Earth Alone (Earthrise Book 1)

by Daniel Arenson

  He quickly placed the receiver back.

  "Should we . . . call anyone?" Marco said. "Should—"

  "Soldiers!" rose a shout, and Marco and Addy looked up to see Sergeant Singh in the distance.

  Both recruits stood at attention. Singh approached them, frowning.

  "Commander!" Marco said, standing stiffly, gun pressed to his side, chin raised.

  "If you're done with your cleaning duties, place this bin back at the gates, then report to exercise yard."

  "Yes, Commander!" they said.

  Singh nodded. "And don't let me catch you lazying around again, or I'll have you mopping the latrines for the rest of your training."

  As Marco and Addy hurried back to their platoon, they kept glancing at each other, and Marco knew that Addy was thinking about that phone too. A chance to contact the outside world. To speak to Father . . . and to Kemi.

  They spent the rest of the day training with their corporals—crawling under barbed wire, climbing over wooden walls, firing their guns, and battling dead scum. All the while Marco thought about the holy artifacts he and Addy had found—both links to the outside world, one of taste and smell and memory, the other promising actual voices from their old lives.

  "I kill you!" Beast shouted, ripping Marco away from his thoughts. The massive Russian, sweat glistening on his bald head, charged toward one of the scum exoskeletons in the training yard. He thrust his bayonet again and again, finally piercing the shell, then fell to his knees as the recruits cheered. Beast pulled out his photo of Oxana, his pigtailed girlfriend, and kissed it. "For you, Lud—I mean, Oxana."

  Elvis leaned toward Marco. "Psst. Show me that photo of Kemi again, will you?" He whistled. "Hot."

  "No, fantasize about St-Pierre if you must," Marco whispered back, falling silent as the corporal walked closer.

  They waited until St-Pierre walked by, then Elvis leaned close to Marco again. Another recruit was now attacking a dead scum.

  "Say, Poet," Elvis whispered, "you think your friend Maple might be interested in a guy like me?"

  Marco raised his eyebrows. "Addy? Addy Linden? She'd rip your balls off. You have better chances wooing Ensign Ben-Ari."

  They both turned to look at the officer. Among their commanders—Sergeant Singh, the three corporals, and Ben-Ari—they saw the ensign the least amount of time, knew the least about her. Yet whenever he met Ben-Ari's eyes, Marco thought he saw sadness there, perhaps as great as the pain inside of him, of Lailani, of the rest of them.

  Who are you, Ben-Ari? he thought, looking at their platoon's commander. What brought this pain to your eyes?

  "Look at those green eyes," Elvis said, looking at the officer. "That golden hair. That smile."

  "She's not smiling," Marco said.

  "I've seen Ben-Ari smile before! In the mess hall, when she's with the sergeant and corporals and thinks we're not looking. Beautiful smile." Elvis sighed. "If Maple's out of my league, you think that maybe Ben-Ari would—"

  "Ben-Ari is your commanding officer," Marco reminded him.

  Beast stepped toward them, wiping sweat off his brow, still holding his photograph of Oxana. He patted Elvis on the back. "What you need is good Russian woman. Blond. Can drink lots. Strong like ox. You date Russian girl, she treat you like king." He kissed his photo. "Like my Ludmila."

  "Your Oxana," Marco reminded him.

  Beast nodded. "Yes, yes, of course. Russians always have two names, you know. Not like you Americans with your one puny name that means nothing."

  Marco wanted to remind the towering Russian that he was Canadian but decided to drop the subject.

  That night, at eleven, Sergeant Singh granted them a free hour again before lights out. Marco was exhausted—he had guard duty in three hours, then had to wake up for morning inspection shortly after that. He hadn't showered in three days, though, and he was beginning to smell like scum shit. Speaking of which, gray slop and Spam didn't sweat their way out. Abandoning his cot, Marco raced toward the showers and grabbed a last toilet stall. The door didn't offer much privacy. An inch was exposed on each side, a full foot below, and he could see the other recruits walking to and from the showers and changing at the bench. Only a week ago Marco would have been mortified by this lack of privacy, but after days with these people, he allowed himself to finally—for the first time—spend a few minutes reading Hard Times.

  Thankfully, neither Lailani nor Addy were in the shower today to confuse him. There were other females in the platoon, some of whom were showering now, but Marco placed himself behind a few of the guys and washed while listening to Elvis croon "Always on My Mind."

  As Marco was heading back toward his tent, he paused in the darkness. Under the stars, he stared west. It was still a kilometer away, but maybe if Marco ran, if he didn't encounter any commanders, he could make it to the phone. He could call Kemi tonight.

  He took a step in that direction. He paused, looked around him, seeking commanders, seeing none. He stood in flip-flops, sweatpants, and a T-shirt, a submachine gun on his back, shivering in the cold, exhausted, wanting nothing more than to sleep, but that phone beckoned.

  He took another few steps, heading into deeper shadows, when he heard the weeping.

  Marco froze and frowned.

  A shadowy lump rose ahead beyond the lights that hung around the tents. Marco walked toward it, and the weeping grew louder.

  A figure leaped up ahead. Metal clattered. "Who's there?" A barrel of a gun rose.

  "Whoa, calm down!" Marco raised his hands. "It's me. It's Marco. Beast, that you?"

  Marco stepped closer and saw him there. Sasha "Beast" Mikhailov cast an impressive figure in the night, standing six and a half feet tall, all muscle, his neck as wide as his bald head, his gun in hand. And yet tears now shone on his cheeks.

  "Look away," Beast said, turning aside. "I am ashamed."

  Marco approached slowly. "Hey, Beast, it's all right. I think every one of us has cried here by now. Well, maybe not Pinky, but I'm still convinced he's a baby scum."

  Beast nodded and wiped tears away. "I hate this place. Hate it! I miss home. I scared here."

  Marco hesitated, then placed a hand on the burly recruit's arm. "You'll see home again. This isn't forever. You'll see your family, you'll see Oxana again. Sometimes they let soldiers visit home for Christmas, and—"

  "There is no Oxana," Beast blurted out. "Okay? There is no Oxana. There is no Ludmila. I made her up." He lowered his head. "It picture of my sister, not my girlfriend. I don't have pretty girlfriend like you. I lied."

  "Why?" Marco said. "Just to impress the guys?"

  Beast was trembling—actually trembling. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it, revealing a photograph. "This is who I love. His name is Boris. But I can't tell that to the guys. What you think Elvis and Dicky and Pinky and everyone say? You think they let me shower with them?" Beast scoffed. "They be even more scared of me than they are now. They don't know I'm scared of them. But you, Poet, you all right." He gave Marco a crooked look. "You all right, yes?"

  Marco again patted Beast's arm. "We're both all right. You keep that photo of Boris, and let that be your strength, that he's there waiting for you."

  Beast nodded. "Like Kemi waiting for you."

  Marco said nothing. Nobody here knew that Kemi had joined Julius Military Academy, that he wouldn't see her for years, that they had essentially broken up on his last night home. It was still too painful to talk about. Only Addy knew. He would reveal this terrible truth to nobody else.

  We all have secrets here, he thought. Beast, Lailani, Pinky, Ben-Ari—we're all just wearing masks. Let me wear mine a little longer.

  Marco returned to his tent, lay on his cot, and placed his gun under his pillow. He turned on his flashlight and looked at the photo of Kemi.

  He put the photo aside and switched off his flashlight. He could just make out Lailani sleeping on the cot next to his, a small lump of darkness. Gently, Marco pl
aced the chocolate bar on her duffel bag, a surprise for her to find when she woke up for guard duty. He closed his eyes and slept for two hours.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  On Sunday morning a miracle occurred at Fort Djemila.

  Sergeant Singh stood before the recruits, delivering the good news.

  "All right, soldiers. It's Sunday. You've completed your first week of basic training. You still have nine weeks to go before you become proud privates in the HDF. But today—for the rest of the day—you rest."

  Marco blinked, disbelieving.

  "Commander," he said, "you mean we watch reels all day between exercises?"

  "I mean," said the bearded sergeant, "that you sleep. You write letters home. You pray. You do your laundry in the sink. You jerk off in the toilets. You do whatever the fuck you want so long as you report to three meals in the mess, are in your tents for lights out at eleven, and pass morning inspection tomorrow morning." He smiled thinly. "Though if you insist, I can have you run through the obstacle course a few more times today."

  "Letters and laundry sounds excellent, Commander," said Marco, scarcely believing his good luck.

  And Sergeant Singh left.

  He left!

  The corporals, the sergeant, the ensign—they were gone.

  For the first time in a week, the recruits of the 4th Platoon were alone.

  Marco felt magnanimous, and he shared news of the vending machine behind the chapel, only a kilometer or two away, and soon the soldiers were back in their tent, carrying their bounty: a feast of candy and chips and pop and melting ice cream. They all ate in their tent, and even Pinky seemed in a decent mood. They told the crude stories of soldiers, the boys boasting of women they had conquered—most of those stories lies, no doubt—and gossiping about their commanders. Beast spoke about how drill sergeants in Russia beat recruits who failed morning inspection, didn't just give them kitchen duty, breeding real warriors. Elvis did a spot-on impression of their corporals and sergeants, eliciting laughter so loud Marco had to hush them, fearing one of the commanders would hear.

  "Fuckin' whorehouse here," Elvis said, flopping down onto a cot. "Sundays at boot camp, yeah!" He yawned. "Now shut up, all of you. It's time to sleep and dream of home."

  Bellies full, they slept.

  For a week now the recruits had really just catnapped, constantly being woken for guard duty, and three times already—sirens in the middle of the night and a long hour at high alert, kneeling between the cots until the all clear was given. Now on this searing Sunday, they lay on their cots, and for a few glorious hours, Marco was lost in darkness.

  A pillow hit his head, waking him. Marco opened his eyes to see Addy standing above him, her T57 slung across her back.

  "Hey, Poet." She raised a soccer ball. "Look what I found. We're going to eat lunch, then play ball. You in?"

  He groaned and checked his watch. It was 2:00 p.m. He had slept for six wonderful, blessed, dreamless hours. He looked back at Addy. The other recruits were lacing up their boots and heading toward the exit. One grabbed the ball from Addy and kicked it across the tent.

  "Muhmmm, go away," Marco muttered.

  "Lunch!" she said. "Delicious Spam!"

  Marco groaned, grabbed her pillow, and placed it over his head. "I still have a bag of Hickory Chips. Let me sleep."

  "Fine, tubby." She poked his belly button, then turned away. "Lailani, you in?"

  Lailani sat up on her cot, yawned, and stretched. "I'm staying too. I ain't leaving this tent until tomorrow's inspection. Enjoy your game. Try not to kick your ball into any ammunitions warehouses."

  The recruits whistled and hooted.

  "Poet and Tiny, alone in a tent!" said one.

  As Elvis walked by, he slapped Marco's shoulder. "Remember, de la Rosa likes to be spanked."

  Marco lobbed the pillow at him. "You already told that joke about Addy."

  The recruits filed out, leaving Marco and Lailani alone in the tent. He could hear them arguing about who was history's best soccer player. There seemed to be two camps, one supporting Santos, the others championing Alvarez. The voices soon faded into the distance. Marco lay on his back, closed his eyes, but couldn't fall back asleep. Finally he sat up, made the trek to the latrines, and came back with an empty bladder and shaved face. Lailani was sitting on her cot, oiling her gun.

  Marco opened his bag of Hickory Chips and held it out to Lailani. "Chip?"

  She looked up from her gun. "It's not true, you know."

  "What?"

  "What Elvis said. How they laughed about us." She pulled off her buttoned shirt, remaining in a white tank top, and showed him the rainbow tattoo on her arm. "I like girls."

  "Oh," Marco said. He hated the feeling of disappointment that filled him. "That's great."

  Lailani shrugged. "Figures. I hate men anyway. I saw how they hurt my mother, how they hurt me." She stood up, walked toward Marco's cot, and sat down beside him. "You're different, though. You're not like any other boy I've known. I like you." She leaned against him.

  "I like you too." His arm felt awkward, pinned to his side, and he slung it around Lailani. She nestled closer to him.

  "Tell me about your book," she said. "Addy said you're writing a book. Jarhead?"

  "Loggerhead," Marco said.

  Lailani grabbed a chip. It crunched between her teeth. "What does that mean?"

  "It's a type of turtle," Marco said. "A large sea turtle."

  "You're writing a book about turtles?" Lailani grabbed another chip.

  "No," Marco said. "It's only a plot device." He spoke as Lailani snacked. "You see, it's about a man."

  "A turtle man?"

  "No, not a turtle man. Just a man. He lives on a beach, homeless, friendless, mentally challenged. Mentally he's like a child."

  "Like Caveman," said Lailani, nodding.

  "Worse," said Marco. "A lot worse. He just lives on the beach, and he suffers from amnesia. He doesn't remember his name, where he comes from, how he got here. He has only vague memories of a family he lost. Gangs bully him. His life is sad."

  "So where does the turtle come in?" Lailani said. "I like turtles."

  "Sometime before the book begins, the man saw a giant turtle—a loggerhead—wash onto the shore, still alive. The man watched as scientists attached a tracking device to the turtle, then released it back into the water. The man on the beach begins to write letters to the turtle, which he places into glass bottles, which he tosses into the water. He tells the turtle—and the reader—his story. Each chapter is a different letter the man writes. It's written with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors on purpose. That's how the man writes." Marco smiled thinly. "Makes my job easier too. No need to fix typos."

  Lailani looked up at him. "And what story does the man tell the turtle?"

  "At first the man only talks about his daily struggles, addressing them to the loggerhead. But more things happen, all described in the letters. One day a young woman arrives on the beach. She claims to be the man's daughter. The man gets scared and chases her away. She comes back. She tells him that he was a successful doctor, that he was in a car crash, that he injured his head and forgot who he was. The man remembers brief images of his previous life, which scare him. Again he chases the woman away. Slowly it begins to return to him. He used to be intelligent, successful, rich—but then a crash. Fire. Blood. And him here on the beach. He's scared. In his last letter, he tells the turtle that he'll swim out to find him, even if he drowns, but that he hopes he'll find a magical underwater kingdom where no pain or memory exists, where he and the turtle can be together. The novel ends with him swimming out into the ocean with his last letter, implying his death." Marco was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. "At least I think the book will end like that. I've only written the first few chapters."

  Lailani thought for long moments. "It's sad," she finally said. "I like it. Can I read the first chapters?"

  "When they're done. They still need some revisin
g."

  "I wish I could write and be creative," Lailani said. "I'm not much good at anything other than moping and being depressed. It's why I like the HDF. I think I'm the only one here who likes it. There's not much time to think here. I like that. Thinking can hurt. Memories and too many thoughts."

  Marco brushed crumbs off her shoulder. "Addy told me something. She said that here in the army, they want us to forget who we were. They break us and rebuild us. We're new people here. What happened to us in our past lives—that still matters, and it still hurts, and it'll always be a part of us. They can't take that away. But we have new lives now. Blank slates."

  Lailani nuzzled him. "You're definitely not like the others. You're smart. I like you." She stood up, pulled off her clothes, then lay down on her stomach, naked on the cot. She looked up at him. "You can have sex with me if you want. The others won't be back for a while."

  He blinked, shocked, but couldn't look away from her dark, slender body stretched out on his cot. He caressed the rainbow tattoo on her arm. "I thought you don't like boys."

  "I don't. Just you." She buried her head in the pillow. "I ruv you."

  He lay down beside her and stroked her buzzed black hair. "You ruv me?"