Marines by Jay Allan Page A

single faucet that dispensed a trickle of cloudy, stinking water. 
    When they finally came to get me they took me to a small tiled room with a drain, stripped me naked, and washed me with a high-powered hose.  I was given a clean set of yellow overalls to wear and escorted to my court appearance.
    The courtroom was small and utilitarian, with just a raised platform holding the judge's bench, and a single row of hard plastic chairs.  Two armed guards stood rigidly against the wall on either side of the judge.  I was brought in and seated in the middle chair.  The officer who had brought me in stood directly behind me.
    I had no attorney, no witnesses, no time to try to defend myself.  They just sat me down while the prosecutor read the charges.  The one time I tried to speak the court officer hit me in the back of the neck with a rubber club and told me to shut up.
    After the prosecutor finished the judge spoke almost immediately.  "Guilty.  Sentence, death by gas.  To be carried out immediately."
    I jumped up and started to protest, and then everything went black as I felt the officer's club impact the back of my head.  I don't know how long I was unconscious, but when I started to come to I was strapped to a cold metal chair in a small white chamber.  There was a glass window of sorts, with what looked like a steel door closed over it.  There were large vents on the otherwise featureless steel walls at both the ceiling and floor levels. 
    My wrists and legs were held fast by worn fabric straps.  I started to panic and began yelling as loud as I could, but the room looked pretty soundproof.  I pulled as hard as I could against the straps, but I couldn't budge.  I could feel the sweat beading up on my brow and trickling down my face as I wildly struggled.
    After a few minutes of that the door made a soft hissing sound and opened.  A tall man dressed in a spotless gray and black uniform stepped through and stood quietly for a few seconds, looking at me intently, as if he was trying to read my mind.
    Finally he said, "Hello, Erik.  I'd ask how you were doing, but I think I have a pretty good idea.  My name is Captain John Irving.  You can call me Jack.  I was wondering if you had any interest in discussing an alternative to staying here and choking to death on poison gas."
    After five years on the street and in the gang, after sitting in that cell of horrors, after that mockery of a trial...I had just about had it with police and anything with a resemblance to police.
    "Go get fucked, scumbag.  Just gas me so I don't need to look at any more pus-sucking cops."
    He looked at me with an amused grin for a moment, and then let out a short but hearty laugh.  "I'm not a cop, Erik.  I'm a marine.  And I'd like to make you a marine too."
     

Chapter Three
     

Marine Orientation and Deployment Center
    Brooklyn, New York, USA
    Western Alliance
     
    Training was nothing like I expected.  Actually it started pretty much exactly as I anticipated, but it wasn't long before things veered sharply from the familiar.
    I decided I'd call my new friend Captain Jack, which seemed sufficiently disrespectful without being outright provocative.  I'd given Captain Jack a few more minutes of nasty expletives, but I couldn't get a rise out of him.  And going with him seemed like a better option than snorting toxic gas, so of course I accepted his mysterious invitation.  I'd be damned if I would fight for this miserable excuse for a country, but my options were somewhat limited, so I played along.
    He called in the guard and told him to un-strap me.  The cop looked like he tasted something bad, but when he paused slightly Captain Jack gave him a quick look, and he scrambled over and unhooked the straps and backed away.  I watched the whole thing with surprised amusement.  These cops were used to being bullies, but this guy was scared shitless of Captain Jack.  I enjoyed watching that more than anything I'd seen in a long