Still Training

Being a Counter didn't exactly mean we were Counters, at least, not in the way people imagined. We weren't the elite warriors that took on city-wrecking threats. No, we were the guys with electric sticks that can turn into spears, whose main job was to keep crowds from getting trampled or incinerated by some pissed-off Augmen or out-of-control Mutate or Beast. Basically, we were glorified riot control.

It was almost admirable how willing the city was to arm us. They handed us gear like it was candy, but the truth was, we were just another layer of disposable muscle between the civilians and whatever nightmare decided to show up that day.

There were three ways to get this job.

One: Be forced into service with a promise of citizenship, like me.

Two: Walk into Counter Headquarters and sign up voluntarily, because apparently, some people were crazy enough to do that.

Three: Be a well-known Augmen with enough skill and reputation to make the city actually want you on their payroll. Those guys got all the perks, the better pay, specialized gear, and, most importantly, the ability to refuse orders if things got too messy. The real powerhouses handled the big threats, the kind that required more than just a few electric prods to put down.

And then there was us.

We were the boots on the ground. The grunts. The guys who didn't have to think much, just followed orders. Go here. Do this. Arrest that guy. Don't ask why. If we got lucky, we made it to the end of our four-year contract with all our limbs still attached.

Training was exactly what you'd expect for a group of half-baked superhumans who barely knew how to function as a unit. Most days, we used medieval tactics. No joke. Every day, they picked a "suspect" to act as our designated criminal while the rest of us practiced subduing them.

Today, that honor went to Tommer, a six-foot-nine, two-hundred-and-seventy-pound former construction worker who had somehow ended up in the same boat as the rest of us. The guy was built like a tank and had the attitude to match.

It took a long time to take him down. Even with a dozen of us armed with high-voltage batons, he still managed to hold his ground for an embarrassingly long time.

We formed a shield wall, the first row locking their shields together while the second row reached over the top with extended batons. The tactic was simple: box him in, keep poking him until he dropped.

Tommer, being a stubborn bastard, fought like hell. He managed to grab Mali—poor bastard—and slammed him onto the ground so hard we all winced. But as soon as that happened, we pushed forward, reinforcing the shield wall and jabbing him from all angles.

"Fucking—goddamn—you—motherfuckers!" Tommer snarled, curling up as we shocked him over and over.

His insults got more creative as the volts did their work, but eventually, he stopped fighting and just lay there, cursing us with every variation of how he'd screw our mothers.

We'd call that a success.

After that, we moved on to rifle training.

The first part was a simple rundown , how to switch the safety on and off, how to clear a jammed chamber, and most importantly, how to actually aim the damn thing.

Handling a firearm was easy when you had superhuman strength. The recoil barely registered, even for a high-caliber rifle. But, of course, there were still some idiots in the group who took that as an excuse to hold down the trigger until their mags were empty.

One particularly brilliant recruit decided to unload his entire clip without thinking. The bullets went wild, and we all hit the deck as a round ricocheted into one of the barracks windows. That earned us a surprise inquiry from HQ.

The Instructor wasn't pleased.

"Some of you can take a bullet. Some of you. But a bullet to the head or heart still puts you in a body bag, so stop acting like this is a goddamn joke!"

He wasn't wrong. We weren't invincible. Strong? Sure. Durable? Yeah. But even the toughest Augmen could be taken down with the right hit. Some people just didn't seem to get that.

The Instructor hammered the point home.

"Always wear your armor and helmet when dealing with hostiles. I don't care how strong you are, if you run in without gear, you're a dumbass."

The veterans understood that. The newer guys? Not so much.

The Augmen and Mutates in the group had a habit of walking around like they were gods. It wasn't surprising. When you could lift a car, punch through concrete, and shrug off stab wounds— it made you feel untouchable. But feeling untouchable was a good way to get killed.

Not that it stopped anyone from acting like they were invincible. It'd take more beatings, more failures, and possibly a few near-death experiences before that lesson really sank in.

At the end of the day, I just wanted to collapse onto my bed and sleep. Training had fried my muscles, and my head was still ringing from the constant yelling.

Unfortunately, I had to share a living space with morons.

The Counter barracks were functional but basic—rows of sleeping quarters, each room holding two people. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't comfortable either.

The real problem for some of us apparently? 

The armory door.

See, the armory had a simple keypad lock. All you had to do was enter a four-digit code to open it. Nothing complicated. Nothing fancy. But for some godforsaken reason, half the recruits couldn't remember the code.

So what did they do?

Did they write it down? No.

Did they memorize it? Also no.

Did they find a reasonable solution?

Hell no.

Instead, some genius decided that the best way to keep the door open was to wedge a metal pipe over the top so it couldn't close properly.

I stared at it for a long moment, watching as two guys struggled to get the pipe in place.

"You know," I said finally, "you could just write the code down somewhere."

One of them looked at me like I'd suggested quantum physics.

"You could also shut up and let us do this," he replied.

I sighed and walked away.

There was no fixing stupidity.

By the time I got back to my room, Dan was already lying on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He didn't look up as I walked in.

"How was it?" he asked.

I flopped onto my mattress, groaning. "Tommer got cooked. Rifle training was a disaster. And the armory door situation is somehow getting worse."

Dan snorted. "So, just another day?"

"Pretty much."

We were quiet for a while, the sounds of the ocean drifting through the thin walls. The city outside was alive — always was. Even this late, you could hear the hum of traffic, the occasional burst of shouting, the distant thump of music from the lower districts.

Dan let out a long sigh. "How long do you think we'll last?"

I thought about that for a moment.

"Four years," I said finally. "That's what we signed up for."

He let out a low chuckle. "Yeah. If we last that long with the kind of retards here.."

I didn't respond.

Because honestly? I wasn't sure if we would.

***

Counters weren't exclusive to men. In a world as unforgiving as this one, plenty of women were just as desperate to secure citizenship or take advantage of government protection that the United Humanity provide. The organization didn't discriminate as long as you could hold a weapon and follow orders.

For obvious reasons, the base kept the men and women separated. Not that it stopped the usual bullshit. Some of the guys, the bastards with no self-control couldn't help but ogle, making crude gestures whenever they got the chance. Some of the women responded in kind, but the smart ones ignored it.

Still, a few idiots always took things too far.

The last pair who tried to sneak into the showers together got caught and deported the same day — thrown straight out of the city, left to fend for themselves in the underclaimed lands beyond the walls. No second chances. No appeals.

After that, most people kept their fantasies in their heads. Didn't stop the occasional vulgar remark, but at least no one was stupid enough to get caught acting on it. I wouldn't count it on though.

Since we were technically getting paid with a joke of a paycheck, but money nonetheless. Counter HQ had no problem working us to the bone. Training was only one part of the experience. When we weren't being drilled to death, we were on cleaning duty.

Dan and I got assigned to vehicle maintenance. That meant scrubbing down Humvees, cleaning out their bloody interiors, and hosing off whatever viscera had gotten stuck to the undercarriage.

We almost got to clean the helicopters, too, but the mechanics weren't having it.

"Hey, fuck off with that hose!" one of them shouted as I got too close.

Apparently, some idiot had tried to spray down the exposed mechanics of a chopper before. We were promptly told to keep our hands off the aircraft and stick to the trucks.

Which was fine by me.

Most of the Humvees were battered, dented, and covered in dried gore. The ones that weren't completely totaled were being hammered back into shape by repair crews, their armor plates straightened and welded like patchwork.

It was disgusting work.

Bloodstains soaked deep into the seats. Mud and God-knows-what were caked under the wheels. We had to manually disassemble the seats, scrub them with bleach and soapy water, then put them back together.

Dan nearly gagged as we pried open a door.

"Gods, this stinks like shit."

"Smells like someone became shit in here," I muttered, covering my nose.

The answer, unfortunately, was probably yes.

While we scrubbed down the vehicles, soldiers lounged around the base. Some were covered in tar, gun lubricant, tobacco spit, and straight-up sewer water from the town they'd just patrolled. Others barked orders at us — what to touch, what not to touch, where to load the ammo boxes once we finished.

Their job wasn't pretty. The city deployed them to secure kilometers of territory, expanding its influence bit by bit. Their main job?

Clear the land.

Sometimes that meant eliminating mutated beasts that had taken over abandoned areas. Other times, it meant crushing raider camps or dealing with hostile gangs.

If things got really bad, they had to fend off full-blown incursions such as bands of Gobs, Orcs, or worse, trying to push into the city's borders.

Most of us trainees were being trained for urban deployment. Riot control. Civil order. That sort of thing. But seeing these guys made me wonder how long before they sent us out there, too?

Probably in the last two years of our contract. Maybe even sooner if they got desperate.

After hours of scrubbing blood, mud, and viscera off metal, Dan and I were finally told to get lost.

We trudged back to HQ, boots soaked and reeking of bleach, and reported back to the Sergeant. He barely looked up from his computer.

"Noted," he grunted. "Go clean yourselves up and check your gear."

Thankfully, we had our own room.

Some poor bastards got stuck on latrine duty, and their area reeked of shit. At least Dan and I didn't have to deal with that.

I flopped onto my bed, exhausted.

Dan did the same, staring at the ceiling.

"This job fucking sucks," he muttered.

I sighed. "Yeah. But at least we're still in the city."

Dan let out a dry laugh. "Yeah… for now."

No one wanted to be outside of the Wasteland. Sure we technically got it cleared, but no one wanted to live there at the moment. There were livable areas, a lot, but most of the time they just fuck off back to the city after getting tired of the Occasional Monster Incursions. It'll take time for this world to heal and if that time comes… it won't be the same.