Systemic Shock

Sabado essayed a whirling kick but felt a pair of hands over his trigger hand, a pair of legs tangled in his. The H&K began to fire into the air, Sabado unable to prevent pressure on the trigger, and as he tried to fall on his assailant he felt Quantrill slide away. Again the vicious wrench at the weapon muzzle; this time Sabado snatched at the belt, caught it, felt it come free and without rising he swept the H&K in an arc.

Nothing. The magazine was empty.

Sabado stood up slowly, hauled the blindfold down. After a moment he found Quantrill standing quietly among the other recruits — as if he had been there all along. Sabado stripped away the belt, tossed it to Quantrill, held up the weapon. 'It's still mine,' he said. 'One pace forward, Quantrill, and turn around.'

Quantrill held out his arms, slowly turned for inspection. Sabado grunted. 'What's that on your hand?'

'Blood, Sergeant,' Quantrill said.

A nod. 'Did I zap you?'

'Not with the H&K. I tore a fingernail.'

'Doesn't count,' said Sabado curtly. '”We'll call this one a draw. Put your gear back on, recruit.' Speaking for them all to hear: 'He used his belt for leverage, and had you nik-niks to cover his noise. And he took his time, and used up all my ammo. And he didn't try me on the mat. Never mind all the things he did wrong; just remember what he did right. Dis-missed!'

After a moment of surprise, the squad vented a cheer, some pummeling Quantrill's back before squad leader Fiero herded them into ranks and marched them back to the jammed dormitory building they used as a barracks.

Sabado stood alone, pretending to study the fit of the H&K's magazine until he was certain that the squad could not see. Then and only then did he begin to rub the knot that was already forming on the big trapezius muscle that sloped from neck to shoulder.

Chapter Fifty-One

Sandys jurnal Dec. 24 Tus.

We must be near a town, they brout lots of flannel for us kids to make fresh air filtars. I wonder what town. Mistery!! Sombody has licker in the ranch house I thout it was aginst the religin of the church of the sacrifised lamb, they pray lots but they whip you lots more. Glad mom is pregnet, the profets think thats keen and let her alone. She told me remimber your only nine and I remimber. Shana is eleven shes one of Profet Jansens wives but Im only a unfired vessel. I never heard such argumints, the profets all say the perfect kingdom of god is ours to make but all want to make it diffrent. If they think some god can make them agree there sadly mistakin. But Im dumb even for nine, no body cares much as long as I build good filtars.

Merry Xmas jurnal I wonder if Ted ever misses me.

If he managed to consume enough beer, thought Quantrill, he might forget other Christmas eves. He refused to look at the decorated cedar that winked its tiny chemlamps in one corner of the enlisted men's club; studied his reflection behind the beer-only bar instead.

The seven weeks of basic training had seemed endless. Now that he'd passed through the python of basic, he was ready to be swallowed by a combat outfit. He couldn't wait to see where it would shit him out. He'd know damned soon; nobody stayed long at San Marcos after basic.

Someone had been trying to talk to him on the next stool but finally gave it up. Someone else eased into the vacancy. The civilian beertender served him immediately, without discussion. It was like the rest of the Army, the choice was beer or no beer.

He wondered suddenly if Cathy Palma was having a beer, then wondered why he'd thought of her. Well, she was nearly a friend. Too near. He wondered if Palma had located the kid, Sandy; thought of the plastic tea set; smiled; found his eyes misting. He thought then of the Heckler & Koch, and wondered if he were crazy for itching to get his hands on one. “So where d 'you think they'll send you, Quantrill?' The soft educated Tex-Mex drawl with its smooth sibilance made him jerk around. Then he looked at the reflection instead. Looking at Rafael Sabado through a distant mirror gave Quantrill a sense of distance that he wanted very much. He shrugged.

'I'm interested,' Sabado went on. 'Everybody's got a theory, or a rumor. A few even have choices,' he said, picking his words carefully.

'Florida. Siberia. Canada. Fuckin' lot I care.'

Sabado grunted, swilled half his beer, nodded to himself. “I lost my whole family in Houston — just like that,' he said with a fingersnap. 'That's why I care a whole chingada lot. Why don't you?'

'Why do you hate my guts?' Quantrill said it without thinking it out. It had been flicking at the tip of his mind for days.

'I'll answer that when you've done two things. Have a beer on me — and tell me why you think I hate your guts.'

Quantrill had absorbed two beers already; just enough that he felt ready to catalogue all the special little treatments, the physical outrages, he had suffered at the hands of the big Chicano. It took him two minutes, all in a growl. He stared at the bubbles in the fresh beer before him.

'Take a swig,' Sabado insisted, nodding at the beer; some intensity went out of his face as he watched Quantrill do it. 'First, I never, never buy for anyone I hate. A point of honor; in la raza we live on those,' he grinned ruefully. He glanced back at Quantrill's reflection. 'As for hitting on you, — there isn't another man in your squad who gives me a workout. They're dulces, fuckin' candy. They lack the killer instinct — and you don't, cabroncito. How old are you anyway? No shit now; strictly off the record.'

Quantrill shrugged, and told him.

'Ay de mi, you remind me of me,' Sabado gurgled deep in his throat.

'You trying to say you kicked the shit out of me for seven weeks because you like me?'

A shadow passed across the handsome bronze face. 'Close, compadre. But I swore off liking people for the duration. I think you did too. If you played your cards right, you could learn to do everything I do.'

Quantrill absorbed this with the beer. 'You think I joined up to be an instructor?'

'Not exactly. Something a whole lot worse — or better, if it's killing you like.'

A quick darting glance directly at the big man beside him: 'Why would I like it?'

The high cheekbones faced him. 'Why wouldn't you?' Then, studying Quantrill, he narrowed his eyes and purred, 'I think maybe you already know. I'd like to think so, Quantrill. Tell you what; let's go outside and inhale some fresh fallout. Trust me. I just don' want to go the macho route with all these assbreaths looking on.'

Quantrill decided he would soon be stoop-shouldered from shrugging, but went outside with Sabado. He considered the possibility that Sabado intended to pick a fight; shelved the idea rather than reject it.

Standing beneath the single fluorescent light on the porch, Sabado faced the youth. 'Ever play 'gotcha'? Alias the handslap game. Put your palms against mine.' Sabado's hands were out, palms up, fingers together.

Quantrill had played the game a few times, but denied it. He hadn't enjoyed it anyway. No challenge.

But Sabado's right hand was less than a blur as it flicked up and around to slap the back of Quantrill's left hand. One instant he felt a cool callused palm against his, and in what seemed the same instant that palm was elsewhere. 'That's a gotcha,' Sabado murmured. 'I keep on until I miss.'

Quantrill saw that Sabado's slaps, nothing more than gentle taps, implied great control. He found very quickly that the game could be steeped in psychological nuance. Those big hands feinted, jittered, crossed over to underline their mastery. Only when the sergeant tried to cross both hands in a tour de force move did he miss with both.

'Your turn,' Sabado smiled, and jerked his hands away the instant Quantrill touched them. 'No, keep your thumbs in,' he said as Quantrill used his left thumb to score.

'You were doing it.'

'To spook you,' Sabado said easily. 'Makes it a cinch. Your opponent gets fluttery guts and then he's lost.'