Chapter 7
When they’d first arrived, many of the guys had complained and whined while getting smoked, which was how the trainees generally referred to physical training. That behavior quickly faded. It didn’t make anything better, and more often than not resulted in the drill instructors bellowing in their faces.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were a special snowflake,” they’d yell. “You sound like a social justice warrior, complaining about how much of a victim you are. I thought you’d want to be a real warrior.”
Then they’d smoke everyone even more: more push-ups, more sit-ups, more squats, more lunges, and more Solomon hadn’t even heard of before. And that was just during their downtime. Every other moment was spent running. In western what-used-to-be Pennsylvania, that meant tackling never-ending hills.
More and more of the guys in Solomon’s platoon were getting sick or hurt. Their bodies seemed to be giving out. At least, that was what he hoped was happening, because the alternative was that Rithvik was quiet-quitting.
Rithvik was his battle buddy, assigned to him on the first day. He was a small Indian kid who Solomon definitely would have been friends with had they been going to school together, but it’d only taken him two and a half weeks of basic training to learn to hate the guy. Being battle buddies meant they had to go everywhere together. It also meant they got punished together, or more accurately, Solomon got punished with more physical training when Rithvik stopped trying.
Wilson hadn’t been kidding when he’d promised to turn Solomon’s life into constant pain. Still, Solomon hadn’t thought that would mean the drill sergeant would be cursing at him to do extra push-ups every time Rithvik fell behind. One day, he finally had enough. He confronted Rithvik about it right before lights out.
“I’m sick of getting smoked all the time because of you!” Solomon was rubbing his calves in a futile attempt to loosen them up. “You need to kick things into gear.”
Rithvik shrugged. “What are you going to do if I don’t? Kill me?”
If there was any question about the quiet-quitting before, Rithvik’s face answered it. He wasn’t ashamed. He was defiant. He simply didn’t care, and there was nothing Solomon could do about it.
For a second, Solomon did feel angry enough to kill him. He knew Rithvik didn’t want to be there, that he was like almost everybody else in the red zone who was just going along with what the militias and politicals pushed for. But Solomon was getting worn down. He could feel his exhaustion wasn’t going away, and he couldn’t die or Adah would be the one to pay for it. Thinking about her made him want to scream at Rithvik to wake up. Maybe he should kill him.
But could he? He wasn’t thinking about the militia’s rules, since he didn’t know what they were anyway, but the Bible. Solomon was supposed to love his enemy and if anyone was his enemy right now, it was Rithvik. Maybe it was Wilson, too. Was Solomon really supposed to let them wear him out until he died? He was training to be a soldier, right? Weren’t soldiers allowed to kill in the Bible? Or was it just soldiers on the other side they were allowed to kill?
He couldn’t exactly ask the visiting pastor about killing his battle buddy, which meant he could only figure out the issue by looking at the Bible itself. But whenever he got a few minutes of downtime to sit and look in the book he’d just fall asleep holding it. It was as if they’d designed boot camp to make sure he couldn’t think anymore.
So instead, Solomon just kept going. He kept going and going, enduring every run up and down the winter hills, bearing it when he was smoked for Rithvik being late, suffering through it when Wilson made him stand guard over a half-built water fountain for twelve hours straight without eating or drinking all because Rithvik failed a footlocker inspection two days in a row. Then, one day at the end of their third week, they were in their barracks, a Quonset hut made of corrugated iron like every other building in the base camp. Wilson was running them through bend-and-thrust drills when Solomon stumbled and fell to his knees.
Wilson was immediately screaming expletives in his face. But Solomon couldn’t bring himself to rise to his feet. He was crying, his shoulders shuddering as he tried and failed to stop. He didn’t even care what happened to him next. He just couldn’t keep going. Wilson began slamming the side of his fist into Solomon’s head, but Solomon didn’t react. He’d never felt so defeated before. He just didn’t have what it took.
Maybe Wilson could tell he’d given up. Because the next thing Solomon knew, he was throwing his rifle at him, forcing his hands around the stock and the handguard. He heard Wilson shouting at the rest of the platoon, telling them to get ready to spend the rest of the evening doing physical training, that they couldn’t stop until Solomon held his rifle aloft an hour for every minute he’d stopped. Then Wilson was on him again, so close their noses were almost touching, barking orders to hold the weapon up.
Solomon obeyed. He knew his arms would start shaking soon and that the three minutes of rest he’d gotten were about to turn into three hours of torture. But at least Wilson wasn’t making him stand up, and he wasn’t making him join the rest of the platoon now continuing with the bends-and-thrusts. For the first time, Solomon understood how Rithvik felt. Even as everyone else in the platoon was paying for his failure, he just didn’t care. As long as it’s not me. As long as it’s not me.
***
“Hey, Solomon, listen. I’m leaving tonight,” Rithvik whispered.
They were in the communal shower, standing next to each other under the row of shower heads. The sterilizing UV lights buzzed overhead. Solomon was focused on getting as much hot water as he could on every sore muscle in his arms and shoulders. He didn’t look at Rithvik. The lack of privacy screens between them made it impossible for Solomon to avoid hearing Rithvik, but he pretended not to anyway. It wasn’t because he was trying to be petty. It was because he thought Rithvik was crazy, and it was always a bad idea to engage with crazy.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Leave? Solomon thought. What was he going to do, walk to the front gate and tell the guard on duty that he was ready to go home now?
“You want to come? I found a part of the fence that’s not topped with barbed wire. I’m going to climb it.”
Solomon turned away from him. Why was Rithvik doing this to him? Why couldn’t he leave him out of it? There was never any chance Solomon would run, and now he had to figure out whether or not to report Rithvik’s plans. If he didn’t, they’d skin Solomon alive for not having said anything. If he did, then Rithvik would know that it was him, and he’d have to watch his back for as long as Rithvik was around.
For a moment, though, Solomon let himself think about what it would be like if he did go with Rithvik, and an intense longing to leave welled up inside him. He didn’t want to be here. He really didn’t want to be here. But he wasn’t going to try to leave. He seriously doubted it was possible to escape, but even if they did, then what? Was he supposed to spend the rest of his life in hiding? Tell Adah to go find work since he couldn’t do so without getting caught?
I didn’t hear him, Solomon told himself. I was mad at Rithvik, so I ignored him and refused to listen to him, so I didn’t hear anything.
His five minutes of hot water were up. Leaving Rithvik behind, Solomon dried off and got dressed in his militia-issued sweats. Then he looked at his perfectly made bed and decided to sleep on top of the covers that night. Tomorrow night too. And the night after that. Maybe that was how he’d finally stop failing to make the hospital corners correctly.
***
When Solomon woke up the next morning sweating and feverish, it occurred to him that it might have been a mistake to sleep above the covers. Late January was when the Pittsburgh area was coldest. He forced himself up anyway, if nothing else to give himself extra time to shave. He could barely grow anything on his face in the first place, so he’d never learned the proper way to remove what he did have before coming here. Maybe today would be the day he finally had the time to get it right.
That was when he noticed that Rithvik’s bed was empty. And not just empty, but as perfectly made as his own.
Whether Rithvik had actually made it out or had been caught and placed in some holding cell, Solomon didn’t know. If it was the former, they would find out he had run off at roll call during the first official formation of the day. Right now, Solomon needed to focus on getting ready for the inspection, and he could feel from the pounding in his head that his sickness wasn’t going to make getting through it easy.
He wondered if he had been fighting off an infection all of last week. Maybe that was why he had been feeling so incredibly tired. Part of him almost hoped that was the case. It would make him feel better about having failed yesterday. At the same time, sick bay was the last place he wanted to go. Recruits who spent too much time there got recycled back to start basic training all over again with a new platoon, again and again until they got it right or died in the attempt.
Solomon managed to fumble through the rest of the morning routine, but his aching muscles and burning throat hurt meant he was even slower than usual. He didn’t quite know how he managed to make it to roll call on time, but he did. Sure enough, Rithvik wasn’t there.
After that, they geared up for their run. Normally, Solomon liked running more than anything else in basic training, but today he found himself questioning what had gone so wrong in his life that he was now running up a 45-degree hill at 0500 hours in below-freezing weather, all while fighting off a fever. Pretty soon he was lagging behind, and Wilson, who had been keeping in step with the drone monitoring their speed, was yelling at him to come over to the side.
He grabbed Solomon by the arm and dragged him down so that their faces were almost touching. With his free hand, he began shoving Solomon’s shoulder repeatedly. He was screaming, as usual, but Solomon’s mind was too foggy to care about the barrage of curses being hurled at him. Then Wilson frowned. “You look like shit,” he told him. “Get yourself to sick bay.”
Bile rose in Solomon’s throat. At this point, he thought he’d rather die than have to go through basic again. But he didn’t get to choose even how long this hell was going to last for him. “Yes, sir,” he said.
The sick bay was located in another Quonset hut at the edge of the camp, next to one of the four construction sites on base. It felt as if the militia was constantly building. A painted red cross marked the hut’s door. Solomon pushed it open. He was taken aback by the massive interactive screens lining the walls of the waiting room where two soldiers were sitting. It felt so different from the rudimentary living conditions that defined the rest of basic training. Was the militia intentionally holding back on the tech for recruits like him? He hoped not. Getting to play with something actually cutting-edge had been the only thing he’d been looking forward to upon getting drafted. Maybe they were saving it for later.
In the meantime, at least the sick bay felt properly modern. Solomon even found himself relaxing as he interacted with the virtual assistant on the glowing touch screen. It might yell at him, but it couldn’t touch him.
“What’s the matter, private?” the assistant asked.
“I think I have a fever,” he replied.
The assistant took Solomon’s name and checked him in. About half an hour later, it called his name and directed him to an examination room, where he was greeted by a robotic nurse. His mouth almost fell open. Now this was cutting-edge. Much of the newer technology that had been available even just a decade before the Great Splintering had suddenly ceased production when the Splintering occurred. There had been a gradual decline in technological advancements since then. Solomon remembered his father mentioning that continued development required far more resources and coordination than the splintered zones could provide.
The nurse did look as though it had been patched up a few times. It had a worn-out screen facing upward at head level attached to the top of a pole that was welded into a square base on four wheels that squeaked as they turned. Its body was complete, at least, and equipped with all the usual sensors, scanners, and other tools at the ends of its spiny retractable arms, along with an IV bag and an arm cuff in front. Solomon sat down on the gurney inside the treatment room and then, when the nurse told him to, placed his arm into the blood pressure cuff.
“Blood pressure 140 over 90,” the nurse announced, to nobody in particular. It checked his temperature next. “Temperature 102 degrees.” Despite his pounding head, Solomon watched curiously as it measured the rest of his vitals. The nurse seemed able to do basic, repetitive tasks as long as no creative judgment or complex joint movement was required. “You need fluids, a fever reducer and antibiotics.”
A wave of exhaustion crashed over Solomon. “I can’t stay for long,” he replied, even though he wanted to do nothing more than lie back and rest. “I have to rejoin my platoon.”
“You’ll leave when I determine you are fit to return to duty,” it replied.
Even a computer had more control over his life than he did. Thankfully, computers, unlike drill sergeants, were easy to ignore. Wilson would want him back ASAP; in this place, being sick was just another sign of weakness. “Yes, sir,” Solomon responded, more out of habit than anything else, but he was already planning on returning that night at the latest. The robot could take it up with Sergeant Wilson if it didn’t like it.