The Secrets We Keep

by David Horne

  Again, with the “potato, potah-to” thing.

  Curtis remembered hearing a wise person once say that “people hate what they don’t understand”, and it always had struck a chord with him because he’d never really felt truly understood before. That had only ever happened once, where he’d met Hartley. And it to that very day, Curtis had never experienced it ever again. But that saying had always provided solace for him in times where he’d felt misunderstood or hated. It wasn’t his job to hate people back when they hated him, it was his job to help them understand him, and through that understanding, they may form a much more well-founded opinion of him.

  Or, at least, that’s what he tried to do. It didn’t always work, but you got points for trying apparently.

  The rest of that evening was a pretty quiet one, thanks to Charlie Ross and all his many charms. Neither Curtis nor Hartley could quite tell why the other one was so quiet. Was Curtis still angry for getting slammed with homophobia and xenophobia? Was he ashamed for lashing out? Was Hartley ashamed for not backing Curtis up? Who could tell? All they knew was, neither of them felt much like talking. All of a sudden, it didn’t seem like such a blessing that their beds were right next to each other, something that they had been originally ecstatic about.

  And they weren’t the only ones who had been affected by their little spat in the blocks; not by a long shot. Pretty much every single person in the block, all 20 of them, had a silent and awkward evening thanks to that little showdown. Curtis was secretly worried that they’d seen him nearly break a Ranger’s hand “unprovoked”, and was judging him, when, in reality, they were all just scared he’d crunch their hands too.

  After an entire evening of thinking, overthinking and a lot of worrying, Curtis had a restless and fitful sleep, which is not ideal conditions for the night before a 72-hour combat simulation. Then again, there were no conditions that were ideal for 72-hour combat simulation, that was the whole point, it was designed to just be a massive inconvenience.

  And it was Curtis’ job, as one of the best field agents in the world, to cope with whichever situations he was given. When Curtis rose that morning, true, he wasn’t feeling very optimistic about his chances, but after he’d taken a quick wash in the shower, and returned to the barracks to dress in the combat gear that had been shipped in from the UK especially for him, he was feeling miles better. As he laced up his boots however, it suddenly struck him that Hartley hadn’t even woken up yet, and the team selection was due to start in fifteen minutes.

  Curtis very briefly considered leaving him, since it appeared that they weren’t talking since that fight with PFC Ross the evening before, but he quickly kicked that idea into touch. He ripped back the bedsheets on Hartley’s bed but was surprised to find it empty. So, the man himself had already risen? Maybe he was already at the briefing or waiting outside the Mess Hall for breakfast to be served. He did know that they had a briefing before breakfast, right?

  Curtis decided that Hartley must know exactly what he was doing; if Curtis knew what he was doing, then Hartley certainly did. The odds of Curtis having his head on straight, and Hartley not, were astronomical.

  “Hey,” Curtis addressed the soldier on the bed on the furthest end of the little room that they were in at the end of the barrack. “You see Agent Wisconsin this morning?”

  “Who?” the soldier screwed up his face.

  Curtis rolled his eyes. “Anyone?” he called to the room at large. There were a few nonchalant and altogether uninspiring grunts, so Curtis decided to consider the matter officially put to bed. They locked up the barracks and proceeded over the grassy compound toward Block 19, the command barrack where their first briefing was to be held. Curtis found that his chest was full of anticipation and was thumping wildly. This would easily be the longest combat simulation game that he’d ever played, edging out his last one by a cool 24 hours. One whole day long.

  But Curtis couldn’t lie, he loved these simulations. They forced you to survive on what you had and what you could gain with your own cunning, as opposed to what you were given, and survival was that much more rewarding when you made it happen with nothing but your own hands and the natural elements. And okay, so they tended to litter care packages all over the playing field, it was the same difference at the end of the day!

  Not only that, but these simulations provided a very interesting change of dynamic when it came to active war and combat games. Normally, with outdoor games, once a certain amount of time had elapsed—it became nighttime—all the players involved would agree to “stop playing” and perhaps pick the game up tomorrow if their mums let them.

  Not with combat simulations. The idea was to simulate war, and war doesn’t stop because your mum said it's home time or because the sky’s gone dark. It was February, and so the sun would be looking to set at around late four, early five in the afternoon. And that was a best-case scenario. Once that happened, Curtis’ team, whoever ended up being on that team, would either have to have found shelter or won by that point. Because alone and exposed in the dark is not an experience every man wants to have.

  True, Curtis didn’t know exactly what game mode they’d be playing, but there were always at least two ways to win any war game. And one of those ways was always “kill all the enemy team members”. It was pretty simple when you thought about it for more than fifteen seconds. Sabotage? Kill all the enemies. Search and Destroy? Kill all the enemies. Infected? Kill all the enemies. Kill Confirmed? Kill all the enemies. It was a useful solution and worked 50% of the time, 100% of the time.

  Curtis couldn’t count the number of games he’d been thrown out for refusing to play the objective, and instead just running around mowing down all the enemy team members. A strategy as old as time itself, and if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. Good sayings that definitely excused noob behavior such as refusing to play the objective.

  Traveling with the mass body of players, “the pack”, if you will, Curtis reached Block 19 with a few minutes to spare before the briefing; in good time, essentially. Considering how embarrassing it would have been to be late, especially since Cicada was hosting this whole show! Or rather Cicada had put it together and the USMC was hosting it in conjunction with Columbus.

  Curtis’ first thought was how all these people were going to fit inside Block 19, but then he realized; they weren’t going inside, the organizers were coming out. Curtis watched as they linked up; he recognized Deputy Director Ramirez, of course, who was now looking properly attired in his combat gear. Curtis was especially thankful that he hadn’t brought his Birkenstocks out with them because they were 100% a crime against fashion. Then, Curtis was surprised to see Clark Richardson, the chairman of Cicada, also in attendance. And then came a few more old people that Curtis didn’t recognize, but then a really familiar face. Curtis’ jaw dropped as Hartley Erose walked out of Block 19 from behind the chairman of Cicada itself. Curtis and Hartley made eye contact for the briefest of moments, but then Hartley broke it, looking away determinedly. Curtis couldn’t describe the stabbing pain that he felt in his chest at that and did his best to put it from his mind.

  “Right ladies and gents!” Chairman Richardson said in that iconic bracing tone of voice that only he could pull off. “Welcome, one and all, to the Cicada One Hundred. This is the ultimate in combat simulations, designed to last up to three whole days, and test your limits as Rangers, Marines and field agents for every single second of it. How are we feeling, good?”

  There was a murmur of agreement that spread through the crowd. Curtis smirked; Richardson was never going to let them get away with that one, he was one of those “I can’t heaaarrr youuu” kinds of people that would be great at pantomimes and that’s about it. True to his persona, Clark Richardson shouted back at the crowd. “Now then, ladies and gents, that won’t do, will it? Do you know how much money I spent on this competition? Now make some freaking noise!”

  The roar that met this second call for attention was vast enough to shake
the very ground that they were standing upon, and this time, Richardson was satisfied. “That’s more like it” he boomed over the crowd, or at least he gave it his best shot, but shouting over nearly a hundred people is no easy feat, especially with no microphone.

  “Now, the original plan was to brief you on the game that you’re going to be playing,” Richardson said. “But after careful deliberation, we’ve decided to revamp that idea. Instead, we’re going to be sorting you out into teams now, and then we’ll give you the briefings after breakfast. Everybody understand?”

  The crowd roared back at Clark Richardson and he looked pleased with the stampede that he had created. “Good show!” he called back, and beside him, Deputy Director Ramirez looked pleased that he’d at least managed to get one authentic British phrase, although Curtis wasn’t even sure if “Good Show” was from that century. He decided to let it slide, even Deputy Director Ramirez needed a win once in a while.

  “So,” Richardson went on. “We have two teams, two flights if you will. I’ve also got a roster of every single person registered to open this game. I’m going to call your names and then sort you into one of two teams. Now, whether that team is Team Victor or Team Valiant, you cannot…change…your…team! What you get is what you get and that’s final. Everyone clear?”

  This time, Richardson didn’t even wait for confirmation, merely began reading from his roster. “We’ll start with Team Leaders. As the chairman of Cicada, the board and the organizers have deemed it appropriate for me to be able to choose one of the team leaders, and for Director Oswald, President of Columbus, to choose the other. The Director, however, is regretfully absent, and so Deputy Director Ramirez will choose in his stead.”

  Curtis had basically stopped listening already and was just waiting for the words that he knew, 100%, were about to leave Richardson’s mouth.

  “I choose Curtis Holmes as Leader for Team Valiant.”

  Curtis felt like punching the air in triumph; team leader on the first draw! Richardson was now searching the crowd for Curtis, a smile on his face. “Where are you, Mr. Holmes? If you would agree, say aye.”

  This was an old custom from Cicada, derived from an old British cry to conquer. Curtis thumped his chest twice and brandished his fist in the air. “Aye, sir!”

  “Very good,” Richardson nodded. “Please, Deputy Director, please come forward and select Victor Team Leader.”

  Curtis realized what was about to happen a split second before it did. He saw what Deputy Director Ramirez planned to do because it was written all over the mischievous smile plastered across his face. “I choose Chief Agent Wisconsin.”

  Hartley again, made eye contact with Curtis, for a much longer period this time, as though he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Curtis mouthed “well done” at him, but Hartley finally mustered up the strength to look away again, and Curtis once again felt the sharp, stabbing pain in his heart.

  Richardson was reading from the roster again. “The next delegation for Valiant Team…” he paused for dramatic effect. “Is Agent Miami.”

  “No!” Curtis shouted out loud, although nobody heard him of the sound of the rapid applause. The next moment, he saw Valon Erose pushing through the crowd toward him, a look on his face as though he’d just downed a pint of sour milk.

  For a moment, the two just glared at each other, but then as Curtis watched, the glare in Valon’s face softened somewhat. “Look, Holmes-” he began.

  “Just save it,” Curtis growled. “Let’s get this game won, shall we?”

  It took a moment, but before long, Valon replied. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Let’s.”

  Before long, the teams had been decided, and Curtis was striding to the Mess Hall, surrounded by a whole gang of Valiant soldiers. Among them, to nobody’s surprise more so than Curtis’, was Valon Erose, or Agent Miami as Curtis was attempting to remember to call him. It seemed that Valon really was attempting to put their differences aside to win the game, which Curtis had to give him respect for.

  Curtis didn’t want to fill up on too much, so he took a plate of toast and a bowl of cereal, taking a seat at this team’s table. Much of the team wanted to start the planning process, but without knowing what kind of game they were going to be playing, it would be pointless to begin planning for whatever it is that they don’t know. Curtis was on the verge of explaining this, but then he remembered that he was the team leader, so he could simply just order them to do things his way.

  Curtis quickly polished off the small breakfast he’d taken and decided he was going to go back for another piece of toast. He stood up from his table and almost immediately came face to face with Hartley himself, holding a half-eaten bowl of cereal and a squashed milk box. For what seemed like both a moment and several sunlit days at the same time, the two stared at each other.

  Curtis was broken out of his stupor by Valon calling his name. “Holmes. We’re out.”

  “You guys go ahead, I’ll be along,” Curtis said.

  Hartley waited until the team was out of earshot, pushing their way through the crowd before he responded. “You guys are buddies now?”

  Curtis shrugged at this. He was kind of lost for words on the whole subject himself. “I have no idea. We’re cooperating, I suppose you could say?”

  “Right,” Hartley murmured.

  “So,” Curtis said casually. “Are you going to talk to me, or just keep giving me the cold-shoulder?”

  Hartley didn’t answer, but he had this ‘I don’t know what you’re on about’ expression on, a look at Curtis was all too familiar with. “Don’t even try it,” he murmured. “I can tell when you’re mad at me. I don’t understand why me breaking that guy’s hand was such a big deal. I didn’t even break it, I sprained it at worst.”

  Hartley rolled his eyes and smiled, and for a moment Curtis thought that the rift between them had been healed, and all with a flippant joke no less. But Hartley’s smile was not a warm one, it was icy cold and cynical. “You just don’t get it, do you, Curtis? It was never about Ross. It was literally nothing to do with you breaking his hand, or spraining his hand, or whatever. It was about the fact that you can’t even hold mine without flinching!”

  Curtis was so wrongfooted by this that his jaw literally dropped open. “Eh?”

  “You know what I mean, Curtis!” Hartley exclaimed. “Every time we see each other, we do this! Whatever this is! We have our fun and then go our separate ways, and I don’t want it. Well, I do want it, but I want more! I want us to be something! You know?”

  Curtis felt like he was frozen again. He felt like he wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He felt pressured, he felt nervous, and he couldn’t deal with it. Years and decades later, when Curtis would tell and retell this story, people wouldn’t believe what happened next; nobody in their right mind would believe it unless they were there for it, because it was the most convenient timing of all time.

  Curtis saw something sailing through the air out of the corner of his eye. His head turned sharply to see something black and small arc down, hit one of the tables roll onto the floor under a chair. And then the shout went up. “GRENADE!”

  Curtis acted on pure instinct. He grabbed Hartley around the waist and dove backward, as far as possible, just as the grenade exploded. Fortunately, it wasn’t a frag of an incendiary, it was a nine-bang stun grenade. It went off with nine consecutive bangs and flashes, lighting up the Mess Hall with light and sound.

  Hartley was still shocked from the sudden action, and Curtis could feel him trembling slightly against his body. “Are you okay?” Curtis shouted over all the people shouting in the Mess Hall. “You good?”

  “I’m okay!” Hartley nodded.

  And then something came over the intercom system. “ALL TEAMS TO YOUR BUNKERS, REPEAT, TEAMS TO YOUR BUNKERS! THE GAME HAS BEGUN!”

  Curtis allowed his mouth to curl into a smile. He and Hartley lay on the floor, beneath a thick blanket of smoke let off by a second grenade that someone had lobbed. His a
rms wrapped around Hartley, kept him pressed close. In the next few seconds, things were going to start happening, he didn’t even have minutes.

  Curtis pressed his lips against Hartley’s, kissed him for a count of three seconds, and not a second longer than he dared. “I’ll see you at the finish line,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “See you at the finish line,” Hartley replied.

  Curtis let go of him, rolled away and jumped to his feet. In the next few seconds, he was gone, and the Valiant Team was withdrawing from the Mess Hall. Game on.

  Chapter Six

  Curtis had to give credit to the organizers of the Cicada One Hundred for how they started it. Most combat simulations had a certain start time, a certain end time, both clocked, but this specific one was shaping up to be in a class of its own, which Curtis was grateful for - he wanted a combat sim that was worthy of having the Invictus as its prize.

  The grenades that had been tossed into the Mess Hall were pretty harmless, as it turned out. The worse that had happened was that someone was standing too close to the flashbang when it triggered, and their eyes hurt for a while after. But, as any field agent knows, it was the shock factor that they were after, not the actual flash banging effect itself. They wanted to assess how people react under pressure, and when there’s a threat to life nearby.

  He only hoped that there was functioning CCTV in the Mess Hall, because if there was, then they would’ve caught his stunning dive away from the action in only the most glorious of technicolor. They would be able to watch, and re-watch it! Slow it down, rewind it, replay it, live it! Curtis was pretty proud of himself for not shitting the bed and falling to panic, like most of the so-called soldiers in the Mess Hall who were running about like headless chickens when the grenades came down. Not only did Curtis prove that he could think rationally and act sensibly in such a situation, but he was able to pull someone out of the danger zone along with him, proving that he was compassionate to the preservation of human life, no matter which team they were on.