THE MEN PILED most of the chopped wood on the truck beds and then walked toward the mesa in a single-file line, each person dragging a log behind him. They followed the rockface for a short time before turning eastward and heading out of the trees. In front and behind them, the hoplites kept watch. Ben found this procession—the heat, and sand, and steady march—all too familiar, and he looked at the night sky to try to remove himself. What was Becca doing? He longed to be with her. His need felt as large and vast as the desert.
The hoplites stopped the men in the middle of nowhere. Here were the trucks, piled high with wood, and a Wrangler Jeep in which the CO stood, waiting.
“Achilles decided funeral games would be held for Patroclus,” he bellowed. “And so the men entered the ring, ‘and grasped each other with their mighty arms . . . The sweat streamed down while many a blood-red, swollen bruise appeared on their ribs and shoulders. And they were eager for victory.’” The CO surveyed the men. Their number had shrunk to just under forty.
The hoplites split the men into teams, and a series of competitions began. There were races, and wrestling matches, and javelin contests. Winners and losers were sorted and paired and pitted against one another. Ben felt uncomfortable watching these old men fight, watching the way they grunted under the strain, how sweat poured down their faces, how their bellies heaved.
Left and right, men were relegated to the sidelines. At first, Ben assumed these losers had been cut from the competition, but sometimes the CO would send a defeated man back into the ring. Sometimes he had the hoplites lead winners into the trucks. When the first truck was full, it headed back to camp. The remaining men paused to watch, their faces glowing in the headlights with vindication and relief.
“But maybe they’re the ones advancing,” somebody said, and Ben felt the group deflate. He didn’t want to think about the other men. He needed to win this thing, needed to be the last one, so that he could help King reach the final challenge, whatever it was. Then he needed to get Becca into the Death Star and get them home.
Ben was called to wrestle Reno.
“This isn’t the way to get her back,” Reno said when they stood face to face. The whistle blew. Reno was more agile than Ben had expected, his movements slippery, but when Ben did manage to get a hold of him, it was easy to pin Reno to the ground. Reno smiled up at him, and Ben wondered if he’d lost on purpose. Then Reno winced. Ben had his elbow pressed on the poker burn. He could have Reno kicked out right now. He needed only press a little harder, dig his elbow in deeper. But for some reason, he couldn’t. He let up slightly.
“I promised her I’d help you,” Reno said, wheezing. The whistle blew and two hoplites yanked them apart.
Ben hoped Reno’s loss meant that he’d be taken away in the truck, but that didn’t happen. Instead, the hoplites lined up the remaining twelve contenders and began patrolling the ranks, drill sergeant–style. When they’d reached the far end of the line, Bull nudged Ben. “Your girl spent the night with Reno,” he said through clenched teeth. “You know that, right?”
It took a massive amount of self-control for Ben not to grab Bull by the shoulders, but he couldn’t keep from turning to look at him.
“Eyes ahead!” snarled one of the hoplites, prodding Ben with the Taser.
“You don’t believe me?” Bull whispered. “They danced all night, pressed up close, like. It’s disgusting. Reno and King’re the same age.”
Reno was at the end of the line and Ben couldn’t get a good look at his face without moving. It couldn’t be true. Bull was messing with him. But who knew what had happened on the road? Becca was angry and hurt. She might have done something to try to hurt him back. He shook his head as though to physically shake off his doubt. It was hard. So goddamned hard. He wanted to throttle Bull, and Reno, and the CO. He was succumbing to the stress of things, to the unreality, the uncertainty, the exhaustion. It was so much like the war.
That realization snapped Ben back to attention. The CO knew that every vet here was vulnerable to these feelings. He was using this knowledge to manipulate them. It was as brilliant as it was terrifying.
Two hoplites unrolled a set of building plans on the hood of one of the flatbeds. The CO stood up in the open Jeep and cleared his throat. “Build it!” he pronounced.
The men looked at the CO dumbly, awaiting further instructions.
“I said, build it!”
Ben jumped into action. The CO was looking for a leader and that’s what Ben would be. He proposed a plan to divide up the work. The men shifted, obviously irritated by Ben’s sudden decisiveness. But the CO was still watching, and under his gaze, Ben knew, the men could not protest. Their reflexes hadn’t been quick enough; they’d lost this part of the challenge and the most they could do now was prove themselves to be strong, efficient workers.
The teams followed the plans until a coffin-shaped structure began to rise from the ground. Soon it was waist-high, then chest-high. The hoplites pulled ladders from the trucks, and the men kept on building. All the while, the CO watched. It was too dark to make out his face, but his shadowed figure was as large and imposing as a mountain. All of this was part of the CO’s plan, Ben kept thinking. But what that plan was—what they were building for him—he couldn’t begin to know.