Never mess with a Wolf (R-18)
Fort Dix buzzed with activity as the recruits trained and prepared for war. Among the flurry of soldiers-to-be, Lorenzo stood out in his olive drab uniform, sweat trickling down his brow as he pushed himself through yet another set of push-ups. The drill sergeant's voice rang in his ears, barking orders like a machine gun. "One more! You can do it, maggot!"
The other recruits around him grunted and groaned, but they all knew that this training was necessary to prepare them for the hellish conditions they might face on the battlefield. After the push-ups came the endless laps around the parade ground, their boots pounding the hard-packed earth in unison. Their lungs burned, but they kept running, driven by the knowledge that their lives and the lives of their brothers-in-arms depended on their physical prowess.
Next, they were off to the obstacle course, where they scrambled over walls, crawled through muddy trenches, and scaled barbed wire fences. The sergeant's voice followed them like a relentless drill, pushing them to their limits and beyond. "Move it, maggots! Quit your whining and keep going!"
Lorenzo's heart pounded in his chest as he navigated the treacherous obstacle course, his muscles on fire but his determination unwavering. He vaulted over the wooden walls with ease, his body moving almost on autopilot thanks to the endless hours of training. Mud flew from his boots as he sprinted through the ankle-deep muck, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The barbed wire loomed ahead, but he didn't hesitate, army-crawling underneath it with practiced ease.
Drill Sergeant William watched from a distance, eagle-eyed and observant. He made a mental note of the recruit's agility and tenacity. "That's it, maggot! Keep movin'!" he barked, but there was a hint of approval in his voice.
Lorenzo scaled the final wall, collapsing in a heap on the other side, gasping for air. His uniform was caked in mud and sweat, but a fierce grin split his face. He'd done it. He'd aced the obstacle course again.
Sergeant William strode over, stopping in front of the panting recruit. "You've got potential, son," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I've got my eye on you. If you keep this up, I see NCO or even OCS in your future."
Lorenzo's chest swelled with pride, but he only managed a weary salute. "Thank you, sir!" he gasped.
"Don't let me down, maggot!" the drill sergeant barked over his shoulder as he moved on to the next recruit.
Lorenzo gasped and sat down as he checked his attribute status points in his system interface. Although his stats were already above those of any ordinary, healthy, strong young man, the rigorous training in the camp, coupled with the strict discipline even during mealtimes, had gradually increased his attributes by more than 10 points. His Stamina attribute, in particular, had reached a remarkable 13 points.
Lorenzo could have continued training, but he needed to maintain his act of being tired, since he felt he had already performed exceptionally well. After all, he had been training non-stop from morning till evening, with only short breaks in between.
As he glanced over at Max and Patrick, he saw them struggling through their exercises, their bodies limp and exhausted, just like any other new recruit.
Over the weeks that went by, Lorenzo's performance in the training camp continued to impress the various drill sergeants.
Besides a few other recruits who displayed determination and strong stamina, it was clear that Lorenzo stood out from the rest.
His marksmanship skills were exceptional, earning him the title of "sharp shooter" among his peers, and during the leadership assessment exercises, he showcased natural leadership qualities. The instructors took notice of his abilities and began to consider him as a potential candidate for the Officer Candidate School (OCS), even though he didn't have a college degree.
The drill sergeants observed how Lorenzo excelled in every aspect of the training, from physical endurance to firearms proficiency. During the leadership assessments, he naturally took charge of his peers, guiding them through obstacles and ensuring everyone's safety. His keen intellect and adaptability shone through, and the instructors couldn't help but take note of his potential.
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In the mess hall, Lorenzo, Max, and Patrick sat down at the same table, joined by Leo Hartley and Robert McKenzie. The five of them didn't say much to each other, only exchanging brief glances as they began eating. The atmosphere in the room was similar; the other recruits were either eating in silence or engaging in minimal conversation.
Once they finished their meals, they all rose from the table and headed to the designated areas to return their trays and utensils, carefully cleaning them beforehand. The camaraderie that usually developed during training was nowhere to be found during mealtimes.
Afterward, they returned to their barracks, each man focused on preparing his bed for the night. The day's exhaustion weighed heavily on their minds, and they knew that tomorrow would bring another grueling day of training.
Lights out was fast approaching, and every second of rest mattered if they wanted to make it through this ordeal.
"Damn, I can't stand that Howard," Patrick grumbled as he lay down on his bunk. "He struts around like he's better than us, just because he joined a few months earlier."
"Tell me about it," Max agreed, shaking his head. "I don't get why the instructors even let him in here. He hardly breaks a sweat during training."
Lorenzo knew they were talking about Howard Johnson, a relative of a high-ranking officer at Fort Dix. It was no secret that many recruits despised him for his apparent favoritism.
"Guys, don't let him get to you," Lorenzo said, trying to diffuse the situation. "If you retaliate, his uncle could make your lives hell during drills."
"I don't care about his uncle," Patrick shot back, his fists clenching. "If there weren't any instructors around, I'd teach him a lesson or two."
"Really? You'd reach me a lesson?"
The trio turned to the source of the voice, Max and Patrick hearts skipping a beat as the tall, lanky figure of Howard Johnson sauntered into their barracks.
"What are you doing here?" Max asked, his eyebrows furrowing. "This isn't your bunk."
"Oh, I was just passing by," Howard said with a smirk, his lackeys trailing behind him. "And I heard you three bad-mouthing me. What a coincidence, huh?"
Howard and his cronies, all recruits who had joined the camp months before Lorenzo, Max, and Patrick, approached their bunks. Howard's gaze settled on Lorenzo. "Well, well, look who's here. Pretty boy. I hear you've been impressing the instructors again."
Max and Patrick exchanged nervous glances but remained silent. As much as they hated to admit it, they couldn't afford to get on the wrong side of someone with such high-ranking connections.
Max and Patrick watched with bated breath as Howard sauntered over to Lorenzo's bunk, sensing the tension in the air. They knew that messing with Lorenzo was a bad idea, but they also knew he was dead set on focusing on his training for the war ahead.
And just moments ago, he had advised them not to provoke Howard.
Confident in his position, Howard grabbed Lorenzo by the neck, his fingers tightening around his neck. "What's wrong, pretty boy? Cat got your tongue?"
Lorenzo's eyes turned icy, and his expression hardened. "Let go," he said through gritted teeth. "Or you won't have a hand to brag with."
"Hahaha!" Howard and his lackeys erupted in laughter.
"Did you hear that, boys?" Howard turned to his cronies, grinning smugly.
"Yeah, boss, I think he's asking for it!" one of them said, egging him on.
The jealousy in their eyes was palpable, envious of the attention Lorenzo had been receiving from the instructors.
Before they knew it, Howard's fist was hurtling towards Lorenzo's face.
In a blur of motion, Lorenzo retaliate and slapped away the hand around his neck and landed a solid punch on Howard's jaw.
"Y-you dared?" Howard clutched his bleeding lip, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"That's not the only thing I can do," Lorenzo growled, seizing the wrist of the hand that had held him by the neck. With a swift, practiced motion, he twisted Howard's arm, eliciting a sickening crack as the bone snapped. Howard's shriek was muffled by Lorenzo's other hand, which covered his mouth.
As Howard writhed in agony, Lorenzo's fist connected with his jaw again, and again, and again, until his face was a bloody mess. His lackeys could only watch, frozen in fear, as Lorenzo unleashed his pent-up frustration on their leader.
Lorenzo's knuckles were raw and bloody, but he didn't care. He continued to rain down blows upon Howard's battered form, venting every ounce of rage and frustration he'd been holding back for weeks.
Max and Patrick stared at the beaten Howard Johnson, their jaws agape. They couldn't believe Lorenzo had just done that.
"You two," Lorenzo said, his voice cold as ice. "Take care of his lackeys."
Max and Patrick's eyes met, communicating without words. They knew better than to defy him now. Reluctantly, they turned to the cowering group of recruits who had once been so cocky.
"You're a dead man!" Howard spat, glaring at Lorenzo through swollen eyes. "My uncle will have your ass for this!"
Lorenzo's smile sent chills down their spines. "Your uncle doesn't need to know a thing."
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air.
"What do you mean?" Howard asked, his voice shaking with apprehension. He knew he was in deep trouble by the look in Lorenzo's eyes.
Lorenzo patted him on the head, his expression chillingly calm. "A dead man tells no tales."
The barracks fell silent as Max and Patrick froze, their fists still raised.
"N-no! You wouldn't dare!" Howard stuttered, scrambling backward on the floor, desperately trying to escape.
Lorenzo didn't even flinch. "Oh, but I would," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Sooner or later, I'll have to kill someone because of this damn war, even if I don't want to. Might as well start with you."
He bent down, his face mere inches from Howard's terrified visage. "You're not a soldier material anyway."
In one fluid motion, he drew a sharp knife he'd been hiding for weeks, the metal glinting in the dim light.
Seeing the knife, fear etched itself into Howard's eyes. He pissed himself as he begged, "Please! Please don't kill me! I won't tell my uncle, I swear!"
"Don't worry," Lorenzo said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This will be quick."
With a swift motion, he plunged the knife into Howard's neck, and the blade emerged bloody on the other side. The sound of tearing flesh and Howard's muffled screams filled the air.
"A-ah!" Howard's lackeys cried out, but one look from Lorenzo silenced them.
Max and Patrick exchanged glances, understanding in their eyes. They knew what they had to do.
Lorenzo's voice was cold as ice. "Kill them all. We'll bury them tonight."
Max and Patrick nodded grimly, and without hesitation, they set about their grisly task. The muffled sounds of strangling filled the air as they silently dispatched Howard's lackeys.
Lorenzo felt nothing as he watched the men he'd just killed twitch their last. They deserved it, after all the bullying and torment they'd inflicted on the younger recruits. He knew too well the atrocities they'd committed—rape, among other things—all because they couldn't control their urges.
As Max and Patrick took turns keeping watch and digging graves for the bodies, one thought echoed in their minds: "Never mess with Lorenzo Lupo…"
Their hearts pounded in their chests, but they knew they had just witnessed something they could never unsee. They vowed to never mess with him again