Page 35 of The Darkness Within

“You think?”

Fucking smartass. “I thought you were disrespecting him,” I snap.

“You have no idea how much I respect him. He saved my life a time or two.”

How like Brewer. “Yeah, he does that a lot.”

“I’m from the south. I call everyone darling or doll.”

My eyebrow climbs again, and I’m curious if he plans on calling me doll next. Tex laughs. “Not you, it doesn’t fit. I’ll have to think of something else that suits you better.”

“Take your time, cowboy.”

He offers me the remote. “Do you wanna watch TV? The newbie always gets control of the remote.”

“I don’t watch much TV, but thanks.”

Tex brushes his long honey-colored bangs from his forehead. He looks like he can’t fathom how anyone can live without TV, even for a day. “Like any?”

“It’s not a good idea when you’re easily triggered by just about everything.”

Nodding, he adds, “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well, if you ever want to know what’s happening in the world, just ask.”

And just like that, I’ve made a friend. At least, I think I have?

“Welcome back, Sommers,” Chief Burgess greets unenthusiastically. “You can start by hosing down the vehicles in the motorpool. They’re covered in pollen. After that, your new recruits are due for PT evals.”

Fuck me. Maybe if I cut my whole damn injured leg off, they’ll let me go home. I could fake a heart attack or throw myself down a flight of stairs.

By the time I finish making the Humvees spotless, five hours have passed, but it feels like a lifetime. What the fuck am I doing with my life? On my way out of the military, a stellar career cut short, with no plans for the future, I’m just sitting here wasting away the hours, counting the days until I retire…and then what? What do I have waiting for me after this? So far, nothing but an endless round of support groups and twelve step programs. Physical and mental therapies. A long and lonely life—a solitary life—with nothing to warm my bed but bad memories.

There has to be more than this. I didn’t fight to stay alive for this. I didn’t suffer extreme agony just to throw away my future.

“Four more laps,” I shout across the field, clocking my stopwatch as each recruit crosses the starting line.

“Sergeant,” Peterson pants, sweating and melting all over his boots, “I don’t think I can make it four more laps, sir.” He looks green around the gills, and I think he might be right.

“Don’t be a pussy, Peterson. Get out there and knock those laps out.”

“But sir—”

“Are you a pussy, Peterson?”

“No, sir.”

“Five more laps.”

His face falls, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut, jogging off. I’ll eat my hat if he makes it one more lap.

Halfway around the track, Peterson collapses, hands braced on his knees, hunched forward, and he vomits his lunch all over the pavement. When he’s finished emptying his stomach, he walks the rest of the track, slowing even more as he reaches me.

“Peterson, you’re a fucking embarrassment. Get off my track and go wash your boots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And drink some fucking water.”

Goddamn, I was held captive and tortured, and it was preferable to this bullshit. What scares me is that guys like him wouldn’t last two days in the desert in captivity. How would he act if a terrorist blew his foot off or shot him in the leg?

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