Walking Ghost Phase

by D. C. Daugherty

  “This should be good enough.” Matt stepped around a pile of clothing, which spilled out of a black suitcase. Emily rested against the wall and pulled the helmet away from her face, feeling the cool air rush across her cheeks. Now he paced in front of her, tapping his helmet. “Think. Think. Think.” More pacing. More tapping. Then he stopped. For a moment he stared at Emily.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Oh shit,” he shouted, and reached for her arm.

  Heat surged up her spine, and rock crackled in her ears. She wondered why she faced the floor, why the granite tiles raced past her eyes. She flailed her arms, feeling nothing but dead air. The lobby counter grew larger until its vein-patterned surface passed beneath her. She slammed into the ground, and the air expelled from her lungs in a single breath. Particles of warm cement pelted her back.

  Emily's mind flashed with a replay of her first night in the Sim. The explosion, the stench of burning flesh, the landing and how bad it hurt. This one? Not so much. Lucky me. Must have landed on some clothes. Then a winded groan hissed in her ear. Matt's eyes stared at her through their touching visors. Without hesitating, she pushed her palms into the floor and tried to lift herself.

  He squeezed his arms around her. “No,” he whispered. “Be still.”

  Emily squirmed, butting his helmet. “We need to get out of here. They'll find us.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  She pushed harder, but his grip tightened against her shoulders.

  “Are you ready to die?”

  She gave one more push, a final moment of defiance, and then she went limp. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

  Faint voices crept over the counter, growing louder, clearer. Footsteps crackled on broken marble. The defenders came to finish the job. A muscle spasm rolled up her spine and begged her to flee. Maybe she wouldn't get far. She might even take a bullet to the back of the head, but at least she wouldn't make for an easy target. “They're going to kill us,” she whispered.

  Matt rubbed her back. “Calm down and do what I do,” he whispered, and inched away from the counter. His heartbeat pounded against her chest as she matched his movement. “More.” The footsteps grew louder.

  Emily and Matt inched away from the counter again. “What are we doing?” She barely heard her own voice.

  “They're dead,” an unfamiliar voice said.

  “You sure?” another asked.

  “Yeah, see the colors fade?”

  “All right, let's get back out there and waste the rest.” Their footsteps crunched on broken glass and rubble until fading into thuds on the street.

  “A few more seconds,” Matt said.

  When the muffled noise of distant gunfire rang out, he released her, and she eased off his chest. “Okay, what the hell just happened?”

  “Remember the bus stop?” Matt asked. “At first I thought the defenders were using night vision to see those attackers. I was wrong. Night vision lets you see better in the dark but not through solid objects. They're using thermal vision.” He pointed at the jagged chasm in the outside wall. “They saw your body heat.”

  “But if they can see us through walls, why did they leave us alone when we were behind this thin counter?”

  “Our heat signatures dimmed because we moved away from the counter. It made them think we died in the blast. Lucky for us, they were too stupid to realize that it takes a bit longer than two minutes for a noticeable amount of heat to dissipate from a dead body.”

  “Aren't you the smart one.”

  Matt laughed under his breath. “Why do you think I let you stay on top? I knew if they found us, they'd kill you first.”

  Emily bonked his helmet. “Jerk.”

  For a moment Matt laughed harder, but when he tried to stand, a hiss sliced through his teeth. He grabbed a shredded section of his pants below the shin, which trickled with blood.

  Emily knelt and guided her hands close to the wound, not touching it, unsure of what to do. “How bad is it?”

  “I'll be fine.” He pointed at an emergency exit door, and Emily stayed near his side as he hobbled toward it. “Time to level the playing field.”

  “Let me guess, easier said than done?”

  Matt didn't answer.

  In the deserted alleyway, he directed Emily behind a wheeled, green dumpster, where the stench of rotting food and the consequent stomach churning reminded her of the outside line for check-in. Matt pressed the tip of his rifle flush against the dumpster, toward the street. A single shot rang out, and the bullet casing jingled across the wet cement. Flakes of paint clung to the edges of the circular puncture in the dumpster.

  He removed his helmet and looked through the hole. “Now we wait.”

  Emily settled on the ground, holding her stare on the half-closed emergency exit door while Matt kept his face planted against the dumpster. She didn't ask him to explain the plan; she'd already figured out some of it. Kill two defenders. Take their helmets. Of course, that only removed the equipment advantage. Unless a few attackers got lucky, which she doubted, twenty defenders still patrolled the streets.

  “Here we go,” Matt said, and pushed off on his good leg, rising above the top of the dumpster. The muzzle flash of two successive shots burned a white patch in Emily's vision. After Matt ducked down again, he tugged her sleeve. “There are two dead defenders in the street. Go take their helmets.”

  “Run into the open streets?”

  “If another squad sees me, I won't make it back in time.”

  “Please, don't make me do this.”

  He shoved her in the tailbone. “Go, before they find us.”

  Emily sprinted toward the two lifeless bodies, which rested in a pool of shiny, black liquid. She slid to a stop, almost crashing atop the dead defenders, and ripped the helmet off the first, revealing the face of a young man. The bullet had pierced his lung, and blood rolled down his bottom lip and chin. But when Emily pulled the helmet off the second defender, she froze. The girl under the visor couldn't have been old enough to drive, much less join the Army. Her youthful skin glowed under the light of a distant street lamp. She's not really dead. It's just a simulation.

  Then the girl's eyes opened. Her arms shot upward. Emily tried to pull her gun around, but the defender pinned it to the ground, under her elbow. She grabbed Emily's throat.

  “Matt,” Emily screamed. Her voice sounded as little more than a desperate rasp. A fog of darkness crept over her vision. Her head seemed too heavy for her neck. She slapped at the defender's arms, but the blows hit with the strength of a gentle tap.

  A gunshot echoed across the city. The defender's eyes widened, and then her body went limp. As Emily twisted, which freed her from the dead hands, blood rushed to her head. Standing behind the dumpster, Matt lowered his rifle. Emily grabbed the helmets and sprinted down the alley, following him through the emergency exit and back inside the hotel lobby. This time, she stayed clear of the crumbling walls.

  “Put it on,” he said.

  She slipped the helmet over her head. Her vision shifted from darkness to a spectrum of blues, blacks and, when she waved her hand in front of the visor, oranges and yellows. “How does this work?”

  “Reddish colors are heat. Darker colors are cold.” He limped toward the stairwell door. “We're going to shoot the reds.” After they climbed the first flight of stairs, he stopped. “But first we need fabric—blankets, clothes, anything like that.”

  On the second floor, Emily scoured a restaurant, where she located a few towels and linen tablecloths, but Matt told her the towels were too small, the linens too thin. She entered the kitchen and dug beneath the counters. More hand towels. A stack of pressed aprons. Mists of flour settled on the pots and pans as Matt tore apart the pantry in the back.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted something red on the wall. “Matt? What about these?” She pointed at the fire-emergency box.

  “Perfect,” he said, and lifted the handle. Two blankets flopped on
the floor.

  Emily and Matt went up the stairs again. On every other floor, they discovered an unopened emergency box, collecting the final two blankets inside an Italian restaurant with an elaborate fountain in the center of the tables. Four winged angels gazed down at the stagnant pool of water. Matt tossed the wad of blankets into the fountain. “Lay on your chest in front of the window.”

  For a moment Emily just stared at him. Then she remembered how far she'd come under the odds. Without Matt, she would have died in the streets alongside her two idiot squad-mates. She'd be waiting in darkness, probably wishing she could cry from the pain. She slid across the floor and approached the glass as Matt stood above her, holding the sopping-wet blanket in his hands. He draped it over her back and legs, and moisture seeped through her fatigues. She figured now wasn't the best time to complain about how water caused her skin to prune up like the wrinkles of an old woman. “And the purpose of this is—?”

  “It should trap your body heat. The defenders won't be able to see you, so we can take them out in relative safety.” After Matt covered her with several more blankets, he dropped to his chest and pulled a pile over himself. He crawled forward, inches from his reflection in the glass. “One shot at a time. Don't make it easy for them to find you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Emily said, making her sarcasm easily detectable.

  “Okay, Sarah, let me know before you fire.”

  Only minutes passed before blobs of red danced in the open streets. “I see two. Three hundred yards on your eleven.” She finally found a reason to use the lingo she'd learned in class.

  “I have the one on the right. Fire on three, two, one—”

  Emily squeezed the trigger. Glass shattered and shards bounced off the blankets. In the streets below, two defenders crumpled under the weight of their own deaths. “Woot,” Emily whispered.

  A moment later she spotted two more, killing them under the outstretched awning of a street café. For the rest of the Sim session, Emily and Matt kept to the strategy. A game of patience. Waiting for the defenders to come within range. The instant Emily's ninth kill dropped to the cement, the world faded.

  Congratulations!

  You have completed the objective.

  Total time:

  Two hours, nine minutes, four seconds.

  Ending ACES training.

  The Sim room lights sparkled overhead, and the nice female white-coat—even the pervert would have seemed nice right now—helped Emily escape the gel. Feet firmly on solid ground, she threw her arms in the air.

  “Great job,” the white-coat said.

  Emily smiled, too excited to speak.

  After scrubbing the Sim ooze out of her ears and getting dressed, she walked to the elevator, where she lingered for a few minutes. Two guys, their cheeks and necks red with the onset of bruising, limped toward her. Behind them, Matt acted oblivious to the presence of anyone, although a smug grin crossed his face.

  “How the hell did you two win?” asked a guy. Emily recognized his voice as A4.

  “How fast did you two die?” she asked.

  “Ten feet outside of the starting point,” he said, and laughed. He pumped his fists in the air. “But thanks to you two, I get to sleep.”

  “Enjoy it.”

  The elevator doors lumbered open, and Emily stepped inside. A1 went to the back corner, keeping his distance. “I can't say I'm too happy about you dismissing my orders.”

  “I'm sorry,” Matt said. “I only wanted what's best for—”

  “I know,” A1 interrupted. “You have your reasons. Thanks for the extra sleep.” He extended his hand, which Matt shook. Four minutes later, the elevator stopped, and A1 and A4 raced ahead, ready to indulge in the great prize awaiting them in their rooms.

  During their own long walk, Emily stayed near Matt's side. She caught herself moving closer to him, brushing against his arm. He glanced at her with a subtle gleam in his eyes, but the luster in his face dimmed when she didn't turn down her corridor. “What're you doing?” he asked.

  “I've never been in this hall, even while running. I'd like to see your room.”

  “I think you should get some sleep. Neither of us might be so lucky tomorrow.”

  Emily ignored him and stopped at the first door. “Is this it?” She grabbed the knob.

  Matt stepped between her and the door. “You can't go into some stranger's room. The MPs would be all over you if they found out.”

  “So this one isn't yours?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “I guess I'll find out.”

  He sighed. “You aren't going to let this go, are you?”

  “Give up? Not if I get to see you squirm.”

  She twisted the knob, and he grabbed her wrist. “This way.”

  After a few minutes, he approached a room—1844. She jumped in front of him and pushed open the door. It was dark, empty. “Roommate not back yet?”

  “He usually dies early.”

  The clock displayed 21:33. “So he won't finish the Sim for another four hours?” Emily poked the mattress—firm like hers. The familiar smell of disinfectant choked the air. “I guess our rooms are all the same.” But they weren't. Above the desk sat a bookshelf where unrecognizable titles seemed ready to spill on the floor. “Did you raid the library? Have you read them all?”

  “They're my roommate's.”

  Cheek twitch alert. “Liar.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, and she plopped down beside him. For a moment he just stared at her. “You should go to your room and get some sleep.”

  Rejection. “If that's what you want.”

  “Yes…it is what I want. I'll see you in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I guess I should leave.” Once she stepped into the hall, the door creaked shut. Why do I act like this around him?

  In the morning, Emily entered the classroom to find Sarah already there and, oddly, sitting in the middle row. At the back of the room, two guys had claimed Emily and Matt's usual places. “They beat me here,” Sarah said. “I didn't feel like asking them to move. I think they're going through Matt's notes.”

  Emily sat beside her. “I don't care.”

  “Bad night?”

  “You could say so.”

  “Can't be worse than mine.” Sarah turned her head. A star-shaped bruise covered the back of her scalp. “Three seconds into the Sim, my own teammate shot me dead. Next time I have a great idea, I'm keeping it to myself.”

  Matt walked inside the classroom, glanced once at the two seat-stealing guys and then sat beside Emily.

  “Must be nice to not have any new bruises,” Sarah said.

  “Hello to you, too,” he said, and turned to Emily. “Morning.”

  “Whatever,” Emily said.

  “Somebody's in a mood,” Sarah said, and studied Emily's face. “I don't see any new bruises on you either. Did you get shot in the ass?” She leaned across the table, toward Matt. “Did you get shot in the ass? It'd make my day if you did.”

  “Good morning, privates,” Stallings said as he wobbled toward the podium.

  “Good morning, sir,” everyone except Emily replied. She mumbled it.

  “I have some big news. By now, everyone should understand how the ACES module operates, because command has decided to make a few changes to the scenarios. Beginning tomorrow, your ACES training will place you in eight-member squads. Objectives will become more challenging, so don't expect the same level of success, if you've garnered any at all.”

  Stallings glared at Sarah. “Also, we have been made aware of a new discipline issue that is creating chaos during your training. Be warned, if you kill your squad members intentionally, you can spend a night in the stockade and lose your weapon for a full week. After much deliberation, we decided not to punish the individual who suggested the idea.”

  He punched up the results. “And I hope this group has better success in eight-member squads than the current teams of four. Almost eleven minutes. That's your a
verage time of survival last night. But two of you completed the objective. Stand up, Private Holcomb and Private Heath.”

  They did.

  “You both left your squad to die. Although I will congratulate you on your victory, I find it hollow, meaningless, and as you'll soon discover, you need your team in the larger squad combat. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said.

  “Good. Enjoy your last night in four-member squads.”

  “You, too?” Sarah whispered.

  Emily shrugged.

  Once Stallings finished the results, he paced along the front row. “During your training sessions, you have engaged in combat as the attacker. With eight members in your squad, the objective becomes two-fold. Completion of your mission requires attack and defense. Enemy numbers are also double the normal contingent.”

  Matt scribbled the basic math in his notebook—eight versus forty—but Sarah didn't even lift her pen. She stared at the blank projector screen, her eyelids fluttering. A few minutes later, Emily was certain she heard a muffled snore. A drop of saliva glistened in the left crease of Sarah's mouth.

  Once Stallings moved forward into the lecture, Emily's eyes also grew heavy. In the previous class sessions, she hung on Stallings' every word. Her single-spaced notes filled ninety-three pages of the red binder, and she expected the same from the rest of her classmates, doubting the soldiers would forego a trove of information that might help them avoid horrible deaths and humiliating times. Hearing it once seemed like enough, but Stallings didn't agree. His lecture consisted of a summary of everything Emily already knew.

  Matt kept his hands flat against the desk, on both sides of his notebook, with the pen sitting in the center. He glanced at Emily and then back to Stallings as if he wanted to avoid her stare.

  You're hiding something, she thought. How do I know things about you? You're going to tell me. I will find—

  A grainy image, like an old home movie, flashed in her mind. She had not willed it, had not needed to escape her present reality, and she really wasn't trying to remember. The memory just came to her.