Descent into Mayhem (Capicua Chronicles Book 1)

by Bruno Goncalves

  As Toni tried unsuccessfully to attract the attention of several marauding crows, the long expected drizzle finally began to fall, reducing visibility once more as well as chilling Toni to the bone. He removed an oversized jersey from his pack and used it to cover his shoulders like a cloak, and then parked a wide-brimmed farmer’s hat on his head, an accessory as useful to keep his head dry as to prevent the birds overhead from painting a target on his crown.

  The minutes ticked slowly away and, to Toni’s growing bewilderment, not a single recruit showed up at the gate.

  He checked his watch again. It was a quarter past the hour, and that undoubtedly meant he was late. Anxiety lurched forwards and took center-stage in his heart, reminding him in exquisite detail of the shame that awaited him were he to fail.

  He walked over to the gate and gave it a long, hard stare. He then shifted his weight back and launched himself forward, sending a boot against the gate in frustration. The sudden impact of work-boot against iron produced a resounding metallic clang.

  To Toni’s utter surprise, the sentinel box to his left shuddered violently, and a tall figure enshrouded in a black cloth suddenly jumped out, only to collapse to the ground with a thud.

  “Uff! HALT! WHO GOES THERE?” The figure bellowed loudly, trying to stand as it did so. It finally managed to free itself from its covering and a compact-looking rifle fell clattering to the ground at his feet.

  A crack trooper he certainly wasn’t. Toni suppressed the urge to face-palm as the soldier quickly gathered the rifle up with spider-like arms. He wore a vomit-green uniform a little short at his arms and legs, which made some sense, seeing as his extremities were a little long for the body he had been graced with. The expression on the sentinel’s face as he spotted the newcomer summed his intellect up nicely.

  “Oh, for the love of –” the soldier coughed twice and then spat. Composing himself, he turned to Toni.

  “Hell, you had me thinking the Lieutie had caught me at it again!” He gasped with relief.

  “Hey ...” Toni said, “I thought there was no one in there ...”

  “Oh, just doing the curtain routine. Get some sleep without the critters bothering me. If I knew Parkinson had let someone out, I would’ve been expecting you. So, ya want in?” He asked, hooking his thumb towards the gate.

  “I’m here to be incorporated.” Toni stated bluntly.

  The sentinel stood there for what seemed like a long time, studying Toni anew.

  “You’re a ... a rook?”

  “Uh ... yes, I guess so. Listen, the sheet says oh-six-hundred and I’m already fifteen minutes late ...”

  The sentinel quickly checked his watch, and then marched over to him and put his hand out. Toni shook it, taking note that the soldier possessed retard strength.

  “I’m Derek Rooney, but everyone calls me Stick. Get your gear, I’m gonna open the gate!”

  “Toni. Thanks.”

  Before long Toni found himself inside a military base for the first time in his life, his pack shaking and leaping as he coursed down a paved road at a good sprint.

  Stick had turned out to be a mate. The lanky sentinel had given a brief explanation on how to get to the Suit parade ground, the usual mustering spot for recruits. Before Toni had been about to break into a run, however, the soldier had stopped him.

  “Listen, you look like you’re a mate, so I’ll give you some advice I didn’t chance to get. Only two things. Don’t ever trust a comrade right off, not even the friendly ones, ‘cause some of them are the pits. That includes the other recruits. And when you get hammered down in the Click, don’t ever give up. Giving up will cost you the Suit, and you’ll never get that shot again! OK? Good luck, rook!”

  Following Stick’s directions, Toni kept along the paved road for a full kilometer, occasionally spotting collections of small whitewashed huts to his flanks as he sped along. Sure enough, he soon saw to his left an enormous parade ground. Dead center on those granite-grey grounds, he saw a motley group about fifty strong huddled together. Beyond the parade ground was a much denser collection of buildings, white the dominant color there as well.

  As sweat burned, Toni put in a final burst of speed and ate up the heavily scratched and pitted parade ground. Beyond the group of civilians, he saw a heavyset soldier standing sentinel, his legs widely spaced apart as he watched over them. He came to a stop beside the group and wiped the sweat from his eyes for a better look.

  The recruits wore terrified expressions and stood in a formation three lines deep, their luggage having been piled in a disorganized heap behind them. The soldier standing before them seemed almost inhuman, although Toni couldn’t place what made him so uncannily robotic. He was in his forties, with a smart black cap parked on his shaved head and a geometrically-shaped goatee surrounding his almost lipless mouth. His sky-blue eyes remained fixed on the formation before him, giving Toni the impression that he hadn´t registered Toni’s arrival.

  Toni pulled out the printed attachment of the mail he’d been sent and cleared his throat.

  “Sir, uh, Toni Miura reporting for duty! Sir!” He added, considering that one sir wasn’t enough for the occasion.

  The soldier didn’t budge and kept his robotic vigil over the formation before him. Toni wondered what he was doing wrong. And then, in a flash, an epiphany came to him.

  He fired off a salute.

  The soldier’s head snapped towards Toni as if it had been spring-loaded. Someone in the crowd groaned as if he had suddenly fallen ill.

  The soldier’s mouth gaped as if he was about to say something, and his eyes opened so wide that Toni could see the whites of his eyes above and below his irises. Despite his alarm, Toni noticed that the man had no eyebrows.

  “WHAT! THE FUCK! DO YA THINK! YOU’RE DOING? YOU UNDERFED! UNDERBRED! UNDERSIZED! LITTLE SHIT!!” The soldier finally screamed at the top of his lungs. He made for Toni with a fast, almost spastic, march, stopping only when his ruddy nose was brushing against the rookie’s forehead.

  “YOU WILL NOT! I REPEAT NOT! EVER! SALUTE IN CIVILIAN CLOTHING AGAIN! THIS IS NOT SOME NAVY! AIRFORCE! OR OTHERWISE SUBSTANDARD OUTFIT! YOU WILL NOT SALUTE IN CIVVS! YOU WILL NOT SALUTE WITHOUT A HEAD COVERING! AND MOST OF ALL! YOU WILL NOT SALUTE! UNTIL Y’ALL HAVE BEEN TAUGHT WHEN! WHERE! AND HOW! TO SALUTE! ARE WE CLEAR, BOY?”

  “Very clear, sir!” Toni answered quickly, trying to ignore the spittle on his eyelashes.

  “THAT’S FIRST SERGEANT MASON TO YA! ROOK!”

  “Very clear! First-sergeant!” Toni declared.

  Sergeant Mason took a quick step back and snatched the printed letter from Toni’s hand, read through it quickly, and then consulted the list on his clipboard with a jerky motion. With another quick jerk he checked his watch.

  “Why are you late?” He demanded, having apparently fallen into remission.

  “I was let in through the gate to the east, First Sergeant. I didn’t ...”

  “Sergeant will do.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I didn’t know any other way here. I came on foot, sir.”

  “And that constitutes an excuse to you, rook?” He demanded, a smirk beginning to twist his face.

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “I thought not. Up front. No luggage. NOW!” Mason bellowed, pointing with his clipboard to the spot where he had been a moment ago.

  Toni hastily discarded his packs and jogged to the head of the troop, his stomach sinking anew. Mason cleared his throat extravagantly and then fired off like a cannon.

  “OUR FELLA! HERE!” he bellowed, pointing the clipboard towards Toni and, accidentally or not, smacking it against his temple, “HAS DECIDED TO BE TARDY! NOW SUCH AN INFARCTION! HAS AN UNREASONABLY CHEAP PRICE OF FIVE! I REPEAT FIVE! PRESS-UPS! EACH WILL BE DONE BY HIM! AND THEN DONE BY Y’ALL! I WANNA HEAR THE NUMBERS! LOUD AND CLEAR!”

  Sergeant Mason eyed Toni ecstatically and bellowed one final order into his ear: “NOW!”

  Toni didn’t need to be told twice. He fell on his
hands, waiting for the entire platoon to do the same, and immediately flexed his arms against the earth once. Amidst myriad grunts and groans, the platoon followed suit. Before he could complete the second, Mason interrupted them.

  “I WANNA HEAR THE NUMBERS! AGAIN!”

  Toni started from scratch and bellowed out a “one”. This, apparently, was also unsatisfactory in Mason’s idea of how the exercise should proceed. Before long Toni discovered that “zero” was a valid number at MEWAC, and one to be reckoned with, seeing as he ended up doing at least a dozen zeros before Mason allowed him to continue. The sergeant was also highly demanding of proper execution, and every time they neared five, he would find someone who wasn’t performing properly and Toni would find himself at zero once again.

  He had lost count of how many press-ups they had performed when a boy’s hoarse voice piped from inside the formation.

  “I don’t need this! Sergeant, I’ve had enough!”

  A dark-haired boy finally poked his head above the collection of backs and backsides, his face glistening and his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and fallen drizzle.

  “ON YER FEET! ALL OF YA!” Mason screamed, a mad grin on his face as he surveyed the damage. The platoon wavered like a grove in the midst of a storm, some recruits coughing while other rooted their hands to their thighs as if that was the only thing keeping them up. Toni saw that some recruits had something written on their foreheads and he tried to make it out, but then Sergeant Mason’s smirking red face filled his field of view.

  “Don’tcha move, rook, I’ve got my inspiration!”

  He took out what appeared to be a marking pen. Wiping Toni’s forehead with his sleeve, Mason began to painfully scrawl something there, biting his own tongue in concentration. Finally satisfied, he turned around.

  “YO! FAGGOT! YA QUIT SO YA GET YA GEAR! OUTTA HERE! AND MISTER TARDY HERE! TAKES YA PLACE!”

  With a flourish, Mason struck the washout’s name from his clipboard and then elaborately beckoned Toni to join the group. Feeling light-headed, Toni left his packs where the others were collected and headed towards the boy’s place in formation, whispering a raspy apology to him as they passed each other by.

  “Good luck ...” the boy whispered back, although his expression said otherwise, and Toni thought he heard someone whisper “asshole” from nearby. He felt deeply ashamed for the briefest of moments, but then he throttled the emotion.

  No need to be the good guy, he admonished himself as he took his place.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MEWAC training grounds, 07H00, 7th of January, 2771

  Fat drops drummed heavily against the taut canvass above Toni’s head. He hurried to change into the stained uniform he’d been handed, occasionally bumping shoulders with the other recruits as they hurried to do the same. The uniform was vomit-green, had most of its pockets missing or hanging by their threads, and sported a few brown smears of suspicious origin. Some uniforms were in even worse shape, and every once in a while he would hear a ripping sound followed by loud cursing.

  Toni had since managed to get a better look at his new companions, and had also taken the time to read the graffiti present on some of their faces. One short and stocky recruit, whose dirty-blonde eyebrows met at a very hairy junction between his eyes, had SCARYBROW scrawled in capital letters, the brows having been used as a writing line. Another recruit, his mouth determinedly closed as he clothed himself in a dolmen missing most of its buttons, had BUCK written on his left cheek and TEETH on his right in bold, square lettering. Some other notable examples were SPAZ, TRAGEDY, CRATERFACE and GAWKER.

  First Sergeant Mason had been appeased by the sole sacrifice on the grounds. As the defeated boy trudged away, the soldier had organized the group into a double-column, and they had then set off at a blistering pace, leaving their luggage behind to soak in the rain.

  For most of the way, Mason had simply refused to march in a straight line, preferring instead to zig-zag his way randomly among the trees in one general direction. With every turn he put on a renewed burst of speed, periodically circling a large tree or some other landmark like a manic tour guide. Eventually he led them to a densely wooded area, where the ground was churned up and the trees wore scars, some quite deep and old. By that time the old sergeant’s ears were cherry-red from the effort, but still he kept up the pace. Mason then received a call on a very battered-looking SatPhone, and their trajectory had then become a straight shot towards their final destination.

  They had arrived at a clearing where three large camouflage tents stood erected, a dozen soldiers of diverse ranks loitering between them. Over the course of those first few minutes, Toni had figured that the more decorative the insignias on their shoulders, the higher the soldier’s rank. The big-shot on location, a small but wiry man with a very tense jaw, exhibited a pair of silver stars on each shoulder, and he sneered at the recruits for a brief moment before continuing his conversation with the grizzled soldier beside him. Aside from a pair of busy-looking youths whose shoulders were adorned with red stripes, the remainder lacked any insignia at all and, unsurprisingly, they had been the busiest of the lot.

  In one quick minute, the busy soldiers had distributed uniforms with no regard for size and, more depressingly, they had also handed out crash helmets and anti-trauma padding. The last offering had been flexible neck-braces.

  And so it was that, by ten minutes past seven in the morning, with the rain pelting down with uncharacteristic intensity, the group of terrified recruits was formed up between the tents, the wiry commander standing before them with a crooked smile on his face. As the rain intensified further, drumming deafeningly against Toni’s crash-helmet, the commander opened his mouth to speak.

  Toni groaned inwardly. He found himself in the rearmost row of the formation, the hammering rain on his helmet broadcasting static into his ears, and the speaker lacked the public speaking ability of First-sergeant “Screaming” Mason. Toni strained his ears, managing only to pick up a few snatches of the discourse.

  “... to never, ever forget the name of your superiors. My name is Lieutenant ...”

  “... manage to complete the Click in the set time and proper fashion, you will have the honor and privilege to ...”

  “... at any time you have any doubts on where to go, you need only to ...”

  “... and if you fall short of the mark here, you can forget about ever ...”

  The Lieutenant’s speech went on for a while, with Toni all but clueless as to what he was saying. He was not alone, not if the other recruits’ puzzled expressions were anything to go by. All he managed to learn was that the selection process would involve an obstacle course known as the Click.

  The Lieutenant conferred briefly with Sergeant Mason as the recruits whispered amongst one another, all apparently at a loss as to what was to happen next. Their eyes darted forwards once more to a familiar throat-clearing. Sergeant Mason glared at Toni’s puzzled expression for a few moments before sounding off.

  “THE CLICK! WILL BE COMPLETED! IN ORDER OF ARRIVAL! IN OTHER WORDS! THE LAST GO FIRST! MISTER TARDY! FRONT AND CENTER!” Mason bellowed.

  Toni’s stomach lurched dangerously. He quickly exited the formation, only to be screamed back into it, having apparently committed another no-no. After a quick minute of instruction, example and execution on the right way to fall out of formation, he was finally allowed to depart from the platoon towards what was termed the “warm-up location”.

  It might once have been a wide circle set within a pebbled perimeter, but the sheer number of boots that had already pounded the area within its boundary had depressed the ground below, and the rain had done the rest.

  All that remained for it to be a pond were the Koi fish.

  Five paces beyond the circle was a rising rope ladder under guard of a young red-striped soldier.

  Toni splashed along inside the circle, self-consciously wind-milling his arms under Mason’s murderous gaze, glancing at the end of every lap to
wards the flimsy ladder as it disappeared up into a confusion of tree-branches. Forging his way through the icy water, he heard a thunderous horn reverberate across the forest as if trumpeted by some mythical war-god. The sound was so deep and low he felt it resonate inside his chest, almost shaking him. A wicked grin began to spread across Mason’s face.

  “Any time now, boy!” The soldier shouted.

  “What?”

  “That was the starting horn! Get a move on, or would you prefer to keep the Sarge company?!”

  “Oh ...” Toni muttered, and he set off at a run towards the ladder.

  “DON’T BREAK YER NECK, SUNSHINE!” Mason bellowed after him, his taunting laugh following Toni as he began to assault the ladder.

  The rope ladder began to swing back and forth as he climbed, and his already upset stomach slowly began to liquefy. As he ascended, Toni forced himself to resist the urge to look up, since every time he did so he’d get two eyefuls of rain and be forced to pause, blinking blindly as he swayed until vision returned. Not daring to look down either, Toni stared out into the woods as he gripped each wooden rung, progressing more cautiously the higher he climbed. Finally accepting the fact that he had exceeded the height where a fall would be fatal, he settling into a monotonous rung-by-rung climbing routine until the sound of raindrops beating against wood caused him to look up. Just above and to his right he found a collection of thick branches interlinked with a dense web of rope and, nailed to the nearest, a weathered plastic sign stating “EXIT HERE”.

  Toni abandoned the ladder, scrambling clumsily along the confusing cobweb until the challenge beyond caused him to pause. Attached to the trunk and to two diverging branches was an arrangement of taut cables forming a V, interconnected by ropes for every meter of their considerable length. The rope bridge disappeared into the forest with no end in sight. Not bothering to see where the other end was attached, he set off, gripping the two upper cables with white knuckles as he carefully paced along the lower one. He kept his eyes fixed on the bottom cable as he carefully placed his feet, counting his steps as he advanced to keep himself from thinking about how far from the ground he was. At his thirtieth step he dared to peer forwards.