/lit/ - Literature

This was the first time Megan actually took in and regarded fully the work of the tool-bristled crews who descended upon the training course with sunlit beams, planks and whatever wood was required for the on the spot-reframing of the wrecked rooms, blasted doorways, shattered windows, caved walls, even the stairwell buckled by the crashing opposition, there were for each and every damage someone readily dispatched to the freshly trained-in house, retail space, recreated skyscraper rooftop, warehouse or crew quarters, the piercing bells of the acoustic signals notifying everyone of the commencement of the drill. And at that signal would assemble around the smoldering wreckage the very know-how to patch it back together. Some held plastic wrapped window frames tucked beneath each arm, others hoisted tool boxes two to massive hands, others bore drills and drivers and coils of cord, small electric saws, a few with no tools, not even belts, but an air of acuity and precision. They all emerged from what Megan could see was a series of trailers, open air shelters, garages and workshops, their walking speedy enough so as to remind her these contractors had won a highly sought after relationship with the Department of Defense and they weren’t about to lose out on the piles of money foisted upon them to immediately rebuild, restore, refurbish, re-spackle, re-frame and re-upholster whatever the training operations impacted. Previously, Megan barely noticed the dutiful, deferential painters who were always quick to scoot and scurry from her hyperfocused pre-drill path with their small brushes and rollers and cans, the last of them pulling up the plastic wrapping from the floor, rolling it noisily and rapidly, the smell of paint and wood smoke filled the nose and emptied all other senses but those required now.