Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “Thou guardian power of Cilla the divine,

  Thou source of light! whom Tenedos adores,

  Twenty-three students simultaneously launched themselves into the water, battle-ready and eager for bloodshed.

  “And whose bright presence gilds thy Chrysa’s shores:

  If e’er with wreaths I hung thy sacred fane,

  Grey pulled himself onto a boat and immediately threw himself against a struggling white shirt. Their bodies collided, and they both rolled back into the pool, a tangle of arms and legs and fists. Grey looked toward the sky. Rogers stood proudly above them, oblivious to the chill wind blowing across his drenched body. His recitation rang out above the grunts and battle cries of the frenzied warriors below.

  “Or fed the flames with fat of oxen slain;

  God of the silver bow! thy shafts employ,

  Avenge thy servant, and the Greeks destroy.

  The instructors roared with laughter. Jones stood buck naked on top of one of the rafts, flexing his lean muscles and howling with rage. A student surfaced in the pool and sheepishly tossed a pair of underpants toward him. Jones pulled them on as his teammates defended his position.

  “Thus Chryses pray’d:—the favouring power attends,

  And from Olympus’ lofty tops descends.

  Bent was his bow, the Grecian hearts to wound;

  Fierce as he moved, his silver shafts resound.”

  Rogers cut his recitation short and executed a perfect swan dive into the pool. The surface barely rippled as he disappeared from sight. Seconds later he joined the fray, climbing over everyone in his way.

  “Yeah, white shirts, yeah,” Jackson yelled, jumping up and down on a raft. “Who’s yo daddy now? That’s right!”

  Furtado blew his whistle, and the chaos died as quickly as it had begun. Grey’s crew made another trip to the shower while Team One lined up on the ice boats. The battles continued until the first rays of muted sunlight filtered through the morning clouds.

  The class saddled up and followed Furtado to chow.

  “Thursday morning,” Jones drawled somberly. “Ain’t but a day to go.”

  One day. It sounded impossibly long. Grey smiled weakly at Felicia as he moved down the chow line. The line snagged up as students waited for a new batch of scrambled eggs, and Grey immediately fell into a series of microsleeps. His head would drop, he’d lean forward dangerously, then he’d snap back into reality just before doing a face-plant on the deck. He progressed zombielike through the crowd. The old Filipino women didn’t even make an attempt at conversation. Grey simply held out his plate and watched them pile on the food. Calculations started running through his head. Simple math was difficult, but he figured that he’d been up for eighty-four hours without any real sleep since Hell Week began. That equaled almost ninety-six hours without sleep if he factored in being up all day Sunday. Goddamn, Grey thought. I’m going to make it.

  Furtado rounded up the students after breakfast and ran them back to the compound for their hygiene check. The brown shirts who ushered them in and out of the shower winked and offered encouragement. You’re almost there. The last day is easy. Hang in there. Look for us tonight, during Around the World.

  Grey scrubbed his cuts and winced as he touched the messy tear in his leg. He limped out of the shower and slowly made his way over to the medical center.

  “Doesn’t look good,” Doc Anderson muttered, poking at Grey’s cut. “I really should medically roll you—”

  “But you won’t,” Grey added quickly.

  “I won’t, but I’ll need to take a culture.” He produced a long Q-tip and poked at the pussy mess around Grey’s wound. He placed a protective plastic sheathing over the swab and looked Grey in the eye. “How you feeling?”

  “Fine,” Grey said.

  “No complaints other than your cut?”

  “No.”

  “And your mind?”

  “What?”

  “You’re not still obsessing over Murray, are you?”

  Grey’s mood immediately darkened. He resisted the urge to punch the doctor. “I’m managing.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Make sure the corpsmen remembers your antibiotics.”

  Grey swallowed his pills and padded out the back of the clinic in his bare feet. He searched the crates for his name.

  “One more day, sir,” Petrillo said as he hosed him down. “One more day. Easy stuff. The worst is over.”

  “Thanks,” Grey mumbled. He tried to imagine the relief of finishing Hell Week. Murray’s death muted everything. On a primal level, he would be happy when the pain ended, but he wouldn’t be exuberant. He couldn’t be: he had some serious investigation to do once he became lucid again.

  “No deep thoughts, sir,” Petrillo said. “Minute to minute. Just live minute to minute. Survive.”

  Grey knew he was right. He had to keep his mind focused on surviving the week. After pulling on his already soaked uniform, he helped Jackson find an unclaimed pair of socks. Once Jackson was on his feet and fully clothed, Grey jogged out to the beach.

  Logan sat on the edge of Grey’s boat, thoughtfully chewing a mouthful of sunflower seeds. His bald head gleamed in the early morning sunlight.

  “You know what I think, sir?”

  “What’s that, Instructor Logan?”

  “I think it’s a good thing your little friend dropped out.”

  “He didn’t drop out,” Grey hissed, “for Christ’s sake!”

  “Just making sure you’re still alive,” Logan said calmly. He turned his back and walked away.

  Grey glared after him. He desperately wanted to hurl a paddle at the stocky instructor’s bare head. It would be so simple—so satisfying. And so stupid.

  Logan ordered the class into running formation. The elephant train loped south, winding back and forth over the sand berms. Grey’s legs burned as they hauled their boat up and over the small mountains of sand. His boat crew had fallen into last place by the time Logan stopped the procession. Instructor Batman, the skinny petty officer perpetually hidden behind sleek sunglasses, corrected their lack of motivation with ten minutes of boat squats. White blotches blurred Grey’s vision by the time they dropped their boat onto the sand.

  “Time for a break,” Logan called out.

  The class cheered.

  “We’re going to play a little hide-and-seek. You hide, we seek. We find, you pay. You pay, you hurt, we laugh. Got it?”

  The class nodded. Grey scanned his surroundings. They were just south of the obstacle course. An old burned-out, twin-rotored helicopter lay wedged in the sand, and a multitude of large corrugated metal pipes littered the area.

  “We’ll go to the other side of the berm and wait five minutes. Be ready.”

  Logan and his entourage of instructors climbed the berm and disappeared down the far side. Grey loped across the sand and searched the pipes. A pipe open on two ends provided too much background light; he would be easy to spot lying inside it. Finally Grey settled on a pipe half buried in the sand. He crawled inside and peeked through a tiny hole in the corrugated metal. A continuous stream of gray clouds passed overhead, lulling him into a trance. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.

  He awoke with a start. A stream of putrid liquid jetted through the hole and onto his face. Someone whistled happily outside. Grey scooted farther into the pipe until he was out of the way of the shower. The stream slowed to a drizzle, then stopped. Grey wiped his hand across his face. Piss.

  Seconds later Logan’s head appeared at the end of the pipe. “Hi there, sir.”

  “You pissed on me.”

  “I didn’t know you were there. Come on out and join the losers.”

  Grey inched himself out of the pipe. The thought of piss spattering across his face made him sick to his stomach.

  “Go clean yourself off in the surf and report to Instructor Batman.”

  Grey sprinted across the wide field of sand, up the berm, and down to the water’s edge. He
did a belly flop in the shallows and rubbed his hands over his face. Fucking prick. Disgusting. A crowd of losers crawled across the beach on their bellies, following the ever-elusive Instructor Batman and his whistle. Grey joined the group and slithered across the beach for the next half hour.

  “I think I’ll be a snake in my next life,” a sand-encrusted student muttered. “I hate whistle drills.”

  Grey barely recognized the face. “Rogers?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Where’d you hide?”

  “I buried myself in the sand. It almost worked, too. Logan spotted my eyes.”

  Just then Instructor Logan charged over the berm. A few dazed students limped after him, vainly attempting to keep up.

  “Time for a little PT,” Logan growled, “and since we have four winners, I’ll let them pick the exercises.” He slapped Jones on the back. “Hillbilly Bob, you go first.”

  The class spread into PT formation and watched Jones expectantly.

  “The first exercise is a personal favorite of mine. It’s called the groin stretch.” He dropped onto the sand and assumed the correct position. “Ready, stretch.”

  Surprisingly, the instructors didn’t object. Jones stretched the class for a few minutes before the other three students had their turn. More stretching ensued.

  “Enough of this stretching bullshit,” Logan muttered. “Time for some good shit.”

  The class groaned. Grey steeled himself for another round of pain.

  “The next exercise is the eyelid stretch. When I say ‘one,’ you close your eyes. When I say ‘two,’ you open them. Think you can handle that?”

  “Hoo-yah!” A few students even cracked smiles.

  “One,” Logan shouted.

  Grey closed his eyes.

  “Two.”

  He opened them

  “One.”

  Grey closed his eyes. The beach grew quiet. He felt himself slip away, lulled to sleep by the warm sand and the rush of the surf.

  “One.”

  Grey’s eyes shot open. His mind raced as he struggled to figure out how long he had been asleep.

  “You stupid fucks,” Logan yelled. “I said ‘one,’ which means close your beady little eyes. Half of you are sitting there with your eyes open. All of you, hit the surf!”

  The eyelid drills continued well into the day. Grey wanted to sleep so badly he felt like screaming. Every time he truly relaxed, he inevitably misinterpreted Logan’s commands and ended up getting wet. When lunchtime rolled around, Grey was grateful to get moving again. He didn’t miss the sleep as much when he was active. The class followed Logan across the base and into the chow hall.

  “Beefsteak, chicken steak, gravy steak, turtle steak,” Jones drawled as he shuffled along.

  “What are you talking about?” asked O’Patry.

  “Steak, steak, steak, give me some fries.” Jones smiled, a brief flash of mangled teeth. “Ain’t no real man’s food here.”

  “He gets weird when he’s tired,” Grey explained. “The boy needs his sleep.”

  “Sleep, sleep. We don’t sleep in the hills.”

  Grey ignored the muttering of his shipmate and proceeded through the line. Felicia wasn’t behind the register, and Grey found that he missed her smile. Lunch disappeared in a flash of semiconsciousness. The meal flickered in his mind, a hazy memory completely void of detail. Grey assembled his boat crew outside.

  They spent the afternoon sitting in the bay and paddling out to the edge of the shipping lanes and back. Occasionally Logan would throw in a few sets of leg levers or sit-ups, and less often, push-ups. The class was physically ruined. Every movement Grey made took effort, but the various pains in his body had faded into a distant throbbing sensation. Never gonna end.

  FIFTEEN

  THE NIGHT SHIFT TOOK over as the class sat down for their evening meal. Barefoot stalked between the students, warning them not to fall asleep. Heads nodded, and one trainee even managed to fall out of his chair. Barefoot punished the unfortunate student with a concoction of Tabasco sauce, tuna casserole, and chocolate milk.

  After dinner the class followed Barefoot across the base and onto the beach. He turned south as the sun set, leading them along the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge. The class managed to stay bow to stern as they limped toward Mexico. Grey’s mind wandered ceaselessly, bouncing from one subject to another in an endless succession. Head hurts. Must have lost some hair. Vanessa has to take me back. She doesn’t want an old man. Murray should be here. I bet we’re going back to the mud flats.

  The elephant train snaked beneath the highway and stopped just short of the bay. They were at the mud flats.

  “Ready for a long paddle?”

  “Hoo-yah,” the class yelled.

  “Good. Because this time you’re going to get it.” Barefoot gestured to the north, toward the lights of downtown. “This is called Around the World, gentlemen, and it will take all night. You will paddle, you will hallucinate, you will fight, and you will be watched. Don’t get lost, and for Christ’s sake, don’t come in last place. This is the Big Race, shitbirds. Pays to be a winner. Starting here, you will paddle north through the bay, under the bridge, past an aircraft carrier, and then bend around to the west, following the contours of the island. An instructor will be stationed at the northwest end of the island. You will check in with him before continuing. He will give you additional directions. Understand?”

  “Hoo-yah!”

  Grey couldn’t wait to paddle. It was infinitely more relaxing than running with a boat flopping on his head.

  “Then get moving,” Barefoot yelled.

  Grey and his crew slogged through the mud, nearly dropping their boat several times as they lost their balance in the viscous muck. Once they reached water, they dropped their boat and climbed in. Grey pointed the boat to the north as his crew stroked quietly.

  “Let’s not lose this one,” Grey urged. “We can’t lose.”

  They glided through the inky black water, their paddles creating swirling white whirlpools with each stroke. The city lights shimmered and sparkled, teasing Grey with thoughts of couples sitting happily on sofas in cozy apartments, watching television with steaming cups of hot cocoa clasped in warm hands. His boat settled into the middle position, with two crews ahead and two behind.

  “Hold up,” Jones drawled, raising a hand. “Stop just a minute.”

  “Jones, we can’t stop. We’ll lose our position,” Rogers explained.

  “Trust me. Just stop.”

  The crew stopped paddling. Grey squinted into the distance. Suddenly it came into focus. A giant brick wall extended across the bay, stretching underneath the entire span of the Coronado Bay Bridge. His mouth dropped open as he tried to make the apparition disappear. Can’t be real. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. It was still there.

  “Lord almighty,” Jackson breathed. “That’s one mother of a wall.”

  “There’s no wall,” O’Patry said impatiently. “Get it together.”

  “Hey, carrottop, there’s a gosh darn wall, okay?” Jones said loudly.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Rogers exclaimed. “Let’s pull it together. First of all, I see what appears to be a wall. In truth, it is just our minds playing tricks with the light. Second of all, even if there was really a wall, what should stop us from paddling closer for a better look?”

  Jones grumbled as they continued paddling. Just a vision, Grey thought. They stroked onward to the north. The wall loomed closer and closer, a brick slab of monstrous proportions. Suddenly they were through it, stroking beneath the graceful arc of the bridge. Grey steered the boat through a cluster of yachts moored near the shore. The boats rocked gently, and a dim yellow light filtered through the round portholes in several cabins.

  “Rich bastards,” O’Patry mumbled. “Comfortable, rich bastards.”

  “No reason you can’t be rich,” Rogers said. “Start saving today. If you set aside twenty percent of your income in
an account that generates thirty-percent interest, you will have half a million dollars by the time you retire.” He sighed. “Of course, thirty percent is a great return by any stockbroker’s standard.”

  “Money talk,” Jackson grumbled. “You white boys need to start thinking about the real investment. I’m talking about the Good Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Grey found the comment amusing, but he couldn’t find the energy to laugh. He was having trouble steering. They paddled onward in the darkness, cruising along the coast of the island.

  Grey pointed. “Look.” A figure swam toward the raft.

  “What?” Jones asked. “I don’t see nothin’.”

  The figure moved closer, and Grey recognized the impish face. “Murray!” he yelled. “What the fuck are you doing here?” The smiling eyes winked, then the face melted into the ocean as Grey’s crewmates prodded him with their paddles.

  “Wake up, sir. Snap out of it. It’s not Murray.”

  “Sorry,” Grey groaned. He felt completely empty. Drained of energy, sapped of inner strength, and miles distant, as if he were viewing his life from above. His fatigue was contagious. Another boat crew caught them, then slipped past as Grey and his crew struggled to stay awake. Jones nodded off constantly, and Jackson resorted to splashing him with cold bay water to keep him alert. Two strokes, a violent head jerk, then a splash. The cycle repeated itself until Jackson himself started to nod off. Suddenly Jones disappeared over the side of the boat.

  “Man overboard,” Grey muttered. He turned the boat around and they paddled to where Jones bobbed in the bay. “Get in, shipwreck.”

  “Sorry about that,” Jones murmured. “I reckon I must have dozed off.”

  Grey reached down and pulled Jones back into the boat.

  Another figure clad in a wetsuit glided toward them from shore. Grey was too nervous to say anything. What if it’s another apparition? He didn’t want his boat crew to think he had lost it.

  “Hey,” the figure whispered. “Hold up.”

  The boat slowly slid to a stop as the figure grabbed the safety line on the craft. Grey’s crew watched with slack jaws as the hooded man opened a waterproof bag and threw a handful of candy and energy bars into the boat.