by Shawn Inmon
“What’d you do?” Will asked.
Dominick leaned in toward the rest of the boys, lowering his voice. “He’s got this old Dodge that he’s been working on fixing up. It’s been up on blocks in his shop for years. Finally, this summer, he got it running. One day when he was at work and Mom was at the store, I took it for a spin.”
“Whoa,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, whoa. It was pretty cool, but I had a hard time reaching the pedals and seeing out the windshield at the same time. I ended up running it through our neighbor’s yard and into their shed.”
The other boys winced. Dominick shrugged. “Totally worth it.” He looked at Michael. “What about you, genius. How’d you end up here?”
It was Michael’s turn to shrug. My father’s a pervert, so I killed him until I got tired of killing him, then hurt him the worst way I knew how, and now I’m here.
“My parents thought I wasn’t living up to my potential, and that I needed a little more discipline, or whatever, so here I am. This place isn’t the greatest, but most of the time it’s better than home.”
“If this place is better, then home must really suck,” Will said. “I just liked to skip school and hang out with my friends a lot. They told me if I skipped one more time, they were gonna send me away to military school. I didn’t believe ’em. Guess I do now.”
Will looked so downcast at this conclusion, it made the other boys laugh.
Dominick biffed him in the shoulder. “Cheer up.” He looked around at the four other boys. “We are the Turtles, the mighty, mighty Turtles, right?
Chapter Thirty-One
Things got tougher for the Turtles, especially the five boys who had challenged Pusser’s authority.
Every day, Pusser found some reason to punish one or more of them. The punishments started small—cleaning the latrine—and escalated to physical tests of pain and endurance.
Pusser added new barrack rules weekly. Boots must be laced in a specific manner and put toe-first under the bottom bunk prior to lights-out. Beds must be made in the morning so tightly that a quarter will bounce off the top. All clothes must be folded and stored in the proper order in the footlocker.
Lieutenant Pusser prowled the barracks each morning, an eagle-eyed predator on the hunt. “Cadet Wemmer! Why is there a sleeve protruding from your footlocker? Five minutes in deep knee-bend, arms out.” Or, “Cadet Davidner, why is your uniform not properly tucked in the back? It’s not like I asked you to eat an apple and shit a fruit salad. Just tuck your tails in. Fifty proper push-ups.”
The human mind has a nearly infinite ability to adapt to new circumstances, and so it was for the Turtles. They learned each new rule and followed it, only to receive a new rule the next day.
The small group of Michael, Dominick, Will, Jimmy, and Pete didn’t take the punishments without giving something back, though. Several of the boys had special talents they put to good use.
Pete Wemmer had an uncle who was a ventriloquist, and he had taught him how to throw his voice without moving his lips. When the Turtles were lined up to head for breakfast, he would say, “Hey, who farted?” loudly, but inconspicuously. While Pusser was striding up and down the line, looking for the troublemaker, he would say, “I think it’s Pusser” just as Pusser was walking by him. The toughest challenge for the rest of the group was to avoid smiling and giving themselves away.
Will Summers was a veteran of sleepaway camps and so came armed with helpful information like how to short-sheet a bed, or even better, how to trap a toilet.
Lieutenant Pusser was a creature of absolute habit, the result of eight years of schooling at Hartfield Academy. One cold October night, twenty minutes before lights-out, Will slipped out of his bunk and entered the second stall from the left. Fifteen minutes before lights-out, Pusser grabbed his copy of Hot Rod magazine, headed to the second stall from the left, and closed the door, just as he did every night.
A minute later, his cry of, “Holy shit! What the hell?” echoed through the barrack.
Will had stolen enough clear plastic wrap from the kitchen to wrap the entire bowl.
Pusser came barreling out of the latrine, his underwear splattered with urine.
Pete threw his voice to say, “Looks like Pusser will be carrying his own sheet tomorrow,” as loudly as he could. This time, the boys couldn’t help it. They not only smiled, they laughed out loud. It didn’t matter, though, because the rest of the Turtles had joined in.
They all ended up cleaning the latrine top to bottom and doing an hour of calisthenics in the barrack. They all agreed, in the words of Dominick Davidner, that it was “totally worth it.”
THE THIRD WEEK OF OCTOBER meant the Hartfield Game. Some parents and graduates came for the event, but to Michael and the rest of the Turtles, it didn’t mean much. Cadets weren’t allowed to play in the Hartfield Game, an expansive, all-day version of Capture the Flag, until their fourth year at the Academy, so they were merely hoping for a day off from studying military history, marching drill, and other routines.
It was not to be. At 1100 hours, Pusser gathered them outside and led them in marching in formation around the track.
“You are hopeless. I would be embarrassed to turn you over to another prefect in the condition we’re in, so let’s march. Then, just for fun, we’ll march some more.”
Because the Game marked a special occasion, they marched in their dress blues, with a white cap and a decorative sword attached at the belt. As they marched, they chanted.
“Everywhere we go, huh! People wanna know, huh! Who we are, huh? Where we come from, huh? So we tell them! We are the Turtles! The mighty mighty Turtles!”
Michael counted the laps as they marched, four laps to a mile. He had counted twelve trips around and was sure they were wrapping up when a few sets of parents, attracted by their chanting, wandered back toward the track.
Lieutenant Pusser’s eyes lit up.
Oh, shit, here we go, then.
They continued to march until every parent had walked away.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“I’d rather punish twenty-four innocent boys than let one guilty boy get away with something,” Pusser said. He was standing in front of the barracks, red-faced and sputtering.
Someone had snuck into Pusser’s footlocker, stolen all his underwear, dyed it bright red, then replaced it.
He’d had the Turtles standing at full attention for fifteen minutes. “I don’t care if a fly takes a two-pound shit on your eyelid, you do not move while you are at attention. We will stay like this until someone confesses.”
No one did. Michael knew who had done it, of course. He had been in on the planning and had distracted Iggy in the kitchen while Will had stolen the food dye from the cupboard. He had stood guard at the laundry while Pete had washed, dried, and folded the underwear before sneaking it back into the footlocker during lunch break.
For the first time in two lives, Michael Hollister had friends. He still didn’t trust it, and thought it could evaporate at any moment, but being part of a group gave him a feeling of belonging that he’d never known.
“So, here’s how it’s going to happen. Either the little idiot who ruined my personal belongings will step forward and take their punishment like a man, or every Turtle will be out on that track running laps.”
A groan erupted from every corner of the barracks. Outside, the wind was whipping, rain was flying sideways, and temperatures had dropped into the upper thirties. No one wanted to spend a moment outside, let alone run laps in weather like that.
Maybe we should have thought this through a little better. Should have known this would push Pusser too far.
Michael glanced at Dominick beside him. Dominick shrugged his shoulders, twitched his mouth. Pusser saw it out of the corner of his eye and pounced.
“Davidner. Hollister. I should have known. It’s always you two little shits, isn’t it? I’m gonna stick my feet so far up your asses, I can wear you like slippers.”
“Sorry,
Lieutenant. It’s not Michael, it’s just me. I thought red was your favorite color, so I was just trying to help.”
Michael opened his mouth to speak, but Dominick caught his eye and warned him off.
“Davidner, you are making me believe in reincarnation, because no one could get this stupid in one lifetime. You expect me to believe you managed this all on your lonesome? Because I’m not sure you’re smart enough to wipe your own ass, let alone do something like this.”
Dominick quickly looked down.
“Laps, Davidner. Lots and lots of laps. You are ruining my perfect evening by making me go outside in this god-awful storm, so I am going to ruin your night by adding a few more laps. It’s colder than a well-digger’s butt out there, so I’m going to get bundled up and stay nice and warm. I want you to change into your T-shirt and shorts.”
Dominick’s head snapped up. “Seriously, Lieutenant?”
“Seriously, cadet. You’ve got two minutes to get changed while I bundle up. Move.”
As soon as Pusser went away, Michael said, “This is too much, man. We’ve got to tell him you didn’t do this by yourself.”
“Sure, then there can be five of us freezing our testicles off out there, instead of just me. Forget about it. I’ll do it.”
Pusser, dressed in his winter coat, gloves, and hat, and Davidner, dressed for a warm summer day in T-shirt and shorts, left the barracks. Michael looked at Will, Jimmy, and Pete and said, “I can’t sit in here while he’s out there running for us. I’ve got to go, too.”
In short order, every Turtle had grabbed his coat and headed to the track. As soon as they hit the exterior door, a blast of frigid Northern California November wind hit them in the face.
“Oh, shit,” Pete muttered. “He won’t really make Dom run in this, will he?”
“He’s a pissed-off sadist with power behind him. Of course he will,” Michael answered. “Let’s go.”
When the Turtles arrived at the track, Pusser was stamping his feet, trying to stay warm. Dominick was on the far side of the track, already soaked through, keeping a steady pace.
“Holy shit,” Michael said. “He’s gonna kill him.” He walked to stand beside Pusser. Michael barely came to his shoulder.
I hate being this size. How do I ever get anybody to take me seriously when I’m so small?
“Lieutenant Pusser?”
“What, cadet? Why the hell are you guys out here? You should be in the barrack, studying.”
“It wasn’t just Dominick, sir. It was me, too.”
“I know.”
“Sir?”
“It was Dominick, you, Summers, Wemmer, and Markson. It’s always you guys. You think I’m stupid, I know. And, maybe next to you I am. Unlike you, I’m not an idiot, though. Every time anything goes wrong, it’s you guys.”
Just then, Dominick passed in front of where they were standing. He flashed Michael a quick grin, then focused on putting one foot in front of the other.
“You’re right. Can we call a truce?”
“A truce? Haven’t you studied military history yet? A truce is called when it is beneficial to both parties who are approximately equal in strength. You guys are a bunch of little piss ants that need to be taught a lesson. I’m just the guy to do it.”
Michael nodded. “Okay.”
He stepped away, stripped off his coat, and was immediately soaked by the pounding rain. He shivered, then stepped onto the track.
“Hollister, what are you doing?”
“Running, sir.”
By the time he got to the first turn, Dominick had caught up to him.
“Michael, what the hell?” he yelled over the wind.
“Can’t stand to see you having all the fun.”
What’s the worst that could happen? Catch pneumonia and die? Would I just start over again, wake up back at home in bed?
Dominick and Michael completed the first lap together, albeit at a much slower pace than Dominick had run on his own. When they passed the start/finish line, Will, Jimmy, and Pete had all shucked off their coats and were waiting for them, smiling and shivering.
Each lap around became slower, but they kept going, pushing through the wind and the rain. The rest of the Turtles, who sometimes resented the closeness of the five runners, cheered them each time they passed.
Finally, after a full hour had passed, Pusser stood in the middle of the track and held up his hands. “That’s it. Head inside. And, if any of you ever touch my stuff again, I will rip off your heads and shit down your neck. Got it?”
The five nodded weary agreement. On the way inside, those who had originally been wearing coats picked them up, now heavy with rain. Back inside the barrack, they headed immediately for the communal showers. The warm water sent tingles of pain at first, but warmed them up quickly.
“We’re probably all gonna be deathly sick tomorrow, right?” Jimmy asked.
“Nah,” Michael said. “We’re tough, right?”
“Tougher now,” Pete said.
Michael called a huddle while the water still ran, covering their voices. “I think we’ve pushed him about as far as we can.”
“Right, so what’s next? Maybe that’ll push him over the edge,” Dominick said. He was dead to the world but always ready for another battle.
“No, no more. Somebody’s gonna get hurt if we keep it up.”
“You mean, just give up?”
“Let’s just give it a rest, okay, Dom?”
Dominick shrugged. “I guess, if you say so. You’re the genius.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Carrie sat, chin in hand, watching Michael Hollister living his new life. She had learned that by manipulating her pyxis, she could follow him back, even into his previous lives. She took it far enough back to see his abuse in prison, but stopped there.
I guess he was punished pretty badly for what he did to me. She chose not to rewind any further. She did not want to witness herself being murdered.
She soon figured out that the colors at the edge of the picture the pyxis generated related to the amount of emotion Michael was feeling. When she had first seen him, lying in bed, sobbing into his pillow, the outer frame of the picture had been a golden white. While he was being attacked in the prison, or when he was dumping the bucket of water on the boy in the bathroom, it was the same.
It doesn’t matter whether the emotion is good, bad, or horrible, it all counts the same. This is a messed-up system.
Ever since Michael’s first breakdown, muffling his sobs in his bedroom in Middle Falls, the color around the frame had gone a dark gray, where it stayed most of the time.
Guess he doesn’t feel much emotion unless he’s killing someone, or doing something else evil.
I think I’ll go crazy if I have to sit here, watching him feel happy about hurting other people for the rest of his life.
A new picture dropped down over the top of her view of Michael. It was another young boy. He had dark, curly hair and a smile on his face. He was running around a track. The boy laughed, and the frame around him was bright white.
New blood, I guess. Good. Maybe this boy will be worth watching. Maybe I can actually do something to help him.
Carrie touched the pyxis and an information file dropped down. She read with interest.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The five boys knocked off their pranks and stopped cutting up and disrupting barrack life. Wemmer even quit doing his ventriloquism every morning in lineup.
For a time, it didn’t matter. Pusser still found reasons to ride them, punish them. For a few weeks leading up to Christmas break, one of them had latrine duty, dishwashing duty, or laundry duty, every single night. If anything went wrong, Pusser assumed it was them. Eventually, things settled.
The first week of December 1966, everyone’s attention turned to finals and the upcoming Christmas break. Most of the Turtles were excited for the holidays. None of them had ever been away from home for more than a few weeks. After three and
a half months, hearth and home had taken on the nostalgic glow of a Frank Capra movie.
The boys were all required to send a letter home every week. Michael neatly folded a blank piece of paper each time, put it in an envelope, sealed it, and sent it off. The other boys filled their letters with reports on their schoolwork and activities, and shared what they might like to find under the Christmas tree. GI Joes and their accessories were popular wishes, as were racetracks with electric cars. Dominick asked for a real .22 rifle. The opinion of the other Turtles was that his parents would never be so foolish as to put a gun in his hands, ever.
School let out for two and a half weeks on December 15. As the date approached, Michael asked for an appointment with Commander Hartfield. He was rebuffed. Commander Hartfield didn’t see cadets unless he sought them out. Captain Peterson did agree to speak with him, though.
Michael pushed open the door to Hartfield’s outer office just after 5:30 p.m. Supper was finished and he had half an hour of free time before he had to be in the barrack to study. His workload had accelerated slowly but surely since that first week of classes. He knew he was doing work the equivalent of a college freshman, which suited him perfectly, since that’s what he was, albeit in an eight-year-old body.
The windows behind Peterson’s desk were black. Darkness fell early leading up to the winter solstice. As always, Peterson was working—typing industriously. When Michael entered, he held one hand up for a moment, then resumed typing. A minute later, he stopped, rolled the paper out, and added it to a stack on his desk.
He looked at Michael but did not ask him to sit down. “Cadet Hollister. What do you need?”
“Sir, the Christmas break is just a few days away. Is it possible for me to stay here over the break?”
“Impossible, cadet.”
“If it’s a matter of meals and such, I could easily make do with MREs for a few weeks. It might be good training.”