Ascending the Boneyard

by C. G. Watson

  I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.

  5

  “You don’t understand,” I tell the odd collection of soldier dudes for the fortieth time. “I don’t work for anyone. I’m not affiliated with any organization. I’m a just a high school kid. I don’t even get good grades.”

  They huddle-whisper after every statement I make, their voices low enough where I can’t even tell what language they’re speaking. The matching bowl-cut hairdos, the strange but identical camo-style fatigues, the weps that don’t look like anything we’ve been using in the Boneyard (although admittedly I haven’t unlocked everything from the expansion pack yet). Still, nothing about this has any ring of familiarity to it. I have no idea what I’m dealing with here.

  All I know is, I was supposed to save that bird and I failed. I didn’t get to call for backup when I was standing on the go-kart track at Goofy Golf. I let my brigade down on this mission. Couldn’t even keep Turk from infiltrating my phone afterward.

  Wait.

  “Where’s my phone?” I ask in a panic.

  “In for analysis,” one of the men says.

  Analysis?

  “What about my wallet?”

  “In for analysis.”

  “And my skateboard?”

  The commando shoots me a lethal glance before saying, “In for analysis.” I finish the sentence with him, and for a split second his eyes glow an enraged, biohazard green.

  I sneak a look around as the group of soldiers reconvenes. The room looks vaguely familiar. Opaque brick walls made of some kind of composite material and a few acrylic chairs surround a single backlit, acrylic table. That’s it. Just me in a room full of virtually invisible furniture with a bunch of guys who look like extras from every B-grade sci-fi movie ever made.

  “Why am I here?” I say, raising my voice. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  In-for-analysis pushes right up against me, and the idea pops over my head like a burst thought bubble. Of course I did something wrong. I probably committed a whole convoy of wrongs at Goofy Golf alone. Not that I’d tell him that. Confess nothing—that’ll be my motto.

  “Look,” a second commando says, circling around, closing in on me nice and tight. “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of the situation.”

  I’m flanked at this point—I have no choice but to agree. I swallow against the dry panic in my mouth.

  “Maybe I don’t.”

  “You trespassed onto a crime-scene investigation.”

  “Are you guys CSI—is that what you’re saying?”

  He ignores me, continues down the litany of my offenses.

  “You broke into a municipal vehicle, stole government property.” He leans forward. “You impersonated a hazmat officer.”

  “So you’re Feds?”

  His fist comes down hard on the table. “Who do you work for?”

  I refuse to show him I’m intimidated.

  “Why should I tell you who I work for when you won’t even tell me who you are?”

  A third commando pulls his chair up in front of me and straddles it backward. He doesn’t lean close, doesn’t crowd me with aggressive energy. He crosses his arms over the back of the chair and drops his voice to a whisper so low that I’m the one who has to lean in.

  “Just tell us what you were doing,” he says, keeping his voice calm and low, “and we can clear this whole thing up right here, right now.”

  My gaze boomerangs between them. If I say what really happened, they might kill me. If I don’t, they’ll probably for sure kill me. I realize with dire certainty that I have to come up with something to say that won’t culminate in them wanting me dead.

  “Look, if I tell you what I was doing, you’ll legitimately think I’m a wuss,” I tell the guy.

  “No, I won’t.” He leans over, drilling into me with his commando-vision. “I’ll think you’re a goddamn hero.”

  I swallow hard, look around at the commandos. What’s in it for me if I comply? Level jumps? Special weps? Extra rezzes? I’d give anything for the chance to finally get this shit right. Still, something tells me it’s in my best interest to be only partly truthful.

  “Okay, well, I was watching the news this morning.” I pause for dramatic effect. Even a lie sounds more believable if you whisper it. “And I saw a bird lying on the go-kart track. And I noticed it wasn’t dead like all those other birds.” I skip the part about the message on my phone, study the circle of pinched faces around me. “I decided to come down and save it.”

  The commando doesn’t move, doesn’t budge, doesn’t so much as twitch for one full minute. Then he scrapes his chair back so suddenly I just about disintegrate inside my own skin. He circles up the wagons, and they confer again behind me.

  I sneak glances at the mottled gray-purple-black of their huddled uniforms, wishing I could hear what they’re saying. Unfortunately, these guys, whoever they are, have perfected the art of the stealth-whisper.

  The third commando breaks free of the group, comes back, and sits across from me again.

  “Caleb Tosh,” he says in a dark hush. “Are you familiar with Turk’s army?”

  He can’t be serious.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You’re aware of the upcoming battle?”

  He notes my skepticism.

  “You’ve seen them, haven’t you?” He says it so quietly, I can barely hear him. “Scouts? Infiltrators?”

  I try not to let him see me gulp. “Yes.”

  “We believe you can be of service to us.”

  I’m blinking like a crazy person behind the yellow goggles, but I can’t stop myself from asking, “What are you talking about?”

  “It will require an extreme level of internal fortitude,” he continues in a whisper, every word coming faster. “You will see things. Strange things.”

  “Stranger than five thousand dead birds in an amusement park?” I say.

  He ignores me. “And you will be asked to do things that may not seem to follow typical mission protocol. You must not question the mission.”

  “What’s the catch?” I ask.

  “We know where Turk’s lair is. And it’s not what you think.”

  My ears start to ring. What he’s suggesting . . . well, it’s impossible. “Then, wh—”

  The other soldiers move in fast, form a semicircle around us. Commando Number Three pulls back, raises his voice to mid-volume. “You’re free to go,” he says.

  Wait, what?

  “But you said—”

  “I said. You are free. To go.” His expression turns hard, matching his cohorts’.

  “Oh. Okay.” I look around, not sure what to do next. “So . . . can I have my stuff back?”

  “It will remain in custody until we’ve completed our analysis,” the first guy says.

  “But you’re welcome to take this,” one of the others tells me, handing me a plastic ziplock baggie with the now-dead bird inside. “Give it a proper burial.”

  I reel with disgust.

  “Don’t you need this for analysis?” I ask, unable to keep the sarcastic twinge out of my voice. I can’t even look at the bird as I pinch the baggie between the tips of two fingers. Bastards confiscated the gloves along with my Tyvek suit and the rest of my stuff.

  “Thousands more where that came from,” he says.

  But this one made it out alive.

  Until it had to go and die.

  As I reach the door, I turn, eye the commandos one last time. They’ve gone on with their business, ignoring me so completely, it’s almost like I was never there to begin with.

  I head outside with nothing to show for my trouble but a dead bird in a ziplock bag. The little black carcass bobs up and down in time with my footsteps, like it’s still trying to flap its lifeless wings.

  Save it.

  I hang my head as I walk home. Serves me right to go off on a mission without a platoon. I wouldn’t even blame them if I got stripped of my rankings. They already t
hreatened to leave me behind for good once before; I had to do a humiliating amount of groveling to get back in. Jesus, I don’t know what I’d do if I got left in the Boneyard alone.

  Plus, now the old man’s going to kill me for losing my phone.

  But not before I kill myself for letting them keep Devin’s skateboard after promising him I’d bring it right back.

  My guts are in a complete twist by the time I pass the mailbox in front of my house. It’s halfway open; inside is a fat envelope with my name on it.

  I quick drop the baggie to the ground, pull out the contents of the envelope: my cell phone, my wallet, and the now-crushed drink cup.

  The empty manila envelope flutters from my hands, lands in the dirt next to the ziplock bird. Nothing’s missing from my wallet; even the screen on the phone looks brand-spanking-new. Baffled, I flip it over, unlock the screen, check my settings—this is definitely my phone; it’s all here. Nothing’s been changed or deleted—just mysteriously repaired.

  Did those commandos do me a solid and fix my phone to prove they’re legit? Note to self: check my Trade Screen next time I log into the Boneyard.

  Meanwhile, I do a panoramic sweep of the street. Nothing suspicious jumps out—no unmarked cars with blacked-out windows, no strange pedestrians trying to appear incognito as they scurry down the sidewalk. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be a living soul around.

  Devin.

  The old man.

  I never saw them at Goofy Golf.

  I take the two wooden steps to the trailer in one leap, turn the handle, stop dead in my tracks.

  Devin’s skateboard is parked right inside the door like it always is. I flip it over, check for the scuffed-up Virgin Mary on the bottom.

  She’s there.

  I slide my gaze toward the living room, half expecting to see one of those commandos sitting there next to the old man, catching an episode of Promzillas with a beer in one hand and a powdered doughnut in the other. But the only signs of life inside the trailer come from the TV—still on, still throbbing gray-blue light into the room.

  This has got to be some kind of nacho-and-Mountain Dew–induced hallucination.

  I hear a muffled commotion coming from down the hall, picture Devin, tipped over in his chair, lying helpless on the floor while I’ve been dicking around on a pointless mission down at Goofy Golf. I sprint to his room, but it’s empty; then head for mine, throw my shoulder into the door.

  It’s not Devin.

  It’s the Relic. Turned on, logged in, already in play.

  I taste stale air through my open mouth as I approach the desk, as I lower myself one vertebra at a time onto the squeaky chair. My toon is lurking, watching a group of raiders who have found a way UnderGround. I can’t tell if it’s one of the tunnels they’re wandering around in or somewhere else; I’m not even sure if this is a legitimate platoon or some kind of trap. All I know is the subterranean walls are made of opaque bricks—like the interrogation room I was just in.

  I square the gaming glasses on my face, promise myself I’ll just hang back, that I’m not going to join. Haze thinks I’ll lose myself in the game, and I made him a promise to stop; but following a group just to watch what they’re up to isn’t the same as playing. At least that’s how I get it to work out in my head.

  The tunnel raiders look a little unsure of themselves, almost like wherever they are, they’re surprised to be there. Or scared. They make slow, awkward advances through the maze of tunnels, their hybrid penlight-wands not nearly bright enough for them to see what’s coming. Probably why it looks like they’re just fumbling around in the dark.

  I’d send my toon back to the surface to try to find the rest of my platoon, but I don’t exactly know where I am. The mini-map on-screen is oddly pixilated, like the Relic is having an aneurysm or something, so even that’s no help.

  There’s a kind of weight to being isolated and alone. It’s starting to crack me a little.

  I hop off the chair, poke my head out the bedroom door, hoping to catch the old man coming back from getting fried chicken or whatever else would be enough of an incentive to get him to leave the house with Devin.

  Still nothing.

  I stand in the doorway of my room like I’m in Boneyard limbo, halfway between the UnderWorld and the UpperWorld—half waiting for the old man and Devin to turn up again and half watching the action on-screen play out like a Three Stooges routine. T-Man is hiding in a little alcove as the raiders start scattering, bumping into each other, darting off in different directions, barking orders on chat with no clear leadership. I wipe my sweaty palms against the grunge-funk of my pant legs just to stop myself from running over and grabbing the mouse. It’s not my platoon, I remind myself. It could be a trap.

  My gaze clicks back and forth from the living room to the computer screen, watching for movement, for anything that will start making sense either here or in the Boneyard.

  And then—

  Three guys break loose from the brigade. They’re wearing mottled gray-purple-black fatigues, their bowl-cut hair flapping behind them as they dash past me through the opaque tunnel and around a set of turns. Once they’ve lost the others, one of them takes his penlight-wand device and taps out a pattern on the bricks, and I swear on the Scrolls of Turk that a secret passageway opens up right there. I rush to the computer, grab the mouse, follow as the soldiers hurry down a narrow hidden staircase. The last one turns his head before he disappears into the passageway, shoots a look straight at T-Man, and gives a single nod.

  T-Man stays on their heels up the stairway and through a tunnel opening, spilling out onto a completely different highway. A fat yellow car is already running, waiting, puffing exhaust straight at my toon until he’s swallowed by dense gray smog. The commandos look around, hop in the car, and take off.

  The slam of the front door rocks me like a five-hundred-volt shock.

  I dart into the hallway, but it’s not the old man and Devin coming toward me.

  It’s Haze.

  My gaze drops to the manila envelope in his hand, the crushed green drink cup, the ziplock bag with the dead bird inside.

  “I found this stuff out front,” he says. “Thought you’d want it.”

  I don’t want it. I wish I’d never seen it. Any of it.

  “So what’s—” He stops short, locks on to the computer screen. “Tosh.”

  “I’m not playing,” I tell him.

  “The hell.”

  If I weren’t so supremely grateful to see another human being at this point, I’d kick his ass for constantly riding mine about the game.

  Haze holds the bird carcass out to me.

  “What’s this about?” he asks.

  “Souvenir.”

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “I’m supposed to bury it.”

  My insides scream blood and fire, leeching molten sweat out of every inch of my skin.

  I wasn’t supposed to bury it. I was supposed to save it. That was the mission. I already killed that bird once, on my twelfth birthday, and it was the catalyst, man, the catalyst for everything. And here I am—I mean, I bought the expansion pack and it gave me a second chance to nail the mission, to earn my Ascent Credits by saving the bird, only I’m such an ass-nugget, I blew that, too. What a fail.

  Unless . . .

  Unless giving it a proper burial is the way in. That’s what the commandos told me to do.

  The baggie dangles from Haze’s fingers as the buzz of an incoming text message derails my train of thought.

  “You gonna get that?” he says.

  I’m jackhammering. I take out the phone, tap the mysteriously resurrected screen, brace for the cockroach picture I’m sure will be there.

  But it’s not.

  It’s a plain text, no image.

  You will see things.

  “Tosh?”

  I follow my own line of vision back to the Relic, to the Boneyard. My toon has hitched a ride with the three commandos who h
ave parked the yellow car in a wooded area and are digging a hole in the ground. One of them throws something into the pit, and even though I can’t see what it is, I know.

  Okay, so I bury the bird, so what? Do I get my Ascent Credits? Do I level at that point?

  Not to mention, the commando who said I could be of service to them did an abrupt about-face two seconds later. So I hope they can understand my skepticism regarding this quasi-message they’re showing me from the Boneyard.

  You must not question the mission.

  “Tosh—”

  The catch in Haze’s voice grabs me. I turn, see the way he’s eyeing me . . . like I’m—

  “I don’t care what you say, man. I’m not crazy.” I push the goggles up off my face because they’re too sweat-fogged to see through.

  He makes a face but doesn’t answer. In fact, neither of us says anything for a while. He comes over, sits on my bed, starts fiddling with the gizmos on his mask while I fake key the words “save it” over and over again on my phone.

  “I never said you were crazy,” he says at last. “It’s just—I’m—you know. The game.”

  “I already told you, I don’t play anymore. I just like to tune in sometimes and see what’s going on.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Tosh. Just because I don’t play doesn’t mean I don’t know how it works. It doesn’t work like that.”

  “It helps sometimes, that’s all.”

  He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue the point, but he doesn’t. Instead he shuts up again and nods his head, just one time.

  I close my eyes for a quick second against a twinge of déjà vu. My mom did that nod thing all the time. The old man would be raging as Dev and I cowered in a corner, terrified, and she’d look at us without saying a word and nod just like that. Just once. Like it would all be okay somehow.

  My red-rimmed eyes gravitate back to the Boneyard, to the yellow car with the black-and-white checkerboard around the top, wheezing in front of a row of rangy trees.

  “So,” Haze says, holding up the bird. “You want help burying this?”

  My attention drifts from the monitor back to Haze.