13. Chapter 8
“Again.”
My finger instinctively pulls back on the trigger. The target ripples milliseconds later, leaving a perfect circular hole dead center of the black ring.
“Again,” Fallon instructs.
I take another shot, this time aiming for the target’s head and landing it with precision. My eyes move to Fallon.
“Good.” His gaze flicks to Maxim standing behind me. “He never misses, does he?”
“No,” Maxim confirms. “Not once.”
That’s not true. I missed once, but it was on purpose.
Next to me, our brother, Sniper, shifts. The two of us lie on the rooftop platform, legs spread out behind us, rifles aimed at the target positioned several yards away in the center of the field. The sun beats down, turning the day unusually warm, making my uniform stick to my skin.
I hate feeling dirty. Any sweat or stink or grime on my skin reminds me of the darkness.
Grinding my teeth, I push the thoughts away, forcing myself to focus.
Lowering my head again, I look through the scope and click the rifle a degree left and ten down, until I center the soft red poppy in the crosshairs. With a shallow breath, I wait for the wind to die down. The second it does, I pull the trigger. The dirt explodes behind the flower, red petals bursting away like blood.
“Impressive,” Father says, crouching down next to me, his hand landing heavily on my shoulder. My heart picks up pace. Whenever he touches us, it hurts, and my body screams with alarm. But then he squeezes my shoulder and stands. “You’re doing well, my son.”
I’ve spent the last six years in the school, nameless. Viper was named early on, his entire personality earning his name. Sniper received his name last year when we began training with firearms, but Fallon says he has yet to see my skills.
As I stand up, I catch a glimpse of Sniper’s scowl. He has plain features, with a flat face, like someone pressed his nose into a wall and it stayed that way. The sunlight catches his dull brown hair, shaved close to his scalp, reminding me of dead grass in winter. He may be the same age as Viper, but he’s shorter and skinnier. Though he’s capable of being just as mean.
“Not bad for a boy who cries at night,” Sniper whispers so only I can hear. Something cruel glints in his mouse brown eyes. “Maybe you should go to the other school. Go train to be a ballerina since you cry like a little girl.”
I clench my jaw, trying to push past the red haze clouding my vision. “I’d rather be a ballerina than a skinny little shit with buck teeth.”
Sniper’s arm arches towards me with a clenched fist, but I see it coming and easily dodge out of the way, avoiding his weak punch. He stumbles, but regains his balance quickly.
He’s a shit fighter. Everyone knows it.
A low growl rumbles from him before he swings again, but I expected the move and duck, hooking my arm around his chest and taking him to the ground.
“Stop,” Maxim growls, and we both freeze.
“Fucking asshole said I have buck teeth,” Sniper snaps, still struggling under my grip. But I keep him pinned to the concrete with my knee on his chest.
Commander Maxim strides forward, hands planted on his hips, sun glinting off his silky eye patch. “Because you do.” He chuckles at the wounded scowl on Sniper’s face, his laughter echoing through the air, earning him a sharp glare from Fallon.
I suppress my own laugh, but it gets choked off as Maxim fists our collars and hauls us to our feet. I smooth my gray school uniform, swallowing a curse when I see dirt staining my shirt. We’re supposed to go with Teacher to the village for Sunday school, but Maxim insisted on showing Fallon how well Sniper and I have been doing with the firearms portion of our weapons training program.
“Pushing buttons again, I see,” Fallon says, eyeing me. His piercing gaze shifts toward Sniper, lingering for a moment, before moving back my way. “Haven’t we learned that testing boundaries leads to trouble?”
I want to tell him that Sniper started it, but I clamp my mouth shut. All that will do is piss Fallon off. We’re a unit. What one does we all do. If I tattle, I’m tattling on myself. If I act out of line, my brother’s pay the price with me. It’s rare for us to be singled out and disciplined individually, although it happens, as I’ve learned one too many times. I’m well acquainted with Fallon’s belt and solitary.
“Sniper,” Fallon says, adjusting the collar of my brother’s shirt. “How should I punish a boy who can’t keep his mouth closed?”
A cruel glint flares in Sniper’s eyes as he assesses me. He’s just thirteen, but sometimes his viciousness makes him seem so much older.
“Ten whips with the belt,” Sniper says, satisfaction making his lip curl.
Hatred burns through my chest like acid, making me tense. We have always clashed as far back as I can remember. Sniper resents I do better in classes, am faster at learning weapons, and quicker on my feet. He hates I can always hit the target, like him, but with better accuracy. And almost every single time. Almost because I deliberately missed that one time, so Sniper wouldn’t look bad after earning his name.
I bite my tongue, glaring at his plain face, regretting being so nice. I should have his name. Part of me wants to lunge forward and smash my fist into his smirk. Knock his teeth loose and keep hitting until he chokes on his blood. But then I’d be giving into my baser instincts and Fallon teaches us we must never do that. Control over bodies and minds is more important than revenge.
“A fitting lesson.” Fallon nods. He unbuttons his charcoal suit jacket, lifting the silky vest to reach for his belt buckle. The slick sound makes my stomach drop. Icy eyes land on Sniper. “Remove your shirt and turn around.”
Sniper’s brows knit and his eyes dart to me. “Go on, do it,” he snarls.
“You, Sniper,” Fallon says. He holds out the belt for me. “Striker here will teach this lesson today.”
Striker.
My heart hammers upon hearing the name, a flutter of excitement blooming in my chest, but then darkness seeps in as his last few words settle. Before I can think, I’m shaking my head and backing away, my stomach knotting up grossly. I couldn’t ever imagine hurting one of my brothers. Even if I don’t like him.
“No?” Fallon asks, eyes narrowing. “Shouldn’t he be punished for testing you?”
I shake my head, remembering to add a respectful, “No, sir.” But my nerves cause my words to stutter, so I clear my throat and repeat myself before adding, “Because I was pushing his limits, too.”
Fallon nods, and I think I see a flash of approval pass over his face, but I’m not sure. “Very well. Then you both will learn today.” Father’s glare intensifies as he turns to me. “Striker, remove your shirt.”
Without hesitation, I obey, folding my shirt, placing it neatly on the platform before I present my back. When the first lash lands, I flinch but bite back any sounds of pain. The skin over my back stings with each strike, but I force myself to focus on a distant target. Another hit lands and I can’t help but think about my name.
Striker.
After waiting six years for a name, it seems fitting that today it’s received with a lashing blow. The next strike lands on my lower back and I clench my teeth, breathing through the burning sensation. My father isn’t being as harsh as he usually is with our lesson today, which I am grateful for. Sniper could not handle it if this were any worse. He’s never been good at learning. Not in classes. Not with Father. He’s usually the one that’s kissing ass to avoid notice, so he’s rarely been at this end of Father’s belt.
When my lesson is complete, I turn and pick up my shirt, not allowing myself to wince as my skin tightens from the movement. I know there will be welts for the next several hours, but at least it won’t be days. And I’m glad we’re going to Sunday school so I can sit in a cool room and not have to continue sweating out in this heat with red marks stinging my back.
“Sniper,” Fallon says, and I glance sideways at my brother.
“No,” Sniper says with a quick jerk of his head.
The blood drains from my face, pooling at my feet like tarry oil. It’s one thing to refuse to carry out lessons on our brothers—we’d all rather take the punishment alongside each other than be the one holding the belt. But to outright refuse Fallon’s lesson is an entirely different matter.
“No?” Father’s voice drops dangerously low. Fear tingles my hands, the sensation making me gather them into tight fists. I glance again in Sniper’s direction to see if he’s lost his mind. Obviously he has, because he shakes his head again.
Father signals for Commander Maxim, who strides forward and grabs Sniper by his shoulders with his large, meaty hand. I’ve always hated his hands. They’re hairy and scared with burns.
Fallon smooths his palm down the front of his gray suit vest. “It seems my son has forgotten his place.” His arm lifts, arching back.
My heart stutters.
When the hit lands, it slices brutally through Sniper’s cheek, and I gasp, closing my eyes. Another sickening thwack follows seconds later. My breath bursts free, but I gather it back in, blinking my eyes open.
Father’s arm arches back again. I shift my gaze to just over his shoulder.
Another hit lands. Then another and Sniper screams. I suck in a breath as his scream cuts through my mind, old memories of another scream filtering through my head.
The terrified cry of a little boy sitting in darkness.
The scream stops abruptly, but the lashes keep coming.
I don’t think I like my name anymore.
My focus shifts to the row of trees blocking the village from view. In the winter months, the leaves fall, leaving the branches naked, and we can see the smoke rising from distant chimneys over the tree line. But I like the summer months better when the trees have bright green leaves. I like the trees. I like the red flowers and the green grass. The birds that fly overhead and how the sun turns the sky a dark purple before it sinks below the horizon. How after it rains, the entire school smells like damp earth and clean water. How puddles form in the training yard and we have to jump over them so we don’t get our boots wet on the way to classes.
During the warm months, if we’ve had good behavior all week, we get to go to the village market with Cook. I like the market too. We get to see girls. Viper likes to tug at the braids of the schoolgirls in line at the venders. He really likes the older women who wear the pretty dresses and the fancy gypsies with bells on their ankles and chains around their waists, their clothes a rainbow of colors.
In the village, Cook will give us little coins and paper bills and we can buy sweets. I love the shaved ice and Viper likes the heavy cakes with white frosting. If Breaker comes, he will always buy the sweet candy from the gypsy wagons. Sometimes Reaper and Hunter come too, and they buy bottles of vodka from the old man that makes it in his barn. They sneak the alcohol into school under their uniforms and later drink straight from the bottle after lights out. Even us younger ones will get to take a few shots. Hunter thinks it’s funny when Viper gets drunk. He gets friendly, telling everyone he loves them and always wants to play cards.
“Striker!”
My body jolts violently back to the present. My gaze lands on Fallon, his tall frame slowly bleeding into focus. His brows knit and I wonder how many times he’s said my new name.
“Where did you go, son?”
“To town,” I say, then realize I’ve not actually left, so I just lied and need to correct myself. “I was thinking about the village.”
He nods and his eyes slip down. He gestures to the boy on the ground, but I don’t look. I know better. “Take him to the infirmary,” Fallon tells Commander.
Sniper doesn’t make a sound as Commander pulls his limp body up. I keep my eyes trained on Fallon, so I don’t have to see.
“You did well,” Father says. His long fingers trail over my check then he pets my head. “When you return from church, we’ll continue your training.”
My stomach churns with slickness, hating myself that his praise makes me smile.
“Go to your quarters and change, my syn,” Fallon says, dragging his thumb over my cheek again.
I look down at my chest. Long lines, like finger streaks of red, slash across my clean shirt. Unease crawls over my skin, skittering down my spine, stabbing through my back and burrowing in my gut like tiny venomous spiders. My hand shakes as I lift it, lightly touching a scarlet smear. It’s thin, dark, still warm. Sticky like the sweat on my back.
The need to be out of my clothes slams into my chest. I need to bathe. Now. Remove these clothes and sweat and sticky red off my skin.
Fallon wipes my cheek again, his finger coming away with a smear of red. He wipes it on his thigh and I notice the scarlet splashes smattering his pants.
Blood, silly boy,I hear Maxim say in my head. All that red is blood.
No. Striker. My name is Striker.
And that’s Sniper’s blood.
Bile rises in my throat, but I bite back the urge to vomit. My vision moves in and out of focus like the old projector Cook sets up in the cafeteria on Friday nights.
“Give your clothes to Maxim,” Fallon instructs, patting my cheek. The sharp slap centers me, my vision returning to normal.
“Yes, sir,” I say, squaring my shoulders and shoving the rising wave of horror down. Further until I feel nothing.
Father nods in approval like he can see the blackness that was trying to drown me recede. I watch his back, my mind blank, as he leaves before returning to my room to change.
After Maxim retrieves my clothes, I pretend I don’t see him walking toward the incinerator.
When we return from Sunday school later that afternoon, I find Maxim talking to Fallon in the yard. I dart behind the bleachers, crouching low, careful not to dirty my pants.
“Some dogs just can’t be tamed,” Commander says. “It’s easier just to put them down.”
Later that night, Viper tells me that Sniper didn’t make the cut, and they removed him from the school. There’s just thirteen of us now.
Viper pats my back, saying my name over and over and I’m reminded of the strikes to Sniper. I feel now like my name came at his expense.
Maybe I should have missed. Maybe I should have shot more to the left or not shown off at all.
But Viper said Sniper just didn’t make the cut, so maybe it’s not my fault he was whipped and then removed from the school. In the end, it doesn’t matter.
I’m Striker.
I hit my target every time. I’m fast and smart and even though I’m prone to outbursts, I control it better than anyone here.
My gaze drifts to my brother with pale eyes the color of ice and beautiful, deep skin. I hope when he’s named he isn’t left wishing it was different.