Meteor Soldiers - Episode 1-2

“You are infinitely in debt to your country! Every breath you take is a mixture of oxygen and patriotism! If you’re unwilling to lay yourselves down and become human shields for your soil - like the useless sacks of organs that you are - then you maggots shouldn’t have come to this base!”

            Standing in line is one thing Chess vowed, as a rebel, never to do. That, and join the army. Yet somehow, through the complex tree of cause and effect, he was standing in line in the army. And being yelled at. Sergeant Scorch was an amalgamation of every clichéd drill sergeant in film history. His walk, his roaring voice, his crew-cut, his overgenerous impression of his own authority...... But holy galloping shitballs of Jerusalem, he had the awesomest name ever. Scorch. Chess would have given the better half of his manhood to have a name like that. If written on paper, he thought, the name would probably burn right through. Had his parents willingly named him Scorch, or had the name crawled out of Hell and angrily decreed itself upon him?

            “Discard your worthless value systems!” Scorch yelled as he marched the length of the line. “You are now vessels to the values of your government, do I make myself clear?”

          “Yes sir!” the line answered, though not in perfect unison like as seen on television. This kind of life was hell to Chess, and yet it was his choice. The army was a test of his faith, a sacrifice within his own religion. At least he wasn’t alone. He’d left school after Year 10, and hadn’t seen many of his classmates for the past two years. Earlier that morning was the first time he’d spoken to kids like Dave and Corey in a while. It was comforting knowing Corey was insecure about joining, and Dave was quite the character. His brand of humour was witty and inoffensive, so long as you didn’t have ovaries.

            But back to the subject at hand: ‘Sergeant Scorch’ was the coolest goddamn name of any person Chess had ever encountered. It was like the codename of an action hero, or the stage name of a speed metal guitarist. First, there was the ‘Sc’ part of the name - not only did the ‘c’ part cut the air, but the ‘S’ added a slickness to the blade that was ‘Sc’. Then came ‘or’ - like the sound a demon would make. Every time someone said ‘Scorch’, he imagined a demon poking its head out of their mouth and yelling ‘ORRRRRRRR!!!!!’ right in his face. Then the last two letters - ‘ch’ - brought the name in for a smooth landing, coolly stating “It’s over, bitch-tits”. When said as a full word, this name struck Chess’s mind, writhed its way down his throat, and caused a pleasant tingle as it nested in his gonads.

            “Wipe that dumb grin off your face!” the sergeant roared into Chess’ face. “Is this some kind of game to you?”

            “Sorry,” mumbled Chess, suddenly realising he’d let himself get sidetracked.

            “Sorry? I didn’t ask you to apologize! You are to remain quiet unless I ask for you to speak, in which case you will not mumble, but yell your response with confidence! And all your sentences will end with ‘Sir’!” Scorch pushed his face right into Chess’, getting so close that every wobble of his stern head as he yelled appeared to toss his face a metre to each side, due simply to perception of distance. “You had a cosy life in the city, didn’t you? I can just smell your distain for authority figures! You must have really stuck it to the man by buying obnoxious punk rock albums with the allowance your parents gave you. But here in the real world, I’m going to mould you into something! You’ll do push-ups in the rain until you’re a disciplined fighter! My orders will scare the sloppiness out of you! My harsh words will form a hand and fondle your balls until they harden to steel!”

            Against his better judgement, Chess let a snort of laughter escape him.

            “You think that’s funny!?” yelled Scorch. “We’ll see how funny life is when you’re scrubbing all the toilets in this company! You’ll be- hey, HEY!!”

            Chess was snapped out of his reverie. Or more accurately, snapped from his glance at stunning simpleton Gina as she traversed the field.

            “Eyes forward, maggot! Why was your gaze wandering!?”

            “I always look away from whoever I’m talking to, sir,” he said. “It’s a physical expression of my apathy and social disillusionment, sir. I also groan and roll my eyes, sir.” This was the wrong thing to say. Not that he was being sardonic, but he said it without enthusiasm, as if pretending to yell.

            It was here that Chess first witnessed Scorch’s true severity. When a man who’d just been screaming at you suddenly goes quiet, he discovered, it feels harsher than the yelling. “Oh, so you just say what you feel like saying whenever you want, eh? Too cool to follow orders? Well I guess I’ll just have to punish you without expecting results. One hundred and fifty star-jumps. Now!” Chess obeyed. “The rest of you get two hundred, and if you think that’s unfair you can give Seabell your thoughts later on! Now move, move, move!”

            Every recruit in the line began jumping, stretching their arms and legs out with every first jump and tucking them back in with the next. Wow, star-jumps will help us in battle, Chess thought. If the enemy ever shoots us with giant bullets that have star-shaped holes in the centre, we’ll be able to jump right through them. God, what kind of retard general is running this army?

---

“Commanding General Reginald E. Tard, standing by.”

            Scorch stood tall as he and General Tard saluted at the large tent’s entrance. This salute lingered for a full protocol second before dropping. Had either of them felt the energy, they could have stood Viagra-stiff and saluted for longer; the beads of sweat on their faces were a silent signal that they were both hot and bothered.

            “Damn heat,” said General Tard in his grainy voice. “Why couldn’t we have set this up in Europe or America? I hate this country and everyone in it. Beer’s good, though. And the comedy is..... well, limited to innuendo and gimmicky characters with bad puns for names."

            “Not really in the mood for small talk,” said Scorch as he poured straight bourbon into two glasses. “I’ve had my hands full trying to whip these flabby cowards into shape. Why am I stuck with the recruitment job? I’m a goddamn mercenary.”

            “And this particular mission involves posing as a drill sergeant,” said Tard. “And if this job was really bothering you so much, you’d have dropped that fake Australian accent the second we were alone.”

            “Devotion to character,” said Scorch with a sly grin. He and the general clinked glasses, followed by that glorious instant when the first sliver of liquor slid down their throats. “Amazing to think a beverage that heats you up could taste so refreshing.”

            “Agreed.” General Tard enveloped his remaining drink in one large swig. “Don’t worry about the recruits being pissweak, Scorch. Remember, we don’t need competent soldiers. We just need a shitload of human flesh. Apart from that, they’re useless.”

            “Just like supermodels.”

            “Exactly.”

---

11:45 PM.

            It seemed like every time Corey glanced at his watch, time had barely moved forward. That was a given, considering he’d looked at his watch 15 times in the last minute. Plus it was broken. But still... Lying in his hard bed in the soldier’s quarters, there was little to suggest he wasn’t in prison. There was the fact that he shared the same army PJs as every other new recruit, along with the dead grey concrete walls, rough to the touch. Also, the sliding door into the bedroom looked suspiciously like a wooden panel hammered onto jail bars.

            Only then did he bother reading the plaque on the left wall: “This prison was converted into the headquarters for military recruits in 1955.” In smaller writing beneath, the sign read: “McAllen’s Plaques: Confirming the suspicions of arseholes since 1901.”

            “Whatever.” He fell horizontal again. How could Corey arrange his feelings after one day at the base? In a way, it felt like he didn’t have enough feelings - only boring thoughts. He’d contemplated signing up for over a year, yet as much as he let the idea evolve, he never really found a solid reason for wanting to join up. Fragments of reason existed, but he couldn’t paint an endgame. For as much as Corey usually thought everything through, this plan frightened him.

            His thoughts shifted to something of the ‘Where the hell’s Dave?’ variety. His sexaholic roommate had left for the bathroom half an hour ago, since the ancient steel toilet in their cell looked like a syringe full of AIDS. Jesus Dave, he thought. How long does it take to reach the toilet, unload a parcel, and sit for five minutes thinking about the last film you saw?

            “....will only end in a revolt. A large army will never.....”

            Corey faintly heard a voice resembling Dave’s. Most of the conversation was muffled by walls, so he slid the entrance panel partially open and poked his head out into the dark. A few metres down the hallway to his right, Dave was standing at the corridor’s T-section. Whoever he was speaking to was covered by the corner. Dave looked ready to erupt with anger, and by straining his ears Corey could barely distinguish his words:

            “Can you see anything other than a dead end ahead? What’ll happen when neighbouring countries get involved? You can’t hide behind your soldiers forever.”

            His opponent’s response wasn’t audible to Corey. Their voice seemed oddly distorted, as though they spoke through an artificial voice box.

            “People won’t stand for this!” exclaimed Dave, emphasising his words by angrily stabbing at the ground with his finger. “Someone will rise to stop you, so if you think you’re invincible then you can-”

            Something sharp burst out of Dave’s back, spraying blood onto the wall. Corey was hammered in the chest with horror, immediately realising that his life had now changed for the worse. The dagger or steak or whatever it was withdrew slowly from Dave’s chest, and without its support he fell back. Once his movement ceased, the attacker emerged from behind the corner.

            Corey instinctively drew back into his room, but with the little he’d seen of the attacker, he figured they were looking away from him. Thus, he cautiously probed his head out to identify them. The killer was mostly enshrouded in a tattered grey robe, and bent to examine Dave’s body with a hooded face. All that was visible of him was whatever hung from his right sleeve. This ‘murder weapon’ almost looked like a claw; either dark blue or black, this appendage consisted of three knifelike fingers that dripped with fresh human vital fluids.

            What the hell is that thing?

            Corey had seen all he needed to. He quickly ducked into his room without daring to close the door. For the first time that night, his thoughts were overpowered by feelings; feelings of dread, of intensity. His breathing had become quick and without order. His arm muscles were in spasm, torn between hardening and turning to flab. He was suddenly drunk; hot, confused, and barely lucid.

            In under a minute, he’d gone from questioning why he was at the army base to knowing why he didn’t want to be. There were many questions in Corey’s head - too many to address. All that mattered was the disturbing, life-shattering truth.

            Dave Bennington was dead.