5
“Grab my pack,” Bundy said, stepping in front of Rev and slowing down for him.
“I can make it,” Rev gasped out between breaths.
Only he wasn’t sure. The end was in sight, just to the top of Mount Motherfucker, but his body was failing him.
“Hell Week” was a misnomer. The real hell couldn’t be half this bad.
This had been the hardest thing Rev had ever attempted, and he regretted every doughnut, can of Coke—every sylsky he’d eaten over the last year, every hour he’d spent gaming instead of getting some exercise.
He regretted letting his ego take over and demanding Direct Combat two weeks ago, but that same ego wouldn’t let him quit now. He might have no choice, however. His body was shutting down.
The first week after being issued his limeys, the bright green singlet worn by Direct Combat recruits, had been easy. He’d been assigned a rack in the barracks and spent time in work parties, cleaning the camp and moving supplies while he and the rest of the conscripted recruits waited for the class to convene. The work was easy, the pace slow, and it was a good time to get to know his fellow limeys—including Cricket, Tomiko, Yancey, and Ten. All told, there were more than a hundred of them, both conscript and volunteers.
The peace lasted until midnight on Sunday when the shark attack he’d expected back when they arrived as poolees descended on them. DIs roused them from their racks in a blizzard of screaming and immediately launched the recruits into a fifteen-klick run. Rev struggled, but he managed to keep up. After that first run, the rest of them, the humps with full packs, the waterwork, the log drills, the obstacle course, the lack of sleep, all blurred into a never-ending fog of pain and exhaustion. The DIs settled into a less-confrontational posture, but that didn’t mean they’d let up on what they demanded from the limeys, and they demanded a lot.
Several limeys fell to injury, and thirteen quit or just couldn’t continue. The injured would be recycled. Those who quit would become Ninety-Nines. Each time someone quit, that gave Rev a jolt of energy to push on, but that jolt had become increasingly smaller each consecutive time.
Rev, along with Cricket, and others, became the tail-end-Charlies, always bringing up the rear. Initially a group of about twenty, they winnowed down to about ten or so as the week dragged on. The DIs constantly told them to close it up, but as long as they didn’t stop, that seemed to be enough to keep them in the program.
But now Rev was at the end of his rope, and the final steep climb to the top was just one obstacle too many. Tears of frustration rolled down his cheeks.
“Come on,” Bundy repeated. “We’re almost there. Just grab my pack.”
“No,” Rev ground out. He wasn’t going to accept any help, especially from Bundy.
It wasn’t that he disliked the man. No one disliked him. Rangy and thin, Bundy was the oldest limey in the class, somewhere in his sixties at least. He was beat up, limping with every step despite the corpsman’s best efforts to keep his torn-up feet together. He was continually circulating, encouraging the others. Rev hadn’t thought Bundy would last a day, but here he was, six days later, not only in sight of the finish, but offering to help him. All while he could barely walk himself.
But Rev wasn’t going to have it. His pride wouldn’t let him.
“You go on,” he said.
“We can do it together, Rev.”
Rev knew there had to be one or two more recruits in back of him, but with his pack loaded with 100 kg of river rocks, he couldn’t waste the energy to turn around and look. Ahead of him, a dozen of his fellow limeys were spread out along the remaining three or four-hundred meters to the top. The rest were up there just out of sight, done with Hell Week.
Every muscle in his body was screaming in agony, and each step forward drained whatever he had left. He knew he was done, but he was damned if he was going to quit.
“What are you doing, Pelletier?” DI Gracer asked, coming up beside him.
“I’m not going to quit!” he shouted, then fell to one knee as his left leg cramped up.
“Get up, Rev,” Bundy told him, reaching down for an arm.
Rev weakly swatted the older man’s arm away as he struggled to rise, keeping his leg straight.
“You might not quit, but it doesn’t look like you’re going to make it. And if you don’t, by Saint Chesty, I’m going to Ninety-Nine your ass. Did you struggle through all of this for nothing?” the DI asked, leaning in close, her voice a shaming rasp.
“Come on, Rev. You can do it,” Krissy Regis said as she slowly passed them.
“I can do it,” Rev said through gritted teeth, knowing it was a lie.
And it broke him. He’d never been in this position, helpless.
“You can’t do it if you’re unable to see what’s in front of you.”
Confused, Rev looked up at the DI.
“By the Mother, do I have to spell it out for you?” Gracer asked. She gave a quick look up the hill where other DIs were spread out. “Recruit Bundy here is offering help,”
she hissed.
“But—”
“But nothing, Pelletier! We can’t take on the fucking tin-asses one-on-one. We have to be a team, and if you’re ego’s too big to get help where you can, then screw you. You belong as a Ninety-Nine.”
She gave him a light smack alongside his helmet, then left him and moved on to the next laggard.
Rev was confused. He didn’t know why DI Gracer was on his case. He thought not being willing to quit and not be willing to put the load on another recruit were good things, not bad. It wasn’t his ego talking at all.
“You heard her,” Bundy said, holding out a hand.
Bundy was twenty kilos smaller than Rev, and he was puffing as well. Rev didn’t want to jeopardize the older man’s chances, but . . .
With a sigh, he took the hand and let Bundy help him up. He yelled out as he tried to take a step, his calf cramping, and Bundy took Rev’s left arm around his shoulder, absorbing some of Rev’s weight.
“We’ve got this. One step at a time.”
Easy for Bundy to say, harder for Rev to do. He refused to look up, knowing the steep slope could break whatever small reservoir of will he had left. The final stretch became a series of small victories—one step here, two steps there. He was vaguely aware of shouts of encouragement. Several others had banded together as well for the last push, but his universe was focused on the piece of ground right in front of him. Nothing else mattered. He had to keep moving. If he stopped, he knew it would be over.
And then Bundy collapsed around him, falling in a motionless heap on the ground. Rev stared stupidly at him for a moment, ready to try the impossible and push on, but he couldn’t leave Bundy, not now. He’d carry him if he had to.
He bent over just to try and pick Bundy up when other limeys surrounded the two. The corpsman pushed through them and knelt by Bundy, then turned him over, asking for room.
Rev looked around, his mind muddled, but it finally dawned on him. They were at the top of Mount Motherfucker.
His leg took that moment to completely seize up, and he fell to his ass, the heavy pack jarring his shoulders. He didn’t care. Rev dropped the pack and pulled himself to where the corpsman was slapping a medpatch of some kind on Bundy’s neck.
The older man’s eyes fluttered a moment, then opened.
“I told you we’d make it,” Bundy said.
“Barely, and only thanks to you, old man.”
But barely was good enough. They both were going to be DC Marines.