’m the man you walk on the other side of the street to avoid. I’m danger and violence and anger personified. I’m the embodiment of everything that’s wrong with the world.

  The army was the only place I could fit in. Where else could I get a license to unleash the darkness inside me? Who else would pay me to do exactly what I wanted to do? Sure, I could do it on the streets in Any City, USA, but that would come with baggage, like drugs and all the other fucked-up shit. Who needs that? Here, they put a gun in my hand and say, ‘That’s the enemy, go get them,’ then they give you a medal for doing it.

  Pretty sweet.

  Except they had to go and throw a monkey wrench into the whole equation. Three of them to be precise.

  When a man is forced to watch another man tortured, it does something to him. It doesn’t matter if he’s the coldest, most ruthless son of a bitch. If he has even the slightest glimmer of compassion, he will react.

  John “Bull” Smith, Samuel “Snake” Priest, Rocco “Rock” Silva, and me, Gabriel “Gringo” DeJesus.

  Hell is real and we’re in it. Those guys, they didn’t really do anything wrong. Not really, not like me. The shit they’re doing to us, the training we’re enduring, feeds the demons I carry, it’s food for their black souls. Those guys, whatever they’ve done, they did it with the best intentions.

  I deserve to spend every day for the rest of my life living this. They don’t.

  Me, the turning point that decided my fate was built on pure selfishness. I ended one innocent life and destroyed two others because I wanted to fit in, I wanted to be one of the boys.

  Well, look at this. Here I am, I’m finally one of the boys.

  For the life of me, I cannot figure out why the hell the army thought the four of us belong in one unit together.

  I don’t belong with them.

  No one deserves a person standing by their side who killed an innocent boy.

  As long as I’m there, there isn’t a fucking thing I’ll let happen to them.

  As long as they’re stuck with me, I will protect them with my life.

  “You’ve got to pack it with ice and reduce the swelling,” I tell Rock. Now I’m Florence Nightingale.

  “I know what I’ve got to do,” he pants, his face pale and his body coated in sweat.

  His pain is my pain. I feel the muscles vibrate in agony beneath his skin, the burning fire shooting through him from the torn muscles and tendons, the screaming pain from the dislocated joints. They’re mine because they hanged me and tore me apart last week. Today was his turn.

  Today I was the VIP at the waterboarding bench. I’m probably drowning right now with as much water as I’ve got in my lungs. Bull was the first one who popped the waterboarding cherry. The first thing he did was throw up when we got out of the fucking hole. When it was Snake’s turn, he was going to piss all over the door. We didn’t let him because they’d have probably thrown him in solitary confinement. I couldn’t let that happen, not with what our lives have been like these past couple of months. But knowing Snake, he probably snuck back to the hole and did it anyway, the sneaky little prick. He’s silent but dangerous as hell.

  “Then let me hold the damn th
ing, at least until we get you ready to put your shoulder back in place,” I push his barely one good arm away. The guy is in agony, but he’s been fighting me with what little strength he has left ever since we were dismissed from todays ‘exercises’. My body is as beaten up as Rock’s is, all of ours are, but we take turns being the worst, each of us holding that honor at different times.

  This time it seems they were a little extra inhuman with the cane on Bull. His back is just this side of shredded. The boy is massive, the bricks he had to hold throughout the entire time were like toys to him, so they whipped him extra good. When tonight’s party finished, the powers that be were kind and threw some salve at him to put on the wounds, Snake’s applying it for him.

  “Do you even feel this shit, dude?” Snake smears a glob on the open gashes.

  Leave it to the smart ass to ask that.

  “When you stick your fingers in, you little pecker, hell yeah, I feel it,” Bull gnashes through clenched teeth. He’s breathing heavily, and even gaunter, his body beaten up from our training.

  It’s not the beatings or the electrocutions, the hanging or water torture. It’s the damn mind trips they use. That’s the best and worst tactic to break us down. Bull has become more withdrawn these past couple of days. They’ve been telling him supposed updates on his family, generally fucking with his head really bad. They must have done their homework, or they’re making up some incredible scenarios, but they’re so realistic, enough so that Bull is experiencing the horror they say his family is living, seeing it all in his mind with every word. That’s what’s tearing him apart.

  “Dude, that shit they’re telling you…it’s not true. Not a damn word of it. Don’t believe them, that’s their weapon against you,” Snake’s words are hushed, from either exhaustion or respect. More than likely both.

  “Don’t.” Bull shoves to his feet, sways, shakes the shit out of his head, and walks off into the darkness.

  My head is pounding, I still feel like I’m submerged in violent waters, and I want to collapse, but this time right after our sessions is our time. It’s become a kind of ritual we’ve developed to talk afterward, to get our minds out of the hole, to get out of our own heads, and to get clear. This is our huddle, we are a team, and we do this for each other, not for ourselves.