Page 88 of Fight Or Flight

Eric

Ithought sitting down with my parents and explaining everything about my future would clear things up and give me room to breathe until I left for basic training, but I was wrong. Once my parents knew, everyone knew. The next day, we sat down my siblings and told them my news. Bella didn’t really get it, Anthony thought I was too cool for school and asked me for my autograph, but Robert had the most surprising reaction of all, he stood up and called me a selfish prick.

Now, normally I would’ve gone a couple of rounds with my brother. My mother would have started screaming and my dad would’ve broken us up, just like always. But I let him go because something told me he needed time. Rob is easy to read, he doesn’t hide how he feels. I know when he’s mad and when he’s hurt. I also know when he’s afraid, and I think he was feeling a combination of all three.

Think about it, we’re only a year apart. For sixteen years we have lived in the same house, tormented the same parents, and shared nearly everything—from toys to shaving cream. Every childhood memory I have, he has. Neither of us knows what life is like without the other.

So, I decided to give him until Saturday, then I’d take him out for breakfast, and we’d talk things out. Saturday came, but there was no time to take my brother for pancakes because my dad had other plans.

“Rise and shine, G.I. Joe,” he said, pulling the comforter from my body. It took me a second to process what was happening, and my eyes instantly sliced toward the basement window and then to the clock on the end table.

“It’s five o’ clock in the morning on a Saturday,” I groaned, taking the pillow from behind my head and covering my face. He could keep the fucking comforter if he wanted to. “Go away.”

“Get your ass out of bed,” he ordered, kicking my shin.

That fucking hurt.

Forcing myself to sit up, my eyes cut to him and widen. Not only was he wearing a camouflage t-shirt and a pair of cargo pants, but he ditched his signature moto boots for a pair of tan combat boots.

“Why are you dressed for Halloween?” I asked.

He widened his stance and crossed his arms.

“Because my kid decided to join the Army and I ain’t sending him without first giving him an education.”

It was way too early for this.

“Um… that’s what basic training is for.”

“That’s nice, then you will be ahead of your class. Put your clothes on, you’re going to learn how to properly shoot a gun and you’re going to learn from me.”

I thought about arguing, but once he lifted his aviators from his face, I decided against it. If teaching me how to shoot a gun gave him peace of mind, I’d deal with the early wake-up call and the Halloween costume.

Once I was dressed, we climbed into his pick-up truck and were off. I figured he was taking me to a shooting range in New Jersey, but two hours later we pulled up to an old cabin the Satan’s Knights owned in Upstate New York that mostly acted as a safe house for when times got tough. There, we were greeted by my Grandpa Wolf, Uncle Jack, Uncle Pipe, and Blackie.

I turned to my dad.

“What is all this?”

“Consider this bootcamp,” he said. “We’re about to see if you’ve got the guts and glory it takes to be a soldier.”

I lifted an eyebrow, mildly amused at their antics, but the humor quickly faded. I followed my dad to the shed on the property and my eyeballs nearly fell out of their sockets when he opened the doors and revealed a collection of firearms.

Then with Blackie’s help, my dad taught me how to assemble and disassemble every gun. Once I got the hang of that, it was time for me to learn how to shoot. Until then I had never seen my dad hold a gun, much less fire one. He was a fucking pro and Blackie wasn’t so bad either and they were determined to teach me how to be as good as them.

Three hours later, after I successfully hit three consecutive targets—beer cans, in case you were wondering—Uncle Pipe stepped in. The man whose road name paid homage to his craft, showed me how to expertly build a pipe bomb. I was joining the most extensive military in all the world, where I would learn to fire the deadliest weapons, yet there I was, sitting in the middle of nowhere making pipe bombs.

After my stint in chemical warfare, they turned the hose on me and had me run the perimeter of the land with my Grandpa on my back. Now, the guy had dropped some weight since I was a kid, but he could eat an entire tray of eggplant parmigiana in one sitting. He was no lightweight.

I was soaking wet.

My arms burned.

My legs threatened to buckle.

I could barely breathe.

All I wanted was to go home.

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