“How are they responding?” said Stealth. She swept her cloak back to expose her holsters but didn’t draw yet.
“They’re saying something about…they’re deploying Captain Freedom,” Barry told them. “That’s not military code for a big-ass bomb or something, is it?”
Chapter 10 - Brute Force
THEN
Fucking bitch. I cannot believe this. She’s going to do it again.
It’s supposed to be a man’s Army. That was what I got beaten into me growing up. Be a man, Kurt. Nine more years and you’re the Army’s problem. You better cry now because there’ll be no crying then. They’ll make a man out of you, yes they will.
And what’s up with the rest of the squad cheering her on? Stupid bitch’ll start to think she belongs here. She’s only doing six-forty. All of us can do six-forty at this point. We’re all fucking Olympic supermen.
She’s just like all those dumb cunts in school I had to put up with for years. They all thought they belonged. They thought they were special. Giggling at me in the back of class. Yelling for their friends. Crying to the teachers. Kurt Taylor’s staring at me again. Kurt, don’t do that. Kurt, stop it. They wouldn’t know a real man if one came up and punched them in their stupid Barbie faces.
Finally get out of high school and the U.S. Army’s waiting for me just like the old man said. I get in and what do I find? Tons of bitches who all think they’re as good as me. Better than me. My fucking platoon sergeant is some dyke bitch. Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph.
Wally Monroe slaps my arm. “Taylor, dude,” he says to me. He points at Sergeant Kennedy, on her back with her tits in the air, pumping away. Gus is spotting her. “I think the sarge’s going to beat your record.”
“Yeah, great,” I say. I think about adding “Who the fuck cares?” but he’s a smart guy for a grunt. He figures it out.
So I sign up for Project Krypton thinking this’ll take care of everything. No more questions who’s supposed to be top dog A-number-one around here. It’ll separate the men from the boys and leave the girls in the dirt. They can wise up and go back to popping out more little soldiers for the U. S. of A like God wanted.
And what the fuck do I find? A month after surgery three-quarters of the program’s washed out and there’s still three bitches here. And they’re doing better than me. They’ve got the fucking dyke balls to keep trying to make me look bad. Always faster. Always stronger.
My arm’s still sore. Got our last shots this morning. I hate needles. Hate ‘em. There are air guns now that don’t use needles, but they’re still shots. Doc Sorensen says from here on in it’s up to us. No more shots, just a few tests every other day. Our bodies will keep up or not.
The money’s on not for most of us. There’s only thirty-eight soldiers left. Orders came down and Shelly pulled us all together into one company. Sorensen said he expects the dropouts are done. There should be enough of us left to make a solid platoon or two.
One of the bitches is already looking sick. Or maybe she’s just on the rag. Stick a cork in it, sister, this is a man’s Army. If you can’t hack it go back to blowing jocks under the bleachers for a dollar.
They all applaud and Gus and Monroe each throw another plate on either side of the bar. Seven-hundred ninety pounds. If the bitch does ten reps she’ll tie my record. Monroe shoots me a smile. They’re all cheering for her again.
I was the first one to break seven-fifty. Me. I’m the strongest, you fuckers.
While I’m waiting my turn I grab a pair of free weights. I’m curling one-fifty with no problem these days. Never guess it looking at any of us, especially the chicks. Sorensen says it has to do with muscle density and fast-twitch fiber or something. I’ve gained fifty-eight pounds of muscle, but I’ve only gone up one shirt size.
I’m getting antsy just hanging around the base, too. Should be thankful, though. Signed up thinking I’d get to go kill towelheads in Iraq or Affuckistan or somewhere. Then they sent me out here to Arizona and I found out how much I hate the fucking desert. I’m sunburned half the time, sweating all the time. Iraq or Affuckistan or Ari-fucking-zona, they all suck. Maybe I’ll fake sick and see if I can get reassigned.
I do twenty reps while the bitch ties my record. She sits up for a moment, shoots me a wink, and gives Gus a look and a nod. “No way,” he grins.
“Do it,” she says. She’s sweating and grinning like a bitch in heat. “Two more.”
The squad hollers. Sergeant Kennedy’s going to do nine-forty. She’s going to beat me. Fucking bitch cunt whore.
Gus and Monroe are scrounging up two more seventy-five pound plates across the gym when Ryan Polk comes in. He’s working as one of Colonel Shelly’s staff when he’s not here with the rest of us. Let him make corporal. “News from the outside,” he says as he pulls off his jacket. “It’s getting worse.”
Nobody has to ask what. About four weeks ago, in mid-March, we started hearing news stories about an epidemic. First couple cases were in Los Angeles, but then we heard about outbreaks in Vegas and New York and Boston. There was a news story about someone getting sick in London and then Colonel Shelly clamped down on all of it. That told us how bad it was. One of the MPs told me they clamp down on big bad news so no one does anything stupid and runs home or something.
The other bitch, Britney, goes up to him. Yeah, we’ve got a fucking cunt soldier named Britney in our squad. “What’d you hear?”
Ryan grabs a set of free weights and starts doing curls, too. Our muscles get stiff fast if we don’t keep using them. “I heard Colonel Shelly say they’re deploying the National Guard in nineteen cities,” he says. “They’re talking about martial law.”
I can’t believe that. Not here in the U.S. of A. “No fucking way,” I say.
“That’s what they were saying. It hasn’t happened yet but they think they’re going to have to.”
“Does the Guard even have that many people left in country?” asks Eddie. “Most of them are in Iraq, aren’t they?”
Ryan shrugs in between curls.
Kennedy wipes some sweat off her forehead. “Is it getting that bad? Are people looting or something?”
Gus slaps his plate on the bar and shakes his head. “I heard it’s not like a regular flu, whatever it is. People get sick but they keep walking around and infecting people.”
Monroe taps his plate into place. “I heard it was turning people into zombies.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “That’s bullshit.”
“My brother’s in Queens. He says he’s seen people wandering around biting other people.”
Kennedy leans back on the bench. “Hate to agree with Taylor,” she says, “but that sounds like bullshit.” She grabs the bar and takes in a few deep breaths. Her arms tighten and the bar comes off the stands. Nine-forty. Fucking cunt.
“What I want to know,” says Eddie, “is why aren’t they sending us out?”
“Because we’re not in the National Guard,” I say.
“Yeah, fuck that. If they’re locking down the base it means things are bad. People need help out there and it sounds like they need everyone they can get.”
“You want to go haul that flu virus off to Guantanamo?” says Britney with a grin.
“I don’t like sitting here on my ass,” Eddie tells her.
“Yeah, your ass looks well sat-on,” grunts Kennedy between presses. Most of them chuckle. She’s telling jokes. The bitch is telling jokes while she breaks my record. I want to throw one of my dumbbells at her head and see what happens.
It gets the attention back on her, which is what she wanted. Seven reps. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten reps of nine-hundred and forty pounds. The bar clangs onto the stand and almost bounces off before Gus grabs it.
They’re all pounding her back and congratulating her. She’s got wide eyes. Runner’s high. I drop the dumbbells back on the rack with a clang. It’s my turn. Time to get my record back and—