Bereavement

Chapter 9

"So basically, I have the rest of today and tomorrow to train soldiers so that they're ready to fight in a war."

"Essentially, yes."

I raise my eyebrows at Amar, who is telling me to do something nearly impossible. The physical stage of initiation used to last about a couple of weeks; how am I supposed to cram all that information in in less than two days? Before I was not necessarily training initiates for war, but now I am expecting these soldiers to be professionals.

"There are hundreds of people in there," Amar says, motioning toward the door of the training room. "Better get to it."

I sigh, "Yeah."

I shove the door open, revealing a large crowd of people talking as they wait for instruction. This is nothing like the mornings where I used to walk into an empty, silent training room, when I reveled in the smell of metal and dust and effort. Now there are too many trainees, there is a different sense of the need to learn, there is no fighting to secure a spot in this faction.

There is no petite, resilient blonde to admire, or to snap back at me and push me to my limits.

"Listen up!" I shout, slipping into my Four persona. Immediately, everyone's conversations die down. I haven't lost my charm, apparently. "It is up to each of you to pay attention to what I teach the next two days. Relearning and learning fighting and weapon techniques could end up saving your life. This is not a game, and I will easily kick you out if I find you messing around. Understood?"

A chorus of yeses echoes throughout the dank training room, and luckily they sound eager to learn. Good, that'll make my job easier.

"Start by running laps for fifteen minutes," I command.

I watch as the trainees jog around the room for as long as I told them, none of them dropping out to walk. I don't want to spend much time on this part because although stamina is important, aim is more likely to be efficient in saving a person's life.

After they finish, sweating, florid, and out of breath, I tell them to work on push-ups, sit-ups, and other similar exercises. An hour later, I gather them back around me to give them a demonstration on shooting.

"Watch how I stand," I say, lifting my arms up and aiming my gun. "Separate your feet so they are shoulder width apart, keep the rifle butt against your shoulder. Lean into it a little. Look down the sights like this and..."

I hesitate for a moment before I pull the trigger. A gunshot sounds throughout the room, and I am proud yet uncomfortable to see a hole in the center of the target. I didn't have time to think about it yesterday, but now I get the chance to concentrate on the fact that I am shooting a gun.

I enjoy shooting. I love the feeling of power I get over controlling something so strong. I love the feeling of the kickback against my shoulder. The problem is what I use guns for.

I hear a snicker, and someone mumbles, "I already know how to shoot."

The comment angers me, and I find myself inquiring, "Is there a problem?" I turn around to face a blonde, cocky teenager, who looks surprised that I overheard him talking to his friend.

He rolls his eyes. "Why are you teaching us to shoot when we already know how to?" he asks, although it is not a serious question. He is just trying to undermine me and make himself look like he isn't my subordinate.

It reminds me of the time when I pointed a gun at Peter Hayes, when he yawned and didn't take gun training seriously. But this boy doesn't seem malicious like Peter, just extremely arrogant. I have to remind myself that Peter isn't cruel anymore; well, that I know of, at least. Who knows what he could be doing up in Milwaukee.