Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  Grey pulled three twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. He laid them on the table. Rupert glanced around, then placed his hand over the money and slid it off the counter.

  “I can’t leave the quarterdeck until Mason gets back,” Rupert explained. “He went to get us some McD’s for lunch. I’ll just tell him I need to take you to the copier.”

  Grey and Rogers waited impatiently for several minutes until Mason showed up.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen,” Mason said, extending a hand. “I’m glad you made it.”

  “Thanks.” Grey was restless. He didn’t want to waste any time.

  Rupert addressed Mason. “I’m taking Grey and Rogers to the copier. I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t even think about eating my fries.”

  “Who me?” Mason looked offended.

  Rupert led Grey and Rogers back behind the grinder. He stopped in front of a small building positioned next to the dive tower. After pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he tried them one by one in the old lock. Click. They were in. Rupert stepped into a dark hallway and walked several feet to a nondescript door. He pushed it open and flipped on a light switch. Grey peered into the room. Six large filing cabinets lined the walls, three on either side. Another door sat squarely at the back of the room.

  Rogers slumped against the wall. “I’ll watch the door.”

  “And I’m getting the fuck out of here,” Rupert said. “Anything happens, I didn’t let you in.” He glared at Grey. “Right, sir?”

  “Of course not. This shouldn’t take long.” Grey pulled open a filing drawer. The student data was arranged by class number. Redman’s a petty officer. Probably went through training ten years ago. Grey found the file for Class 195. Redman’s name didn’t appear on the roster. Grey worked his way down year by year. He stopped when he saw Heisler’s name. Curiosity made Grey pull out the instructor’s file and flip through it. “Born in Ventura, California. Entered BUD/S training at age 17. Outstanding PT scores. High marks for aptitude. Graduated Honor Man.” Grey replaced the folder. A teenage honor man was unheard of.

  Grey continued flipping. He stopped at Class 190. “Joseph Redman. Born in Sweenee, North Dakota. Entered BUD/S at age 21.” Grey scoffed. “Slow run times. Mediocre PT scores. Below-average aptitude.” He read further. “Finished training despite an Administrative Review Board for a DUI. Issued a warning for starting a fight with a fellow student.” Grey shook his head in disbelief. Not only did they graduate this guy, but they made him an instructor! He studied the picture of a more youthful and less muscle-bound Redman. Over the years his icy stare hadn’t changed. The same coal-black eyes glared from the photograph. Grey plucked the picture from the file and slipped it between two pages of the notepad. He quickly jotted down a few sentences about Redman’s record and then continued his search. After almost ten minutes of searching, he managed to locate Furtado’s file. Mediocre was the only word that came to mind as Grey reviewed his stats.

  Suddenly Rogers slipped into the room and gently shut the door behind him. “The closet. Go!” he whispered urgently. Grey bolted for the door at the back of the room. He opened it quietly and stepped inside. Rogers turned off the lights and followed him in. Grey felt around in the blackness. The closet was full of janitorial supplies. He stumbled toward the back, and after moving about six feet, he hit a wall. Rogers put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Sit down,” he whispered. “Get under the tarp.” He pulled up the corner of a smelly sheet and handed Grey an edge.

  Grey sat cross-legged against the wall and pulled the tarp over his head. Rogers sat next to him and propped some mops against the lump formed by their bodies. The outer door opened with a crash. Light flooded under the doorway to the closet, and a series of footsteps clicked on the tile floor. Grey held his breath. The footsteps grew closer. Fuck me. We’re done. The closet door crashed open, and the room flooded with light. Kill me and get it over with. Silence. In the next heartbeat the door slammed shut and the light blinked out. The footsteps crossed the floor, and the outer door crashed shut.

  Grey and Rogers sat perfectly still for several minutes. Finally Rogers pulled down the tarp and they stood up. Moving quietly but with a sense of urgency, they stepped out of the closet and skittered across the storage room. Seconds later they eased out of the building and into the sunlight.

  “Well, well. What the fuck do we have here?”

  Grey spun to his right. Oh, God.

  Instructor Redman stood with one arm draped lazily over the edge of a water trough used for cleaning dive gear. “What do you think, Lance?”

  Instructor Furtado emerged from of the doorway of a Second Phase equipment room. “Looks like these two homos are playing Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Nah. More like the Hardy Boys. Those fuckers had a certain gayness that these two faggots share.”

  “True,” Furtado said.

  Grey felt Rogers tense up. We should run.

  “Don’t even think about it, dumb fuck,” Furtado said, walking toward Grey. “You might have been a fast runner before Hell Week, but you’re a worthless piece of shit now.”

  Grey knew he was right. Running would get him nowhere. “We were just checking out the—”

  “Shut up,” Redman growled. He walked over to Grey and snatched the notebook from his hands. “What’s this?”

  “It’s just some information about our favorite staff members, Instructor Redman,” Rogers said quickly. “We heard that at the end of First Phase, we get to roast the staff. What could be better preparation than checking out their service records?”

  “You’re so full of shit,” Furtado hissed. “You’ve always been full of shit. You’re a walking cum-and-shit receptacle, you fuckin’ faggot.”

  “Is he right?” Redman asked. “Are you of the homosexual persuasion?”

  “I’m not interested, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Rogers replied coolly.

  “You just added a few hours to your torture session.” Redman flipped open Grey’s notebook. “I thought you were gathering information on the entire First Phase staff. Where are the rest of the instructors? And why the fuck is my picture in here?”

  Grey stood silently, his heart throbbing in his chest.

  “I know what they’re doing,” Furtado said. He glanced at Redman.

  “Stupid fucks,” Redman grunted. “Goddamn stupid fucks.”

  Furtado strolled over to one of the dip tanks behind the Second Phase classrooms. Large metal half-cylinders, the tanks were reportedly a favorite torture device of the Second Phase instructors. “Grey, get over here,” he ordered.

  Grey hobbled to Furtado’s side.

  Furtado glanced at the bulge in the pocket of Grey’s shorts. “Give me your cell phone.”

  Grey handed it over.

  “Now get in.”

  Grey rolled over the top edge of the dip tank and splashed into the frigid water. When he tried to sit up and take a breath, Furtado pushed his head backward violently. Grey’s skull cracked against the back of the tank. He didn’t fight the pressure of Furtado’s palm against his forehead. As he lay at the bottom of the tank, he looked up at Furtado’s face. The instructor’s image rippled grotesquely above him, a devilish smile on his face.

  The silence of the tank was oddly soothing. A pink cloud fanned out in front of Grey’s eyes. He could feel the blood seeping from the torn scab on his head. As he lay there passively, the fire in his lungs growing more urgent every second, he thought back to the lifesaving drills. I beat you before, you weak pig fucker. I’ll beat you again.

  Rogers splashed down at the opposite end of the tank, but Grey paid little attention. He knew he was close to blacking out. I beat you before. I’ll beat you—

  Suddenly Furtado’s grip shifted, and Grey felt himself rushing for the sunlight. His face broke the surface, and he sawed in a ragged breath.

  “This is only the beginning, sir,” Furtado said. “If you don’t quit tonight, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
r />   “Like you killed Murray?” Grey choked.

  Furtado drove Grey’s head beneath the surface, smashing it against the bottom of the tank. This time it hurt. Grey felt the remainder of his scab rip free. Furtado’s grip shifted again, and he clutched Grey’s T-shirt with both hands. With surprising strength, the instructor heaved Grey up and out of the tank. Grey dropped to the asphalt and lay sprawled out on his back.

  “I ought to fucking kill you right now,” Furtado said quietly. “But I’m going to use my better judgment and draw it out over the course of the night. How’s that sound?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Furtado placed a foot on Grey’s chest. “I’m afraid that might make Mr. Rogers jealous.”

  Redman, who had been repeatedly dunking Rogers in the tank, suddenly grunted with effort and heaved Rogers onto the pavement next to Grey.

  “I was looking forward to a relaxing evening with some of San Diego’s finest Frog Hogs, but now I’m stuck with you two turds,” Redman mused. “You’re going to pay for ruining my night.”

  Rogers turned his head to the side and looked at Grey. His eyes said everything. We’re finished.

  “I think you both should know, I voted for kicking the shit out of you when you showed up at McP’s,” Furtado said. “But Osgood would have none of it. Bet you didn’t know he was such a softy, did you?”

  “I’ll be sure to thank him later,” Rogers murmured.

  “I don’t think you understand. There is no later.” Furtado pressed his foot harder against Grey’s chest. “Both of you are finished tonight. Of course, you could make things easier for yourself and tell me who is in on your little team of investigators. Did Mason open the file room for you?”

  “No,” Rogers stated firmly.

  “Then it must have been Rupert. I always knew he was a dirty bird.”

  “It wasn’t him, either,” Grey wheezed. He couldn’t barely speak with Furtado’s foot crushing his chest.

  “So you just magically found your way into our files?” Redman asked.

  “Something like that,” Rogers said.

  “And what about other members of your boat crew?” Furtado asked. “I know two officers would never work alone. You cake eaters need at least one enlisted man to carry your notebook for you.” He pushed hard against Grey’s chest. “Well, who else is working with you?”

  “No one,” Rogers said. “I’m very jealous of my relationship with Mark. I won’t let any other sexy bitch interfere with our love.”

  “I told you they’re fucking gay!” Furtado exclaimed triumphantly.

  Despite the crushing pain in his chest and the hopelessness of his situation, Grey managed a snort of laughter at Rogers’s fearlessness.

  “Which one of you is the man in the relationship?” Redman asked. “Which one takes it in the brown star?”

  When neither Grey nor Rogers responded, Furtado mused, “At least they know the joy of ass fucking.” He ran his tongue stud along his lips. “There’s nothing like riding a bitch in the ass and stealing her soul.”

  Stealing her soul? Grey shuddered at the thought of Furtado mounting some skank in the back of a dark club.

  “Enough pillow talk,” Redman growled. “It’s time to pay the man, gents. Mr. Grey, I’ll let you pick your first form of punishment. You have a choice of PT or surf torture.”

  Grey looked at Rogers. “What do you think?”

  “PT.”

  “Mr. Grey, does Mr. Rogers speak for you?”

  “PT is fine by me.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “Yes.”

  “PT it is!” Redman announced. He strolled into a Second Phase building and disappeared from sight.

  “While we’re waiting, I just want you two to know something,” Furtado said. He eased the pressure on Grey’s chest. “I hate you two fuckers, but I’m not going to kill you.”

  Grey and Rogers remained silent.

  “No, I’m not going to kill you,” Furtado repeated. “You’re going to kill yourselves.”

  That shouldn’t be hard, Grey thought. His muscles were practically liquefied from Hell Week. Combined with the horribly infected gash on his leg, the still-bleeding cut on his head, and his weakened immune system, Grey knew he wouldn’t withstand much punishment before breaking.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Grey turned his head toward the familiar voice. Chief Baldwin. Thank God. The lanky instructor stood with his arms crossed over his chest at the edge of the Second Phase grinder.

  “These worthless cake eaters were snooping around in our records,” Furtado explained. “Instead of sleeping like good brown shirts, they decided to try to dig up some dirt on their hardworking instructor staff.”

  “Are you gentlemen out of your mind?” Baldwin asked. He stroked his mustache. “Wasn’t Hell Week hard enough for you two?”

  “It was plenty hard,” Grey said. “We were just hoping to find some dirt on you guys so that we could roast you properly at the end of First Phase.”

  “And you got caught,” Baldwin mused. “If you were operating in Afghanistan and some half-starved extremists caught you, do you think you’d be alive?”

  “Negative, Chief Baldwin,” Grey said.

  “Damn right. You’d be tortured first and then left for dead. Consider yourself lucky that you’re only getting a serious beating tonight.” Baldwin shook his head in disgust and turned to leave.

  “Chief Baldwin, wait—”

  “There’s nothing more to say. The situation is out of my hands,” Baldwin said over his shoulder. “To the victors go the spoils of war.”

  The spoils of war? Grey felt a surge of nausea rise up in his stomach. If Baldwin wouldn’t help them out, no one would.

  “You see, my little faggot friends, it’s just you and two mean instructors. No one wants to hear your lame-ass story.” Furtado paused and hocked a wad of spit onto Rogers’s stomach. “I know your whole train of thought. You think that because I didn’t go to college, you’re smarter than I am?”

  “Negative, Instructor Furtado,” Rogers said quietly. Grey could tell that Baldwin’s arrival and departure had taken a toll on Rogers’s psyche.

  “You’re fucking stupid—that’s what you are. I know exactly what you’re thinking.…” His voice trailed off as he placed a shoe against Rogers’s forehead. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Instructor Redman emerged from the Second Phase spaces heavily laden with diving gear. He wore one set of twin-80s on his back, and he carried the other set in both arms. Grey had heard about the primitive diving rigs the students learned to dive with. A twin-80 was an antiquated Jacque Cousteau–style rig with two giant tanks and twin hoses leading to an old-fashioned regulator that reportedly never worked properly.

  “Mr. Grey, stand up,” Redman ordered.

  Grey stood up, and Redman handed him a set of tanks.

  “Jock up.”

  Grey worked his way into the primitive web harnessing and tightened the straps. He nearly fell over backward from the weight of the cumbersome tanks.

  “Rogers, get up.” Redman took the other set of twin-80s from his back and held them out for Rogers. “Put this shit on.”

  Once they were both outfitted properly with their diving gear, Redman strode into one of the Second Phase garages and wheeled out a contraption that looked like a giant roulette wheel.

  “Since you pansies will never know what Second Phase is like, I thought I’d give you a taste of what you’ll be missing.” Redman affectionately patted the roulette wheel. “Gentlemen, meet the Wheel of Misfortune.”

  Fuck. Grey had heard of the wheel and the damage it inflicted upon its victims. Painted on its surface was a nauseating array of punishments: 100 leg levers, 50 push-ups, 100 squats, 100 lunges.… With tanks on their backs, Grey knew they didn’t stand a chance.

  “Since I know you can’t do leg levers with tanks on, we’ll replace leg levers with tower sprints,” Redman announced.<
br />
  Grey glanced up at the dive tower. The twisting staircase that wrapped around the giant metal structure looked menacing. A misstep would mean broken bones.

  Furtado stood on the opposite side of the wheel from Redman. “I think I should get to spin first.” He gave the wheel a strong pull. “C’mon now! Big money!”

  The sadistic click of the wheel as it moved from one punishment to the next sounded to Grey like nails against a blackboard. The pointer finally settled on 50 push-ups. Grey eased himself to the asphalt next to Rogers.

  “Let’s see it, turds!” Redman boomed. “I want perfect form. If you do it right the first time, I might let you two knuckleheads go home a few minutes early.”

  Grey’s already battered hands burned with pain as he struggled with his push-ups.

  “One, two, three,” Redman counted. “Oh my! At this rate, I don’t think you’re gonna make it.”

  After ten push-ups, Rogers collapsed next to Grey.

  “Get the fuck up!” Furtado yelled. “Get your faggot ass in the air where it belongs!”

  Rogers groaned as he struggled to lift his chest off the ground. His arms spasmed violently.

  Grey counted to himself. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Hell Week had taken every ounce of strength from his body. He had nothing left. With a thud, his body slammed onto the asphalt.

  “Get up! Get up! Get up!” Redman bellowed. “We can make things a lot worse than this, shitheads! Get the fuck up!”

  Grey pushed with all his might, but his body wouldn’t budge.

  “On your feet, lazy turds!” Redman yelled. He gave the wheel another pull. Click, click, click, click—100 flutter kicks.

  “You know what that means,” Furtado said pleasantly. “It’s time for some stairs.”

  Grey shuffled toward the dive tower, the twin tanks banging awkwardly against his lower back. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he steeled himself for the climb.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” Rogers said quietly. “We’ll talk at the top.”

  Grey nodded and began his ascent. After a few steps lactic acid shot through his thighs, spreading fire up and down his spinal column. My God. He labored upward, carefully placing each foot to avoid a disastrous fall. Soon desperate breaths ripped in and out of his lungs.