Walking Ghost Phase

by D. C. Daugherty

  Matt was sitting in the back row, so she lowered her head and worked her way to the open stool beside him. Only the guarantee of pain prevented her from dropping her forehead on the table.

  He grazed his fingers across her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” she replied, and refused to face him, certain his skin remained impeccable.

  “It can't get worse, because we can only get better.” He brushed his hand along her back, enticing her to find the truth. A red patch streaked down his neck and retreated beneath his olive shirt collar. He met her eyes as if to say he understood.

  Sarah, beating the clock by a few seconds, hustled in and slumped on the stool to Emily's right. “We could pass as twins,” Sarah said, and threw her hands out like a game show host. A bruise covered her left cheek.

  “It will get worse,” Emily said, and dropped her forehead on the tabletop. “Ouch.”

  “Good Morning, privates,” the instructor said as he entered the classroom. His protruding gut seemed ready to pop the buttons off his tan shirt, and the grape jelly stain on his matching pants screamed his lack of shame about the eating habits that probably led him to such a portly state. Emily waited for Sarah to make a comment, maybe something like how the instructor missed his morning run—for the last ten years. She chuckled but said nothing.

  “How was your first night in the ACES?” He paced along the front row, staring at each soldier. “Oh, yeah, those look nice. Good coloring, too.”

  Emily slid her hand under the table and gave him the finger.

  “I'm Captain Stallings, but to you, sir. You will be with me for the next six months. Hopefully someone in this group might pay attention and actually learn something from this trial.” Stallings went to his computer and punched a few keys. Showing off an amused grin, he nodded. “Who wants to hear how they performed last night?”

  Emily watched Damon, and she cocked her head back when he didn't say anything. She supposed he knew Stallings planned to tell the results anyway. Or had Damon done poorly, too?

  “We send every new soldier into the ACES before a single classroom lesson, hoping one of you might show a modicum of talent. Unfortunately, not one of you came close—unless idiotic deaths are considered an art form. In that case, I have a class full of Rembrandts. Without further ado.” Stallings' eyes widened, and he laughed. “It appears we have a new Greaver ACES record for the fastest death.”

  Emily slinked lower on her stool.

  “Lasting only three minutes flat—”

  Yes! Not me.

  “—Private Winston.”

  Sarah giggled under her breath.

  “Private Winston, I don't recommend that anyone run into an exposed area while screaming for the enemy to come out and play. Actually I think you need to take a visit to the psych offices after class.”

  A few soldiers chuckled, which received a disapproving stare from Stallings. He glanced at his screen again and called out six more names—the rest of Sarah and Emily's squads.

  “At seven minutes, twenty-two seconds, Private Heath. You had the right idea, Private, but the enemy knew your location. You should've moved to another area before attempting engagement. I also would have expected you of all people to remember the safety.”

  “Yes, sir,” Emily said.

  Stallings went to his list again. Raven died in a rocket blast and outlasted Emily by twelve minutes. Eight names later he came to Matt. Emily perked up, expecting to hear some exorbitant time.

  “Private Holcomb?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fifty-seven minutes, thirteen seconds. Not bad for your first session—especially alone.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “That wasn't a compliment, Private. You deserted your squad upon insertion. Why?”

  “I wanted to learn more about the area, sir.”

  “In that case, I'll make it easy for you. Scenarios change every night you enter the ACES. What you faced yesterday will be nothing like your experience tonight. Your squad might have lived longer had you been with them.”

  “Doubtful,” Matt said under his breath.

  Stallings read two more names, both guys, their times nearing the two-hour mark. “And the number one soldier, lasting two hours, four minutes, five seconds, Private Peters. Fine job, Private.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Damon said.

  “Where'd you learn to shoot like that, Peters?”

  Sarah kicked her knee into the desk and snorted. “When the Government told him to kill his parents.”

  Everyone laughed until Stallings' icy stare silenced the room.

  “Why did you let a member of your squad desert, Private?”

  “Sir?”

  “You were in command.”

  Damon stayed silent; his jaw seemed to hang for an answer.

  “Private, I hear you intend to join the Army at the end of your six months. Is this true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then if you can't figure out the problem and hold your team together, maybe you should resign yourself to a life of taking orders.”

  Damon turned and scowled at Matt, who didn't look away. Their glares seemed to form an aura around each other, leaving Emily with a sense of collateral damage. The beginning of Stallings' lecture finally ended the stare-down.

  For a brief moment during the morning run, Emily constructed a few expectations of what she hoped to learn in the classroom setting, things that might seem important to any soldier who wished to avoid the pain and suffering of darkness. And what was more relevant than a be-all-end-all strategy to stay alive?

  She supposed Stallings wanted to keep that secret to himself.

  He flipped on the projector, which displayed a gigantic vocabulary list: flank, suppressing fire, click, echelon, vanguard, etc. A throbbing face and disappointment—but mostly a throbbing face—distorted her ability to process all the new information.

  Matt scribbled down every word Stallings said. He even added a few thoughts of his own, but Emily couldn't understand any of it. Sarah, however, dropped her head to the desktop and acted as if she took important notes. Soon undecipherable symbols covered her paper, maybe the invention of a new language.

  Five minutes before class was scheduled to end, a puddle of drool dripped from Sarah's lips and seeped between her cheeks and the desk surface. Her snores made their way to the front row. Emily shook Sarah's arm, trying to wake her, but she stopped when a shadow loomed across the desk. Stallings kicked his boot into Sarah's stool. “Winston.”

  She leapt to her feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “You just lost your firearm for tonight.”

  “What? No.”

  “That goes for everyone. Sleep in class and I'll make sure you enter battle unarmed. Now report to the mess hall for chow. Dismissed.”

  During the walk, Sarah kept her head lowered. “Tonight's going to suck.”

  Emily nudged her shoulder. “Look on the bright side—you might break your record.”

  “You jerk.” She smiled.

  When they arrived at the usual table, Matt and Raven had already finished half their slop. Emily looked around the room for their missing companion, eventually finding him sitting with a strange group of soldiers. Damon wore the same scowl from the stare down.

  “He looks mad,” Raven said.

  Matt glanced over his shoulder. “He'll live.”

  Damon stood as if he knew someone talked about him. Like his stare, the path of his steps focused on Matt.

  “Uh oh,” Sarah said.

  Damon stopped behind Emily and, with one swift motion, flipped Matt's tray in the air. Chunks of white ooze flung across the table and splattered on Raven's shirt. She jumped to her feet, brushing the goo off her chest “Hey.”

  Matt didn't move, not even a flinch. A nearby MP watched but didn't head toward Emily's table.

  “Why'd you desert us?” Damon asked.

  Matt faced his accuser. “The first night doesn't mean much. You should relax.
”

  “We could've won.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I know my abilities. If you hadn't run off and done your own thing, we might've taken out those four defenders.”

  “What about the twelve in the room behind them?”

  Damon's expression turned blank.

  “That's right,” Matt said. “I scouted ahead of you the entire time. I saw them. We didn't stand a chance. Your little rag-tag band and predictable tactics only got you so far because I'd already taken out four defenders. You were dead in the street thirty minutes into the fight, but I saved your ass. You should be thanking me.”

  Damon's face flushed crimson red. “If you try to desert me again, I'll put the killing bullet in you myself.”

  “And you'll be dead a few minutes later.”

  Damon shoved Matt's back. “Stay far away from me, Holcomb. Or else.” He stormed off to rejoin his table.

  “Uncomfortable moment,” Sarah said. No one seemed to appreciate her sarcasm.

  Emily slid her plate in front of Matt, not for any reason to win him over, but the morning chalk still churned at her insides.

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  She stared at the goo. Her hand quivered as she dropped a scoop inside her mouth, and after the rush of pre-vomit nausea subsided, she turned back to Matt. “Why did you leave them?”

  Raven and Sarah leaned closer.

  “Because I don't want to die.” He lowered his head. “At least not like they expect.” His last words came out as a whisper.

  “But you did, just like the rest of us.”

  “In a simulation.”

  “And you deserted your squad in a simulation. I'd understand your position if those battles were real. I think all of us could. We might even join you.”

  A knot climbed Emily's throat when he trained his eyes on her. “You don't get it, do you?”

  Emily turned to Sarah and Raven. Their faces told her she hadn't missed the obvious.

  “Do you know anyone on the outside who served in the military?” Matt asked.

  “My grandfather, but he died before I was born.”

  Matt brushed his hand across Emily's head of stubble.

  She jerked away. “Hey.”

  “My grandfather served, too,” Matt said. “He told me about the real Army. The real Army didn't require females to shave their heads. He also told me about his ruthless sergeant. That man ruled his unit with an iron fist, and his soldiers would eat and sleep discipline. You never spoke unless spoken to. Everything a soldier does in the real Army is based on a rigorous schedule.”

  “Matt, what's your point? We aren't in the real Army. So they let us get away with a lot. This is a trial, an experiment. Would you rather them beat the crap out of us every day to make us fall in line?”

  “They already do but not so we fall in line. They're brainwashing us to become mindless killers.”

  “Excuse me?” Raven asked.

  Sarah pointed at the dishwashing station. “I think I need to go ask them for some tinfoil so I can make Matty a nice little hat.”

  “All right, Miss Three Minutes,” Matt said. “Are you going to try harder your next time in the Sim? Dying in a virtual world didn't feel too great, did it?”

  Sarah tapped her finger against her black eye.

  “And for a brief moment,” Matt continued, “you thought you were actually dead. We all did. Then we walked away. Tonight, you'll do the same thing again. What purpose does any of this serve other than to make us accept that dying is no big deal? They want soldiers who will run into battle without the fear of death. A bunch of dying kids would make perfect test subjects for that purpose. No problem. They're dead anyway.”

  “You don't really believe that,” Emily said.

  “You're not going home, Emily. Neither are you, Raven. Or you, Sarah. You're going to die here. We should all want to be as lucky as the girl in the courtyard. Think about it. A quick jog toward the gates and this entire nightmare would end.”

  Raven dropped her fork in the pile of mush, hopped off the bench and picked up her tray. “I don't need to listen to this. I'm out of here.”

  “Me too,” Sarah said, and chased after Raven.

  “You think you've got it all figured out, don't you?” Emily asked.

  “I do.” Matt's eyes seemed to darken. He grabbed his tray and stood. “And I can do something about it, but I'm not relying on a group of brainwashed morons when my life, my real life, is on the line. If you follow them, Emily, you're going to die alone.”

  As Matt walked away, Emily saw Damon pointing at him. A tanned soldier, listening to whatever line Damon was feeding him, nodded. Then Damon leaned close to a different soldier and pointed again.

  “That might make two of us,” Emily said under her breath.

  Emily waited beside vat 3721 until a female white-coat approached her. The woman's smile looked sincere but disappeared from her wrinkled face a moment later. “Ready?” she asked.

  Emily took three rapid breaths. “I think so.” She climbed the stairs and stared at the ooze, when her knees began to wobble. The white-coat grabbed her wrist, and Emily gasped, expecting her feet to sail over the vat. Or maybe this time she would go in headfirst and possibly crack her skull against the electronics. Her balance preferred the headfirst approach, and she swayed forward.

  “Easy,” the white-coat said, and steadied Emily. She moved her hands with methodical precision; each touch seemed to have a clear purpose, unlike the pervert's groping.

  The gel slithered around Emily's neck, and she leaned her head against the vat wall. The white-coat applied the temple sensors, but Emily narrowed her eyes, cautious, when the woman handed her the breathing tube instead of shoving it down her throat.

  “Good luck,” the white-coat said, and waved at a mounted ceiling camera. “Ready on 3721.” The lights blinked red and green, and Emily submerged in the gel.

  One session in the Sim—a quick session at that—didn't give Emily the confidence to guess what she might encounter in the make-believe world. Sure, she would probably die in some horrific manner, but right now she wasn't thinking about that. The blurry outline of the elderly white-coat hovered above the gel surface. Please, don't let me freak out on her.

  The world faded.

  Emily opened her eyes and studied the unfamiliar surroundings. Overhead, a fluorescent light buzzed in short bursts, flickering off and on in a constant fight against darkness. Sheets of blank paper littered the floor, while the rest of the ream sat on the edge of a desk and appeared ready to spill over the side. A booming sound penetrated the walls, and the foundation rattled. Specks of dust and plaster floated down like snow, landing on her shoulders and boots.

  When Emily turned and looked for her squad, goose bumps raced up her arms and neck. She recognized the feeling since she'd lived with it for the last three months, but it now beat at her mind with a cry of urgency. She had forgotten something.

  She squeezed around her pockets, swinging the gun out of the way, and then realized the inhaler wouldn't have followed her into the Sim. What is it? The nag in her brain persisted. She tapped the barrel against her leg and concentrated. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Idiot,” she whispered to herself. Emily stared down the side of the gun, found the tiny black switch and clicked off the safety.

  Her other two squad-mates huddled around a female who stood a few inches shorter than Emily. An A1 floated above the girl's helmet. “Eliminate the enemy,” A1 said. “We should secure the roof first. The high ground will give us an advantage.”

  Emily nodded immediately. That was an awesome idea. Going up gave them two options: stairs or elevators. The elevator control panel beeped off and on, matching the flicker of the overhead lights. No way could they could go up in that thing. Stairs, however, took time to climb, and the longer she took, the less blinded pain she would experience.

  “No,” A2 said.

  Emily slumped forward and sighed in the direction of the recognizable voic
e. Don't do this to me. Not now.

  “That's an order,” A1 said. “We need to claim the high ground ASAP.”

  “That's what they expect,” Matt said. He pointed at the exit. “We should recon first.”

  “Wait a second,” A4 said. “You're the guy who deserted his group last night. Dude, there's a bounty on your head.”

  “A bounty?” Emily asked. “You mean someone wants him dead?”

  Matt laughed. “A little wannabe soldier who got his feelings hurt offered to eat a week's worth of lunches for anyone who puts a bullet in me.”

  A1 stared at him. Emily imagined the thoughts running through the girl's mind: down a squad member and not feeling sick for a week, or let him go, get nothing and still lose a squad member. “What's the punishment for killing one of your teammates?” A1 asked.

  “Don't know,” A4 said. “Now that you mention it, I don't think I want to find out.”

  “We're going to the roof.”

  Matt stepped back and motioned to the stairwell. “Be my guest.” He glanced up. “Forty stories? I give you twenty minutes until you're dead, nineteen of which will be spent climbing stairs.”

  Emily grabbed a wad of Matt's sleeve. “You're seriously going to leave us?”

  Matt glanced at her rifle, which she kept aimed at the floor. He apparently understood the risk of a squad-mate killing him, whether it was for the stupid bounty or simply because he annoyed the wrong person. For a moment he seemed to wonder if she might be that person. “Emily, I have to go.”

  “You two know each other?” A1 asked.

  Emily ignored her. “You're going to let me die because you refuse to take orders?”

  “Come with me. We can die together.”

  Emily's heart thumped. “What did you say?”

  “Let's go, Em. Together.”

  “No.” She lifted her rifle, pointing it at his sternum.

  “You won't shoot me.”