Atlas

by Isaac Hooke

  He walked in front of our assembled ranks, holding his hands behind his back. His face was a dark crimson by now, but he'd stopped the rapid blinking. "When struck by a bullet, and sprayed with a chemical weapon, you must be able to respond. You must not let anything incapacitate you. Being able to fight back may save your life. So. Who wants to go first?"

  The Captain ran his gaze across us. I purposely didn't meet his eye. Don't stand out, don't draw instructor attention. That was one of my rules.

  "There's no one among you brave enough to take the challenge? No one with heart?"

  That got me.

  Despite myself, I raised my hand.

  "Mr. Galaal!" Captain Lindberg said, no doubt reading the name on my embedded Id with his Implant. He gave me a fatherly smile. A parent inviting his son inside for a beating.

  Lindberg positioned me in front of the metallic bullet catch.

  The sniper, Trace, finally moved. He literally flowed forward, taking up a position opposite the bullet catch, about five paces from me.

  "Do you have any medical conditions or injuries that would preclude the discharge of a live round into the region just below the mid-ulna of your right forearm?" Trace said.

  "No." I had no idea what an ulna was.

  "Are you ready to receive a level one ballistic wound?"

  Hell no. "Yes."

  One of the corpsman came forward, and passed some kind of scan device over my forearm, then he marked an X on the skin with a felt marker before pulling away.

  Trace lowered a pair of goggles over his eyes, and he lifted the pistol.

  "Rotate your arm outward slightly," Trace said.

  I did.

  As the sniper aimed, I had the distinct impression he was staring right through my skin to the bone underneath.

  "Don't move, Mr. Galaal," Captain Lindberg said. "Don't you move."

  I don't think I could have moved if I wanted to. I was petrified with fear, the deer-in-the-headlights kind, as I stared down that tilted gun barrel.

  Don't miss. Don't miss.

  Then I heard the shot, followed by the ding as the bullet struck the concrete behind me—I didn't actually hear it hit the metallic catch.

  It felt like someone had poked me really hard, at first. It took a few seconds for the actual pain to kick in, then I experienced an excruciating, burning sensation in my forearm, in the exact spot where the corpsman had marked the X. Hot blood gushed down both sides of my arm. The rest of my body seemed strangely cold.

  The corpsman hurried to my side. He checked my wound then shouted, "Clean!"

  He wrapped my forearm in gauze. A little tight, I thought. The whole area throbbed with every heartbeat.

  When he was done, the corpsman retreated. "Secure!"

  PO1 Gains stepped forward.

  "How many fingers am I holding up?" PO1 Gains said.

  I felt faint, but so far I was still relatively lucid. "Three."

  "Good."

  He held up a padded strike shield. "Punch!"

  All I could think was that I'd just been shot. I started to lift my uninjured arm, but a wave of nausea passed over me.

  "Punch!" PO1 Gains said.

  I squeezed my good hand, and punched the padded shield. Two times.

  "Come on, what kind of man are you? Use both hands. Both hands!"

  Clenching my teeth, I punched again, this time in sequence. Right, then left. Right, then left. I flinched with each left-arm strike, feeling like the wound was tearing wider each time. I couldn't really form a proper fist with the hand of my injured arm. It just hurt too much.

  PO1 Gains lowered the shield slightly. "Knee strikes," he said. "Knee strikes!"

  I was feeling quite nauseous now, and had stars floating across my vision, but I grabbed the top of the strike shield with both hands anyway. I raised one leg and kneed the padded shield. Again. Again.

  "You're the man, Rade!" Alejandro shouted encouragement. "Keep it up bro!"

  "Done. Back away!" PO1 Gains said.

  I released the shield, but lost my balance and tumbled forward. The corpsman rushed to my side, and shined a light in my eyes.

  "I'm okay," I said, blinking away the stars. "Just a little dizzy."

  "Clear!" the corpsman shouted, retreating.

  "Pass part one!" PO1 Gains tossed aside the strike shield, then grabbed a canister from the pile.

  He moved me back in front of the bullet catch, then looked me in the eye. His expression was blank. "Do you have any medical conditions or injuries that would preclude the discharge of OC-40 into the facial region?"

  Only that I'd just been shot. "No."

  "Are you ready to receive level one contamination?"

  No. Definitely not. "Yes."

  "Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Close your mouth."

  I did all three.

  I felt liquid splash my face. It didn't hurt. Not right away.

  After a few seconds the burning kicked in and I forgot all about the gunshot wound in my arm. In fact, at first I thought I'd been shot again, because my whole face was on fire.

  "Open your eyes."

  I did, but closed them right away. It felt like there was sandpaper under my eyelids: A thousand little needles pressing into my corneas at the same time. My nose was running. Just plain running, like a waterspout had opened up in my sinuses.

  The inside of my nose burned, and my trachea ached too, but that was nothing compared to the intense pain in my eyes. Even the burning in my face didn't compare. The eye pain just took the fight right out of me and all I wanted to do was drop down and die.

  My knees started to buckle.

  "Blink it out. Blink it out!" PO1 Gains' voice reached me through the darkness and pain.

  I opened my eyes but shut them immediately. I squeezed my right fist. And even my left, despite the throbbing pain of the gunshot wound. I jumped up and down. I punched my right hand down against my thigh.

  "Come on, Rade, you're tougher than this!" It was Alejandro, shouting encouragement.

  "How many fingers am I holding up?" PO1 Gains said.

  I tried to force my eyes to open, but they kept wanting to close. The burning was just too much.

  "How many fingers?"

  My vision was all foggy from the tears but eventually I made out the V-shape of two blurry fingers.

  "Two," I said.

  "Good."

  PO1 Tavies came forward. He held the padded strike shield. "Punch!"

  I squeezed my right fist, and with one eye half-open I punched the padded shield.

  "Both hands. Both hands!"

  And so I used both. The pain in my left arm returned with a vengeance. But I punched. Right. Left. Right. Left. I managed to block out all pain for three good hits, but then for some reason I couldn't take it anymore and I closed my eyes and doubled over.

  "It's all in your head!" Alejandro said.

  "Come on!" PO1 Tavies said. "Punch!"

  I forced myself upright and punched the strike shield again through slitted lids. After the first strike, I shut my eyes again, and got in three more good strikes.

  But then PO1 Gains asked me how many fingers he was holding up.

  I'd have to expose my eyes to the burning world again.

  Resignedly, I turned toward his voice and raised my lid by the tiniest sliver. Through the pain, I made out his hand. "Three fingers."

  "Good!"

  Beside me, Tavies lowered the strike shield. "Knee strikes. Knee strikes!"

  I kneed the shield just like before, keeping my eye open a crack.

  Tavies stepped back, letting Gains come forward. He was holding up fingers again.

  "Four," I said.

  "Good!" Gains offered me his baton, and I grabbed it with my good hand. "Go get Tavies!"

  Though no one touched me, I doubled over again, and it was all I could do to resist rubbing my eyes. Snot and tears flowed down my face and off my chin. My wounded forearm pounded with each heartbeat. The gauze was too tight, t
oo tight.

  I didn't realize I was saying it out loud until Alejandro said, "Rade! It's not too tight. Get up! Come on! Don't fail!"

  Don't fail.

  "I'm going to hit you," Tavies said. "Open your eyes. Open your eyes!"

  I felt the padded shield strike my shoulder. I got up and with slitted eyes used the baton to block the next attack. Tavies was hitting pretty hard with that shield, but I staved off each blow. None of the pain had abated. Not the burning in my face, nor the throbbing in my arm. I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take.

  Gains was in my face again. "How many fingers?"

  "Five."

  I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

  "Keep going!" Gains said. "Go get Tavies!"

  Tavies was backing away now, holding the strike shield high.

  I ran at him and my shoulder collided with the shield. I took a step back and struck the shield repeatedly with my baton.

  Gains intervened. "How many fingers?"

  "One."

  "Good! Now defend yourself. Defend yourself!"

  One of the instructors came at me from the side, wielding a baton. I couldn't tell who it was through the tears.

  "Defend yourself dumbass." The baton dug into my ribs hard and I folded in pain.

  I recognized the voice. Piker. I'd been wanting to get back at that asshole for a long while now. Anger at all the injustice and mistreatment I'd suffered at his hands drove me on, and I recovered in time to deflect his second baton blow.

  Gains shouted as we fought. "Tell him what to do Mr. Galaal! You're in charge! Tell him what to do!"

  "Get down!" I said.

  "Sure thing maggot." Piker's baton struck me a glancing blow to the cheek, and the whole area flared up as the OC-40 on my face dug its claws into newly exposed sections of tissue.

  "Get down!" I said again. I struck out with the baton. Missed.

  "Mr. Galaal, surely you can do better than that." Piker mocked, catching me in the ribs with his baton.

  Alejandro hadn't stopped shouting. "Come on Rade! You can take him!"

  I forced myself forward, taking a hit on my wounded forearm. Piker wasn't playing fair, not at all, aiming for my injuries like that.

  But all was fair in war.

  I bit back the terrible pain, slid my leg behind Piker's ankle, and tripped him. "I said down!"

  We both fell to the ground.

  "Good job, sir!" PO1 Gains said. "Pass!"

  "Well done, sir," Instructor Piker said. There was no emotion in his voice. Not hatred or resentment. Not even respect. Like this was something that was just routine to him. And I guess it was, at that.

  I staggered to my feet and started toward the open shower on the far side of the courtyard, eager to wash the spray off.

  "Not so fast, sir," Gains said. "You still have to pass part three."

  My shoulders slumped. I'd forgotten about part three.

  I returned to the bullet catch.

  "Are you ready to receive level two contamination?"

  There was only one option. "Yes."

  "Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Close your mouth."

  I did.

  Cool liquid splashed my face from both sides in a continuous stream. Gains and Tavies were spraying me at the same time.

  All I could think was that the pain was coming.

  To calm myself I started a count in my head.

  One-one-thousand.

  Two-one-thousand.

  Three-one-thousand.

  The burning came.

  Four-one-thousand.

  It felt like twenty people were punching me in the face. Repeatedly. At the same time.

  Five-one-thousand.

  The spray didn't stop. The liquid was starting to run down my neck and onto my chest, so that my whole upper body felt inflamed. I was still holding my breath. I had my eyes closed. But it didn't help. I could feel the stings as a hundred hornets tried to stab their way through my eyelids.

  Six-one-thousand.

  I staggered backward and fell flat on my butt.

  The flow of caustic liquid stopped. I think. It was hard to tell, because my face was throbbing so badly.

  I heard Gains' voice. "Stay down stay down stay down!"

  Believe me, I thought. I have no intention of getting up.

  I inhaled, and fire filled my lungs. I had trouble breathing.

  "Stay down!" Gains said again.

  Incredibly, I got up.

  I'm not really sure why I did it.

  I guess I wanted to show them that I had what it took to be a MOTH. That I was more than a man.

  I guess I wanted to prove it to myself.

  Gains and Tavies sprayed me again.

  One-one-thousand.

  "Go down!" Gains said.

  Two-one-thousand.

  The agony.

  The scorching agony.

  It felt like the skin of my face was melting right off.

  It probably was.

  Three-one-thousand.

  I didn't have to do this. What was I trying to prove?

  Four-one-thousand.

  It wasn't worth it. There was no point.

  Five-one-thousand.

  Finally I fell back.

  "Stay down!" Gains said.

  I obeyed.

  I'd proved what I set out to prove.

  I had what it took.

  "How many fingers? How many fingers!"

  I opened my swollen eyelids as far as they would go, and that was the barest of cracks. I blinked several times before making out the blurry hand in front of me. "Five."

  "Pass!"

  Gains and Tavies helped me stagger to my feet, and led me over to the open shower to wash the OC-40 spray off. I was wheezing pretty bad at this point.

  "Don't let the water run down your lower body." Tavies was beside me. "Wrap the towel around your waist."

  He gave me a towel and helped me wrap it around my hips. "Good job," he said quietly. "You're going to make a fine MOTH."

  Despite all the pain, hearing those words from a MOTH boosted me right up. I felt like I'd already joined the elite brotherhood. I stood proudly under that shower, momentarily forgetting the pain, and my breathing became almost normal.

  "Rub this on." Tavies squeezed some kind of shampoo into my hands, and I rubbed it into my face and torso. It didn't really help—my eyes and skin had already sucked up too much OC-40.

  There was nothing I could do but grin and bear it. I caught a look at myself in the swivel-mounted mirror situated nearby as I dried myself off. My face was swollen all over, and it sure wasn't pretty, but at least the skin hadn't melted off like I'd imagined.

  "Rade, you okay?" Alejandro called.

  I nodded my head, and waved in the general direction of his voice.

  Tavies and Gains helped me to one of the Weavers. I lay on the stretcher and let the thing examine and treat me. When it was done I had fresh stitches in my gunshot wound, anti-inflammatories sprayed over my face and upper chest, and an injection of some kind of analgesic (morphine?) for the pain. I took a seat at the far right, where the "pass" group would sit.

  I watched others take their turns. My memories are somewhat fragmented, because I had to watch all this through the lingering pain, with slitted eyes. What I saw wasn't pretty. I do remember Alejandro wailing like a baby the whole time, but he passed. And Tahoe kept rubbing at his eyes, making his hands burn too, but he passed as well.

  Most people got up again after the final spray-down, just like me. Some endured the pain better than others. Jaguar stayed on his feet for about fifteen seconds the first time, and when he got up again he endured another fifteen seconds under that caustic spray. His face was a swollen and bruised mess, but he'd set the record so far.

  Until Branco came along. Jaguar's swim buddy.

  By the time Branco's turn came, the painkillers had kicked in, so I was able to keep my eyes open without too much discomfort. I saw, and remembered, everything that happened to
him in vibrant detail.

  I'm glad I did.

  Branco Cervenko was one of the bigger boys in our bunch, and one of the very few steroid guys who'd made it through Trial Week. His lower legs had been inundated with stress fractures by the end of that week, so the Weavers had him wearing these long, padded boots to give the bones a chance to heal, which gave him quite the bounce to his step.

  Anyway, he handled the first two parts of the test admirably. Watching him fight, I would have almost thought that he hadn't been hit by a bullet or sprayed with OC-40 at all—he was just a tank. As far as I could tell, he kept his eyes open the whole time. It was beautiful. Only the redness of his face and the tears streaming down his cheeks gave him away.

  "That a boy!" Captain Lindberg cheered him on at one point. "Now this is a warrior, people! Watch and learn!"

  We cheered too as Branco took out Instructor Piker in a few hits.

  Then the endurance part of the test came.

  Gains and Tavies sprayed his face simultaneously.

  It took three seconds before he closed his eyes.

  "Get down!" Gains said.

  Ten seconds passed.

  "I said get down!"

  Branco refused to drop and the two MOTHs continued to spray him.

  Twenty seconds.

  Branco lowered his chin so that the majority of the spray hit his forehead. I saw his chest moving in and out. I don't know how he could breathe with that caustic substance pouring down his face, and the fumes seeping into his lungs.

  Thirty seconds passed.

  "Get down, sir!" Gains said. "Down!"

  Branco held his ground.

  Forty seconds. The skin of his face was starting to get very puffy.

  Fifty seconds.

  "Sir!" Gains said. "Please!"

  Gains shot Captain Lindberg an urgent look.

  "Instructor Piker," Captain Lindberg said.

  Piker quickly strode behind Branco and gave him a good kick in the back of the knee.

  Branco instantly tumbled forward.

  Gains and Tavies stopped the OC-40 spray. They were clearly relieved.

  "Stay down! Don't you get up!" Gains said.

  Branco remained on the ground, breathing heavily.

  Then, unbelievably, Branco got up again.

  Gains and Tavies exchanged a glance, then looked at Captain Lindberg.