Emily's arms trembled; the gun barrel swayed between the second and third button of Matt's shirt. “I'll do it.”
“No, you won't. Somewhere in your mind you know I'm right, that I'm the only one who can get you out of here.”
“Please, come with us. We need you.”
“Bargaining now? You're almost there.”
A1 shoved aside Emily's gun. “Let him go. He isn't worth it.”
“Thank you,” Matt said.
“Shut up, deserter.” She turned to A4. “Let's move. We don't need him.” She jogged toward the stairwell while Emily stared at Matt. True to his word, he ran the opposite direction, went through an exit door and disappeared from sight. Emily rejoined her squad near the stairwell, too late to do anything but wonder if she might regret her decision.
A1 jumped forward, kicking her boot into the hollow metal door. It shot open with a deafening squeal and boomed when it came to a sudden stop against the interior wall. Four rolled-up carpets lay on the stairs, and Emily crept inside the narrow chamber, stepping over three more rolls.
After easing up the first flight, Emily followed A1's lead and pressed her back against the wall. She tiptoed upward, each step softer than the last. A hanging light at the top grew larger in the stagnant air. Once Emily stood under it, still alive, she had already doubled her previous night's time.
Emily moved inside the office, positioned herself behind the first set of gray cubicles and peeked over the top. A1 and A4 covered the center and right aisles, where overturned chairs spilled their brown, cushiony guts on the floor. Their next destination sat at the far end of the room—a door labeled Roof Access Only. Muffled bursts of automatic gunfire guaranteed the enemy lay beyond it. A1 waved and pointed at the door.
Ducking below the cubicle walls, Emily followed A1 into the center aisle. A3 took the right flank as they closed in on the door, silent, ready to ambush their enemies, but the outside gunfire suddenly stopped. A1 looked over her shoulder at Emily, who shrugged.
Then, with a flash of orange, the door ripped off the hinges and flew across the room, striking a cubicle and making a complete flip. A flood of sunlight pierced Emily's visor, and she turned her head. A few feet away, A3 convulsed as his fatigues shredded from an onslaught of bullets. Emily dove headfirst between two rows of desks, and the gun barrel dug into her leg. She shoved it aside, accidentally discharging a single round into A4's dead body—or she hoped he was dead.
Somewhere close, A1 screamed, but after three quick gunshots, a gurgle crawled through her lips—the sound of lungs drowning in blood. Her legs lay halfway in the center aisle and twitched with a violent spasm. A crimson pool swelled around her.
Emily pulled the rifle against her chest. Her hands trembled, knees shook. A flurry of bullets zipped above her head as footsteps circled the desk. She pressed her back against the underside, curling her body around the rifle. Stay quiet. Maybe they'll go away.
The footsteps came closer, almost on top of her now. She heard muffled breathing. “What do we have here?” the defender asked. His tone carried a cruel sense of joy.
Emily stared up at him. He held the barrel of his gun an inch from her chest, and in the reflection of his visor she watched her rifle slip through her fingers. It thudded on the carpet. She threw her hands above her head, too late for her to remember that Colonel Moore never mentioned if the Sim allowed for prisoners of war.
The defender reached down, ripped off her helmet and tossed it somewhere behind her. “Where's your last squad-mate?” He touched the gun barrel to her forehead. “Tell me, and I'll make sure your death is quick and only slightly painful.” He jabbed the gun into her leg. “Or don't, and this is going to be a long night for you.”
“He's dead,” Emily said. “You know the deserter?”
“Oh, was he in your squad?”
“Yeah, and I put the bullet in him myself.” Why am I lying for that bastard? And what will they do to me when they find out? She nudged his gun toward her face, not wanting to give him the impression she was trying to escape. “Get this over with. Please?”
“Not yet.” He glanced at the other defenders. “Check downstairs. Let's see if she's telling the truth.”
Emily heard them run toward the stairwell, and soon the door creaked open. A moment later a different defender shouted, “I see the body. At the bottom.”
The carpets. Idiots.
“You've definitely made our job easier,” her interrogator said. “You held up your end of the bargain. As for me—” He swung the stock of his gun, implanting it against her cheek and branding her with a mark of victory. She fell forward, and her head bounced off the floor. A wicked throb coursed over her skull. “—I'm a compulsive liar. It's a character flaw, I know.”
Emily held her chin and whimpered. Tears dropped on her hand. Then the deafening sound of close-range gunfire reverberated around the office. Bullets dug into her back, shoulders and head. She managed a half-scream.
The world faded.
You Are Dead!
Damn you, Matt.
Overall time:
Twenty minutes, fourteen seconds.
Why did you leave us?
State of death time remaining:
Six hours, thirty-nine minutes, forty-six seconds.
Why did you leave me?
A million tiny daggers stabbed at the skin she could not see. Burning pain roared over the legs she could not move. In her mind, she was screaming, crying even. She tried to focus, to think of her mother sitting at the living room window, to think of her walks to the abandoned house, to think of that person in the dark cavern and even think of her father dying in the hospital bed. But the vacuum of nothingness consumed her will, leaving her locked inside a prison of unwanted thoughts and pain, the moment of lost sanity of which Maggie spoke.
Hours later, when the lights of the Sim chamber flashed overhead, Emily pulled her knees against her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks and splashed into the gel. “I…I don't want to do this anymore.”
Emily, wearing a hospital gown, walked across the dark Sim chamber. The overpowering hum was gone, replaced by the low buzz of a distant fan. Tonight, no one roamed between the vats. Near the back wall was a rising cloud of steam, and she went toward it, her bare feet slapping the frigid tiles. “Hello?” she called through her chattering teeth.
A voice answered with a hush. “Shhhhh, they're sleeping.”
“Who? Where are you?”
The elevator door chimed, and Emily turned. Soldiers piled out of it, real soldiers wielding guns, aiming at something in the distance. They ran past her as if she didn't exist and disappeared on the other side of the steam.
“No,” someone shouted. “You don't know what you're doing.”
Then a single gunshot rang out.
The morning alarm woke her.
*****
After the run, Emily arrived outside the classroom, leaving herself less than a minute to drink the shake. She'd done it before. She could do it again. This final obstacle guaranteed she'd be the last to enter the room, guaranteed that everyone could witness a moment of pure rage. Her face burned as she downed the last drop of pink liquid and sat the bottle near the officer's feet. With her right hand balled into a fist, she rushed inside the classroom. But only Sarah was sitting in the back.
Emily glanced at the clock, watching it flash 6:00, and loosened her hand, feeling the blood return to her fingers. As she made her way to Sarah, she untucked her shirt and allowed the air to soothe her pockmarked skin.
“No gun for Matty-boy tonight,” Sarah said.
Emily plopped down on the stool with a dull thud. “He deserves it.”
Stallings strolled into the room and went straight to the podium. “Good morning, privates.”
“Morning, sir,” everyone but Emily answered in unison.
“Ready for last night's results?”
“Yes, sir,” Damon said.
“No one else cares how well they did?”
Sarah leaned against Emily and whispered, “Or how poorly.”
“Let me ask again,” Stallings said. “Are you ready for last night's results?”
“Yes, sir,” everyone said. The monotone voices did little to hide the obvious lie.
“That's more like it.” He punched a few keys. “I must say, much better performance. Still, there's always last place, and claiming that honor for the second night in a row—Private Winston. At twelve minutes, you tripled your time from your previous session. Good job.”
Sarah pumped her fists in the air.
“No so fast, Private. When you are face-to-face with an enemy combatant, I don't recommend that anyone with only a knife challenge an armed opponent to a duel.”
The classroom broke out in a half-hearted laugh.
“I don't think Stallings appreciated my Indiana Jones reenactment,” Sarah whispered.
Emily turned her head, hiding the enormous smile.
“Enough,” Stallings said. “Next at fifteen minutes, six seconds, Private McDonald. Not a bad improvement, Private, but always remember to watch your rear.”
“Yes, sir,” Raven said. Her voice seemed strained.
Stallings continued through six other names, when he shuddered. “Private Heath?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ugly, ugly way to die. Twenty minutes and fourteen seconds, though. Not bad, but I advise you to fire your weapon at the enemy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stallings announced several more names, soldiers Emily didn't know, and neared the end of his list. “Private Peters, another good night, although your time did drop off a bit. One hour and ten minutes.” Then Stallings shuffled through a stack of papers on the podium. “Let's move on to today's lesson, shall we?”
Everyone glanced around the room. A few soldiers shrugged, looking confused by the obviously missing result—Matt's time. Emily also wondered; she wanted to find out how much longer she might have lived had she stayed with him.
Damon raised his hand, but before he could ask his question, all eyes went to Stallings.
“Yes, Private?”
“Sir, what was Holcomb's time?”
Stallings, as he looked around the room, appeared hesitant in his answer. “Not that it matters.” He clicked a few keys. “Five hours, thirteen minutes, forty-one seconds.”
A collective gasp hissed throughout the classroom.
“Holy shit,” Sarah said. “How many did he kill?”
Stallings's head shot up.
“Umm, sir.”
“Eighteen—by himself, which is why he's no longer here. This trial isn't about individuals. We need squads, soldiers who follow orders and work in teams. Private Heath, I'm upset that you didn't teach him a lesson when he chose to desert your squad. I'm even more upset that you covered for him.”
For a moment Emily's mind agreed with Stallings. She should have killed Matt. Put an end to his games. Made him realize the importance of teamwork and trust, or at least try it. But now he was gone. He never actually hurt anyone, and maybe he knew something she didn't, that no one did. Almost five and a half hours. Only an hour and a half in darkness. I should have gone with him.
As class continued, the air grew stale, and Emily caught herself glancing at the unopened notebook beside her. She could no longer attempt to decipher Matt's writings. She couldn't listen to his comical explanation about how he planned to desert his squad before someone put a bullet in his back. She couldn't expect him to keep her awake when the exhaustion from only three hours of sleep lulled her eyes shut. Somehow, she knew he would have done all those things for her. Once Stallings ended class, she glanced at the empty stool.
At lunch, Sarah sat in Matt's usual place and swirled a single pea in her plate of white goo. “What do you think they did to him?”
“I don't know,” Emily said.
“If they sent him home, I'm ditching my squad every night.”
Damon dropped his tray on the table and sat across from Sarah. “Ah, peace and quiet at last.” He laughed like a giddy child. “Poor kid. Can't say I envy where he is right now.”
“And where is that?” Emily asked.
“One of two places. They either dragged him out back, put him on his knees, and—” Damon aimed an invisible gun at the center of the table. “—bang.” He laughed. “Or they locked him in the stockade for the remainder of his six months.”
“And you know this how?”
“I was there. I watched the MPs drag him out of his room this morning. They didn't look happy at all. The moron had it coming.”
“You're just pissed he beat your time,” Sarah said.
“He cheated.”
“And killed eighteen,” Emily said. “I haven't killed anyone yet. So far I've left my safety on at the worst moment, fired my gun into a dead teammate and tried to surrender.”
Damon shoved half the mush inside his mouth. “It's okay, Heath. If you get in my group, I'll make sure you get a few.”
“Thanks,” Emily replied, and rolled her eyes at Sarah.
Damon stuffed the rest of the goo in his mouth, raised his eyebrows and took his tray to the dishwasher.
Sarah laughed. “He was hitting on you.”
“That's disgusting—and wrong on so many levels.” Sickness crawled up Emily's throat. “Are you trying to make me throw up?” The last three bites went down rougher than normal.
Only when Emily prepared to leave did she notice the girl beside her. Raven was slowly chewing a piece of slop, still as silent as she had been through all of lunch. Tears glistened in the cusps of her eyes. “Rave, you okay?” Emily asked.
Raven wiped her cheek. “It's nothing.”
“It doesn't look like nothing.”
“You'll think I'm stupid anyway.”
“After dealing with Sarah, I'd imagine anything you say will probably come across as guru-like wisdom.”
“Easy there, dead-body-killer,” Sarah said.
A smile almost formed in Raven's lips. “It's John—my boyfriend. I have all these wonderful memories of him. I can see clear as day the time he took me to the lake, the day he met my parents, how much they loved him.”
“Yeah,” Emily said. “From what you told us the other day, he sounds awesome.”
“He does,” Raven said. “But I feel like I don't even know him.”
“It's just cold feet,” Sarah said.
“Is it?”
“You're homesick,” Emily said. “We have a lot of time to think here. I'm sure this will all go away when you see him again.”
“I hope so,” Raven said.
After lunch, Emily returned to her room and lay in bed. The last few nights, her dreams had been different from the usual images she remembered seeing at home; she had avoided the inevitable confusion that only a teddy bear could resolve. Her sleeping brain seemed too exhausted to form coherent thoughts, and she hoped it stayed that way. For the first time since Washington, she closed her eyes, not afraid of what waited for her in the darkness.
Two hours later, pain coursed through her muscles with each breath. The metallic taste of blood swirled around her mouth. Somewhere a cruel man probably sat in the comfortable chair of some quaint office and invented ways to make her life one of constant misery. Her joints popped as she climbed out of bed, and the sheets slid to the floor. No MPs patrolled the halls to chastise the disheveled and dreary, which was fortunate because her aching arms refused to lift higher than her waist and reach the shirt buttons.
Soldiers packed into the elevator, and Emily focused on the weight-limit sign until Sarah squeezed through the front soldiers and pressed her shoulder against Emily. A tremor raced up their bodies. “So you get a gun tonight?” Emily asked.
Sarah's face glowed, and she grinned evilly, showing her teeth. “Yeah, and I thought of a great plan to survive the night.” In a moment of ballet-like beauty, every bruise-faced soldier twirled to look at Sarah, who now rubbed her hands together. “I'm going to k
ill my teammates. Then I'll lie down beside them and play dead. The defenders will never know.” She hopped in place and clapped three times. “Awesome, huh?”
Even after the doors opened, not one soldier moved. Their mouths were agape and eyes seemed to ponder something sinister. Emily dug her fingers around Sarah's arm and dragged her into the chamber.
“Ouchie,” Sarah said.
Emily jabbed her finger an inch from Sarah's face. “If one of my own teammates kills me because of your idea, I'll murder you in the morning with my bare hands.” Emily snarled at everyone who stepped off the elevator. “I'll also find out who shot me and do the same to them.”
Sarah rubbed her hands together again. “Better pray we aren't in the same group.”
Emily walked away. “Oh God.” She hoped the other soldiers noticed Sarah's sarcasm.
After changing, Emily headed to vat 1997. There, the pervert from her first night waited, but when he saw her, his smile disappeared. “R-ready?” he asked.
Emily nodded and began climbing up the vat.
He reached out, maybe honestly wanting to steady her, but she slapped away his hand with a quick strike. It was the last time she would remember him trying to touch her. She made a slow descent, and for a moment the higher-than-body-temperature gel eased the ache in her muscles. In her mind, she relaxed in the roiling waters of a hot tub.
“Here,” the pervert said, and held out the tan sensors. “Put these on your temples.”
“Wait,” Emily said. “I have asthma. Can I use my inhaler before I go under?”
“Where is it?”
“The locker-room—in my right pants pocket.” She blinked, showing off her best doe eyes. “Please?”
He sighed. “Fine. I'll ask one of the female attendants to get it for you.”
Emily lay back and closed her eyes. She stood on the beach, the sun beating down on her pale skin, the waves cresting on the shore. Then a gust of wind ripped the towel off her shoulders. A hazy outline of someone—a young man perhaps—sprinted after it. Behind Emily, an unfamiliar blond-haired woman sat on the wooden deck and laughed, and a man's voice came from the beach house. He asked if someone named Liz wanted a drink. Emily stared back at the beach. The young man, now focused in perfect clarity, snatched the towel out of the air and turned.
Walking Ghost Phase Page 12
