The few minutes spared for the newly conscripted was barely enough for Medina to grab her things, darting back to her hovel under the angered shouts of the Police and shoveling what little she owned into her tattered and faded backpack. That same backpack was now cutting furrows into her shoulders, its narrow straps pulled tight as her feet pounded across the broken pavement. Despite, or perhaps because of the forced nature of their recruitment, it was deemed that none of the drafted civilians rated the use of precious fuel to be trucked to their destination. Instead, those who didn't have their own filter masks were given thin paper substitutes and ordered to march, led by their 'recruiters' and following the person in front of them.
So they marched, each draftee following the person in front of them, the pace set by a pair of officers at the head of the column. Medina didn't dare to slow, let alone quit, even as the hours began to stretch and the pain in her feet became a steady hum. At the rear of the column was another half-dozen officers, charged with keeping stragglers in the group and punishing those who tried to run. Twice, Medina fell behind, her stamina flagging and the aches and pains of poor living catching up to her. It was only the sight and sound of these officers, shouting curses and brandishing batons with malicious intent, that kept her moving long past what she had once thought was her breaking point.
After long hours, marching away from the setting sun, the column's destination, a long, pocked runway surrounded by dulled and worn chainlinks, came into view. As they got closer, Medina could make out where the entrance sign used to be, now worn down to jaded rubble. Closer still, she could hear the diesel-fueled grumble of coughing generators and the wind-buffeted tops of canvas tents banging grommets into weathered support struts. As the head of the column approached the gate- nothing more than a gash in the fence buttressed with sandbags- they were halted.
"Line up! Line Up! Get on Line! That means shoulder-to-shoulder you fucking incompetents!" The officer at the head of the column shouted, grabbing and shoving those who weren't fast enough to follow his commands. Medina scurried forward, nearly tripping in the sucking mud in her hurry. The officers from the rear of the column drove them together, storming between the hurriedly formed lines with batons eagerly raised to prod, jab, and cajole compliance into the tired draftees.
After a few frantic minutes, the officer from the head of the column strode out in front of the messy formation, shaking his head. "...I want each of you to turn, look to the person on your left, then to your right." He paused, waiting for everyone to do so. "In a month, the person on your left will be dead, In three months, the person on your right. Perhaps if Lady Luck smiles upon you, you'll last six months before death comes to claim you." He hesitated, then unbuckled his helmet, pulled off the insectoid gas mask, and held it in his hands as he spoke. "Under Executive Order #17105, better known as the 'Fortification and Order Act,' every male and female aged fifteen to fifty-five must report for assessment and service at their armed forces recruiting center unless otherwise excused by wartime-critical work. Due to the failure of every individual here to provide a work permit or suitable documentation to excuse their absence, it is the mandated and legal duty of a police officer to both detain and escort malingerers to their nearest military installation for conscription."
The officer crooked a pointed hand towards the gate, where a handful of armored figures now stood astride their posts. "Once you cross the threshold, you are no longer my responsibility. Instead, you will be subject to the Uniform Code of Military Justice until your death or your release from service." He looked over the top of the crowd, which was stirring anxiously at his words. "Officers, Fall them out to their new lives."
"Push! Push! Up! Down! Up!" SFC. Ghotz yelled, the horseshoe-like scar bisecting his cheek twisting in a spittle-laced rictus as he bellowed along the line. Medina stifled a groan, her wire-thin arms shaking frantically as she heaved the half-rotted telephone pole above her head. Behind her, one of the almost dozen other conscripts lacked Medina's restraint, and like a shark in freshly chummed water, Ghotz moved in for the kill. His burly arm lashed out, the blouse sleeve stretching tight as he grabbed the offender and hurled them into the sand pit. The weight pressing on Medina's arms seemed to double, the pressure forcing her locked and quivering elbows into a firm, painful jam. Medina looked down, tucking her chin to her chest as stars popped into the peripheries of her vision. In the pit next to her, Ghotz was shouting at the failing draftee.
"Holy Fuck Recruit! I ask you to stand still and hold something, something with twelve others helping you, and you can't even do that!? Are you that fucking weak? Did you not get enough sleep? Was the food not to your liking? I'll even take the fact the sun was in your eyes as an excuse, is that it?" Ghotz asked, squatting down next to the now shivering, puking conscript. "Use your words, I can't understand drivel and whining." Medina couldn't hear whatever was said, both from the quiet nature of the words exchanged and the soft ringing in her ears that had slowly grown louder. Ghotz, however, did not seem bemused. Slowly, he rose to his feet, waving over a pair of adjutants with his leather-wrapped baton. "Hannah, St. George, take this waste of time to the MRP, and have him slated for half-rations and fetch and carry duties."
The big man turned around, leaving the failure to be dragged away, and looked at the struggling group. "Chow is in five minutes," He said after what felt like an eternity. "Drop the log in the pit, grab your shit, and get there. Dismissed." Medina ducked and hurried out of the way as the log was dropped into the sand with a chorus of groans. Without waiting for any of the others, she stooped low for her musette bag in its spot on the edge of the sand pit and darted in the direction of the chow hall.
Situated on what used to be an old basketball court, the chow hall wasn't so much a building as it was an eclectic mix of camouflage tarps and olive drab canvas strung across a collection of worn range stoves, stew pots, and folding tables accompanied by low benches. By the time Medina pushed her way through the door flap, the chow hall was already bustling with the comings and goings of soldiers in uniforms. The young woman paused, nose twitching at the smell of grilling meat and the heady warmth of fresh bread. Her stomach growled, gnawing in longing to get a taste, to gorge herself until she couldn't walk. She shook her head and turned, walking towards one of the darker corners of the massive tent; That was not the food for her, she had learned that lesson the hard way when she first arrived almost a week ago.
Set aside in a shadowed crook of the lamp-lit tent was her food, or more accurately, the food afforded to conscripts and recruits. Nothing more than a tinny-colored garbage pail strung over a flameless heater. The meals were simple, cheap, and the methods disposable, much like the people it fed. Congee in the morning, usually thinned to a gruel and supplemented by shaven root vegetables. Come afternoon, a thick pottage seasoned with dried meats was served for both lunch and dinner, oftentimes with leftovers from both the conscript and enlisted mess thrown into the later meal to 'add flavor'. Ostensibly, the low quality of the meals was to encourage recruits and conscripts alike to strive for excellence and compete for one of the few promotions to an active position, thereby letting them eat with the rest of the enlisted. However, as Medina ladled out the thick, formless slop onto a plate, she mused that the reason they didn't feed draftees and recruits full meals was that they weren't expected to live long enough to benefit from them.
Sliding onto one of the long benches, Medina was already spoonful-deep into her meal by the time the rest of her training platoon arrived.
SFC. Ghotz held up a long, rounded rifle, its form curved and sleek in his hands. "This, for all of you that can't read, is an M-34 High Velocity Rifle! It is a select fire, gas-operated, 4mm Sabot-spewing tool of warfare! By the end of today, you will learn how to maintain, carry, and use this vital piece of military equipment as proficiently as can be reasonably expected from you pack of window lickers!"
Medina twitched, her carbon-stained fingers curling in dexterous twists and pops as she pushed out pins, spun lugs, and pulled the bolt out of its carrier. Setting the pieces down, she looked up at the Sergeant, whose normally harsh features were pulled into a neutral, stone-like observation. "Forty-six seconds, not great, not terrible. Do it again." He said.
Medina twitched, her carbon-stained fingers curling under the mechanic's gloves she wore. Another twitch and the dull thud of the rifle recoiling in her shoulder was met by the snap-whine howl of the 4mm Sabot whistling down range. "Damn, Okay Girl, I see you." Whistled CPL. Alejandro St. George as he observed through his raggedy spotting scope. The target at the end of the makeshift range- a rain-rotted piece of plywood with target rings crudely painted on it -slumped over on itself as the core was shot out. Given only twenty cartridges to qualify with, Medina had taken to the rifle almost suspiciously well. After fielding questions- or more appropriately called accusations- about where and how she learned to shoot, she was assigned one of SFC. Ghotz's adjutants to watch over her. So far, Medina had only shrugged and tried her best to ignore St. George and his running commentary, giving only non-committal noises to whatever questions he had.
Further down the line, Medina could hear sounds of frustration, more muffled cursing, and grumbles as flesh beat on molded polymer in an attempt to induce function. St. George paused and looked up from his scope, a scowl etched on his features. "Hey Shithead! You keep beating on that weapon and I'll start beating on you. That's more valuable than you're proving to be, either use what we teach you or take your ass to fetch and carry." The banging stopped, and St. George shook his head as he went back to the scope. "Fucking idiot… Alright Nunez, another mag, let's see how good of a shot you really are…"
PFC. Medina Nunez tugged at her new uniform, the faded fabric stretching around sturdy patches sewn over tears. She wasn't the first person to wear the uniform or even the fifth, but the worn and battered armored jumpsuit was some of the nicest clothing she had ever worn. Graduation, if it could even be called that, came after only two weeks of training. Out of everyone in the training platoon, only five of them, Medina included, had shown the skills to earn their stripes
She looked down at the uniform and smiled, then jerked as CPL. St. George, her fireteam leader, slapped a hand between her shoulders. "You can dry hump your BDUs later, grab your shit, and get out to the motor pool in five." He said in passing, snatching up his own rifle and flak jacket. Medina bit back a scathing retort and instead stooped to her own footlocker, pulling out her rifle and body armor. Once upon a time cherry privates would have been issued new equipment, but the loss of so many factories And the death of anything resembling a fluid supply chain chain resulted in battlefield scavenging becoming the norm. No greater example of such could be seen than the equipment she currently wore.
Her rifle, once a sleek matte black polymer and metal beauty was faded and scuffed with age, multiple gouges furrowed into its plastic casing, and the flat metal finish worn down to a silver shine. Her body armor was even worse, with the flak jacket itself having components made of multiple differing color patterns, and those components torn, bled on, patched, and then torn again until all that was left was as much patch as the jacket. The only thing close to intact was her helmet, a two-piece hardshell with a built-in gas mask. Hot, heavy, and stifling to wear for long periods, the helmet was nonetheless her most important piece of kit, especially when a storm kicked up. Taking a deep breath, Medina pulled her helmet on, her world narrowing to a thin, tinted visor and heavy, filtered breathing. Taking a few deep breaths, she slung her rifle and made her way to the motor pool. St. George would be irritated if she was late, and as the cherry, she was always late…