We scoot on our stomachs and then our backs under wire, walk over logs, climb ropes. My group keeps me last. I’m panting for breath as I struggle, mostly alone, through the course. I fail three obstacles but get to try doing better the second time. If I fail the next chance, I’ll be held back to take it with another class or be recycled. No one wants to be recycled—you have to start over with Basic, joining a platoon behind you, and do everything all over again. No way.
We make it through, and the DS grants us talking privileges. My rage is simmering, but I manage to hold it together, not letting it out or we’ll get smoked again. Everyone is afraid to talk, as we’ve kept it in so long our mouths are clamped shut. We’re all sleep-deprived, tired, hurting and sore, and completely stressed out. My body is trembling by the time we finish the day with our evening chores and inspection.
The DS leaves and a black-haired girl smacks into my vision – Smith has it coming. “You effing idiot, you keep leaving me behind,” I scream in Smith’s face.
“You keep getting us smoked, bitch, I’m going to recycle you,” Smith shouts back, standing her ground.
“And you, Berring, what are you, a tard?” The blond, Amanda, glares. Berring pushes up her thick glasses with her middle finger, her mousy-brown hair in a ponytail. Bandages wrap her wrists. Her shoulders slump as she pulls her head into herself.
“Shut up, idiots, before you get us smoked again,” someone else shouts.
“All right, who stole my socks!”
“What’s your problem?!”
“Bitch!”
Our platoon explodes into shouting and yelling as we let loose a week’s frustrations on each other. I get shoved, and without thinking, I turn and punch a girl named, Rogers, in the face. Fists and fingernails are flying everywhere.
“What the fuck is going on here?” A large, muscular Drill Sergeant comes in with another DS with a red beard behind him. “What a bunch of screaming feral cats!”
“Outside, now,” shouts Beard. We file outside. “Right half face!”
We drop and do pushups, our shoulders hurting. We’re so exhausted we have nothing left to give, but everyone is made to do it anyway. We’re in the sawdust pit. It’s hot and we’re all angry as hell. Beard proceeds to take us through all the PT drills as night drops.
“You obviously have too much energy,” he yells. “Let’s get it out of your systems now. Pushups/Sit Ups Drill!”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant.”
I can’t believe we’re doing all of this again, when we should be going to bed. A bruise swells on my right cheek, stinging. The shadowed ground comes up to my face and away again, as I pump my arms. The sawdust is turning red—the air is becoming crimson, moving into the center of my vision. My hands are burning as I hiss obscenities in my head.
I’m slow to rise into my next pushup.
A foot presses my ass down. A spark explodes, and sawdust smokes and blazes into flame right beneath me. It quickly spreads across the pit.
Chapter Twenty
Everyone screams and jumps to the grass. The DS mobilizes us instantly—we grab buckets of water and work together, running for more containers and sand, until we get the growing fire smothered into black smoke rising into the night.
Getting barely enough time to shower off the soot and cool ourselves, we troop back inside the barracks. The squad is as quiet as when we weren’t allowed to talk. They’re throwing looks at me, like I did it on purpose. They hate me. Four of them whisper in a group, glancing my way. I hear them though. “Just quit already”, “If she gets us in trouble one more time ….”, “She better watch her back”.
I drop into bed. I don’t care, to hell with them all. To hell with the whole effing army.
***
I’m standing outside the Commander’s office, waiting. I was told to report here right after breakfast. I had to eat in two minutes, while the rest of the platoon gets twenty minutes today.
“They told us about … this is the one.” Muffled voices come from behind the closed door. The words are hard to make out, I catch only part of it.
“Top secret ….”
“…Basic Training?”
“Yes … she’s ours … the training is vital.”
“…special AIT assignment … the other one, right?”
“I don’t want to deal with this, put her in another platoon … what about recycle?” The Commander’s voice rises. There’s a moment of silence, then an officer leaves and I’m called in.
“Recruit, you seem to have a special problem.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“I’m assigning you to counseling with the psychologist, and you’re to control yourself at all times in Basic Training or you will be recycled over and over until you do. Do you understand?”
My body is trembling. “Yes, Commander.”
“We’re watching you. Now back to your platoon, they’re forming outside.”
I salute and head out. Shit, how am I supposed to control myself? They will not recycle me, or I’ll burn the whole fucking place down.
The heat rises through my body, starting with my feet and bubbling like boiling water to my neck.
No, I can’t. I have to control it, so this hell can be over. I’m not starting again.
I breathe, in, out, as if Smoke is with me, coaching.
Tor’s face comes into my mind. I want him in my life. I’ve missed him. My body returns to normal as I line up with my platoon to prepare for our 4k ruck march.
***
I’d seen the short, older Asian psychologist before, when we met the army staff. So, I’m surprised when I go for my first session and am greeted by a middle-aged woman, her graying brown hair pulled into a bun. Her back is facing me.
“Hello, Recruit,” she says. “I’ve been assigned to manage your case.”
Her demeanor is the same. The clothes she wears makes her seem older than I remember, but it must be the same person. It hasn’t been that long ago.
“The military knows about your … special ability.”
They do? How? Who told them?
“I have your file here.” Her voice is warm, and it’s the same as I recall, but I just stare at her back. Does she mean …?
“I’m Dr. Novamori, but you can call me Mara.” She turns around.
“Ms. Mara?”
“Yes, Ashley.”
“But you’re a social worker?”
She pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up her slim nose. “I am many things. A doctor, too. Let’s start with a few questions. How have you been managing your anger since the last time we spoke? Are you feeling you’re getting a better handle on triggers?”
Is this for real? I manage a nod.
“You and I will work on managing your anger and learning to control it. That’s the first step to controlling the flame.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. She talks as if this is normal. I’ve never thought of it as actually real. Sure, I’ve seen it happen, but knowing without a doubt in my own mind that it’s me creating the fires and acknowledging it out loud is totally different. Now Dr. Mara’s talking about it out loud.
This shit’s for real.
“I’m also working with your friend Steve at Fort Benning.” My ears prickle.
“What?” Who does she mean?
“Oh, you probably know him as Torrent, and he’s asked me to call him that, too. You know how he’s able to control water.”
I blink. “Uh, no, I didn’t know.” Why didn’t anyone tell me? I hardly got to spend time with him.
“I’ve been assigned to help you both hone and control your abilities. We’re going to get to know each other well, Ashley, as we figure this out together.”
“Uh, Ma’am, are there others with these kinds of … abilities?”
“Please, remember you can call me Mara. No, Ashley, we have never seen this before. You and Torrent are the only ones we’re aware of. I’m traveling between the two states to work with you both, so we’
ll only be able to meet once a week while you’re at Basic Training. I tried getting you both moved to the same facility but was shot down since you have less than a month left.”
“Yes, Ma’am—Mara.” It’s still weird using first names when it’s been drilled into me to answer with Drill Sergeant. But is this Mara, my social worker.
The doctor and I begin meeting every week, during one of my mealtimes. Our sessions are short, but we do sensory stimulation therapy for my brain, with lights and sounds, to help me not be so reactive.
The first time I’m introduced to light therapy is when Mara places all these doo-dads onto my scalp and face. Colored wires lead from me to a computer. I watch a monitor flash various colors in rapid succession. Sometimes the images slow and morph into another shade, reminding me how fire melts things into goo right before it turns into liquid.
When Mara adds sound during the next session, it startles the shit out of me. My instincts kick in and my brain tells me that someone is shooting. Duck and cover. I’m not expecting it, and I fly out of the chair, rip the cords off my head, stumble in my mad scramble to get away, and fall face first onto the hard floor.
Fail.
Of course, that triggers my anger, and embarrassment.
She then teaches me breathing and calming habits and self-awareness, so I can detect the first sign of rage and divert it on time.
My platoon acts funny around me, like I’m a mental case or something. At least they stop provoking me. I’m moved to the bed next to Berring, and a fireguard sits and watches us both while we sleep at night. It’s stupid.
What, do they think I’ll set the place on fire while I’m sleeping? I feel the animosity from my squad, like a growing scum, as they put me in the same category as Berring. More fuckin’ work, they’re thinking. Having to do fireguard every single night effing sucks.
Chapter Twenty-One
We’re breathing hard by the time we finish our second ruck march, our packs weighing heavily on our backs, our feet sore and hurting in our boots. We’ve reached the Confidence Course, the larger course we’ll be tested on later. Among other things, there’s a tall, building-type structure with a high wall and a Jacob’s ladder, where the wooden plank rungs are spaced farther and farther apart the higher you go.
Two guys, Pearson and Deetz, are my buddies. They insist on going first. I bend, putting my weight on my knees. They climb on my back and scramble to the top of the twelve-foot wall. I straighten and reach, but Pearson flicks me the finger and they both disappear, smiling.
Great, even the guys want me to get recycled. My whole platoon can go to hell.
Berring’s group comes next, and they help me. Berring may be a strange one, but at least she’s nice.
Again, I scramble as hard as I can to catch up to my group. I barely make it through, trailing behind, when I drop to the ground on my back, exhausted.
“What’s the matter with you, why are you so slow?” the DS asks. “Ten minutes, then you’re doing it again!”
I’m put into a new group. Now Berring’s with me. She becomes my real buddy, and we help each other over every obstacle, keeping together. If they’re going to hate us, they might as well hate us both.
***
My sessions with Dr. Mara are boring, but a nice break from the insanity.
“Ashley, we are wondering …. We have two young people, the same age, one controls fire, one water.”
“Okay?”
“We suspect there may be two more special young people, one who controls air and one who controls earth, perhaps.”
I look at her. I guess it makes sense.
“Have you ever met or run across anyone else like you?” she asks. “Do you remember seeing anything strange at all in your adolescence? You must have met a lot of kids in the foster system …”
“No, Dr. Mara.”
“Think about it, maybe some recollection or clue will come to you. We would like to find them, assuming they exist, and help all of you.” She smiles warmly. She reminds me of my mother, somehow. Maybe it’s her eyes. “You can bet these kids, if they’re out there, need all the help they can get.”
“Yes, Dr. Mara.”
I rack my brain as I jog back to my platoon. Four of us, each controlling an element? That’s strange. Could it be true? I don’t remember ever knowing or seeing anybody like that, but then, Torrent is one of our friends, and he’s like me …. Why didn’t he say anything about it? Probably the same reason why I didn’t tell him about my fire abilities.
***
Week three is just as intense as week one and two. I can’t be sure, but I swear the Drill Sergeants are yelling and smoking me more than anyone else. Why is the fucking army against me?
Black smoke sears my fingers a couple of times, but in the gravel, it doesn’t light. I practice my new diverting techniques and calm my rage when it first prickles me. The plumes of gray sizzle out as I sweat and pant and strain my hardest through more sit-ups and push-ups. The muscles in my arms, abs, and legs are becoming defined and firm from all the punishment.
Day by day, the hours crawl by. We’re kept so busy and tired we don’t have much time for fighting.
On day twenty-one we’re all nervous and eat a light lunch. We’re heading to the Gas Chamber.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Is it like in the Nazi concentration camps? Are we going to die?” Berring asks me.
“No, it’s not like that. We’ll have gas masks on, anyway,” I snap.
We’re given our masks as we line up outside the tan, sandstone block building. Mine seems to be broken, so I tell the DS when he checks it. They fit me with a new one, but it still doesn’t look to be working just right.
“Okay, everyone, go inside, march,” a DS says.
I mess with my mask again, trying to make sure it’s tight. I can feel air leaking in under my chin. Aren’t they going to double-check one last time? My adrenaline jump-starts. Am I going in there with a leaking mask?
“Keep your masks on.” The DS points to his head. “When you are told to take them off, take them off. As long as you don’t have it off too long, you won’t die. Your body can take a little of the gas.”
Our left hands are touching the shoulder in front, as we file into the small, spartan room. A Drill Sergeant covered in a large, heavy apron, gas mask, and thick gloves stirs a shallow pot on a hot plate at a table. His black apron has large white letters: “Can You Smell What This Drill Sergeant Is Cooking?”
As soon as we enter, the stinging bites my neck, leaks into my mask and makes my eyes water. Sweat pours down my face, my eyes blink and tingle like hell, my nose runs. Did he give me a bad mask on purpose? Red fills my vision as internal heat makes me sweat harder—my whole face is melting. The m-fing DS gave me a faulty mask.
Heat overwhelms me as the burning pain screams through my eyes and sinuses. I cough, gasp, and hack trying to get a tiny fleck of air.
I can’t lose control in here. What if my fire ignites the gas? Will we all explode? I go into panic mode, breathing fast and taking in the burning torture with every gasp.
“I’m going to die—we’re going to die!” I scream, pushing the Recruit in front of me. Gray smoke wisps out of my fingers.
“Now remove your masks,” Big Nose shouts through his gas mask. He came in with us. “You need to feel what it’s like in case you’re caught in the enemy’s camp. They will try to break you. But you’re a soldier for the U.S. Army and you will not break. Not for them and not for me.”
“I can’t—I can’t!”
Big Nose steps to me and roughly pulls off my mask. “Shut up, turd, control yourself!”
“Mask,” I pant out. My face is slobbering, and I close my eyes tight, trying to hold my breath and calm my gasps at the same time. I fail at both, and the burning consumes my whole body, inside and out.
“Now say your phone number as loud as you can and then ten jumping jacks!”
The command seems to come from far away.
Somehow, I obey, shouting and hacking while trying desperately to control the inner fire taking over my body and mind. A few intermittent sparks flare from my hands.
The jumping forces me to breathe the gas. It burns and hurts like fuck and my skin is prickling and sizzling. I fumble to find the shoulder in front after we put our masks back on. My body is on fire, my lungs are shredded from the chemicals, and my skin itches and bubbles. The familiar rage is spouting to the top of my head.
“I can’t–we’re all going to die,” I scream. My eyes close as a force jets out of my hands. I squint, trying to see the pops and hisses and sparkles flying all about the small room.
Everyone gasps, their masks on again, and we’re quickly ushered outside.
Did they see me doing that?
We remove and turn in our masks. We’re instructed to slowly flap our arms up and down, to not touch our eyes, and breathe the fresh air. My heart is pounding in panic. My vision is black and red; slowly the surrounding green trees come into view. My fingers are trailing smoky wisps. I wave them up and down, arms extended, gray tendrils curling and floating into the air. No one seems to notice since all the others with me have their eyes shut from the burning gas. I’m coughing and crying, but I slow my breath, trying desperately to calm myself.
A shadow moves out of my line of sight. Is that Dr. Mara? Is she watching me?
The recruits are sniggering around me. Some are pointing at me and mimicking my arms flapping like a bird. Not one of them is hacking up their lungs.
Did I almost kill us all in there?
***
Slowly, we pull together as a platoon, though I never stop feeling like the outsider. At least with Berring, I have one friend. She tells me after the fact, that the gas wasn’t even real. They can’t really kill us. So, what the fuck was the purpose of that? I guess so we know how to use the equipment and what it’s going to feel like in a situation if that arises. Stupid way to test that theory.
Flame Guardian Page 8