Pilot: Pvt. Connor Bishop, The Marksman
Springfield on Fire
Story Pilot - The Marksman
Standing before the fire was a man
who had forgotten mercy and forsaken his graces. Flickers and sparks shined in
his darkened eyes, glazed and mirrored by the night sky. Nothing else in the
world existed but him and his inferno. Standing before the fire was a man who
knew there was nothing left to do. A slow burn. This was a slow burn. He
thought about the rubble it would leave behind, the bodies they'd try to
recover. The mangled identities left in the ashes wouldn't tell a soul what had
happened here. Standing before the fire was a man who felt the bliss of victory
overwhelm him.
To his knees, he fell. At his
knees, he laid his rifle. That weapon was all he had left, and it delivered him
to his mission. He came from a town nobody knew about tucked away in the hills
of a country that was an ocean away. He couldn't remember how old he was
anymore, just that he was somewhere past eighteen, his age when he enlisted. He
could, however, remember what the cold felt like as the wind bit at his nose.
It reminded him of the nakedness he felt in boot camp. His officers were always
on him, sharp and abusive. They fed this fire. They delivered him here.
"Private Bishop," called
one Sergeant Reilly. "You're up at the range for evaluation. Don't keep
them waiting."
The sun was only just starting to
come over the hill as Bishop stepped out of the barracks. His hair was still
fresh from the barber, uniform to the rest of his fur, cotton-white in the sun.
Two long ears stood like antennas on his head, and his short tail stuck out
like an afterthought in his uniform. He was smaller than his comrades. The cats
called out at him as he passed their tents. The dogs howled.
"Bunnies don't belong in the
army," sneered one. "Hop on home before you hurt yourself."
It was this teasing that made him
so stoic. How can one smile when it invites jokes to spurn his teeth? How can
one wag his tail when it is mocked by the bushy and coiled? A ear flops, he's
weak. A ear stands up, he's horny. He's taking a shower, they invite him to
share their cell, their soap, their cot. He didn't mind. If this is what it
took to serve his country, he would endure. He was the youngest of seven
brothers; this was a daily routine to him.
"A vegetarian can't live on
army rations," warned the recruiter. "No protein for strength."
He didn't need it. The other
recruits were overfed as far as he cared. Weighed down by desires, they
consumed whatever the cooks gave them and left a trail of waste in their wake. He
was efficient, eating no more than his body needed, and leaving no mess to
speak of. Stepping into the range, he stood at attention.
"Private Connor Bishop,
sir," he saluted and knocked his heels together. "Reporting for
firearms evaluation as ordered by Sergeant Reilly."
"Grab a rifle, son," the
grizzly Doberman ordered. "You've got thirty targets on the field at
intervals of five meters starting at five and ending at one-fifty. You have
thirty seconds or three fifteen-round magazines to lay down as many lethal
shots as you can; a target on the ground is considered lethal. Conservation of
ammunition, mastery of the rifle, and shot location all influence your
score."
While the dog talked, Bishop took
the time to get a feel for the rifle: M1A1 Carbine semi-automatic; red wood
body and stock. This was not the Thompson he was used to firing on the range.
Bishop heard mixed reviews of the M1A1, and he was excited to get a chance to use
it for himself; it was simple and fit well into his hands. The stock was solid,
but light, and the barrel didn't feel long enough that it needed to be
specially considered when turning. The magazine was accessible and small, a
nice change from the cumbersome drums that, a stark overcompensation for bad
aim, plagued the Thompson. First impressions were good.
"What's the average
score," Bishop asked with the rifle at his cheek. The iron sights were skewed.
Damn.
"Don't bother with
average," the officer retorted. "That kind of thinking lands you in
the latrines."
"You're right, sir." He
lowered the gun and took a deep breath in, out.
"Let's get started--unless
you've got more questions." He was being carefully sarcastic.
"I'm ready, sir." There
was no sense in sassing an officer with complaints about the weapon.
"Step up to the range and take
your preferred stance," ordered the Doberman. "After your signal, I
will count down to begin."
Bishop stepped to the marked stall.
There were three magazines laying there neatly, full of ammunition. They looked
eager. Bishop inserted the rightmost clip with his left hand, knocking it with
his wrist so it would click. Smooth, clean, satisfying. He took a breath and
crouched before the range with the sun coming up behind him.
"Ready, sir." His ears
folded back, touching the collar of his jacket as they landed.
"Begin firing in five, four,
three," the Doberman shouted. Protocol was silly. Nobody was about to walk
onto a live range. Nobody wanted to leave their tents in this cold. "Two,
one: open fire."
Bishop lined up his crooked sights
on the heart-marker on the closest target and pulled the trigger. It hit the
shoulder, but the target fell. There was laughter behind him. He took aim at
the second target center-mass and hit the heart. Calibration achieved. There
was almost no time between his second, third, and fourth shots. The targets
fell like dominoes. On five, he missed. On six, the wind strayed his bullet
into seven. On eight, he got a headshot. On thirteen, he needed to reload.
A forefinger lifted to depress the
safety, a thumb to eject the clip. It fell smoking onto the ground next to his
knee. The middle clip inserted cleanly and was emptied all the same. The third
followed, the clip emptied with a hungry metallic snap. Ten seconds and three
targets remained--one of which was hit, but did not fall down. A complete shit
show; he knew he could do better. Bishop ejected the spent magazine into his
left hand and organized the others into a neat stack.
"Not bad," chimed the
Doberman. Bishop's ears were ringing still, and he couldn't hear the officer.
He stood and put the rifle and ejected magazines on the table.
"May I try again with another
rifle?" He should have known better than to open his mouth with anything
other than, "Thank you." It was too late at that point to go back.
"The sights are not properly ali -"
"Looked fine to mine," the
officer interrupted. The dog crossed his arms and cleared his throat at Bishop
when he tried again to speak. "Don't showboat, kid. That's how you attract
snipers. You'll have your results and assignment in the morning.
Dismissed."
Bishop saluted and exited the range
in the same determined stature in which he entered, looking to his destination
and nothing in between. A bell rang loud through the cold air, the kind of bell
Bishop remembered from the farm down the road from his house back at home. It
meant breakfast: the most important and only real meal of the day.
Ration-quality beef steaks served
alongside rolls and a medley of dried peas, cabbage, and carrots. It was
astounding how something like that could go so wrong, all cooked in the same
pot as the stew from the night before with no cleaning in between, all smeared
with its grease and residue. Bishop couldn't eat it; he knew better than to
try. The rolls smelled clean, so he ate the one he was given. A shame, though,
because everyone wanted their rolls. Normally, Bishop could trade for something
else.
At least he had people he knew who
understood and were willing to sacrifice the only decent part of their meal to
help. Private Geoffrey Barnes, a brown timber wolf built like a truck, and
Private Anthony, 'Cricket' Smith, a lanky and homely red fox, were the closest
things Bishop had to friends. Barnes was a gentle giant and felt the need to
protect the black sheep. Smith was afraid that Bishop might snap and wanted to
be on his good side when he did. They joked about it in good company. Bishop
could smile around them. He often did.
They gave him their rolls and split
his vegetables and jerky, unable to smell the meaty remains on them that had
made Bishop's stomach turn. This monopolizing of the cafeteria was a necessary
twice-daily chore. Where some soldiers negotiated for cigarettes and hand jobs,
Bishop spent his favors on calories.
"You could do a lot of
good," said Barnes reaching for Bishop's jerky. "If you tried making
friends, Connor."
"I have enough food," he
replied, ignoring the point.
"You're a nice kid."
Barnes was several years older than Bishop and took a liking to treating him
like a younger brother. Bishop tolerated
the advice because Barnes was, in fact, a lot like one of his older brothers. "You
don't give them a chance to know you. Do you really expect them to treat you
with respect when you don't try yourself?"
"No; I shouldn't have to do
anything for it."
"Yeah," chimed Smith with
a mouth full of peas. "But everyone thinks you're a dick. They're kinda'
right, you know."
"Oh, don't you call me the
dick," Bishop sneered. "You don't understand how it feels to be the
whipping boy around here. I didn't do anything to them."
"Man," sighed Barnes
"You need to grow up."
There was a long pause as Bishop
tried to feel insulted, but, instead, he shook his head. Barnes was right, and
the each knew it. "I know. This waiting around sucks."
"Amen to that, brother."
Smith finally swallowed. "No goddamn whiskey out here in the fences. No
pussy, either."
Barnes groaned. He wasn't a fan of
Smith's vulgarities.
"Well," Smith began,
leaning in to the other two. "Not girl pussy. We got ladies like Garret
and Bishop here to keep our cocks nice and warm."
Bishop pushed Smith with a foot,
almost knocking him off the bench. They were all laughing together.
"Really, Garret?" questioned
Barnes. "I figured you'd like the dirty ones better. Filthy like that
mouth of yours."
"Nah, man. If I'm going to put
my dick in someone that's got a dick of their own, I need to know they're clean,
man."
"You're not joking,"
Bishop said with clear suspicions in his tone. "Are you...?"
"Look, man. All I'm saying is
the hand can only do so much after a day on the range. A nice, round ass goes a
long way. I'm no flower boy, but ass is ass. Ain't got no business with what's
in front."
"Next time I get invited into
the showers," Bishop said while laughing. "I'm giving them your
name."
"Long as you tell them I'm
pitching." The contract was sealed over soggy carrots and a damp roll.
The three only got to spend a
little time together most days, but they made the most of it. Barnes was
political and intelligent enough to back it up. His father was a governor of
his home state, so he probably got just as much teasing as Bishop. However, with
Barnes being big enough to eat most of the recruits, not many people had the
nerve to squeak out an insult unless they were willing to risk losing some
teeth. Bishop wasn't into the politics of the war, but it was nice to get news
as Barnes caught it.
Civil war was particularly brutal.
Everyone there tried to distract themselves from the likelihood that they might
have to shoot their friends someday. There were a lot of measures taken by the officers
to make sure none of them were defectors or traitors. Bishop fought for the
Nationalist Party, or "the cleaner of two toilets," as Barnes would
so eloquently say.
The enemy was part of some grand idealistic
coup, the People's Liberation Army, who wanted an independent monarchy (which
meant a dictatorship according to the Nationalists) instated after ninety years
of stable oligarchy. The classes were subjugated by laws and regulations
designed to keep families like Bishop's from every entering a state power. People
fighting for the Nationalists were willing to accept their sorry state in fear
that the new one would be even worse. Those fighting for the Revolution
believed they were really going to win despite the massive advantages held by
the Nationalists.
Propaganda was prevalent on both
sides. Nationalists were plagued by Stockholm-syndrome, in love with their
poverty, and desperate to defend their abusive masters. The Revolutionaries
were rebellious snakes--coincidentally, one of their leaders literally was
serpentine--bent on instating anarchy and famine to the State. Bishop knew the
score, and Barnes was right: both sides sucked.
That night was quiet apart from the
orchestra of snoring soldiers. It ended with the loud entrance of Sergeant
Reilly the next morning before dawn.
"Get your sorry asses out of
bed!" He barked at the recruits like the German shepherd he was.
"Privates McAllen, Brandt, Bishop, and Johnson: report to Captain Tanner
immediately."
Before his feet touched the ground,
Bishop lost his balance, nearly falling back into his cot. After a bit of
flailing, he assimilated into the position taken by the rest of the soldiers.
"What, does your candy ass
hurt, Private, are you drunk?" Reilly stormed over to Bishop and circled
him, eyeing him. "I didn't order an interpretive dance--or is that stump
you call a tail not enough to keep those ears from turning you over?"
Smith broke into a quiet chuckle,
but Sgt. Reilly caught him. "Smith, are you laughing at your squadmate?
You're on latrines for a week if I hear you out of line again."
"Sorry, sir."
Even Bishop thought it was funny,
but he'd learned a long time ago that laughing around Sgt. Reilly was akin to
shooting yourself in the kneecap. Those who were called left the tent and
marched to the Captain's personal building. It was strange to be back inside an
actual structure with walls and a solid roof.
"In reference to your trials
at the range yesterday and the week before," began Captain Tanner in an
official tone. "You have been selected as the most skilled marksmen of
your squads. You will be further trained in that field and work to become a
specialist in higher-ranged weaponry than your squadmates. Your jobs will be to
quickly, accurately, and effectively neutralize designated priority targets
that your squadmates can't reach.
"You've probably noticed that
you're the only ones who haven't been training with the M1928, the Thompson.
You will be outfitted hereafter with semi-automatic rifles," he continued,
holding up the M1A1 from the day before. "... which suit engagements at
longer ranges. You can expect training on the M1A1 Carbine to begin this
afternoon." He set it back down on the desk. "You may inform your
squad leaders of your new positions when you return from breakfast. Do you have
any questions?"
None of them responded.
"Alright then. Good job,
gentlemen. Keep this up, and you may yet make the sniper academy. Don't get a
big head. You're still just grunts. Dismissed."
The grunts left the building and
returned to the tent they had been sleeping in only fifteen minutes before.
Bishop shared his news with Barnes and Smith, and they congratulated him.
"I got put on support,"
said Barnes. "I get the fun job of carrying ammo and supplies through
crossfire."
"At least you got
something," sneered Smith. "I'm still just regular infantry. I'm
gonna' marry that fuckin' Thompson at this rate."
"I'll be keeping an eye out
for you two from now on, I guess," Bishop said before stealing a grin.
"Seeing you smile," Smith
groaned, "Scares the shit out of me."
"Maybe this will get you a
little respect from the other squads." Barnes was optimistic.
"Marksman isn't a little thing to those guys."
"Maybe," Bishop
dismissed. "I think they're just bored. Everyone's eager to shoot
something."
"Tch! You're not?" Smith
cocked his head at Bishop and leaned back a little.
"Of course I am. I just don't
let it go to my head is all."
"You should let Gavin know you
got placed," Barnes said. "He's at the mess hall waiting for
breakfast I think."
"Isn't it about ti-"
Smith was cut off by the breakfast bell. "Well fuck me with a fork; look
at that timing."
"Classy," Bishop snerked.
"Damn right, powder
puff." He groaned and rubbed his rumbling stomach, taking the opportunity
to scratch himself. "Let's get some food."
This time, the vegetables smelled
clean. It was nice for Bishop to eat without negotiations for once, but that
stroke of luck would be the last any of them saw that day. An hour after
breakfast, there was an explosion nearby the mess hall. Near, of course,
meaning it took out one of the corners of the building, but it didn't seem to
land on anything--or anyone--important.
Mortars marked Bishop's first real
taste of war, the first of countless more.