When the Dust Settles

A California Daydream

CHAPTER SIX

A California Daydream

#

MAY 2008

It was fucking hot.

For some reason, the Georgia humidity clung to our barracks like a wet blanket, draining what little life we had left. We figured the A.C. unit was busted, and it couldn't have happened at a worse time–right when we finally got some time to ourselves before the Drill Sergeants ordered us to sleep.

So there we were: sixty young, sweaty idiots, simmering in the heat and on the brink of snapping. The tension was thick, and it didn't take much for someone to cross the line. Private Jacob Dawson found himself on the wrong side of that line, cornered by two guys over the last cup of peanut butter from the DFAC.

I minded my business because I was just a kid, never really had issues with anyone–well, except for the fights I had with my little brother. But even then, he was thirteen, what was he going to do?

The others mostly kept to themselves, but when you crammed a bunch of eighteen and nineteen-year-olds into a room with no supervision, it wasn't just chaotic—it was a damn fight club. The place reeked of sweat, and tempers flared just as hot as the Georgia heat.

Those assholes had no right pushing Dawson around, but they were itching for a fight, their P.T. uniforms sticking to their sweat-soaked skin. I sat on the ground with my wet back pressed against the wall, glancing around to see what the other recruits were doing.

The guys were scattered around, each finding their own way to kill time during the precious moments of downtime. Some were hunched over, writing letters home. Others were meticulously folding their clothes—an essential skill every soldier had to master, yet very few could. A few were playing cards or thumbing through magazines they'd managed to get their hands on. 

Then there were the usual assholes, picking on the quiet guy in the corner for swiping the last cup of peanut butter at the DFAC. I clenched my teeth and shook my head, annoyed but not surprised.

I could see it in Dawson's eyes—he wanted nothing to do with them or anyone else for that matter. The two privates shoved him again, forcing him back against the wall, fear written across his face. That's when I decided enough was enough. I wouldn't just sit there and let it happen anymore.

"Yo, Snyder. Cut that shit out," I barked, pushing myself off the ground, my eyes locked on the smaller man. Snyder had gone through basic training with a buzzed head, leaving behind prickles of black hair. His nose was crooked, like it had been broken more than once in his past. He wasn't much to look at—an ugly kid, really, the kind you'd wonder if even his own mother could love.

Snyder and Thompson—at least I think it was Thompson—whipped their heads around, their sweat-ridden lips curling into snarls.

"Just minding our business, Reiner," Snyder snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He glanced over at Dawson, who was inching away, and shot out a hand to stop him. "Where do you think you're going, fucker? We're not done here."

Snyder's fist slammed into Dawson's jaw with a sickening crack, the sound echoing through the barracks and drawing the attention of everyone around. For a second, Dawson just stood there, his head jerked to the side, jaw clenched tight, eyes shut as if absorbing the pain. 

But when he opened them, something had changed—his usual quiet demeanor was gone, replaced by a burning rage. Without warning, Dawson lunged at Snyder, catching him off guard. They crashed to the floor, Dawson's fists hammering down with relentless fury. Snyder barely had time to raise his arms in defense before the punches rained down, each one fueled by pent-up frustration. 

The other guys, who had been inching closer to see the fight, now stepped back, some too shocked to intervene, others too entertained to care.

Thompson jumped in and landed a solid blow to the side of Dawson's head, knocking him off Snyder and onto the floor with a thud. While Snyder collected himself, Thomspon continued pummeling Dawson with fury. It wasn't just a fight anymore; it was a beatdown, and I wasn't about to stand by and watch. I didn't know Dawson well, didn't really care to, but I couldn't let two guys gang up on him like that.

I charged into the fray, my fist connecting with Thompson's face in a satisfying crunch. It sent him staggering back, and before he could recover, I was on him, throwing punches like a kid in a schoolyard brawl. It was reckless, stupid even, but I didn't care. This was about leveling the playing field.

Amid the chaos, I caught a glimpse of Dawson as he wrestled with Snyder, each of them landing strikes on the other, and what caught my attention wasn't the beating—it was the grin plastered on his face, like he was actually enjoying this.

That idiot was having fun.

It dawned on me: Dawson loved causing trouble. He wasn't just some quiet, reclusive kid; he was a damn instigator. He knew exactly what he was doing when he swiped that last cup of peanut butter. He'd done it on purpose, taunting Snyder with every smug lick, knowing it would set him off.

And now, here we were, trading blows like a bunch of assholes, all because Dawson couldn't help but stir the pot.