Traitor Book 1 of The Turner Chronicles Page 3

  Chapter 3

  "Peterson! You shoot like that in a fight, and you'll be nothing but dead. Pull the damn thing over to the bull and settle down."

  Peterson squeezed off another shot.

  "I told you to settle down."

  Looking up from his prone position, Peterson glared at Johnston. "I didn't miss by that much. It would have killed a man."

  Smiling grimly, Johnston nodded. "Yeah, it would have hit a man in a fight--if you had pointed that thing straight and not flinched any more than you did just now. Do you think you can hold still when the savages are closing in, when crossbow bolts and arrows are pouring around you, when some savage wants to shove a sword into your gut? Can you remain steady when you're sweating and shaking and your bowels want to blow? Do you think you can trust yourself right now, knowing that your life, and the lives of your buddies, depends on your ability to hit a target hard on the first shot?"

  "I won't freeze," Peterson insisted, but there was sweat on his brow.

  "I've seen it happen, boy. I've counted the bodies. I've seen where one weak man got an entire squad killed."

  The boy glared defiance. "I have it. When the time comes, you'll see that I have it!"

  Johnston glanced at the other recruits. "What do you think?"

  They looked at each other uneasily. Paxton shrugged and smiled insolently. "He'll have it. We all will. We already have it."

  "Do you have it?" he demanded of Peterson again.

  "Yes sir, Sergeant."

  "You think so?" Johnston smiled wickedly. "Are you willing to put your faith to the test? I'm telling you right now that you better not. I think you won't cut it. I think you're a coward."

  Peterson glared, but Johnston saw his fingers twitch and his face pale. "Just try me."

  "There'll be no backing out. I won't allow it."

  Peterson spat. The other recruits gave him the eye, reevaluating him. Johnston could almost see Peterson's thoughts. If he backed down now, he would be forever on the bottom of the Militia's testosterone hierarchy.

  "I can take anything you hand out," Peterson said with firm determination.

  A paternal smile crossed Johnston's face. "So be it. Stay here. The rest of you wait by the mess hall. You'll see everything from there. Go on."

  "Sir?" Paxton asked.

  "Just do it."

  Appearing uneasy, they looked at one another, nodded, and made their way to the mess. Johnston noted that two of them refused to lay down their weapons when they moved away. Showed promise, those two. Most of the lads showed promise, unlike Peterson. That lad lacked nerve and the ability to listen.

  "Stand up. Wait there," he ordered Peterson. Peering up at the sun, he judged its angle and walked directly in its direction. Since there was no breeze the air felt still against his skin. The temperature was cool, the way he liked it during these moments, still and quiet, with a chill snap and a sharp tang that made his nerves sharp.

  After walking thirty yards he turned to look at Peterson. "All right lad. Here's the time to show your nerve. Prove yourself a man."

  "Sir," Even from this distance, Johnston could see Peterson's sweat. The man shook, shading his eyes with one hand so he could make Johnston out in the sun's glare. The sight made Johnston want to puke. Peterson was the worst of this lot, a dreamer driven by ideals instead of pragmatic self-interest. Of course, that was why Johnston had chosen him. Different instructors used their own methods to get across the point that Field's Militia was serious business. Johnston had decided long ago that he preferred this method. It was, he thought, the most effective one of all. It had the added benefit of making his blood flow faster, of making the day just a little bit brighter.

  "Prove yourself," Johnston called out. "You get two free shots, and then I'm going to kill you."

  "Sir!"

  "I'm serious. Start shooting."

  Predictably, Peterson did not shoot. Ashen faced and goggle-eyed, his rifle dangled at the end of his arms as if the thing were nothing more than a useless stick. Johnston wasn't surprised. By design, all his victims were people who froze in a crisis. The last thing he wanted was to kill off one of the good ones. Peterson was not good. Hell, the kid probably thought inaction would win him a reprieve. Most of them thought that.

  Think again.

  Causally pulling his pistol, Johnston leveled it, waited a moment, and then shot the kid in his leg. Yelping, Peterson leaped and cursed, and then he dropped his rifle and stood, staring with hypnotic fascination at the bore of Johnston's pistol. The kid seemed mesmerized. No survival instincts at all. None.

  Disgusted, Johnston tucked his pistol away. Peterson was a waste. That bullet had done no more than cut a little groove along the side of his leg, but it had been enough to make the kid's mind freeze.

  "The next one goes straight through your brain," Johnston called across the distance. "I advise you to pick up your rifle and take your free shots." He made sure to raise his voice loud enough so the recruits standing by the mess could hear.

  Peterson licked his lips. "Sir, I don't want to do this."

  Frowning slightly, Johnston shook his head sadly. "Sorry lad. There's no way out for you. I warned you of that. You took the challenge. Now you have to be a man and carry it through. Start shooting."

  Moving with frightened deliberation, Peterson stooped and collected his rifle. Juggling it clumsily, he brought it to his shoulder, and stood there, the barrel wavering in Johnston's direction. His hand convulsed. The barrel jerked inches sideways. The rifle did not fire.

  Johnston smiled gentle encouragement. "Squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it. That little button by the trigger is the safety. Now why don't you click it off? I'm not a monster, Peterson. I'll give you another chance. Two free shots, just like I promised."

  Peterson fumbled for a moment and then looked down the length of the barrel.

  "Do it!" Johnston ordered.

  The gun fired.

  Johnston nodded approvingly. "That's better. Your rifle went boom, only you missed. Fortunately, you get one more chance. Why don't you try aiming this time? God only knows where that last bullet went." He allowed his eyes to flicker to the side. Yes, the other recruits' attention was fastened on him. They noted his iron-jawed calmness, his courage, and they admired his casual attitude as he placed his solid six-foot frame directly in the path of danger. Best of all, they saw his refusal to flinch when Peterson's rifle fired. This was part of the lesson. There wasn't one damn thing they could do to intimidate him.

  Peterson fired again.

  Sighing disappointment, Johnston shook his head sadly and momentarily wished he smoked because a cigar stuck between his lips would have perfectly complimented the image he wanted the recruits to remember. "I really hoped for better from you," he called for the benefit of his audience. "Too bad."

  Peterson's eyes grew huge. With his rifle barrel swinging without a pretense of control, he jerked on the trigger once and then again.

  Lazily raising his pistol, Johnston shot the kid between his eyes. His shot echoed directly after the kid's fourth and last trigger pull.

  Peterson's head snapped, and then his knees folded and he crumpled loosely to the ground. Johnston nodded with silent satisfaction. His bullet had gone exactly where it was supposed to go. The kid had died very quickly.

  Turning his gaze, he took in the remaining four recruits. One of them looked shocked and wary. Two others looked interested, and something that was almost lust gleamed deep behind Paxton's eyes. Those last three were the ones he was interested in. They were the natural killers. Perhaps the most promising one of the group was Paxton. Though slightly built and not very tall, the man oozed bloodlust.

  Walking slowly over to them, Johnston gave them a lazy once over. Even the frightened one did not wince. With a little work he might become something worth keeping too. A couple weeks would show if he needed to be weeded.

  Stopping immediately before them, Johnston allowed the survivors to look into the dark orb
s of his eyes. Their unemotional depths had cowed more than a few of these children.

  "This is not a game people," he snapped. "This is the real thing. In six months or a year you will leave Jefferson and teleport into another world. When you are there you will have to kill. You won't kill one person, or two, or even three. You will kill them by the dozens and the hundreds. Most of those people will be women. Live with the idea of killing women. Learn to have wet dreams over it."

  "Some of you," Johnston continued, "will wind up in a country called Chin. You won't have to fight hard because the Chin groundwork has been well laid. Unfortunately, the Isabellan theater will not be so simple because Private Turner has not been very effective. Unlike Colonel Klein, his strength is not sufficient to carry the weight of another human being into Isabella. Don't worry. We're working on a way around his small problem."

  He gave them his sternest look, though anyone who needed more incentive to pay attention than the dead man he had given them was not the type of soldier the General wanted. In Johnston's experience, dead bodies tended to be a fairly reliable focusing agent.