by Gavin Reese
The group jogged off together in silence, and Michael ended up just in front of Thomas. As the group put distance between them and John, Thomas tried to strike up conversations with his classmates. It’s like yesterday was fun for him, Michael thought. Everyone else remained quiet and generally ignored Thomas. After Michael completed his fourth sprint and settled into a moderate run pace at the front, Thomas again sought a dialogue.
“How’d your kill go, Andrew? I heard you, were first out, you done that before, or what?”
“Leave it alone, Thomas,” Michael cautioned.
“Seriously,” he pressed, “how’d you kill it, so quick?”
Michael ignored him and increased his pace to punish Thomas, at least until Phillip passed him in a few moments.
“Soft spot, for the stupid farm animals, huh? It’s possible, that I’m the only one here, that’s man enough, to do what’s necessary. All you guys, all been actin’, like a buncha bitches—”
Before he could finish his statement, Michael stopped, spun around, and launched a backhanded, left hammerfist at him with all the force and rage he could muster. The surprise strike caught Thomas defenseless, landed solidly against the right side of his upper neck and jaw, and immediately knocked him out. Gravity pulled him into a pile down on the hard-packed trail. Sergio had to leap to the side to avoid stepping on him.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” Michael yelled and took up a fighting stance over Thomas as he lightly seized on the ground and a dark, wet stain ran down his light grey running pants. Sergio quickly wrapped his arms around Michael and pushed him away from Thomas. The other three trainees gathered around his felled colleague as Michael spit toward him.
“Hey, man,” Sergio offered, “it’s over, man, it’s over. He’s down, and he won’t be gettin’ back up. It’s over, calm down.”
Michael put his hands up to show his “surrender,” and his friend let him go. Thomas’ body relaxed for a moment, and Phillip checked his vitals.
“Still breathing, still got a pulse.”
“He’s lucky that's all he got,” Z surmised, “asshole’s a damned maniac. I think he liked yesterday.”
“That was a long time coming,” Alpha scoffed in his French accent, “I’m just grateful for a few moments of silence from the man-child.”
“Question is,” Sergio pondered, “is he gonna shut the hell up and get a whole lot better, or is he gonna hold a grudge and get about ten times worse?”
“We don’t all need to hang back and help him get to the house,” Phillip announced. “I don’t think Andrew oughta be here when he wakes up, just in case he wants to even the score. Why don’t you guys take off and I’ll walk him back after he comes to?”
“You sure,” Michael asked. Dammit, I reacted with emotion, and now everyone else is gonna pay for my actions. “He’s my responsibility, and it’s my fault this happened.”
“No,” Phillip countered, “I’m just surprised it took this long. If he wakes up angry, you shouldn’t be alone with him. Odds are real good that he won’t know what happened.”
“Wouldn't be a lie to say that he fell and hit his head on the trail,” Sergio suggested. “Anyone disagree?”
Michael glanced around the group and saw everyone nodding in agreement.
“Take off,” Phillip directed. “I got him, and I’ll do my best to catch up if John wants me to.” He knelt down next to Thomas now that his body had stopped its microseizures.
“Thanks, Phillip” Michael offered, “I owe you.”
“Yeah, well, you can take care of him if I ever knock him out, how ‘bout that?”
Michael smirked at the facetious offer. “Fair enough.”
Z looked at his watch and started back down the trail. “Let’s hustle, boys, we gotta make up time now.”
Michael and the remaining runners fell in behind Z and continued their appointed trail race. I should feel remorse for hitting Thomas, but I’m only really sorry about affecting everyone else.
FORTY-SIX
Training Day 126, 0709 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
After the five-mile Indian Race, John repeatedly had the trainees alternate between ten-burpee sets and sprints up the long driveway. Thirty minutes later, he released them for showers and breakfast. Michael had stopped in to check on Thomas, who sat with Father Harry in his office and apparently had no memory of what actually happened. It’s for the best, Michael thought. Easier if he doesn’t have a grudge.
He headed downstairs, stripped, and strode to the showers. Phillip and Sergio were already soaping up under the water. Z, still in his running clothes, sans shoes, stood doubled-over in the back corner and dry-heaved over the wet tile floor.
“Way to hang in there, Z,” Michael offered. “I thought you got everything up out there on the driveway, though.”
“Me, too,” he replied between heaves and shook his head. “Stomach's got other ideas.”
Michael started one of the showerheads and stood under the already-hot water. Just what I needed. I don’t have the strength to be upset about anything right now. The morning PT session had sapped most all his energy, and he assumed that had been John’s exact intention. Best way to work out psychological stress and let your biochemistry normalize. Should’ve done this on my own yesterday, but, now I’m glad I didn’t. We’d still be listening to Thomas’ bullshit.
As water cascaded down his face and body, Michael reflected on how much tougher the pig killing had been. A lot worse than I expected, and it was nothing like harvesting wild game, or Bogotá. Helluva lot different than shooting an animal from a few hundred yards or defending your own life. I couldn’t ever do that again, not in the same way.
“Nice without Thomas down here,” Sergio offered as he entered the shower, “y’all are nice and quiet.”
“Sshhhh,” Michael replied. “You’re ruining it.” After he’d cleaned up and dressed, Michael plodded upstairs and felt every stair deep in his thighs and calves. Tomorrow’s gonna hurt even more. He waddled through the kitchen and into the adjoining dining room, where John sat at the head of the table waiting for them. Michael saw, unusually, that all the breakfast foods had already been prepared and set out on the table. Not cooking for ourselves today. Several serving plates in the middle brimmed with fried bacon and ham steaks. Although his stomach turned at the sight, Michael still managed to sit down at his appointed seat. John nodded to acknowledge his presence, but neither of them forced the other into a conversation.
Within a few minutes, four of the five other trainees had joined them, and John offered a prayer before they ate. “Dear Heavenly Father, bless this food to thy use and service. Bless the hands that prepared it. May it help us to serve thy purpose and answer thy calling. Bless the animals that sacrificed themselves for us. We thank you for trading their lives yesterday so that we may eat, be nourished, and serve you today. Amen.”
Michael offered a half-hearted amen following the conclusion of John’s prayer and noticed that most others did the same. He also noticed that no one seemed enthusiastic about their breakfast. As the men passed plates and served food to each other, only John took hearty portions of anything. He alone touched the plates of pork.
“We ain’t got much time this morning before mass,” John announced, “so I want y’all to carry on while I talk. One of the problems with society today, ‘civilization’ as we arrogantly call it, is that we don’t drink from the skulls of our vanquished enemies anymore. For most-a you, this ham and bacon is pretty damned close to that.” He paused and enthusiastically bit into a floppy piece of barely-cooked bacon. “Not all brown and crispy like that bullshit you get at the diners, right?”
Michael looked away from him and focused on his small portion of scrambled eggs and fruit. I think we’re all struggling with what happened yesterday, with what we did...what we had to do...well, what we chose to do. Like John keeps saying, everything here’s voluntary.
“Good news is, you boys stock
ed the freezer for the winter, so long as no one wants anything but pork. For the rest-a the time you’re here, you assholes are gonna share in my elevated cholesterol, so plan on eating some kinda hog three squares a day until the cows come home. Maybe we’ll give y’all a pass at slaughtering them, too.” He looked around the group for a few moments as though he expected a more jovial response to his ribbing.
When he received none, John cleared his throat, set down the bacon, and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. He adopted a more somber tone and again addressed the group. “Turns out that killin’, even somethin’ as benign as a farm animal raised for slaughter and human consumption, ain’t no easy chore. Every sentient being has at least a flicker of a soul inside ‘em, something that can be personified and, on some level, equates ‘em to us, even if only in the basest of our shared emotions. Happiness, pleasure, fear, pain. If you feel like shit this mornin’, like a guilty, murderous sum-bitch who’s done wrong, that’s good. I want you to feel that way this morning. That’s your conscience makin’ you examine your actions and justify what ya did. That’ll give you pause every time you’re faced with the choice of takin’ another life, no matter how big or small.
“The reason you feel like you done wrong,” John continued, “it’s that you doubt killin’ your hog was necessary. You think it didn’t need to happen, despite everything I told you. You can trust that I exhausted all available options to keep those animals alive before we penned ‘em up over there. They had to die, one way or another. With their fate sealed, I knew their lives could serve a purpose and give me a reliable litmus test of your character, to show me you’re not eager to kill.
“If you didn’t take action yesterday, I assure you, they woulda met a horrific end, much worse than what little suffering they endured at our hands. Yours and mine. Despite how y’all feel today, you saved those animals from untold misery and terror. You won’t ever be content with how it happened, but you can rest assured that y’all done a merciful thing yesterday. Mercy can be tough, it’s very rarely the easy or comfortable path. I’m grateful you all had the intestinal fortitude to be merciful, even though you knew it would be miserable for you.
“Now that that’s done, though,” John offered, “I want you to consider how you handled yourself. If you helped Piglet pass quickly and easily, you should remember that that’s how they’re all supposed to go. If God ever calls you to end the life of an animal, or even that of another human, you’re not in the torture and suffering business. It’s possible you might find yourself called into the vengeance business, but there’s a helluva lot a God-damned difference between the two. If you fucked up yesterday and caused needless suffering, I want you to remember that, too. Square yourself, and don’t let that shit happen again. Seek forgiveness and precision, or express some gratitude and humbly ask for a repeat performance if it’s forced on you. Consider your past, but don’t let it prevent you from fulfilling your appointed tasks today. Now, get fed, police the kitchen, and get to Mass on time. Don’t keep the Monsignor waiting, he’s got a schedule to keep, too.”
Although somewhat relieved by John’s reassurances, Michael wasn’t yet ready to partake of their harvest. At least I can eat the eggs and fruit now.
“One other thing,” John called out before biting back into his slice of bacon and pointing it at Michael. “You. Thomas ain’t quite ready to put food on his stomach after the run this morning, and I’m sure you can imagine why that might be. From now on, you switch chairs with Jude and sit next to Thomas. You’re both on the floor tonight, too, and you’re both gonna stay there until I say otherwise. Neither one of you shitheads gets the luxury of my cot tonight, and it’ll be a while before you do. It’s not up to you to discipline my students, so you can add a hundred burpees to every workout until I say different. Think about that the next time you wanna knock somebody out, even if they got it comin’. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Training Day 126, 2034 hours.
Rural Compound. Niobrara County, Wyoming.
With a glass of cold beer in-hand, Michael sat on the front porch with Sergio and Z and watched the evening sun set on the western horizon. Michael realized he hadn’t seen Thomas since dinner. I’ve got no desire to interact with that snake, but I’d prefer to know where he is.
“Glad John doesn’t expect us to hide out in the basement every night,” Z announced and sipped at his suds. “Tired of smellin’ that much man all the time. Pretty sure somebody shits in there every hour of every day.”
Sergio lifted his glass in a mock toast. “I’m glad he hasn’t actually made us eat bacon yet. My stomach’s gonna need another day or two for that.”
Michael chuckled and hoisted his pint in agreement. Movement from his right caught his eye, and he looked to see John storming toward them. “Look alive, boys,” he quietly offered to the other two, “some kinda consequence inbound.”
John pointed at them. “You three! Grab all Thomas’ shit and get it out here, right the fuck now!”
Michael and both cohorts urgently hopped up to comply with the unexpected directive and purposefully strode to the basement. “Whaddayou think’s going on,” Michael asked.
“No idea,” Z replied,” but it sure ain’t good.”
“Well, maybe not good for Thomas,” Sergio offered as they reached Thomas’ bunk and collected his belongings.
Phillip and Alpha curiously watched them. Phillip lowered a novel he’d already read twice since their arrival. “What’s up?”
“No idea,” Michael replied. “John just told us to grab Thomas’ stuff.”
Alpha pulled his headphones off, and French rap music played quietly for a moment. “Any idea what he did?”
“None,” Michael replied. “I think we got everything,” he offered to Z and Sergio. They grabbed both of Thomas’ duffel bags, which overflowed from their careless packing efforts.
“I bet he took off,” Alpha proclaimed. “Tried leaving for town.”
“I bet John never tells us,” Michael replied as he led the other two back upstairs. He held the front door, and Sergio and Z dropped Thomas’ property on the porch at John’s feet. “Anything else, John?”
“Not unless you know somethin’ about givin’ frontal lobotomies, ‘cause that asshole’s gonna need one to get his goddamned head right. Y’all take your suds back inside and tell the others that we’re gonna have a ‘family meeting’ upstairs in about fifteen minutes.”
Michael complied with the request and ensured everyone soon awaited John’s return. As they sat around the dining table in uncomfortable silence, Thomas’ vacant seat and his unknown fate weighed heavily on Michael’s heart. The five trainees spoke very little during the half-hour that passed before John strode back inside the house. He paused in front of their group, and Michael saw blood smeared across the front of his shirt and pants, none of which had been there before.
“Thomas ain’t gonna be around no more,” John flatly called out.
What the fuck, Michael thought and leaned back away from John.
The instructor glanced down at his clothes and looked as though he’d just realized their concern. “Calm down, that’s pig blood, that asshole’s still upright and vertical, but I bet he wishes we’d reconsidered.” He checked his hands and forearms for stray blood before placing his hands on his hips and slowly pacing near the foot of the table.
“After dinner,” John explained, his voice tense and angry, “one of my associates saw Thomas take off down Mother Mary on his own, so he followed him. He went back to the hog stalls and tried to kill another one. Thomas’d already stabbed the damned thing before the instructor could stop him, so we had to put it down after we got Thomas under control. I knew he wouldn’t make the final cut, but I had no idea he’d go this far off the goddamned rails.”
John stopped pacing and looked at the remaining trainees. “Thomas claimed that my speech at breakfast made him realize he wasn’t satisfied with how he did yesterday.
He decided the solution was to go back, pick one-a the hogs that Matthew and The Baptist refused to put down, and make himself proud of his second kill. Wanted to do a better job this time, he said. Goddamned psychopath! I ain’t even got the words to express my outrage at that man, and I wouldn’t usually ever tell y’all what becomes of your classmates, but I’m at a loss, boys.
“How did this shit happen,” John asked. “At what point did it seem like I wanted y’all to be the kinda men that’ll kill for the act of killin’ itself? You and me, we might be called to use lethal force to defend ourselves or God’s children, but killin’ in the face of any other option is murder, plain and simple! That’s exactly what Thomas set about doin’ tonight, and I’ll wager my bottom-dollar right now that he never woulda stopped with farm animals, either.”
John looked around the group for several seconds. “I think y’all oughta call it a night. Ask God to grant Thomas the help he needs, and forgive us if we did anything to contribute to it.”
Everyone else stood and left the table as John directed, but Michael stayed in place.
“Somethin’ on your mind, Andrew,” John asked as soon as they were alone.
“If you have a couple minutes.”
In exasperation, John looked down at his blood-stained pants. “My night has taken an unexpected turn, ya might say, but I’ll assume it can’t really wait.”
Michael nodded his understanding. “What are we doing here, John? What’re you training us to do that yesterday had to happen, even if it was necessary for the pigs? I think we deserve to know more, especially after this.”