Dusk Territories: Always Burning (13 page)

“Isn’t that what you do? If you didn’t, couldn’t you say that the world changed you?”

Graham opened his mouth, but quickly shut it. Today wasn’t his day for winning arguments. So, instead, he just remained quiet with his face stern.

Celine, realizing that she won and
got her information across, bowed like she was on stage.
“It’s been a pleasure to speak with you, Mr. Graham. But, I really
do
have to go. We will talk again…on more…stable terms.” She waved her hand, releasing what felt like a wave of soft energy. “I suggest some sleep, David Graham. It will help your hunger problem. Until we meet again.”

“HEY, Graham! Is there a problem over there?” shouted one of the other sentries.

“I—“ Graham turned his head for a second, and then back. The mysterious woman Celine was gone, leaving no trace that she was even there to begin with.
“It’s nothing—nothing at all.”

7

Fifty

“This world isn’t for the weak of heart. I’m not going to stand for anything other than the best at my back. If I have to beat the best out of you, I will. Demons. Mutants. I don’t care. You wanted this, but I’m going to make you hate that you did.”

Graham had taken Celine’s advice and actually slept. It was different than sleeping as a human. Somehow, the bed felt wrong. He didn’t need sheets to keep him warm or the comfort of a bunk. Instead, it felt right to just lie on the dirt outside. The soil felt better underneath his body. At first, he had thought that it was just a mental impulse. More hours that he lied on the burnt ground, the more it felt like he belonged. It was beckoning for him to rest, and he did.

The weirdest part about it all is that he dreamed.

His mind was still alive for the most part, so the assumption could have been made. Unlike when he was fully alive, however, he remembered it. It was only colors; dark greys, browns, and whites. But, rain. He could remember rain and a chair in a blank room. There were voices, faint amongst the pattering. Some of them sounded familiar. Others he never heard before or couldn’t remember. He pushed the thought away. It was a dream. It didn’t have a meaning.

Standing up, Graham dusted off the dirt from his uniform. He squinted.
About early morning. 5:30 or 6:00,
he thought,
good enough.

Late last night after Celine’s visit, he had received a list of people who wanted some training by him: Raleigh, Juvenico, and a few others to boot. That very moment, Graham slipped into the “teachings” of his drill instructor all over again. He remembered his first time off the bus to the Marine training camp. He remembered that pride in his choice as he stepped into the presences of his instructors. That was soon followed by fear and humiliation, plenty
of each. The experience humbled him, made him stronger both mentally
and physically.

And he was going to mimic that in the best and worst way he possibly could.

Graham grinned as he pointed out each of the RVs. The methodical gears in his
brain churned out thoughts. He was going to visit each and every one of them. He might not have the luxury of getting all of his troops at one time, but each personal visit could be different. A part of him always wanted to be a drill instructor. What stopped him was the ever so tedious paperwork. This way, with the world the way that it was, he could pursue that dream—in some twist of fate.

Cracking his stiffed neck, he made his way to Juvenico’s RV. He knew that Juv was one of the few people that had his own RV, so he wouldn’t have to worry about waking anyone else in the vehicle. That meant that he could be loud, very loud. Shouting over engines and over gunfire taught a man that.

Those times
, Graham remembered, tinged with some odd sweetness. The unit had a nickname for him: Huskie. Short in statured and well built, the name was already well deserved. His voice within the battlefield solidified his name. He could bark orders and affirmatives like the best of them. There was a time for calmness, but there was also a time for yelling. Even over the roaring engine and drumming of sand against the side of trucks, his voice triumphed.

A sleeping man in a RV didn’t stand a chance.

He approached the door of the vehicle, grinning. Given his somewhat toothless back row, Graham figured he must’ve been sinister. He coughed, readying his throat.
Wait.
He stopped himself from screaming midway through the motion. A glorious thought struck him better than any muse could do an artist.

Giving it no thought otherwise, Graham kicked open the door.

It caved in a single buckling motion, showers of rust flying in all directions. That would have surprised the Marine if he wasn’t already focused on his next objective. Growling like a mad animal, Graham stood in Juvenico’s messy home. His hawk glances absorbed the room’s layout in seconds, almost instantly locking on the slim man staring wide-eyed back at him. Juvenico, still in his bunk, looked as though he was frozen in fear. “What the hell are you doing,” Graham shouted.

Juvenico gulped.

“Get the hell up. What’d you think that you asked for? A fucking tea party? Do you want me to go ask Heron to pick you out a damn dress?”

Graham never thought of himself as a person of excellent ridicule skills. That didn’t stop them from flowing out of his mouth. Juvenico sprung out of bed, and subsequently threw on the nearest pair of trousers and a t-shirt that he found. Like a true instructor, he shadowed every movement, being almost inches away for the full effect of his shouting. At times, Graham could hear the gravel in his voice.

At some points, the thought to curb his mouth surfaced. These were almost instantly banished into something harsher. These men need to learn how to survive, learn how to live in this harsh world. Yes, they had more experience than he did right now. But a lot of them weren’t warriors. Yes, the Drifter had survived with his group and sheer power. They
needed a focused force. Graham was more than aware that the Drifter knew this. Otherwise, he was sure that he wouldn’t have been so quick to trust.

“Pick up your damn pistol,” Graham shouted, clearing himself of his calmer thought process. “I swear if I was a man eating beast, I would have eaten you
twice
by now.”

The thought of being eaten must have kicked started his engines. Juvenico grabbed his pistol, loaded it with an impressive sleight of the hand, and was halfway out of the door.

“Did I tell you to leave yet, boy!” Even Graham himself was surprised how he spat the end of the sentence.

Juvenico froze; face pouring with cold sweat that had already drenched his newly donned grey t-shirt. He shook his head. Words were failing him, crumbling into dust in his mouth. But he managed, after seconds of mumbling and a long fearful look into those dull white eyes. “No, sir.” He said, as clearly as he could.

“Now, get the hell out of here. We have training to do!”

_

A total of eight—six trainees and two trained officers—offered their services.

Drifter had “insisted” that Graham employed some help with this training regime. It was a simple request, given in a soft even tone. The removal of the normal cracking
of breaking sanity had taken Graham off guard, so much that he almost instantly agreed. The old man smiled wide, and returned
to his lawn chair accompanied by his ever watching sentinel. Even now, the king and the mutant knight peered on, supervising over the training.

The two men that Drifter assigned to Graham was no other than the two tank drivers. It was an obvious choice really. Only people with high military experience would know how to operate the behemoths with such effectiveness. However, what Graham didn’t expect were the two men to be foreigners, not to mention brothers.

Henderson and Paton McLanahan, more widely known as Haggis and Pub amongst the Caravan, were Scotsmen. The two soldiers had come to America from Scotland for a vacation, yet in turn, they got more than they bargained. The Drifter had found them fighting their way through a band of mutated men far north. They had been with them ever since. The caravan leader had affinity for picking up stray cats, or rather stray lions. The red haired men were tough sons of bitches.

Haggis was the taller and more muscular of the two. His deep red hair was swept back, beard thinly trimmed. His face held strong features of a deep brow, strong jaw, and low cheekbones. His white skin was riddled with sunburn, though it didn’t stop him from rolling up his sleeves and getting to work. “Think we are goin’ to have a problem with these lads?” he asked, leaning against his tank, pulling up his goggles.

Graham couldn’t exactly answer the Scotsmen. An
eh
came out of his mouth instead.

They were far from the star players that he wanted in his soldiers. Yet, he couldn’t be picky and neither could they. They had made the choice to be guinea pigs; in the end, they would be fierce beast.

If only they could actually get their act together.

Tyrus was easily the best out of the six. The man worked with fierceness, and even handled Graham yelling at him with a passive expression. It was almost a stark difference from his unsure mannerism back in the fort. Everyone seemed surprised to see him. Crisium had even asked if he wanted to do so. He just nodded. Everyone knew he could handle himself pretty well in battle already. Graham only assumed that he wanted to get better.

Next in terms of innate skill and conditioning were Emelle and Forrest. Both had surprised him with their strength and conditioning, though they were a little weaker mentally. They were a couple, both of sand-colored hair, scrawny people that worked with the food supply mostly. Honestly, Graham had expected the woman and the young man to just fall apart. Yet they worked through it with a tireless vigor. They had impressed him more than he wanted to admit.

Bringing up the rear was Juvenico, Raleigh, and another woman named Rachael. They were lacked luster both physically and mentally. They had yet to do marksmanship training, which Graham hoped and prayed would go better than their current physical conditioning assessments. From experience, Juv and Raleigh would be at least good at that. Rachael was an enigma, and he was going to reserve judgment until she had a firearm in her hand.

Things did seem rather bleak overall. Worse, Pub seemed to be getting frustrated.

Out of the two, Pub was the far less appealing one to look at. He possessed some of his brother’s features, the red hair, the blue eyes, and even freckles. Pub’s features, however, was far more unattractive. His head had been crowned with his receding red hair. He didn’t share his brother’s face. His
seemed too wide, beard too wild, brow too low, and nose too big on his face; quite frankly, he didn’t give a damn about any of those. He was thicker and shorter than his brother, but held the same sort of demeanor. But he was gruffer, far gruffer. Even now, he was ranting.

Pub shouted in what Graham assumed to be heavily accented English before pacing towards his brother and his new superior officer. The bear-faced man sputtered out words towards Graham, but it was far too jumbled for understanding.

“Pub! I’m havin’ a wee bit of a problem understandin’ ya. Slow down, man!”

“Goddam idiots gunna get themselves killed. Dead, cold, six feet under—“ Pub paused, looking at Graham with wide eyes, “Sorry. Sort o’ just offended ya.”

“No offense taken,” Graham responded, absentmindedly. “You got that feeling too?”

“That we are gonna be sore beat trying to train ‘em. Aye.”

“Worst of all, we are goin’ to have to get along. Do you know how it is to work with this bastard?” Haggis joked, giving a swift punch to his brother’s shoulder.

“Plenty o’ people like pubs, not a lot like Haggis. Take that as you will, eh?”

Graham allowed himself a small grin, as he slid by the two men, heading to circle of men and women finishing up their routes. This time, he didn’t yell. He just watched, and made it known by certain shifts of his body that he was doing so. He knew how unnerving the hawking could be. It gave no real motivation, no real push. Just a simple mind trick that forced them to believe something was wrong, something had to be wrong. But he gave no inclination. People tend to make their own fears when there wasn’t even anything there.

Aware of his presence, Rachael Grimstad stared at him from the corner of her eyes and through her cascading oak-colored hair. A small thing she was, no more than eighteen or nineteen. Graham could practically see the sweat gleam from her brown skin, shining in the crimson sun of the land. She looked at him for pity. He gave none. Like everyone else, she was expected to reach fifty push-ups. She was on forty, arms quaking unsteadily beneath her like tree leaves in a hurricane.

She pushed down, praying underneath her breath for strength. That strength never came, instead failed her. Rachel crashed loudly and face forward onto the dry ground. Anger slid on her face, as her arms quaked and her chest huffed.

The entire caravan froze, watching in anticipation. Graham used his peripherals this time. With them, he saw the grin on Drifter’s face. Everyone, even him, was wondering what was going to happen next. Only Graham knew.

Graham turned his attention to the girl, straightening his already rigid stance. A quick sweep of the eyes forced the other men and woman back to their exercises. His vision locked on the girl, who got back into a push up position. Many things ran through the commander’s mind. First was to yell at her. He could yell for days. His mind decided on a better course of action.

“Ten more.” The command was swift and low, almost as though he was whispering it. That was worse. He didn’t need oxygen, he could yell from sundown to sunset of each day. Calmness, that sudden break from the barking, just to glare with his once-dark eyes felt more unnerving. To appear both disinterested and disappointed in her was worse; inside, he saw how similar she was to him.

Rachael curled her lips, nervously staring at Juvenico and Raleigh as they worked through their last few. She took a deep breath in, giving herself small words of motivation. “You can do this. If they can do this you can,” he heard her say to herself. She took a deep breath, pushing down her weight up and down again. “Nine”. She continued, counting down.