I look at the hawk. It’s all black besides its red beak, and overall, pretty beat up.
“What’s that?” says Isaac.
“Rosa,” I say, “My new best friend.”
“That’s cute. Whatcha going to do with it? I got a clown fish. I think I’ll tie it to my water bladder. You know, like it would be its aquarium or some shit.”
“I don’t know yet. It’s supposed to guard you from bad dreams, so maybe I’ll put it on my helmet.”
We take the elevator, where Blake addresses us about the replacements. “We have another NCO, Corporeal Conal Bartalinie, an American Italian duel national who joined the UN Peace Keepers as a professional soldier before the war. Our next one is Field Engineer Specialist, Dmitry Boris, Russian marine. His unit was practically wiped out on the frontlines in the Confederate States campaign a few days ago, so he’s been reformed with us. Our last one is Private Yahir Drackavick, Ukrainian national who also joined the Peace Keepers shortly before the war, he is our new LMG support.”
“Cool I guess,” says Isaac, “having a full unit never hurt.”
“No it does not.” The elevator door opens to the lobby and Blake leads the way out. “Take this opportunity tonight to get to know them—not have them feel like outsiders in the unit. We’ll come to count on them with our lives just like they will on us when we’re back in combat.”
The lobby is crowded with dozens of servicemen and citizens talking and going their ways. A tough reserved man with a stubble beard stands out from them all. Blake goes up to him. Moments later the two men return. “Men, meet your new Corporal.”
“Greetings, I am glad to be able to meet you all on a night of fun than a battlefield.” We get acquainted with our new Corporal Conal, and inform him of our plans which he seems excited for. Then somewhere across the room a crowd forms as a group of yelling men gets more rambunctious.
We gather around rubbernecking. Before us is a group of Russian servicemen talking rapidly to each other, and yelling at another man who is being held back by additional Coalition soldiers. “God sake’s,” mutters Blake, “Those are our two other guys.” Blake walks up to the group of Russians surrounding a man, who is holding a rag to his bleeding lip. “Are you Private Dmitry Boris?”
The young man, who still seems frightened by recent events, puts his cloth down and stands at attention. “Yes, sir! I swear start nothing!” The other Russians clamor in agreement.
“Hold on, we will talk about that later. I am Sergeant Blake Walter, your new commanding NCO. Our unit is behind me over there,” he points over at us.
“Pleasure meet you, sir.” Dmitry holds out his bloodied hand, then retracts it quickly realizing his mistake and nods instead. He speaks in Russian to his neighbors as he grabs his duffel bag and joins our group. The Russians leave the lobby, continuing to shout at the instigator on their way out.
Blake comes back. “Why don’t you all start going out. That other guy,” he glances at the yelling man that Dmitry stares at uneasily, “is actually the last replacement to our unit.”
“But he attack me!” says Dmitry, surprised.
“I know, can you tell me why?”
“He came out like crazy racist denouncing Russia people and calling monster for things never did.”
“Thanks, I’ll have a talk with him. Head on out without us, enjoy yourselves tonight.” We exit the hotel to the night lights, and grab a cab as Blake confronts our Ukrainian replacement.
I am in another crowded bar, musky with sweat and beer—when did we come in?—or maybe it’s the same one. I stare at the glass of alcohol. It’s my third I think. I watch the bubbles rise up the side of the glass and into the foam on the top. I’m not drunk—yet—it just isn’t the same though, drinking. Not like Cloud gets me. I feel good. But at the same time, I fear it will go away, collapse. The thing that threatens it all—what is it?—the thing that threatens it, it is sitting behind a door, and I’m barely holding it back. The beer doesn’t seal the door shut, no, it just puts another object: chair, table, shelf, against the creaking frame. What is it? What is behind the door? Why, why does it scare me? Cloud, where are you? What is it? What’s back there? I don’t want it coming out!
I pound the glass down empty. A bartender instantly gives me a new one.
My fifth? I look at the bubbles rising up the side, where they explode into the foam on the top. What is the door?—behind it? All my clutter I pushed up against it has hidden it, but I still feel the presence behind it, breathing, seeping out. The tendrils of the thing escaping out of the slight creak it has created, whisking the air about my face, begging me to open it. But Cloud wouldn’t want that? Why is something scary acting kind?
I don’t want to open you. I down the glass.
The bartender comes, but holds the pint back from my reach and stares at me. I push the glass forward. “It’s the door, sir.”
“Door closed. Go outside if you are going to vomit.”
“No, the door, the door sir. Would you open it?”
“Of course not, it’s cold out.”
Isaac slaps my back and slides me a glass. The bartender hisses with defeat and continues down the counter. I look at the glass. The bubbles rise up the side of it into the foam on the top.
“Hurry up,” burps Isaac. “We got more to hit.”
“It’s cold out there.”
“That’s why you drink this.”
I sip the glass. Isaac lights an ancient. Alex and Vance come over to get one. The bar gets smoky. “Hey!” says the bartender. “What the hell?” Isaac extends the tin box of ancients towards him with one sticking out. The bartender laughs and smacks the box down. “No smoking inside!” Then I think I hear him mutter, “How the hell did he get ancients?”
“Shit,” Isaac grabs them and gets up, to only fall down on Vance behind him. Vance turns around and punches Alex yelling about his spilt drink. Alex grabs Vance’s arm and smashes his ancient’s butt into his wrist.
“OUT!” screams the bartender, like an injured marine begging for a medic, that most people pause to look at the mess.
Isaac pushes Alex away and says, “My fault!” He turns to Vance, “Sor-ey, I fells on you, buddy.”
Vance pours the remaining alcohol on his wrist and slaps Alex’s cheek laughing, “You got me good.”
They carry Isaac out, and Tommy helps me out too as I realized I am dozing on the counter, my face sticking against a puddle of spilt beer.
We are on the street, moving as an unorganized mob of squalor. Isaac grabs my shoulder and I follow. “We’re gonna do the usual cradle ass, okays?”
I hear myself laugh, but don’t remember opening my mouth. I can’t wait for this.
We find a suitable target. A single serviceman—Air Force—walks before us, singing. We go to each side of him, and Isaac slaps his ass.
The pilot turns around, shocked.
“What the fuck!” says Isaac, pushing the pilot back a little. “You just grab my ass?”
“What! No, it was—”
“You grabbed my ass!” Isaac looks at me. “You saw it, right? Can you believe these POGs.”
“Sure did, that’s sexual assault, right?”
The pilot takes a few steps backwards, his hands raised. “I didn’t do anything!” He turns around to leave.
Isaac slaps him a second time. “What the hell! Stop doing that!”
“You stop it!” says the pilot terrified.
Isaac pushes him back harder and he almost falls. “He did it again!”
“What a perv,” I say.
“Stop!” The pilot looks like he is about to cry. “Stop it!”
Isaac steps forward placing a hand on his flinching shoulder. “Look, it’s okay. I am just not into you, alright?”