“You a veteran? Done time in the military?” he asked without looking away from the weapon.
“No, Sergeant.”
“A hunter?” he asked.
“No, Sergeant. I’m an engineer.”
“Then why are you in my designated marksman group?”
Jacob dropped his head, subconsciously moving away from the table, embarrassed. The instructor pushed the rifle back into Jacob’s chest then reached back for the clipboard. He flipped through pages then stopped. “Jacob Anderson,” he said as his finger traced the lines of text. “Says here you were in Chicago—at the Battle of Museum Park.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Then that is why you are here. With only fourteen days to train up recruits, we are forced to pull some troops ahead in their training to go over advanced skills.”
“But, Sergeant, seriously, I… I don’t know shit,” Jacob stammered.
“Don’t matter, you will soon enough; I can promise you that.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Hey, you awake?”
Jacob forced open his weary eyes, blinking to clear his senses, and found himself staring into the darkness of the room. The furnace blower was once again roaring, mixed with the snores of exhausted men. “I am now,” he whispered into the dark.
“So, what do you think?”
“Damn, Jesse, what time is it?” Jacob said.
“Seriously, do you think we made a mistake?” Jesse asked, rolling in the bed so that his head hung over the top bunk, looking down at Jacob.
“Hell, man. I don’t know. It isn’t like we had a choice—not really, anyway.”
“I was just wondering, you know, is it worth it? I mean, the camp was rough but at least those things were far away from us. They're going to push us right into the fight, you know. We won’t be sitting safe being gate guards or something,” Jesse said. “They're planning to put us right in the middle of it.”
“No use worrying about it now; it’s done, right?” Jacob said.
“Yeah, guess you’re right. I won’t go back to the refugee camp, and no way could I go back to Detroit again.”
“Detroit? That where you’re from?” Jacob asked. “Chicago myself.”
“Yup… worked in the Ford plant. Good job too. Wish I had saved some of that money for a rainy day. Maybe I would have gotten farther. When the shit hit the fan, I was dead broke from a weekend at the casino. Then the plant halted production after the attacks started. I was stuck at home with no paycheck and no money in the bank… those kinda odds won’t get ya far.”
“Things happened fast in Chicago too,” Jacob whispered. “By the time we realized what was going on, it was too late.”
“Detroit was a nightmare, bro. I thought I could make do, hold out in the city. Yeah, that was a bad idea—real bad. I watched them from my apartment, watched them attack the police. I didn’t know what to think of it. I just wanted to get away. People said up north was safe, so I crossed the river into Canada and just kept moving.”
“Come on, man, shut up,” a soldier shouted from up the bay, silencing Jesse.
Jacob lay back; he raised the green wool blanket to his chest, listening absently as Jesse continued to tell his story. He turned his head to the side and looked down the row of bunks. They all had a story, all different but still the same. Now they all found themselves here, like soldiers in any war from the past, united against a common enemy.
The man yelled again for them to be quiet.
“Get some sleep, Jesse,” Jacob whispered.
Morning came quick, long before the sun had risen. Skipping the five-mile run, the drill sergeants dragged them from their bunks. They were quickly assembled outside, dressed for combat, and pushed through the same drills, only this time with limited visibility under the cover of darkness.
In the following days, they ran the same routine—starting with being kicked awake at random early hours and dragged from their racks. After insane rounds of questioning out in the street, they were sent back to dress. Finally, they would be out front again for long periods of exercise, followed by patrols and hours on the range or gathered in circles, listening to their marksmanship instructors.
The instructors made the chaos routine, helping the recruits adjust and acclimate to the madness. The men became adept at quickly forming for the patrols and battle drills. They could move from rest to battle positions in a matter of seconds. The drill sergeants added new obstacles to trip them up. The range instructors force-fed the recruits technical details. Soon the men learned to break down, clean, and maintain their rifles.
By the end of the first week, they had advanced to live ammunition and learning to sight in their weapons; training on static, then pop-up targets, and finally progressing to moving targets. By the start of the next week, they were falling into formation according to their weapons assignments and finding their own unique role within the patrol. Exhausted and moving like robots, their bodies functioned on muscle memory.
Jacob learned how to react on battle drills and what was expected of him as a designated marksman. After reaching the ranges, he was yanked out of the larger group with the rest of his long rifle team to learn scouting techniques. Their marksmanship instructor was patient and precise in his instruction. Jacob learned how to use the radio, call for fire, and report enemy movements. Hitting them over and over until they were proficient, all of these tasks were integrated into the morning battle drill marches.
As the end of the week and the final days of training approached, they patrolled like a veteran group—not with precision, but worn down and fatigued. Even though still green, most never having faced the enemy, they were broken and their uniforms soiled and faded. The weapons they carried were cleaner than their bodies. Jacob trekked his position near the rear of the formation,
