Heart & Soul, part 2

The newly-christened Mortuus Anima was trained with thirteen other boys. They all slept in the same dingy, miserable barracks and all wore the same dingy, miserable armor. The barracks were actually a pair of old campers wielded together, as most of the camp was made up of ancient rusting campers. Mortuus realized immediately how foolish he'd been to think he'd be allowed to stay in the opulent center of the Legion camp. He blushed with embarrassment when he was lead to his actual quarters, the two ancient skeletons of recreation vehicles bonded together to make one long shack. Somehow, even though the sun had completely set the inside of the shack was hotter than the day had been. Although it wasn't as nice as Caesar's tent, Mortuus knew it was reasonable living space for someone brand new to Caesar's tribe.

The armor he was impressed with. It was stiff leather, and although it was pathetic compared to the metal-clad centurion he'd seen in Caesar's tent, or even the armor worn by the legionaries who brought him to Kingman, it was still better armor than anything Mortuus had worn in his previous life. The fact that the other twelve boys he was meeting were afforded similar armor left him amazed at the Legion's resources.

The drill instructor introduced Mortuus Anima to the boys one by one. At first Mortuus couldn't quite tell why the man kept calling him that, but eventually came to realize that the words 'Mortuus Anima' were his new name. He was introduced to each boy with a sharp finger point that caused each boy to flinch. The instructor pointed "Silus," a boy a little younger than Mortuus with a broad, squashed nose. "Broken Tree," the instructor pointed at a lanky teenager with a pronounced underbite. "Max," who appeared to be the youngest and cleanest-looking. "Prong," whose face was swollen with bruises. "Bonjou," who had a big dumb smile. "Pliny," who had shifty eyes. "Helo," who looked to be the oldest, and had ritualistic scars across his face. "Cracked-Glass," who appeared to be so named for a pair of dusty glasses he wore. He raised his eyebrows in surprise at Mortuus. "Mosayru," who sneered at Mortuus. "Nuvakwahu," who looked exactly like Mosayru but with shorter hair. He didn't sneer but sullenly stared. "Victor," who had some tribal tattoos on his arms that Mortuus almost recognized. "Ravid," who had the same tattoos as Victor. "Ya-et-ehh," who looked huge, at least six feet tall and barely into his teens. The instructor made sure Mortuus repeated each name after it was told to him. He stumbled over some of the pronunciation, but he phonetically sounded them out in his mouth.

"Alright, and I'm sir. You call me sir," the drill instructor pointed at himself.

"Youcall-me-sir," Mortuus repeated. Sir smacked him upside the head.

"What a fucking moron," he muttered. Mortuus nursed his head sullenly. "Alright, maggots, march!"

The thirteen boys all lined up in a row and Mortuus awkwardly joined them, still sullen from the slap. The thirteen marched. They left the barracks into the cooling badlands evening. They left the camp at a steady pace, past armed guards standing watch next to fences built of hard wasteland clay and more rusty scrap tin.

Mortuus trailed slightly behind the rest. He didn't want to march any more after being marched to Kingman. The boy named Bonjou looked back at him pityingly.

"Pa tonbe dèyè, ou pral jwenn manje," he told Mortuus, but he was savagely smacked by Victor.

"Speak english you fucking cabron," Victor sneered. Mortuus couldn't understand either of them. He was scared to speak and so he resolved to never speak again.

They marched for hours. Every time Mortuus thought they were going to stop, turn around, and go home, they kept marching. It was around midnight when they finally returned to camp, lit by torches made of oil-soaked rags and old lead pipes. They sullenly tromped to the barracks where Sir dismissed them. Mortuus didn't understand what was happening but he dutifully followed his new comrades. He'd made the trip to Kingman and then made it again and again and again until he could almost tell that they were just walking in circles. He thought he had worked more than any of the other boys he was sharing a now-frozen barracks with. He had definitely worked harder than he'd ever worked before. Yet he still survived. He was tough. He crawled under an old tarp on an old mattress and fell asleep immediately.

He felt like he woke up immediately. At five in the morning all the boys were putting on their armor and stretching for the day. Mortuus had never been awake before the sun before. His privilege among the Twisted Hairs afforded him that luxury. He sorely missed his privilege as he clumsily forced on his armor. As the boys all readied themselves a bottle of water was passed around and they all took drinks from it. Mortuus was the last to receive the water and he drank from it as he had seen the other boys do, but it tasted like the spit of thirteen other boys. In any case it did make him feel better.

They ate a breakfast of flavorful mush, thick and creamy like polenta. Although it reminded him of mud he ate lots of it because he was so depleted from the day before. He was allowed to eat as much as he wanted. Even among the Twisted Hairs who afforded him many privileges there was not enough food for him to eat his fill, yet among the Legion (who as far as he could tell didn't actually like him) he was given all the meal he could cram in his mouth. He ate more than any other boy, but not much more.

He discovered quickly that the daily training routine was more intensive than the trip to Kingman and some laps around town. They began training immediately after breakfast, more laps around town, and when it seemed like they were about to stop, Sir instead gave each of them heavy rocks and made them run around town even more. Then with shaking arms Mortuus was made to do pull ups and push ups before a lunch of more mush. Mortuus' arms were too weak for him to eat, but he was starving so he forced his face into the mush and licked his bowl clean. The other boys suffered no such exhaustion. They were jovial, laughing and talking to each other as they shoveled food into their mouths. They ignored Mortuus. Many years later when Mortuus Anima thought back to his first official day with the Legion he was embarrassed by his behavior, but none of the other boys cared.

After lunch was sparring. Mortuus was handed a stick and paired up with Max, who was smaller than Mortuus but was actually older. Max came from a small township in Arizona that had capitulated to the Legion peacefully, seeing Caesar and his soldiers as a source of order in the chaotic wasteland. Many of the men in Max's family had joined the Legion proudly, and Max's mother sent him to train with the Legion because she felt it was the right thing to do. Max loved the Legion. However, he was not a good soldier.

Sir set up Mortuus with Max to make a point. Any of the boys could have defeated Mortuus handily, but losing to Max was the most embarrassing. Mortuus Anima could tell what Sir was trying to do and was determined to beat Max into the ground.

When sparring began Mortuus wound up for a massive blow to Max's small frame, the same blow he'd used to fell his first kill. It was clearly telegraphed and Max calmly jabbed him in his totally exposed stomach. As Mortuus doubled over in pain Max brought his stick hard across Mortuus' face, a blow that if it came from any other boy would have laid Mortuus out flat but Max had to trip him to get him to fall. Then Max, unaccustomed as he was to beating his opponent in a sparring match, began to gracelessly beat Mortuus with his stick while Mortuus lay on the ground futilely trying to protect himself with his hands. Sir called it off after a minute and a half of this.

"Now you see, Mortuus Anima," Sir stood over him, "Even the weakest Legionary can defeat the strongest tribal."

Mortuus didn't understand a thing Sir said, but the message was perfectly clear.