Hyde had thought he'd already been in as much pain as possible, but he'd been wrong. So, so wrong. After not enough sleep and disgusting food – still better than what Edna had fed him, but life with Kitty Forman had spoiled him rotten – the recruits had been sent out on a 'little exercise'. Meaning: 15 miles of running through the wet, muddy terrain with backpacks filled with what felt like cement and boots that had not been broken in yet. He was one big lump of pain.
The only conciliation was that everyone in his group was the same. Carter – 'no, no relation to the President' – had fallen behind, and Master Sergeant Brewer was screaming at him every step he made. Hyde might have felt sympathy for Carter but he was too busy trying not to puke. Kelso had once said that running gave you a high, like weed, but so far it felt more like that one day when Hyde had tried acid. That trip had nearly skinned him alive and he wouldn't touch it anymore with a ten-foot pole.
"You sissies, get your asses in gear or I'll kick them until they're blue! Blue-asses, all of you, lazy, fat, wobbly chicken, each and every one. Faster! Hyde, speed up or you'll be overtaken by Carter and he might trample you in his wake, like that fat walrus he is!"
Hyde gave his legs a little more power and he picked up his pace – not in any way impressive, but he was just about done. Carter whimpered somewhere from behind, and while there were two more guys between them, Hyde would be picked out again today, he just knew.
Brewer hated his guts, or maybe that was an act that he'd perfected already. It was probably because he'd made some stupidly lame joke during the haircut, which led to Brewer asking his name and yelling at him and calling him a smart-mouth for half an hour, so he guessed that bit of idiocy had sealed his fate.
Hyde also wouldn't go out of his way to impress that asshole, like most of the others seemed to try. Self-preservation-instincts were usually pretty high on him, but they came in quite messed-up ways. He tried to avoid work or punishment and pain but mostly through evasion, not obedience. He could have made his life less miserable if he'd just done what Edna and all those 'uncles' wanted from him, but that would have made him a freaking doormat. Or a punching-bag, or worse. So he'd just left whenever someone wanted something from him, or – if leaving was for one reason or another impossible – had distanced himself from everything so far that he was just as absent in mind as he wanted to be in body.
Through all this pain and misery now, he wondered if his coping-strategies would work here. Shoving pain away to get something done would work fine, but distancing to the point of not hearing everything was probably a sure-fire way to get his ass kicked.
"Halt!" Everyone stopped, trying to get breath back without making it obvious. As if Sergeant Brewer didn't know they were all panting like pugs in the summer-heat. "Five minute stop, drink something and get your gear in order, and if by the time I blow the whistle even one of you slowpokes is still not standing and ready to continue, I will make this trip double and throw in some nice crunch-ups for good measure!"
Everyone dropped pretty much where they stood. Some of the guys were lucky enough to find a tree to lean against, but Hyde just slopped down into the mud. At this point, it didn't matter if he got dirt on his back – everything was soaked and dirty anyway. "Man, I'll be pruned up like a raisin when this is over," he complained. The person closest to him – he didn't even know who that was, not Miller, though – grunted back. Could have been affirmation or disagreement, didn't make a difference. For a few precious moments, all he did was breathe. He remembered this trick from home whenever he got too upset to keep his breath even or tried to keep from bawling like a baby: deep in – hold it for a few seconds – deep out. It calmed him down and it didn't take long to realize that cold was creeping up from the ground. Having his muscles cramp on top of being exhausted would be really bad, so reluctantly he groaned himself upright and unhooked his canteen. Long, slow draughts of water, wait until it settles, repeat. Man, if he'd known his childhood would give him the skills to withstand a long-distance-track in the Army, Hyde'd have been more grateful for the way he'd been raised.
Not really, no.
One of the guys from further back was already packing everything up, tightening the straps of his pack and re-lacing his shoes. Might be a good idea, except that the thought of even touching his feet right now would make Hyde break out in tears. As they were, they were tolerable. Change anything and they might be better – but if they got worse, it would be… well. Worse.
Still, he checked everything he had on him, trying to rile himself enough to get up. Mind over matter, young grasshopper, and with a sigh he wrapped his legs underneath him in the tailor-seat and pushed himself up from there. All around, the guys were rising as well. That guy right next to him – Wilson, how practical to have nametags what with everyone looking the freaking same – was still only half-done. Brewer was checking his watch, so Hyde tapped Wilson on his thigh with his toes. "Get up, man. We gotta get moving in seconds."
"I can't," Wilson moaned "I think I'm dying."
"No you're not, idiot. Come on, we'll only have to run more if you stay here. That includes you. So move your ass." He held out his hand, and with a groan Wilson took it and let himself be pulled up.
"What have we got here, now!"
Of freaking course Brewer would look up just then.
"Is one of you chicken too weeny-tired to get up on his own, huh? What are you, girls? You chickenshit dumb boneheads, you'll be a disgrace to the uniform and-" At this point, Hyde just stopped listening. Right at the end of the rant would come an order, he'd be back on air for that.
"Now get your asses in gear and move it! Tomorrow, 4:30, I want you on the grounds for some double-crunches together, seeing as you're so close already!" He blew the whistle right in between their ears, and man, that really hurt.
The rest of the tour, Hyde tried to get the ringing to stop. Last time that'd happened was after a Black Sabbath concert, and it had taken three days to hear clearly. He was hoping that this time would be a bit quicker. Especially since he didn't have half as much fun as at the concert.
Man, Ozzy really knew how to rock.
Hyde was barely able to blink when, after what felt like days, a relieved groan went through the group. He looked up and there it was, the most beautiful thing in the world.
Fort Porcupine, in all its porky glory, just half a mile or so to go. He could totally do that.
Some hours – minutes? Weeks? – later, they all stumbled through the doors and if Hyde hadn't known this would be a setup, he'd have broken down with the three guys from the front of the troop as well. But he knew it would be a setup, so he stayed on his feet, swaying. Wilson had stuck to him after he'd pulled him up, and he wasn't sure if he liked that. The guy's face had a resemblance to Kelso that was really uncanny. Apart from the nose, which was less wide, Wilson could have been a twin.
"All right, you ninnies! Petersen, Washington, that Spaghetti-faced whatshisname – you'll be glad to know that because of your inability to stay in line until I fucking give the fucking order to be at rest, all of you dimwitts will stand to attention for the next ten minutes. Packs down and at attention, do you hear me?!"
"Yes, sir," the group mumbled, and of course that wasn't good enough.
"What was that? I can't hear you chicks! I want an answer, did you all hear me?"
"Sir, yes Sir!" Hyde didn't even have the energy to mentally sneer at the sound of the numbed-down masses, degrading themselves to complete obedience. Mostly because right now, he was one of the masses.
"Now – A-tention!"
He blanked out again, concentrating on Zepplin-lyrics instead. His knees were shaking and his legs were starting to wobble, but he'd be damned if he gave up and gave in. He could totally do this, he wouldn't let the Man best him. Not here, not now.
All last night
Sat on the levee and moaned
All last night
Sat on the levee and moaned
Thinkin' about my baby
And my happy home
Should have chosen a different song…
He knew for a fact it hadn't been ten minutes when Brewer blew his whistle and commanded them to shower and get grub, then hit the sack. The song was just about seven minutes long, and he hadn't gotten to the end yet. He might not understand what the hell a click was supposed to be, but he sure knew Zepplin. He'd listened to them so much, he knew the length and pace of every single one of their songs, which was a handy method to keep time.
Brewer was taking it easy on them, then. Would you look at that.
