Phoenix Island Read Online Free

that?”
    “How about . . . ? Back!”
    Hands lifted Carl out of his push-up position and spilled him onto his back. A face leaned in, screaming. “When he says ‘back,’ you do sit-ups!”
    Carl started, ignoring the burn of the pavement, which was so hot he thought his jumpsuit might burst into flames. Sit-ups, though? A boxer could rack out sit-ups all day long. Carl did a thousand a day, just out of habit.
    “Go!”
    They yanked Carl to his feet. Someone yelled, “When he says ‘go,’ you jog in place!” The voice was so close, so loud, it seemed like the guy was inside Carl’s ear . . . with a bullhorn.
    Carl pumped his legs up and down. Again, running was a breeze. You didn’t need special equipment or a team or a gym membership to run, so it was one of the things Carl had been able to do in almost every place he’d been sent.
    “I didn’t do anything, man,” Davis said, barely lifting his feet.
    One of the sergeants reached up and cuffed Davis in the back of the head. “Lock it up, goldbrick! You just added another minute.”
    “How long we got to do this?” Davis asked.
    Another cuff. “Two minutes longer than you did before you asked that question.”
    One of the drill sergeants pointed at Davis’s long legs, laughing. “Man, I had legs like that, I’d sue ’em for lack of support!”
    “Front!”
    Carl dropped and started pushing.
    And so it went, on and on: front-back-go . . . front-back-go . . . front-back-go . . . the pavement hot as fire, the sun boiling overhead, the sergeants laughing and yelling and telling them if there was one thing they couldn’t stand, it was an individual. Every time they faced each other, Davis drilled his eyes through Carl’s.
    So stupid, Carl thought. All of it—the drill sergeants, his own mistake, the punishment, Davis’s anger, everything. So, so stupid.
    Front . . . back . . . go . . .
    Carl pumped his knees up and down. He was exhausted from the long trip. He’d barely slept for days, and fatigue, combined with hunger and the heat, stirred his mind like a kettle of bubbling soup, out of which, like steam, rose images: Brad Templeton, Eli screaming, the judge, the sign reading YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA , the assorted roadkill along the endless highway they’d driven prior to boarding the strange plane in the Mexican desert . . .
    “Front!”
    Carl sprawled into a push-up and started pumping away. His arms shook with effort. So be it, Carl thought. They’re not going to break me. He gritted his teeth and kept pushing.
    Davis’s head hung low between his shoulders, and he was stuck, mid-push-up, his arms quivering. All at once, he dropped onto his stomach.
    Shouting filled the air.
    “Nobody told you to stop!”
    “Motivation!”
    “Keep pushing, individual!”
    “Let’s go, funny man! I don’t hear you laughing now!”
    Davis lay on his stomach. “I can’t do no more.”
    “Get pushing now! That’s an order!”
    “I can’t, Drill Sergeant,” Davis said.
    “Get up,” Carl said. “You can do it.”
    “Shut up,” someone told him, and pain exploded in Carl’s ribs. He grunted but kept pushing.
    One of them had kicked him—it surprised him. Shouting and pushups were one thing . . . kicking, though? That was against the law.
    Or at least it had been in the United States.
    This was Phoenix Island.
    Davis struggled through one more push-up before collapsing again.
    Drill sergeants surrounded him, yelling. “Are you disobeying a direct order?” one of them said above the others.
    “I can’t do another—”
    A combat boot thudded into Davis’s ribs. He cried out and rolled into a ball. Carl saw the kicker’s thick forearm, the skull and crossbones there, the words Death Before Dishonor suspended over Davis like a bad joke inked into bronze flesh.
    Carl stopped pushing. “Leave him alone.”
    A hand grabbed him by the hair and lifted, then slammed him back down into the pavement.