Emily pulled Sarah's hand away and studied the purple forehead marking. “It—says something.”
“Yeah, Property of Greaver.”
Emily turned her head, hiding her face from Sarah. Tears welled in her eyes, when a high-pitched bark escaped her lips.
“Laugh it up, Chuckles.”
Emily did.
Then Matt walk through the door, and it was as if someone pressed the mute button to Emily's voice. Her expression went blank and breathing slowed. As he made his way to the back row, his eyes never met hers.
Stallings came in soon after. “Good morning, class.”
“Morning, sir,” everyone replied.
“Do I have a treat for you all today.” Even after he dimmed the room lights—far from his normal routine—his face still glowed with the giddiness of a child. He powered on the projector. “Last night another squad achieved the objective. It was also one of the most impressive victories anyone on this base has ever witnessed.”
Sarah leaned against Emily. “Is he talking about Matt? What did he do?”
Emily shrugged. She'd wondered the same last night, maybe for too long, because her joints now begged for the rock-hard mattress and scratchy sheets.
“One of your classmates,” Stallings said, “defeated fourteen defenders by himself—without firing a single shot.”
Not a breath or heartbeat sounded as soldiers, their mouths agape, stared at one another. Stallings clicked the remote control, and the video flickered to life. A top-down camera view followed a single soldier with the number two over his head. Fortunately, Stallings had begun the replay after the part where the deserter left Emily to die.
Matt moved along the cobblestone wall, too distant for enemy fire, and knelt at a bubbling stream. He dropped a chunk of clay into the water and squeezed it in his hands. After working the paste for a moment, he smeared it over his fatigues. The scene played out for ten minutes until his gear lost any resemblance of the original black color. When he stood beside a small hovel, his figure blended in with the adobe backdrop. Emily rolled her eyes at the sound of her classmates' oohs and ahhs.
After creeping to the inner city, he stopped at the body of a soldier, bent down, sifted through the gear and tossed aside the rope and binoculars. He looked at the grenades before dropping them inside his knapsack. In the background, defenders scurried across the roof, but not one seemed to notice Matt in the open street. As he moved closer to base, he scavenged the battlefield for more grenades. So far Emily had counted six lifeless soldiers.
Then a familiar looking form appeared onscreen. Matt rummaged through Emily's gear for grenades, but once he finished taking them, he waited near her body. He stroked his hand along her motionless neck.
Emily shifted on her stool, while Matt scribbled something on his notepad that occupied him more than the replay. When he tilted the notepad toward her, her knees trembled.
I don't want you to experience this nightmare any longer. Emily slowly faced the screen again, watching the end with what little attention remained in her.
Matt crawled inside the defenders' building and checked the bottom floor for enemies. After pouring the grenades in the corner, he set each timer to the maximum ten seconds, removed the strap from his bag and slipped it through the grenade pins, creating an enormous necklace of green pearls.
He dangled the bag strap behind his back and, in one swift motion, swung it over his head and yanked the strap against his chest. Grenades sailed clear of their clips, littering the corner. Before the last explosive came to rest, Matt had already darted into the dirt street.
The defenders now saw him and scurried to the ledge, probably thrilled to find their final victim so they could get to sleep. They were taking aim, measuring their distance to the target, ready to make the kill.
Then the grenades detonated. A plume of smoke belched from the building, and a massive slab of tan mud rolled down the wall where Matt had dumped the explosives. The corner warped outward and dipped as defenders scrambled to find something to hold; a few climbed over one another or tried to jump for safety. It didn't matter. The roof collapsed, sending a waterfall of bodies into the abyss. Once the tan mist thinned, a top down view of the destruction showed a single, bootless foot poking out of the rubble.
Stallings flipped off the screen and raised the lights. He didn't say a word. Neither did anyone else. Then a guy in the front row clapped. The rest of the class joined in when Stallings didn't object. Moments later the applause ended and Stallings tapped a few keys on his computer. “Here are the results from last night.”
As usual, most soldiers died early. Sarah finished in the middle, although her leader devised the brilliant idea to storm the defenders' rooftop. By some unknown miracle, Sarah—and only Sarah—managed to get up there. Stallings, of course, quipped about how the enemy would not spare her life because of an impressive rifle-spinning skill. Damon placed second with a respectable hour and a half. Now came the moment. In Emily's head, she heard the booming voice of a beauty-pageant host. And the winner is…
Stallings walked in front of his podium. “Private Holcomb?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
The class clapped again.
Stallings kicked the podium, silencing the room. “Never before has someone on this base accomplished such a feat. I had to watch the replay four times because I thought the higher-ups were playing a joke on me. Can I expect something like this again?”
Matt didn't answer.
“Surprise me then, Private.”
“Yes, sir.”
The rest of the class period went on as usual.
By the time Emily made it to the mess hall, stories of Matt's victory had reached the ears of every soldier at Greaver. Word also spread about how he aided Sarah in her previous victory, which buried her short-lived acclaim somewhere beyond forgotten. A group of defenders, their faces bruised and swollen, glared at Emily's table.
Soon a girl who Emily recognized as A1 from last night loomed over Matt. When he turned to her, she jabbed her finger in front of his face. “You think you're pretty smart, don't you?”
“We won,” Matt said. “You got a good night's sleep. What do you want me to say?”
“I don't care how fancy you did it or how skilled you believe you are. You won't always win by yourself.”
“I don't plan to.”
“You better, because once everyone figures out who you are and what you represent, you won't have anyone to rely on.” She turned up her nose and stormed to the exit.
Emily leaned closer to Matt. “She's right. You can't always win on your own.”
“I know,” he said.
“Or even if I'm at your side.”
“At my side? So you're finally with me?”
“Maybe.”
He nodded. “Can't win them all.”
Emily entered the elevator at 18:40, earlier than her normal arrivals, and a handful of soldiers and a lone defender boarded. Few passengers meant more space, so she dangled her arms and bent her elbows freely. Her breathing eased as she made a mental note to escape her bedroom early every night. Then a soldier planted his butt against her stomach and pushed her against the chilly wall. Her head knocked against metal. He bumped her again. “Do you mind?” she asked.
He glanced over his shoulder. “I'm not doing it.”
Near the doors, a guy bobbed above the other soldiers. His upward motion sent a ripple through the bodies until Emily's head smacked the elevator wall, ending the chain reaction.
“Stop,” a girl said to the bobbing soldier.
“Can't help it,” he said. “Got a good feeling about tonight. I'm going to get him in my squad.”
“Not if I get him first,” the girl said. “I could use some extra sleep. I haven't lasted more than an hour since I got here.”
“Thirty minutes for me,” bobbing-soldier said. “Wonder if I can bribe an OPS dude to place me in his squad.”
The lone defender snorted. “Ar
e you talking about the guy who blew up the building last night?”
“Yeah,” the girl said. “He's won two in a row. Bad luck for your side, huh?”
“It's because he's not a soldier,” the defender said. “Not like you at least. The Army put him here for motivation. To make you attackers believe you can win.”
“Excuses, excuses,” the girl said.
“I'm serious. You attackers had zero success before he arrived. We were owning you left and right. Then this dude wins a couple, and you're motivated as hell. You think you might have a chance. I'd say the plan worked.”
“I doubt it,” Emily said. “I've seen him beat you. He's the real thing.”
“He's a fraud. You'll all find out soon enough.” He stared at Emily. “You especially. Keep trusting him. See where it gets you.”
“I will.” What do I have to lose?
Almost fifteen minutes later, when she lowered into vat 922, she still hadn't answered the question.
Then the world turned dark.
It stayed dark.
“Unreal,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Can they find any more ways to screw us?”
Emily recognized the laugh that followed. “Night combat,” Matt said. “This should be interesting.”
“Thank you,” Emily whispered.
“What's our objective?” Matt asked.
“Secure the streets from all enemy forces,” the unfamiliar guy said. “In this darkness, we should be able to take them out if we use stealth.”
Matt's reply came like clockwork. “Not a good idea.”
Emily's eyes slowly adjusted. Now the figures around her appeared as pitch-black masses standing beneath floating call signs.
The commander, who towered above Emily—would have towered above anyone else on base, too—waved his gun at Matt. “What do you mean?”
“You think we're on equal ground with the defenders?” Matt asked. “That we can just run into the streets and not expect them to easily kill us?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Matt approached the ceiling-high windows and peered on the street, which was visible under the dull orange of a single streetlight in the distance. “They have an advantage. We need to find out what it is before we run off into a firefight.”
“We've seen their weapons. Their guns kill the same as ours.”
“You're an idiot if you think their guns are going to be our only issue.”
“What's your problem? I'm in command.”
Matt pointed above A1's head. “No, you have a number. That's all it is.”
A1 raised his gun and tapped the barrel tip against Matt's visor. “I don't give a damn who you are or how smart you might be. Fall in line, or I'll kill you myself.”
Without hesitating, Emily moved behind A1. “No,” she said, and jabbed her gun against his spine. “We do it his way.”
Then a clink rattled inside her helmet. “Drop it,” A4 said. He pushed her with his gun barrel. “Do it now.”
As Emily took a step to keep her balance, she had a passing thought of three colonels who were sitting in a room, smoking cigars and laughing at her squad, which had formed the Conga line from hell. “Him first.” She poked her gun into A1 again.
“Listen,” Matt said. “We can stay here and kill one another. It would make the defenders' job that much easier. Or we can go separate ways and take our chances.”
A1 was silent for a moment, and Emily wondered how anyone could spend more than a second making the obvious choice. Sure, she and Matt would probably end up on the losing side of a bloodbath; Matt still kept his rifle lowered. But A4, the likeliest survivor, didn't seem to instill confidence, especially with the repeated, nervous tapping of his barrel on Emily's helmet. His teeth chattered, the sound of which echoed around the room.
A1 sighed. “Four, lower your gun. You, behind me, do the same.” A1 inched his gun to the side of Matt's head, and Matt nodded at Emily. When the pressure on her neck eased, she lowered her rifle. “Come on,” A1 said to A4. They walked backwards, watching Matt and Emily, and slipped through the door to the street.
Once the two soldiers disappeared in the darkness, Emily exhaled. More than five minutes—the minimum amount of time her mind took before it expected forthcoming pain—usually passed before her knees wobbled. Now she leaned on her gun to stay upright. “Okay, I'm here. I've done something frowned upon by Stallings and everyone else. Should I worry about a group of MPs stealing me away in the night and beating me half to death?”
Matt glanced around the lobby. “No.”
“Don't they hang people for desertion?”
Matt laughed as he walked toward a corner door. “No.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“They use lethal injection.”
Emily slumped across the butt of her rifle. “If you're trying to make me feel better about my decision—” She sighed. “Do you at least have a plan to keep us alive?”
“Not yet.” Matt opened the stairwell door. “Let's go.”
At the door, Emily was looking at the first flight of stairs, when her stomach twisted. “Do we have to go up?”
Matt placed his hands on the outside of her shoulders. “You'll be fine. I promise.”
“Did your cheek just twitch?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” She took a deep breath. “After you.”
Matt sprinted up the stairs, and the thud of his boots bounced off the walls with a booming echo. As she raced to catch him, he only stared ahead at the next flight of stairs. The walls probably muffled the sound from reaching any defenders on the streets, but Emily couldn't say the same about the enemies who had taken up positions on the top floors. “Shouldn't we be a little quieter?” she shouted.
Matt stopped abruptly, and Emily's visor butted his back. He glanced over his shoulder. “Don't worry. No one's up here.”
“How do you know?”
“See for yourself.” He directed her attention to the steps they had just climbed. Moonlight filtered in from somewhere above, casting the stairs in a faint glow. “The defenders get a thirty minute head start, but like us, they always begin on the ground level.” Matt slid his hand along the rails and showed her his palm. Gray dust masked his skin. “We'd know if they came this way.”
She examined the stairs again. “Only two sets of footprints down and none up.”
“Exactly.”
Emily elbowed him in the ribs and ran past him. “Then come on slowpoke,” she shouted over her shoulder. For the next dozen or so flights of stairs, the sound of his footsteps drew closer. She had no idea where Matt wanted her to go, but she doubted it was the top floor. She experienced plenty of trouble seeing the streets from the lobby window, so a rooftop view would be worse. Besides, she didn't think he was demented enough to make her climb another sixty stories.
“Stop,” Matt said.
She did. “Out of breath already?”
“No.” He made it to the flat landing and tapped his knuckles on the floor number sign: 17. “I wanted to surprise you.” He pushed open the door. “Is this suitable?”
Right then, Emily hated the Sim gear; Matt's helmet surely hid a devious smile. She entered the restaurant, which appeared untouched by bullets or explosions. Utensils and empty wine glasses sat in a perfect array on each white linen tablecloth, and cushion-backed chairs remained upright. In the flickering candlelight, Emily could almost see ghostly apparitions of lovers who were lost in each other's eyes. “You planned this, didn't you?”
“Coincidence,” Matt said. He walked past her and approached the windows.
“You sure know how to crush a girl's hopes.”
“I'm trying to get you to bed early. Isn't that enough?”
“Yeah, but—” Emily glanced at the ceiling. “Why do I even bother?”
Matt pulled the binoculars from his knapsack and looked through the windows. A full moon drifted above the silhouettes of lifeless skyscrapers. He stood on his toes and scan
ned the streets.
“What are you looking for?” Emily asked.
“Bad guys.”
“Bad guys? There are bad guys here? This is so going to ruin our dinner plans.” She rolled her eyes and took out her own binoculars. “Hey, Captain Obvious, can you be more specific?”
“The advantage.”
Emily now surveyed the streets. On her left, two defenders crossed the nearest intersection while two attackers, shrouded in almost total darkness, hid behind a metallic bus stop sign near the next intersection. It seemed like solid cover, and the path of the defenders would take them straight into the ambush. A rush of anxiety coursed over Emily. “Come on, guys.” The defenders moved closer. “Just a little farther.”
Then the defenders raised their weapons at the attackers who were still more than fifty feet down the street and crouching behind cover. A glow of orange muzzle fire cast an aura around the defenders, and the attackers crumpled dead on the sidewalk before they could lift their rifles to return fire.
“That's it,” Matt said.
“How did they see—”
“Get down,” Matt shouted. A million shards of glass shattered over Emily's shoulders and helmet. Bullets zipped past her, digging into the ceiling. She planted her visor against the floor and covered her exposed neck.
Matt grabbed Emily's arm. “Get up. Run.” Without hesitating, she jumped to her feet. In the stairwell, entire flights of stairs streaked past her eyes, and the faint sound of gunfire came from somewhere below her. The defenders were close. She followed Matt through the lobby as bullets ricocheted around the marble walls with shrill zings.
By the time they reached the alleyway door, a misty layer had formed inside Emily's visor. Her eyes watered, stinging from the circulation of her breath. Then an ear-shattering boom sucked the remaining oxygen out of her lungs. Matt had kicked in the next building's door, which hung by a single screw, the metal frame twisted beyond repair.
He grabbed her arm again. “Move.”
Emily ran through the door, trying to keep up with Matt as he broke into another building. Her legs burned, muscles cramped and lungs begged for more air than she could inhale. Matt tallied four destroyed doors before he finally slowed inside the lobby of a hotel where a dozen or so luggage trolleys sat behind a room-length granite counter.
Walking Ghost Phase Page 16
