Page 12 of Metal & Mud

Throwing country boy on top of that would have just been too much.

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7

LOGAN

After such a grueling week, anyone would have forgiven Logan for sleeping in and doing nothing. But that wasn't his style. Habit and his body's internal clock meant he rolled out of bed at eight in the morning. After shaving, he pulled on a PT uniform and headed to the mess hall, where he devoured a mountain of pancakes, eggs, and about half a pound of sausage and bacon, washing it all down with several glasses of milk.

With his stomach full, Logan tried to occupy the rest of the day. He pushed himself at the gym, knowing he needed to build more strength to keep up with the demands of his training.

He wondered how Sergeant Adams managed to maintain such a physique alongside the grueling training schedule. It was impressive, maybe even intimidating. He reminded himself of her words from Friday night, her challenge to push himself beyond his limits. He was determined to rise to it.

He wouldn't compromise who he was. He wouldn't let Franklin's disapproval dictate his taste in music, his clothes, his life outside the uniform.

Saturday was for him. Sunday he'd do some planning, but Saturday was his day to exhale. He caught up on his emails, watched some Netflix, and spent some time reading. He tackled the chore of cleaning his shared barracks room until the air stung with the scent of bleach. Even Carter would be impressed.

Now he was just plain bored. Boredom drove him to the duty desk. "This place is a ghost town, Sergeant," he complained.

Staff Sergeant Carson chuckled, calling him "Hollywood." "Yeah, weekends are slow. Everyone gets off base."

"So what can I do?" Logan asked. "I don't really want to get delivery tonight."

"Most troops stuck on post for the weekend play video games. Not your thing?"

"Not really. I've thrown down on Madden and Fortnite, but it's not something I can do all night."

"Well, just about the only thing open for the evening is the bowling alley," Carson said. "Two blocks from the PX."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and one other thing," Carson said, holding out his hand, palm up. "Not gonna risk drunk driving, so keys. You just got out of training, which means you don't have your drinking legs back yet. And I'm not scraping you up off the pavement. You wanna go yark in the bushes on the way back, that's on you. The staff there will keep you from being falling down drunk. But you're not catching a DUI on my watch."

Logan thought about protesting but figured it wasn't worth arguing about. "Keyless right now, but I'll drop them off on my way out."

Logan retreated to his room and changed into black jeans, boots, and a gray elbow-length death metal t-shirt he'd had since his freshman year in college. He wasn't looking to make an impression, just wanted to be comfortable.

Down at the staff desk, Sergeant Collins raised an eyebrow. "Death metal? I thought you had a degree in math, aren't you types supposed to be into Mozart or some shit?"

Logan smirked. "Did you know that the lead guitarist for Queen, Brian May, has his PhD in astrophysics? The man's a legit rocket scientist."

"Is that so?" Collins asked, humming. "Well then, I guess I've been properly corrected. But that's not exactly popular barracks music."

"Which is why I listen to it on my earbuds," Logan said, holding up his phone. "I get to hog all the awesomeness for myself. See you later, Sergeant."

The Spicely Community Entertainment Complex was smaller than he expected, a converted warehouse painted a bland brown. As he opened the door, he paused to read the plaque on the inside, explaining that Private Booker T. Spicely was a native of Blackstone, Virginia. On the night of July 8th, 1944, Private Spicely was on pass in Durham, North Carolina when he was told to move to the back of the bus he was riding on. He argued with the bus driver, and after Spicely got off, the bus driver followed, shooting Spicely twice and killing him.

"A sad memorial," Logan murmured as he looked at the engraved image of Booker T. Spicely. He'd never heard of the man before, yet his death was as heart-wrenching as any of the others that sparked the Civil Rights Movement. "But I'm glad there's something. Maybe your tragedy won't be forgotten."

The bowling alley was buzzing with activity, a mix of soldiers and locals. The air conditioning was a welcome blast of cool air. Lanes and a pool hall shared the space, along with a small cafe area and bar.

He approached the counter. "What's good here?" he asked the guy behind the register.

"The double cheeseburger's the best we've got," the man said. "And we've got Tay on the grill tonight. Trust me, man knows how to treat his meat."

Logan blinked and resisted the urge to make a juvenile joke. "Does it come with fries?"

"Fries are separate, but an order's pretty big. If you're not hungry, go with the onion rings."

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