Steps (5 page)

Chapter 10

The Lost Boy   
(Coy)

C
oy Lincoln spent the night curled like an animal on the forest floor. When dawn came, he discovered blood on his hands. He touched his cheeks, a sticky and coagulated mess. His fingers came away red with fresh tears dripping from his eyes. He was cold, thirsty, and shivering from the fever. When he tried to stand, the forest shimmered and threw him to the ground, all of it a blurry mess as if he were underwater.

Coy lay in the leaves until the stars spun above him. It had been daylight a breath before. Hunger and thirst raged hotter inside him. He stood and found a knife in his hand. The knife had a name, but he could not remember it. The only name he remembered was his, and he angled his head skyward and screamed, “Coy!” He yelled it over and over until his throat grew slick, and when he finished, breathless, he took measure of his surroundings and decided he must be on some sort of road. He was on a mountain, because to his left the trees lifted up and away from him on a dark slope, while on the right the road dropped off with the steep angle of a playground slide.

Coy shuffled to the edge and stared down. A wave of vertigo swept over him. He grabbed a tree to steady himself. With his eyes downcast, he saw bare feet, legs, arms, and chest. He pressed the flat of the knife against the underside of his forearm until the flesh parted between his fingers. Squeezing, he sensed nothing, as if his skin were rubber, and he cut a thin bloodline along the length of it, no more than a raking briar-scratch, but enough that it marked a dark trail from his wrist to the crook of his elbow.

He focused his eyes on the slope and touched the knife tip to his tongue. The metallic tang of the blade overwhelmed the blood there. Through the trees, down the mountainside, a clearing opened up. Across the clearing he spied dark objects spaced evenly apart, some of them with pinprick lights which from this distance twinkled almost imperceptibly. Farther out, brighter lights swept across the ground, swiveled, disappeared, and reappeared in a mesmerizing display that reminded Coy of a twirling dance of lightening bugs.

He leaned forward, held to a tree, and slid down the slope. The trees swallowed the lights as his vantage point lowered to their level, and when the ground evened out, he pushed ahead in a straight line toward the lights. He held onto the knife as he stumbled, fell, regained his balance, and fell again. The ground felt slick as ice. Eventually the trees thinned, became underbrush, and he pressed through until he stood beneath the stars in an otherwise open field.

He heard rumbling and the clanking of machinery in a steady rhythm, far off and faint, the tune to which the lights danced. For a while he listened, and then he stumbled across the field to the dark objects he had spotted from the hillside.

They were tents, roped to the ground with trenches dug around each of them, spaced evenly apart like pieces on a chessboard, about the distance of twenty yards. He pressed an ear to the canvas and heard nothing. As he listened, the bright light reappeared. He sat, closed his eyes, and let it consume him.

When the light subsided, he felt scorched by its heat. His eyes burned from the fever pressing against the inside of his skull. His breath came in ragged bursts. His body shook from exhaustion and hunger, and he suddenly could think of nothing more than eating.

There must be food in the tent, and so he cut the canvas and slid inside. Without a light, the darkness was absolute. He touched an object at his feet, and his hands identified a cot with a sleeping bag and pillow on top of it. He felt beneath the cot and found a metal box and a large sack full of soft things, which felt like clothing or other inedibles. His hands passed over a stack of plastic-wrapped boxes, and when he put one of the boxes to his nose he smelled only dirt and vinyl. He found a plastic cup and bowl, two metal objects that he recognized as ammunition clips, a pair of boots, a toothbrush, soap, a book.

He had been wrong. There was no food here, but it was dark, and the clanking of engines lulled his buzzing head into a gentle hum. Coy felt around the cot until he found the opening of the sleeping bag. He slid inside and pulled it over his head. He rested the knife against his cheek as a child would a teddy bear.

When he closed his eyes, he heard a name in his mind.
Fang
. That was the knife’s name, and the boy with Coy’s face had spoken it many times. He tried to recall the other boy’s name, his brother, but could envision only his face surrounded by blazing white light, as if his head had been plunged into a burning flame.

Chapter 11

One More Mile   
(Gentry)

G
entry finished his gas suit inspection. He dropped to the ground and counted out seventy-five push-ups. It muddied his hands and he stood, slapped them together to fling off the mud, and ran through an equal number of squats.

“You crazy,” Leroy said.

Billings stepped up behind him and hit Leroy on the back. “Come on, wetback. We need to stay in shape.” Billings patted his holster and rubbed his pockets. “See. Beretta M9, check. Field supplies, knife, extra ammo, check. Don’t leave home without ’em. You never been in the shit, muchacho. You don’t get it.”

“I get it.”

“No, you don’t get it. Even a mentally compromised private like Genny here gets it, ain’t that right, Genny?”

Gentry clapped his hands together, stuck out his tongue and grunted.

“See,” Billings said. “With my help he’s a bone fide genius. Tell him Genny. What’s my rule?”

Gentry dropped for more push-ups. As he ground through them, he said, “One more mile.”

“One more mile,” Billings repeated. He dropped beside Gentry and counted out his own set of piston-like push-ups. The man would go until his nose bled and his arms collapsed, over five hundred most nights. “One more mile,” Billings said between strokes.

“One more mile,” Gentry answered.

Sarge, Arroyo, Riggs, Jackson, Goetsch, and Fletcher joined him and Billings, while Humphrey, Le Blanc, and Campisi stood with Leroy and watched. Gentry gripped Billings by the ankles and steadied him for sit-ups. Billings’ left leg had been replaced below the knee by a metal foot, and his body and face displayed a ragged legacy of burn-scars.

“One more mile,” Billings chanted as he worked, and the others chanted with him.

“Cabrón,” Leroy said. He said it again before he caught Billings’ attention. “Whatchu mean, anyway, ‘One more mile.’”

“Nothing to you, because you don’t get it. The rest of the squad gets it, though, don’t you boys?”

Gentry answered with the others, even the Sergeant-Major, though none of them were Marines like Billings. “Hoo-rah.”

Billings didn’t stop and neither did the others, and as they burned out one-by-one, Billings kept on. Gentry kept up beside him until he, Billings, and the Sergeant-Major were the only three left, and then the Sergeant-Major dropped out and it was only Gentry and Billings in the middle. The rest of them formed a boxer-ring circle to watch.

“Come on, Genny,” Riggs said. Gentry ground out another ten push-ups, stood, ten squats, dropped for push-ups. Billings still hit thirty or forty of each.

“I’m fried,” Gentry said. His legs ached and his arms felt like rubber.

Billings punched him in the chest so hard it nearly knocked him off his feet. “One more mile, you redneck chunk. One more mile. All of you. Don’t you quit on me. One more mile.”

Billings swept his finger along the circle around him, at the men who stood and watched. He rested on Leroy. “One more mile might be the only thing between life and death, muchacho. You better embrace the suck. One more mile and you’re alive. One more mile and you make it to the
HLZ
, or the shoreline, or your BoB. But you quit and leave that one mile un-run, you’re dead as last week’s pot roast.”

Billings gripped Leroy by the shoulders, pressed their foreheads together, and whispered. “Standing around ain’t gonna save your ass, muchacho. You hear me? When the bell rings and the shit rains down from the sky in a silky brown wave of one solid ass-kicking and thunderous rage, you got to be ready for one more mile. Come on, bro. I’m here, bro. Let’s do this thing. Do it with me. One more mile.”

Gentry fell quiet with the rest of them as Billings and Leroy stood with their foreheads touching. Leroy’s eyes dropped, and he nodded.

“One more mile,” Billings said. He slapped Leroy above the ear and clocked his head sideways. Leroy punched him in the sternum.

“One more mile, cabrón,” Leroy said. He motioned to Humphrey, Le Blanc, and Campisi, and the four of them fell to the ground with Billings.

Billings out-worked even the fresh new team until finally he was the only one left. He resorted to Daisy push-ups when his arms failed, and then rolled over on his back, folded his hands on his chest and panted. Gentry watched him with the others, and none of them offered a hand, because he would have swept it aside and stood on his own anyway.

Sarge let them all catch their breath and said, “Moment of silence, boys.” Gentry bowed his head and listened to the soft rustlings and chatter-clatter of the camp. He tried not to think of home, but nothing else came to mind.

After about a minute, Sarge began. “Father, grant us strength and peace. Protect our loved ones, and we pray you bring us home safely. Amen.”

“Amen,” Gentry said, and the others around him echoed it in quiet unison.

Gentry stepped out of the way as Sarge and the others filed into the tent, until he and Billings were the only two left outside. When they were alone, Billings thumped him on the shoulder. “You hear any word from back home today?”

“Negative,” Gentry said. “I guess you didn’t see anything?”

“Nothing. All I did was spread foam with the other one-leggers and cripples. From Recon to san-team. Damn.”

“Could be worse,” Gentry said.

“How’s that?”

Gentry shook his head. He tried to think of something worse. His eyes burned. His head throbbed. A cramp shuddered his left calf, and he tiptoed to stave it off. All he could think of was home, sleep, soft beds and warm meals. None of those things sounded worse.

From inside the tent rose sounds of shushing and soft curses. Gentry cocked his ear and waited. After a few seconds of silence, Sarge’s harsh whisper came from the other side of the canvas. “Genny, Billy, come in slow and easy.” His tone communicated not to question the order.

Billings pressed a hand into Gentry’s shoulder and whispered. “Hold back two steps. Keep your hands up and don’t let nobody grab you.” Billings drew his pistol and ducked into the tent.

Gentry gave him two steps and pressed through the tent opening. Billings stepped right. Gentry stepped left. Sarge and the others stood tense around the perimeter of the tent staring at a naked teenage boy crouched behind Gentry’s cot. Several flashlights played on the boy, making his shadow pace behind him.

Mud covered the boy’s face and body. His hair stuck out like a dog’s prickled hackles. From his nose and eyes dripped a line of blood, and it painted his face with streaks that could have been a tribal warrior’s markings. He crouched in a linebacker’s stance, teeth bared, eyes sweeping the tent. He waved a knife as the men moved to flank him.

“Put your gun down,” Sarge whispered. “We need to be covert on this, Billings. Goddammit, you fire so much as one round and this whole camp is gonna swarm down on us like yellow-jackets. You want that?”

“I have a silencer,” Billings said.

“Under your bunk. Now put the piece away and do what I tell you.”

The word
reprimand
formed in Gentry’s mind, followed by
quarantine,
followed by images of shoving bodies into the trenches, all of them from the Q-Zones back in town. When he glanced at Billings, he saw the man must have understood why the Sergeant-Major wanted this to proceed in silence.

Billings lowered the gun, and Sarge nodded. “Leroy, Humphrey, you two work around on the sides. Easy, now.”

“Hell with that, Sarge,” Leroy said. “I ain’t getting near him. He’s got the bug.”

“We all been compromised, you maggot. We’ll be on the next truck out of here, guaranteed, and your future ends in the Q-Zone. Goddammit, do what I tell you or so help me I’ll put my boot up your ass. Move it. You, too, Humphrey.”

Neither of the men obeyed, and so Riggs slid by on one side. Jackson covered the other.

“Goetsch,” Sarge said, “you and Arroyo come up the middle. Gentry, I want you, Billings, Campisi, and Le Blanc on the outside. Nobody moves ’til you all are in place. If that boy slips under, he’s gone.” Sarge glanced at Billings’ leg and added, “Fletcher, you cover the outside, too. Rest of you cover the sides and middle. Move it, boys, easy now. Quiet so you don’t spook him.”

Gentry backed out of the tent and covered the left with Fletcher, while Billings and Le Blanc turned right. Campisi stayed outside the door, next to the gas suits.

A little too loud Sarge said, “Goddammit! Catch him!” There was scuffling, followed by curses. The back of the tent parted, and the boy shot through and plunged into the darkness toward the trees. Jackson crab-crawled through the gap. He stumbled and fell to the ground while Goetsch and Arroyo burst out and sprinted after the boy.

Gentry took a dozen steps before the night lit up yellow-orange with the familiar crack of the M9 pistol. The boy’s head snapped forward. His legs buckled, and he dropped in mid-stride, limp, and skidded to a stop.

Gentry dug his heels into the mud. The grip gave way, and he skidded like a baserunner with one hand dragging him to a stop. The boy did not move or twitch, but lay in the mud as if he had been on the ground for a week. Seeing the boy shot, Gentry felt a cold indifference as his brain clicked through a few calculations, mostly recycled thoughts about Q-Zones and a huge ditch full of bodies. Whatever emotion he might need to feel about the boy would have to wait. He smelled the gunpowder, and with that thought he bounced to his feet facing the opposite direction, toward the tent. Billings had already holstered the pistol and was trotting back to the tent. Goetsch put a hand on Jackson, who writhed on the ground as if he had been punched in the stomach, while Arroyo pulled him by his heels through the slit in the back of the tent.

Men appeared from the surrounding tents and tore at their gas suits hanging on the racks. Some swiveled their heads trying to find the source of the shot, while others stabbed legs and arms into their suits and pulled them on with such ferocity that a weaker material would have shredded from the force.

Gentry ducked into his tent ahead of Billings. The cots on the far side had been over-turned. Arroyo and Goetsch leaned over Jackson, who kicked and clutched both hands to his side.

“Time to go, boys,” Sarge said. “They’ll tend Jackson. Anyone wants in with me, you have thirty seconds.”

“Go where?” Leroy said.

Sarge flipped his cot and dug out his rifle. As he shouldered his backpack he said, “We’re leaving, Leroy. Billings is right. You don’t get it. I bet you’ll figure it out in the Q-Zone, though. Anyone with me needs to keep up, by God.” He checked his watch. “Twenty seconds.”

Gentry flipped his cot, slung on his backpack, and slid the rifle strap over his arm.

Arroyo said to Jackson, “Sorry, bro. They’ll take good care of you. Hang in there.” He bear-crawled to his cot and slipped into his gear.

“Moving out,” Sarge said. He did not wait for an answer but ducked through the tent opening, followed by Billings, Riggs, Fletcher, and Arroyo. The other men stood around as if in shock.

Gentry gave them one last inspection. Sarge was right. So was Billings. These others did not get it. Gentry hitched his pack and ran past them, into the darkness searching for Billings and the others flying ahead of him.

Lights appeared and men hollered orders. Generators kicked on. Engines started. Gentry adjusted his pack as he ran. It was not made for running, but for marching, and he had packed it lopsided, heavy, too casually. His mind clicked over the preppers back home, and whether their backpacks had respected the fact that they would likely not saunter into the wilderness in quiet, calm order. They would probably run like hell. “What about Goetsch?”

“Keep moving,” Sarge hollered. “Don’t look back. Got to make it to the trees before the lights come on, boys.”

Gentry passed the teenager lying face-down in the mud. Blood covered the back of his head and neck. Gentry’s hand rose instinctively to the back of his own head, as if swatting away some nagging thought. The action tangled his legs, but he managed to arrest his fall before he landed belly-first in the mud beside the boy. The pack swayed on his back, tossing off his balance, but he managed to keep the rifle clean as he righted himself and stumbled on. He obeyed Sarge’s order and did not look back, but focused on the trees across the open field and the mountains rising beyond them. The men in front of him did the same. None of them glanced back to see if he was still in the rear, and he did not check to see if Goetsch had made it out behind him.

One by one they disappeared into the trees. Darkness and underbrush swallowed them, and they were gone as bunnies in the bush. He hastened his pace as the lights came on and blanched the moonlight into a luminescent glare. The back-glow sharpened the shadows of the tree line, and Gentry squinted to spare what night vision he had already shored up. As he entered the trees, he stopped and listened, expecting to hear footsteps from the others. Instead, he heard a hoarse-whisper scream behind him.

“Genny! Sarge! Billings!”

“Goetsch!” Gentry spun around. “We’re up here, I think. Shit, I lost them. Come on man, move it.”

Behind Goetsch, soldiers rushed about the camp until a group of them converged on the tent. The others had slowed ahead of him. They appeared as heavy-breathing specters swiveling their heads toward the camp, where already a fire crew was dousing their tent in flames.

Sarge snorted to gain their attention. “Situate your packs, boys. Make it quick. Cinch it up tight, ’cuz we got a climb ahead of us.”

Gentry had never noticed how much lighter Sarge’s and Billings’ packs had been, but now he saw it. All that time listening to Billings rant about being ready to run one more mile, and here he had packed for a quiet campout. This was supposed to be a bugout pack, a grab-and-go pack, and the grab-and-go would be at a full sprint. Billings and Sarge had packed nothing more than food, rope, ammunition, and first aid. Gentry had stuffed in extra clothing, a camp stove, a pair of Crocs for camp shoes, and even a light blanket. Arroyo had tied on an extra sleeping bag, which he cut off and flung into the woods. Goetsch unhooked a lantern that had been clinking as he ran, and tossed it toward the sleeping bag. The others trimmed their packs, but all of Gentry’s gear was inside. They did not have time for him to dig it out, which meant he would have to shoulder the weight. So he cinched a rope around the outside to balance its load, shrugged it into place, and waited while the others adjusted their gear.