Rule of Four (Damned of the 2/19th Novella)

28 Days Later...

"That cold ain't the weather, that's death approaching."
--30 Days of Night

I used my Gerber to snap another bead off of the long chain of my dogtags and then one from the shorter chain. A design of the dogtag chains was that the long one had 365 beads exactly, the shorter one had 52. It was designed to allow people to track time while a POW or when they were marooned.

Interesting bit of trivia. There were 101 stitches in the heel of a jump boot, 82 in the toe. It stood for 101st Airborne and 82nd Airborne.

The military is full of trivia like that. You picked it up, here and there, and it wasn't common to be asked military trivia questions at a promotion board.

I'd been asked to name seven places where the US flag flew 24/7, where Patton died, and who wrote "To Hirohito with love" on the Fat Boy.

I put the two beads in the hole in the foot board of the bunk bed. There was a tapping on the glass of the window, hidden by the boxes of MRE's, the sound of someone tapping a single finger to get attention.

I ignored it.

Twenty-eight days in the room so far. Twenty-eight days of walking on eggshells around each other. Twenty-eight days of screams, knocking, voices. Twenty-eight days of something pacing back and forth in front of my door.

"It's November 15th, gentlemen. Payday for those of you who get paid twice a month," I said, turning around. "Four weeks, and we haven't tried to murder each other yet."

The Specialist nodded. The Private was sitting on the edge of the bed, waking up, just starting his scheduled leisure time. There was a shout above us, followed by the crashing of boots. None of us even flinched.

We worked on shifts. Eight hours of guard duty, eight hours of rest, eight hours of duty.

The Specialist was on "guard duty", which involved sitting in the chair, watching the door.

I moved over and sat down in the chair, picking up the 10 kilogram weights, and starting to do curls with one hand. In the other I held a novel that I started reading. The Private got up, stumbling to the bathroom, and after a moment the shower started.

Twenty-five reps and I switched hands. My right shoulder complained but the lizard just hit one of the toggles and the pain turned to a burning tingle down the back of my arm. From out in the hallways came screams of torment, a man, who's voice quickly climbed into registers that prevented a person from telling if it was a man or woman who was screaming.

Death screams.

"Mind if I ask a question?" The Specialist asked after a long moment.

I kept reading. I'd read the book a half dozen times, but the author's 'voice' was soothing, the plot steady and predictable, the character's likable even if shallow. The perfect book to pass the time reading again.

"Sergeant?" The Specialist asked, breaking into my concentration.

"Yeah?" I looked over, smiling.

He shuddered. "Damn," he shook his head. "Can I ask a question?"

"Knock yourself out, high speed," I answered. I went from curling to keeping my arm straight and lifting it to shoulder level, holding it for a second or two, then slowly lowering it back down.

"Why stay in shape like that, man? I mean, come on, what was wrong with your human body?" He asked. Gunshots sounded out, distant, the hammering of full auto. It was flat, no echoes. That gave it away as a trick rather than something actually happening.