Chester And The 24-hour Lottery

Chapter 18; How does your garden grow?

Van, Garth, and Chester spent the next few weeks in the exercise area when not eating or sleeping. Van was determined to build up Chester's strength and Garth tried his best to not break him, although Chester suspected the man didn't hold back the punch that broke his nose halting further activity for two days.

Racket stopped the nightly visits after walking in to see Chester and Van laying next to each other after a hard day's training. Van laid draped across his chest fast asleep and Chester glared at her until she left.

Good riddance.

Thanksgiving came and went without acknowledgment. No need for holidays or celebrations when families were torn apart by a tyrannical madman. Chester didn't think those hiding below ground had much to be thankful for besides being alive while their loved ones struggled under Spell's thumb of oppression.

Saldivar disappeared again. Chester felt for him but wished he would reach out. Maybe he had, only not included them. Time was wasting away but his new friends, the only friends he'd ever known, devoted each day preparing for action.

Preparing me for epic failure, he thought after Garth struck his aching left kidney once again.

Racket entered the fitness room when Garth grumbled Chester's hits were not improving for the millionth time. Van smiled at the surly woman while Chester pretended his gloves needed tightening.

"He's not a fighter," Racket spoke, crossing her arms, "Switch to weapons. Guns. He shot Carl in the leg with one try."

"That's right, he did," Garth mused, wiping sweat from his brow, "What do you think Chester?"

"You're gaining muscle but it's not enough," Racket carried on, "Being able to defend yourself against an enemy is something you need to work on, but you aren't a fighter."

Chester's face heated, fumbling with the gloves until they landed on the mat with a dull thump, "How would you know? It's only been a few weeks and I haven't trained for years like you guys."

"Chet," Van's soft voice came with reason, "Racket's trying to help. I'm sure Joey wouldn't mind lending guidance, right?"

"Yeah," he conceded, "but it's not as if there's an infinite amount of rounds for me to pop off. Joey told me he and his bunkmates make bullets before bed in case Saldivar storms Fort Ozark."

Racket shook her head, "There are other techniques you can practice. Knives, how to throw a grenade without blowing it up in your face."

Chester looked from Van to Garth, who both seemed in agreement. It was true he wasn't built for psychical altercations but tried his best. He nodded once.

Racket cracked a smile before ruining the amicable moment with typical sternness, "Clean up and meet me at the armory." Then she swiveled on her boots leaving Chester clenching his jaw in frustration at being commanded.

"I thought for sure you'd throw a tantrum," Garth chuckled.

He glared, about to say something he would surely pay for later when the door opened again and Henry stepped in. Chester hadn't seen the cue-balled piece of shit since arriving and defenses went up. The man had attacked him after all without provocation. He eyed the nose ring, wondering how hard he'd need to pull to tear it out.

"What do you want Henry?" Van didn't sound pleased, making him hide a smirk.

"Saldivar wants a meeting in an hour, asking for the three of you to join him topside."

"Topside?" Garth's usually stoic face brightened, "Interesting."

Henry glanced at Garth before looking Chester up and down like he was checking for something before turning back to Van, "Are you busy?"