Walking Ghost Phase

by D. C. Daugherty

  “Shut the hell up,” Emily said.

  “Back off, Heath.” Damon sent his open palm toward Matt's shoulder, but Matt shoved aside the blow. Now Damon raised his fist in the air.

  A hand clutched Damon's wrist in mid descent. “Enough.” Stallings spun Damon around like a Tango partner. “Private Peters, if you're serious about a career in the Army, you should understand that we don't accept three-year-olds.”

  Emily chuckled.

  Stallings released Damon's wrist and turned to her. “And you, Private Heath, one good plan doesn't make up for a myriad of bad decisions and blind faith. How well do you think you can do without the crutch you've been leaning on the last few days?” For a moment he stared at Matt. “Take your seats before the MPs come and make you.”

  Stallings went to his computer and punched up the results. The majority of soldiers died around the six-minute mark, the amount of time it took the defenders to arrive at the attacker base. Sarah pumped her fists in the air when Stallings called her name. Just as she said, she didn't achieve victory, but her fifty-six minutes of simulated life placed her in a respectable ninth. Matt took eighth and Emily seventh. Damon smiled at Matt as Stallings announced the first place finisher—a rank always bestowed upon the A1 of a winning squad no matter if that soldier lived, died or did nothing to contribute to victory.

  “Are you going to say anything?” Emily whispered to Matt.

  He didn't look up from his notepad. “It's not important.”

  Emily glanced at the paper, watching Matt scribble random shapes, a far cry from his usually furious recounting of everything Stallings said. At the top of the page, he had drawn a circle around the letter S and continued with downward lines until those encountered other circles or squares. It looked like a flow chart Emily had seen in high school statistics. By the end of class, Matt had covered the entire page in navy blue ink.

  At lunch, he picked at his food. Though Stallings had instructed soldiers to leave their binders in class, Matt still brought his to the mess hall, and he was writing in it when Sarah tossed her tray on the table. “Are you all ready for this?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Emily said. Matt dropped his pen.

  “So last night, after the defenders reached our base, my squad did an awesome job of keeping them out of the courtyard. Me? I'm taking out baddies left and right. Bullets flying everywhere. Nothing is even coming close to hitting me. It's like I was possessed. But my squad-mates aren't so lucky.

  “We're down to just me and another dude. Defenders are finally entering the courtyard. Then I hear this rattle near my boots. I look and see a live grenade, when all of a sudden the dude I'm with shoves—” Sarah jumped out of her seat and flailed her hands above her head. “John, over here.” A few tables down, John Simmons saw her and headed their way. After he sat beside Sarah, she squeezed his arm. “This guy here shoves me out of the way and jumps on the grenade. He saved my life.”

  John patted his chest. “Hurts like hell.”

  Matt pointed at John. “You protected her? From a painful death? You did that?”

  John shrugged. “Yeah, isn't that what teammates are supposed to do?”

  Matt picked up his pen and drew another line on the chart. “But why you?”

  Sarah and John didn't seem to hear him, or maybe they didn't care. Sarah giggled as John whispered in her ear.

  Emily leaned close to Matt. “Why are you being an ass? Sarah was miserable a few days ago. Now look at her.”

  “But John Simmons?”

  “Okay, so he was Raven's fiancé. It looks weird, I know. But is it fair for either of us to tell her that's the reason she can't be happy? The way Raven talked, I don't think John is going to hurt Sarah. If she trusted him, shouldn't we?”

  “Trust, trust, trust,” Matt said under his breath. “What's his objective?”

  “What're you babbling about?”

  Matt spun and stared at the defenders' table as he tapped the pen against his leg. “That's it.” His eyes lit up in a eureka moment.

  “Private Holcomb,” someone said. The MP, a blond-haired young man who normally patrolled near the serving line, was standing beside Emily. She hadn't noticed him approach her and could swear she saw him at the front of the mess hall when Matt was looking at the defenders—not long enough for anyone to walk or even run the hundred or so feet. “You have been requested.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'll be right back,” Matt said to Emily. He leaned near her ear. “No matter what, don't let John and Sarah leave this table.”

  The MP led Matt across the mess hall to an out-of-place door in the corner. Emily had never noticed the white door. Like the officer, it seemed to have appeared from nothingness.

  “What's that all about?” Sarah asked.

  Emily shrugged. More secrets, she thought, and took a bite of her mush.

  A familiar accent rose above the murmur of the crowd. The voice, with its New York twang, got louder, clearer, and Emily looked over her shoulder. Rizzo walked down her aisle, leading his posse of friends, who seemed to hang on his every word as he bragged about his squad's eight-minute victory. Emily slumped lower on the bench.

  “Isn't he the dude who Matt cussed out the other day?” John asked. “Why does he bother you so much?”

  “He got the best of me in the Sim one night,” Emily said. “And he made sure I knew it.”

  “How? What did he say?”

  “Just trash talk. It happens all the time.”

  “Maybe, but whatever he said seems to have hit the right nerve.”

  “Let it go, John.”

  “Hey, I'm just trying to help.” He leaned against Sarah, smiled and whispered in her ear again.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw Matt come out of the white door. The MP patted him on the back and escorted him to the aisle. But a few seats down, a soldier intercepted Matt. It was A6 from last night. “Thanks again, man. I haven't slept that well in weeks.”

  “No problem.” Matt tried to step around the soldier.

  A6 cut him off again. “Do you think you could say something to the computer operators? Let me get in your group tonight?”

  “Doubtful,” Matt said, and placed his hand on A6's shoulder. The move seemed friendly, but he used it to get past his admirer. Then Matt froze. His eyes widened. “Where's John?”

  Emily looked across the table, where only Sarah was sitting, burying her face in her cupped hands. “Sar?”

  “I didn't mean to say it,” Sarah said, and peeked over her fingertips. Tears rolled down her ashen-white cheeks. “He promised not to do anything if I told him.”

  “Tell him what?” Emily asked.

  Matt clutched Emily's wrist, hard. “She told John about Rizzo.”

  “I'm so stupid,” Sarah said.

  Emily stood and glanced around the mess hall. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “Where do you think?” Matt asked.

  “After Rizzo? Now?” She pointed at the front of the mess hall. “Look. There he is.” John marched through the far aisle, unwavering in his destination. Something in his left hand reflected a beam of light to her eyes. “Is that—a knife?” Emily took a step, but Matt squeezed her wrist tighter. “Hey? You're hurting me.”

  “He's going to kill Rizzo,” Sarah said.

  “Matt, let me go. We have to stop him.”

  “It's not our problem,” Matt said.

  “I'm not too fond of Rizzo myself, but we can't let John kill him in cold blood.” She looked around the mess hall, where four MPs stood watch from each corner. Even if she screamed for them, they would never reach John in time. “Let me go.” She stepped backward into Matt's chest and then lunged forward. Her wrist shot out of his grip. She felt him grab a wad of her shirt but that, too, slipped through his fingers.

  “Emily, no,” he shouted.

  She sprinted down the aisle. “Stop him,” she screamed. “He has a knife.” Every soldier spun and st
ared at her, their faces a blur of confusion as she ran past them. The voices dropped below the thud of her boots slapping the floor. Soon a crashing sound of metal trays pierced the mess hall air.

  She glanced to her right. Matt bounded through the air, leaping from one table to the next, as trays flipped onto soldiers' laps, and particles of white goo splattered against their chests. But he wasn't heading toward her. Not trying to stop her. His path would take him straight to Rizzo.

  The MPs finally moved, and they ran toward Matt, apparently believing he was the source of the chaos. John still appeared unfazed. He held tight on his original path and closed in on Rizzo. Now within range, he pulled back the blade. “This is for Raven, you son of a bitch.” He lunged forward, the weight of his body behind him.

  In that moment, the world slowed to a crawl. The mess hall darkened, turned frigid. The eyes of the intended victim and murderer seemed to flash different chapters of a single story. John—hate, rage, revenge. Rizzo—fear, confusion, helplessness. The knife disappeared under a swarm of bodies. Soldiers and MPs fought to separate the mob.

  Then another set of eyes found Emily.

  “No,” Emily screamed. “No. No.”

  Matt was standing between John and Rizzo.

  Three soldiers tackled John and pinned him to the floor, where he kicked and struggled with a will beyond hate. Rizzo took a step back, his eyes bulging, his trembling finger pointing at Matt's stomach. Emily pushed through the crowd but froze when she stood before Matt. Below his heart swelled a shining patch of blood. He dabbed his fingers against the stain and stared at his hand, looking at it with the curious expression of a child.

  He met Emily's eyes again. “I'm sorry,” he mouthed, and stumbled backward. She jumped forward, reaching out to grab him, but his sleeve passed effortlessly through her fingers. His head bounced once off the tile floor.

  “Help,” she screamed. “Help me.” Emily dropped to her knees and shoved her hands over the gash. Blood seeped between her fingers. “We have to stop the bleeding.” She pressed harder. “Stay with me. Please, don't leave me.”

  “Emily,” Matt whispered.

  “Shh, the medics are on the way.” She glanced at the gathering soldiers. “Someone help me.”

  He coughed, and a trickle of blood rolled over his lips. “Emily.

  “It's going to be okay. Just hold on a bit longer.”

  He touched her face, a gentle graze across her cheek. “I love you.”

  “No, no, please, no. Don't leave me.”

  His eyes closed, and the world turned silent. Someone pulled her to her feet. Someone led her out of the mess hall. Someone tried to comfort her—all nameless faces.

  Emily didn't know how much time passed before she recognized the somber face of Captain Stallings. He sat on her bed, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at her wet cheeks. “Private Holcomb passed away. I'm sorry.”

  For a moment it was as if her soul tried to drift out of her body.

  “Under the circumstances, you've been excused from Sim training and classes. I'll inform you in person once I have the details of his funeral.”

  Emily climbed out of bed at 6:24 a.m. Someone higher up was apparently nice enough to disable the morning alarm, and she might have appreciated the gesture had she slept the night before. Stumbling in the darkness, she grazed the wood frame of Maggie's bed. Maggie moaned, reached up and clicked on the light.

  “Sorry,” Emily said.

  Maggie, through squinting eyes, looked past her. “Who dropped off that?”

  On the door hung a dress uniform. The olive green jacket had no medals or lapels, and the name patch was blank. Beneath the matching skirt rested a pair of black pumps in a plastic bag. Emily hadn't seen the person who left the outfit, although she never dozed off in the night.

  Maggie climbed out of bed and crouched beside Emily's legs. “There's a note.” She skimmed the piece of paper and then passed it to Emily.

  The least I could do — W. Stallings.

  In the week or so Emily had spent at Greaver, she learned a universal truth about how things operated in the Army. Sure, Stallings' may have signed the note, but someone higher in the chain-of-command granted him permission to deliver the uniform. And the Greaver higher-ups always had an ulterior motive. Regardless of her outfit, many soldiers would stare at her during the funeral, but if she arrived in a uniform—her, a trial soldier, a lowly test subject—the Major or Colonel who approved the gift would guarantee that everyone witnessed suffering on prominent display. Anything for motivation. “I'm not wearing it,” Emily said.

  Maggie rubbed the cotton sleeve. “Are you sure?”

  Emily just stared at her, and the uniform was still hanging on the door when they left for the funeral later that evening.

  Because Matt had lost his parents and grandparents, and since he didn't have a brother or sister—the immediate family—no one from the outside world was allowed to mourn him. The generals and colonels who had offered condolences to Raven's family now appeared relegated to mingle with a group of lieutenants and captains. Near the courtyard windows, an MP directed soldiers toward the ballroom's oaken double doors.

  Emily wanted a moment to collect herself, to prepare her mind before she entered the ballroom, but the swarm of bodies soon herded her through the doors. The faint sound of a violin playing a dismally slow song came from two overhead speakers. She checked left and right between the walking soldiers for an open seat near the back. A sea of green swallowed every row.

  She moved closer to the front, and the mob dwindled. When the three soldiers ahead of her filtered into rows with empty seats, she lowered her gaze. As long as she kept her eyes on the carpet or on the tip of her boots, she could manage a small hope that Matt would be waiting for her in the elevator, that he would walk alongside her in the corridors after a victory. In her mind, if she didn't see the coffin, it didn't exist.

  Captain Stallings approached her and draped his arm across her shoulders. “Private, your place is in the front.”

  No. Not there. She dug her fingers in his sleeve as he guided her through the center aisle.

  Sarah, her eyes perfect circles and glistening with tears, met them near the front row and threw her arms around Emily's back. “I'm so sorry.” The violin's melody ended, and silence overtook the room. Emily sensed the stares. “He loved you,” Sarah whispered. “You know that, right?”

  Emily's chest tightened. Any thoughts she may have entertained about not crying, about not letting the higher-ups see her suffer, ended in that moment. Sarah led her across the front row to an empty seat. Throughout the service, Emily glanced up only once to look at Matt's face peeking above the coffin.

  An hour later soldiers mingled in the lobby, and Emily wandered through the crowd. A few bouts of laughter rang out—a welcome break—but those moments of happiness lowered to whispers whenever she neared any group of soldiers, even defenders. After the third time, she walked to the ceiling-high windows, away from everyone, and basked in the sunlight.

  A lone soldier, whose attendance she didn't expect, made a direct path to her. Redness swelled around his eyes. “I'm sorry,” Rizzo said, and lowered his gaze. “I'm also sorry I said those things to you in the Sim.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your friend, Raven? I never would have fired on her if I had known what might have happened. It's just—whenever I'm in the Sim, I feel like I'm losing my mind. I say stuff I would never say out here. I do these awful things. It's like someone is constantly screaming in my ear Win, Win, Win.”

  Emily turned her back to him. I'm not your confessional.

  “That day Matt came over and yelled at us, told us how heartless we were, said we were playing in a make-believe world—it hit home. He was right. I meant to tell him, but now he's gone. He's gone because of me. I'm here because of him. I don't know if I should be happy or blame him.” He squeezed her shoulder. “But I'd trade places with him in a heartbeat if I could. Sometimes i
t's bitter how things work out. Just think if you'd have gone to the beach instead of Washington.”

  Emily spun and narrowed her eyes. “What?”

  “That's what your friend Raven said to me on the roof. 'Don't hate me for Washington, Em. We should have gone to the beach.'“ A tear dropped from Rizzo's eye. “Said she was ready to go home. I think it was then that I knew I'd killed her.”

  Emily didn't say good-bye to Rizzo; her mind had erased his presence. Now her aimless stride mirrored what she saw every day in the soldiers who made their way to the elevators. The walk of the dead. She passed through the glass doors and into the Greaver Courtyard, where an early winter wind numbed her flesh. Even in the breeze, all three flags hung limp, and she leaned on the flagpole. Rays from the setting sun bathed her face. She closed her eyes.

  “You need to leave this place.” The voice was distant, an echo in her mind.

  I want to. What was his plan? Why couldn't he tell me?

  Then a crackle of footsteps on frozen grass broke her trance. Near the Annex entrance, two colonels puffed on cigars, their exhaled breath forming endless vapor trails in the air. One glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Now they were talking.

  “She's not going to break, is she?”

  “She'll lose. She has no choice.”

  “And we won't stop until she realizes it.”

  “Start it now.”

  Emily gazed out on the horizon at the trees below the setting sun. Her face burned; her teeth ground. Those men had stacked the odds, but Matt still found a way to win. Now he was gone—one obstacle removed from the experiment's goal. Emily was the other constant in his victories. They had surely seen the replay of her instructing Damon on how to defeat the last group of defenders in the oil field simulation. Did they also plan to eliminate her?

  She turned back to the colonels, but they were gone. She stared at the windows, where the funeral crowd inside the Annex lobby had dwindled to a few straggling soldiers. The colonels weren't there, either, just Stallings, who stood near the ballroom doors and directed a group of soldiers to the hallway. Emily shoved through the glass doors.