As I chuckled, Will moved in and grabbed my head. That’s all I truly registered.
A moment later I was on the deck, back turned to him, the feeling my spine was being pushed through my ribcage and my head was pointing at parts behind me I hadn’t noticed till just then. Will let go and explained what had happened.
“Alright, first off, expect anything. From now on, it will serve you well in the field. Any hard feelings before we move on?”
I said there weren’t any as I rubbed my twisted neck.
“Good, so here’s the pattern of attack from the front. It’s real easy from the rear, front can be tricky, especially with a strong target. Distraction, anything can be a distraction. I like humor, people feel safe when they laugh. You feel safe, Anderson?”
Still rubbing my stunned neck, “Not anymore, sir,” I said.
Will smiled, “Good. The other subject is engaged, be it checking their watch, laughing, cursing you out, whatever, they speak or look away, they are engaged in something other than reacting to the threat they don’t see coming. Second, the move in, you have to decide left or right. I’m okay right, lethal left. I move to the left of someone and their future is in my hands. I’m just that fast. I’m not saying that to impress you, son, but to impress upon you there are some fast deadly motherfuckers out there. You’re going to be one of them. Three, after deciding what direction you like to engage from, the technique must follow without thought or hesitation. Mushi no mushi, right?”
I nodded, “Mind no mind. Yes sir.”
“Excellent, Kevin, excellent, guess you didn’t spend every waking moment chasing ass and eating Ding Dongs before coming here, huh, son?”
“No sir.”
“This is the pattern, right hand takes hold of chin, left wraps around back of head, then twist counter-clockwise with greasy speed. Notice I didn’t say hard, or violently, I said speed. Hard equals slow, rigid. Speed is speed, and that’s what you want. Now, since your threat is now looking behind him while his feet are still facing north, allow his body to do what it is programmed to do in these off balanced moments, take him to the ground. Don’t let him go, guide the motion, follow as a lion follows, ride his back and change only the position of your hands. Wrap your hands around his eyes just under the bridge of the forehead, and with your knee firmly between his shoulder blades, pull back with everything you have. The opposing forces will snap his neck as easily as dry tinder.”
Will must have believed in the technique, used it a few times possibly, as we spent the next half hour going over it in slow motion, half motion, and full speed. Goddamn, he was fast. It was a frightening proposition thinking men like him walked alongside the innocent’s every day. A wolf in sheep’s clothing as it were.
Will walked with me to my room that evening. At my door he advised I keep a journal. I had already started one that first day. He never did comment on my answers to those first three questions. He said men who know themselves best cannot be fooled by others. Will said a lot of things, most of it sounded true.
I sat at the desk in my room and wrote down bullets of information from the day’s lessons.
1). Wounds can be lethal and non-lethal. Being wounded is bad regardless of the latter statement.
2). Don’t cut a man’s throat unless there is no other target. Too noisy and bloody.
3). A punctured kidney is a desirable wound to employ, not to incur.
4). Distract to engage from the front, braking a man’s neck is not so easy.
5). Attack from the back when available. Quiet, efficient, deadly.
6). Don’t trust anyone.
7). Be prepared for anything.
8). Speed!
I pushed the tablet away and rubbed my eyes. I should sleep.
DAY THREE
I woke with a start. I had been thrashing about within the confines of eight, possibly nine attackers. They were all really pissed off, really ugly too, all southern boys with hate in their eyes and fucked up teeth. I had done well, shot four of them, all head shots. Then the gun jammed and I was without time or distance to right the malfunction. I didn’t have any other weapons. My pistol out of play, I dropped it and went to fists. I smashed a nose in front of me, elbowed a mouthful of those dirty snagglepussed teeth to the side, then jumped back into the waiting arms of two of them. It was the perfect storm. I never stopped moving. I didn’t think of my next move. I just reacted as Will had taught me. I was stomping a set of toes when the unthinkable happened. The head wound victims came back to life. All four of them were up, some with oozing gaping wounds, others with only partial heads left. One, the worst, had a canoe shaped divot right down the middle of his dirt born pathetic face.
His mouth was working angrily, gibberish dribbling forth along with broken teeth and purple gums. I screamed out when the first of them bit me. I couldn’t really see him thank God, but the pain was immediate, white hot and paralyzing along the length of my neck and then my left triceps. They were pushing me down now, the weight of them gigantic and undeniable.
I was going to die. I was going to die underneath a mob of flesh eating rednecks. I awoke with my pillow clenched in my arms, my jaw tight and sore as if I’d been trying to tear through my pillow with my teeth. I was happy for the nightmares passing.
Will allowed me to prepare breakfast without any guidance. It wasn’t hard. I grimaced when I saw what was laid out. Whole grain bread, four slices, and fruit. That could only mean one thing. Will didn’t want me to leave a heap of meat and eggs on his gym floor. I brought the food over after toasting the bread. Will was writing something down on one of his legal tablets. He was what you might call “anal” about his processes.
“Ready for some more fun Anderson?”
I wasn’t all that hungry. The dream residue along with Will’s sardonic smile left me feeling a little edgy.
“Sure, sir, I’m always up for more fun time.”
Will laughed as he tore a chunk of apple free from the core. “Good, today is nothing special, more fitness work. We’ll incorporate the treadmill today, along with the weights. Give the bags and surgical tubing a rest. More of a recovery work-out than anything else.”
“Sounds good” I said the words knowing there would be nothing comfortable about the work ahead. Will never promised me a rose garden, just ass-breaking work.
“How fast can you run?”
I was standing on the treadmill. I thought about it, answered modestly. “I’m decent, pretty fast I guess.”
“Compared to what?”
Will never let me just get by, he wanted the facts.
“I could run the three mile PT Test in the allotted time.”
In Marine Corps basic training the goal perfect time for three miles was eighteen minutes, three six minute miles.
Not earth shattering, but pretty fast by any normal standard.
“Okay, glad to hear you can do what 90 percent of all recruits can do, now how about an all-out one minute effort? If you had to run for your life, or run after someone you desperately needed to catch. Then how fast could you run?”
“Like a cheetah Will, no-no, like a gazelle running from a cheetah, I’m as fast as the fastest land animal on the planet.”
I regretted losing my tongue as soon as the words left my mouth. I was just so tired of it already. Constant stress, not knowing what was next, weird dreams, isolation; I would pay for the dumb remark.
Will didn‘t seem upset, he never did. He turned his face up to me and gave me that look someone gives when they’re thinking, “No shit?” Then he said, “That is fantastic, son. Then today’s training should really be a no-brainer.” With that, the treadmill started its grind, the belt turning under me, quickly finding its way to five miles per hour.
“Warm up time, Anderson. Jog it out for two minutes at this pace. I’ll yell time and you jump off, and meet me on the mat.”
I jogged and breathed, tried to clear my mind for what was to come. I had no control over any of it so it did
n’t matter. Will yelled time and I was off.
“Push-ups for one minute begin!”
Push-ups were not a big deal for me. I had done thousands in my lifetime, literally.
I pushed the ground underneath me barely breaking a sweat.
Will interrupted my form, “Change your hand placement. From now on, change it up. Wide grip for twenty, narrow for twenty, one hand beneath and one to the side, etc, alright boy, back on the treadmill.”
Will quickened the pace to six miles an hour. I was still jogging; however, I was forced to breathe for real this time following the push-ups.
A minute passed and Will yelled, “Off!”
“Twenty pound dumbbells, nothing for a strapping lad like yourself. Pick em up, squat em, then push them overhead at the top of the squat. One minute son, I’d say pace yourself; however, our goal is not to make you an aerobics instructor. We’re creating a force here, a machine, now move!”
I was unsure how many I had done. I stopped counting at twenty-three as my mind was not computing all that well without oxygen.
“To the treadmill, move!”
I took a few long pulls of air before stepping onto the belt. The screen read eight miles an hour, a full sprint now. That was pretty damn quick to run for a full minute, at least it was now.
I was gassing out, and Will was screaming, “Pick ’em up and put ’em down, Kevin. Move your ass, cheetah. Whoooooaa!”
I knew I’d pay for my lapse of common sense. Will screamed like a madman, like he was jeering, or cheering a favorite team. I would have laughed at the sound had I had the air in my lungs to do so.
“Off, move!”
I was panting and wiping sweat from everywhere as Will explained the next drill.
“Pick up the twenties again, son. Curl them up to your shoulders and hold ’em there. Walk up the stairs and back down and when you get to the bottom, put ’em down, pick ’em back up and start over, simple drill son. Let’s move.”
My back was on fire. Shoulders pinched together, the twenties felt like twin hay bales. My legs still felt surprisingly fresh. I was phoning it in a bit on this one and Will noticed. What didn’t he notice?
“Drop ’em, son. Over here, now!”
I ran over to Will, my guts a tangle with dread.
“Anytime you feel like taking a holiday on our time here, you can come on over to ol’ Will for a refresher in what it is we’re actually preparing you for, attack!”
I stood motionless.
“I said attack, Anderson.”
I moved my hands up to protect my face, and bladed my body into a fighter’s stance.
“We’re not boxing, son. I said, ‘Attack me.’”
Will’s face had changed slightly. He appeared calm to anyone watching from outside our circle. To me he looked eager. I was fighting emotions from everywhere right now. I thought a split second too long, fucking amateur mistake again. Soon I would be looking into my own asshole or tasting the bleached rubber mat beneath us, and I wanted nothing more than to be back in bed facing the confederate zombies.
Will hadn’t moved though, he was waiting on me. Fine, Will, I’m not doing this bullshit good enough, not up to your standards, then why not? I moved left. I didn’t really understand why. I guess I was programmed to move left as well. I moved and he moved. I stuck a left jab out to find the open air where Will’s face had been. I followed it with a front thrust kick and was not terribly astonished when my chin was introduced to a sharp downward elbow strike.
The pain was brief but radiating. I wanted to scream “Fuck!” but resisted. I was feeling a little better. My breathing was back to normal and I wasn’t feeling the exhaustion I had felt just moments ago. Adrenaline. He was a big target, big and strong and old. That was it! Will was old, he would wear down before I would. He was intimidating, sure, had probably killed something human on every continent, sure, but he had disadvantages. His age was his weakness, but how?
How would I use that to my advantage?
I moved back and Will followed. Moved left, here he came. He covered every move I made, and hopefully, very soon would get bored with it. I feinted left again, but moved right. Bingo. I laid a roundhouse kick squarely across his left outer thigh. I felt him buckle under the weight of it and was momentarily exhilarated. Yes, motherfucker! I screamed inside. I was going to follow it up with a left hook and a triumphant “Tada!!!” However, I never got the chance. Will did some Will shit and laid me down hard. I felt the air whoosh out of me as my back and head smashed simultaneously to the mat. The mat was maybe an eighth of an inch thick, not much, not enough to save me from the starburst and double rainbow of pain shooting across my personal sky: “Skyrockets in flight, afternoon delight.”
“Very nice son, that kick was outstanding, a real barn dropper, but your follow-up move was slow and predictable. We’ll work on that later, ready to get back to the office?”
And that was all. Will was unlike anyone I had ever met; he was as unreadable as Sumerian. He was a machine covered in flesh.
He didn’t help me up, said it was a bad habit to get into, might help up a threat one day (that was Will speak for another human being he intended on hurting) due to improper training, so I pulled myself up and stumbled back to the treadmill. Nine miles an hour was awaiting me.
DAY FOURTEEN
With each passing week I decided I would pour over the notes I had taken previously. There was some interesting shit in those notes. Some of it made me laugh, some made me reflect, and still some notes made me shake my head. It was fairly obvious a lot of this was written when my head was a jumbled mess of fatigue. For instance, one bullet read: When capable, beat the unholy dogshit out of Will. I tried to remember what exactly had occurred to illicit such a fond sentiment for my teacher. Well, it mattered little really. He was the sun right now and I his spring flower. I would grow as instructed and try not to die in the process.
Today had been a small victory of sorts.
For several days Will had been teaching me the fine art of close quarter combat when entering and clearing a room. We had run the drill dry, meaning no weapon in hand, or a red gun, over and over, at least a hundred times that first day. It was boring methodical work. That explained it best, work. I listened and watched as Will would enter a doorway (fatal funnel), quick scan the dead corners, another Willism for the corners left and right where a bad guy may hide with his own gun, and then smoothly but rapidly move through a room as if equipped with sonar.
Will didn’t bump into things, didn’t make unnecessary noise, and never gave up his position. It was a real feat for one so large. On my initial attempts I was clumsy and slow.
The room I entered didn’t even have any furniture in it, just some tape and road cones, and several times I bumped into those, and they were orange for Christ’s sake. Will didn’t hurry any of it. He referred back to our first day together. He reiterated the need for me to get it, all of it. Will believed the best trained were those who pressed the basics, the fundamental components to whatever the task required.
By the numbers he would say, or, from the beginning, and then my favorite, “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.” I got to hear that every day.
By the end of that first CQB day I was drained. The strain of the search and the position of the body to maintain a solid balanced shooting platform was ass numbing. My legs, back, and head ached with the effort it required. By day three Will put the furniture back in the room and started over. Again, a whole new world, I was running into tables, knocking over lamps, basically shouting to whomever was listening, or waiting, that I would like to be shot now. Will never got lost, didn’t become impatient, just worked the basics.
By the end of day three I had got it. Victory came on “live move” day. Will had been a part of many teams, had made entry into shithouses, farmhouses, airplanes, subways, and thatch huts. If it stood, Will had entered it, with guns up and nerves wired tight. He said there was a command for entry he never forgot. Alw
ays say, “Move!” never “Go” because go sounds too much like “no” and that could be confused. Move was the way in and would always serve the brain correct energy.
I was standing to the left of a doorway. Will was directly behind. He spoke in hushed tones, “You will enter the room, engage the threats, and then exit when the room is clear. You know what you gotta do, son. Now, let’s do it.”
I stood for just a breath. This one was on my own move, so I said a silent prayer and let go conscious thought, let the training rule the moment.
Upon entry I scanned the dead corners. My brain measured the first threats nine feet directly left, dead corner number one was flush with lethal encounters. I was already shooting before I knew it, two targets, both armed, one hostage in between. I didn’t need to look over the top of my front sight to know, I had leveled both threats with a head shot each.
The flow continued until I was at the back corner of the room, ten threats neutralized, five hostages, or “no shoots” as Will called them still standing unharmed. I performed a back sweep on my way back to the front door, to ensure no threat had been left unattended.
Will greeted me as I walked out. He was smiling, “Good run.”
I wasn’t as sure, and said so. “Not so good. I got stuck in the middle, almost shot a no shoot.”
Will looked at me sincerely, “You’ll never be perfect. No one is. At the end of it, were the bad guys down and good guys up?”
“Yes sir.”
“No one will ever ask for more.”
It was like that with Will. Kill those who required killing, save the rest.
When I wasn’t facing confrontational simulations, I was working out. Will’s training regimen played on every fear a man might have. It was always a sturdy test of the soul.
Tomorrow would begin a new phase. I had so far learned the skills necessary to survive as a rookie member of any small arms unit. I could enter rooms efficiently, identify, and eliminate the threats while not shooting the innocents. I could wait patiently, without the need, or desire, to fidget. My stamina was ever evolving.
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