Stallings leaned over her body, close to her face. “Look at you, weak and helpless. Why do you even try?” He glanced at the MPs. “Take her to the stockade. Solitary.”
Emily winced when a cold, sharp pain throbbed over her wrists. Behind her, the handcuffs clicked, and two MPs dragged her to the hallway.
Stallings' voice boomed. “Emily Heath, you shouldn't be afraid of dying. I've already killed you.”
Ten iron-gated cells lined the front of the stockade. They were empty, but the MPs carried Emily farther into the prison depths. Gray walls and ceilings passed before her eyes as her boots slid over the damp cement. The MPs soon stopped, and she looked up at door number twelve and the sliding steel plate near the top. Only darkness existed on the other side.
“Solitary,” an MP shouted. Two female MPs approached Emily and relieved the two males, who then strolled back the way they came. Now alone with Emily, the female MPs removed the handcuffs and stripped off her clothes. When they pulled open the six-inch-thick cell door, Emily's brain wanted her to cringe. But she didn't.
In the corner of the room sat a rusty bucket, the stench of decay wafting from it. Water droplets on the walls and concrete floor glistened in the first light they had probably seen in months. Something that looked like mold or fungus sealed the wall cracks.
A stiff nudge jabbed Emily's spine, sending her stumbling inside the cell. Before she could regain her balance, the door slammed shut and the sliding plate window closed with a grinding squeal of metal. Like Sarah's room, the only source of light came from under the door, where a breeze sifted into the cell and chilled Emily's skin. Goose bumps stayed constant over her flesh, and a white mist puffed through her lips.
She rubbed her arms. “Can someone turn up the heat?”
No one answered.
Soon her toes numbed and teeth chattered. Boots tapped the floor outside the cell. “Is anyone out there?” Her voice sounded weak. She crouched, pulling her knees against her chest, and held her shins. “Please?”
Then a broken whisper seemed to come through the walls. “Don't—you're torturing her.”
“They are,” Emily said, and laughed. That surprised her.
Keep it together.
“They were right. I am going crazy.”
No, you'll get out of here, finish your time, and go home.
“And watch my mom stare out the window all day? Some life.”
But it's your life.
“Yeah, and I can take long walks to the dead kid's house.”
It's not your fault.
“I should have made Raven stay behind the shed. Should have listened to Matt. Should have saved Sarah by taking Stallings' offer a few minutes earlier.”
Fine. You're a murderer.
“No.”
You killed your friends.
“No.”
Don't worry. You're next.
“No…no…no.” Emily pressed her hands against her ears and rocked back and forth. “Not like this. Please. Get me out of here!”
Get me out of here!
Then a voice boomed from the walls. “Enough.”
A clang of steel locks sent Emily scurrying toward the corner, and the sudden glow of gray lights made her squint. “Cover up,” a female said, and tossed a sheet inside the cell. Emily pulled it around her body. “She's all yours.”
The moment the figure stepped in the doorway, Emily knew who it was from the hazy outline of his gut. She clenched her fists. “Come to let me finish the job?”
Stallings stretched out his hand. “Get up.”
Emily scampered farther into the corner.
“It's okay,” he said.
“Don't touch me.” Emily's voice cracked and breath wheezed.
“Corporal?” He shouted at the door.
The MP appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“Water for Private Heath.”
The MP pushed a canteen across the floor. Emily kicked it against the wall, and the MP reached for her baton.
“It's okay, Corporal,” Stallings said. “You can leave us.” He picked up the spilling canteen and placed it near Emily's legs. “I'm letting you out of here, Private. I'm going to leave you alone. You want to finish your time and go home? I won't stand in your way any longer.”
“Don't act like you're doing me a favor.”
“I'm not. This wasn't my decision. Certain higher-ups think you're an asset. They want you back in the trial immediately. They want to see more of you. Besides, winning seems your style.” He looked over his shoulder and shouted. “Corporal, bring Private Heath's clothes.”
“And if I refuse?” Emily asked.
“Suits me fine,” Stallings said.
“You're messing with me again. You want me to play your game. I won't do it.”
“If this is a game—” He laughed. “I win either way. If you don't go to the Simulator, I'll get to find new and interesting ways to make your life miserable. If you do go—and I know how much you hate to lose—you'll probably lead your squad to victory. Guess who gets the credit for the best soldier?”
The female MP tossed the wad of fatigues on the cell floor.
Stallings checked his watch. “Twenty minutes until the game starts, so make your choice.” He stood and walked out of the cell, leaving the door wide open.
Emily gulped the water, clearing the rasp in her throat, and stared at her clothes. “There's always option C,” she said, and began to dress.
The pervert from Emily's first night met her at vat 1. His toothy grin stretched across his stupid face. “Welcome back,” he said, and rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “I've got a cool hundred on you winning tonight, so don't let me down.”
She slid into the gel, ignoring the heat and him.
“Do you need your inhaler? Bathroom break? Can I get you something to drink?”
“Press the damn buttons,” she said.
“Intensity. I like your attitude.” He handed her the sensors and breathing tube and waited for her to apply them. “Good luck,” he said, and clapped his hands like an overly excited child. “Ready on one.”
The world faded.
Emily stood in the loose dirt of a derelict property, where patches of weeds, crinkled soda cans and old tires littered the landscape. A red, ten-story building behind her cast a shadow into the street. Its windows were jagged with broken glass, and the top of a doorway peeked over the roof.
Words flashed in her visor.
Objective: Eliminate all enemy forces.
She was the commander; no surprise. At least she didn't need to fight for the position. Then she turned to find her squad. That bastard. Plan C was no longer an option. A mob of soldiers, larger than any group she had ever seen, gathered around her. Stallings rigged the Sim so I wouldn't lose. She also had her gun, although he said she would lose it in the next session.
“Let's get them before they have a chance to organize,” D26 said.
“Yeah,” half of them replied in a fist-pumping shout.
“What's the plan, ma'am?” D14 asked.
Emily looked at the defenders, her team. She gave them a half-hearted wave and walked toward the building. “Do what you normally do.”
“Where are you going?” one of the defenders asked.
“You don't need me.” She entered the building. Rotted floorboards bent under her boots as she went to the stairs.
“Ma'am?” The voice crackled in her helmet, and a small D8 appeared in the corner of her visor. The radio was something new to her in the Sim. “Should we just attack?”
She didn't answer, instead focusing on the second floor stairs.
“Ma'am, we could really use you.”
She still didn't answer. The stairs to the sixth floor creaked, drowning out the static. For a while the radio stayed silent.
“I have a plan,” D11 radioed.
Emily pushed open the roof door. In the distance was a mirror image of her red building.
The D11 appeared in he
r visor again. “D2 through D26, we're going to the base. They won't stand a chance.”
What's with defenders and the number twenty-five? She felt around her helmet, found the radio button and pressed it. “Why not send everyone?”
“Can we do that?” D19 radioed.
She pressed the button again. “Sure. Think how fast the fight will end.”
“Let's do it,” D33 radioed. “Headsets on auto.”
Multiple shouts sounded in Emily's radio as she stepped on the roof and watched the defenders sprint down the street, toward the attacker base. Now sitting on the edge of the building, she let her legs hang off the side and kicked outward like a child on a swing set. “You'll get what you want, Stallings,” she said, and took off the helmet. “I hope you're satisfied.”
A breeze wafted through Emily's fatigues, and she closed her eyes. She was in the park, going back and forth on the swing, her father pushing her. The wind ruffled her Sunday dress. Higher, Daddy. Higher.
He pushed harder, grunting, and she sailed high enough to see her mother on the porch. Higher, Daddy. Higher.
The headset radio squawked, breaking her dream, so Emily lifted the helmet and held it over the ledge. “Bye-bye.”
Then the words from the radio stole her attention. “Where are they?”
A split second after the helmet slipped through Emily's fingers, she threw out her arms and caught it. She pressed the speaker to her ear and listened to the defenders.
“Where did they go?”
“There's only one way out. They couldn't have gone by us.”
“Search every floor. Check every corner.”
A few moments later. “Nothing.”
“Maybe the Sim is messed up.”
“Not again. I sure as hell hope we don't have to wait the seven hours for the OPS guys to figure out the problem.”
“Meet downstairs. We'll decide who's returning to base.”
“Roger.”
“On my way.”
And later. “Okay, is everyone here?”
“Roger.”
“All right, D28 is rolling for the even numbered defenders. D7 represents the odd numbered defenders. Closest grenade to the wall stays. The other team runs back to base. Throw at the same time. Ready, go.”
The rattle of metal on wood came across the radio.
Then the gunshots.
Then the screams.
“Where are they?”
“I don't see them!”
“I'm hit, I'm—”
“Get out of—”
“They're in the floorboards. Fire at the fl—”
“Help me.”
The bursts of gunfire slowly tapered off to a few shots, and then they ended. Different muffled voices now came through the headset. Emily pushed the helmet closer to her ear, listening.
“Awesome plan.”
“Yeah, we smoked them.”
“But we're still here?”
“Is one of them alive?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“So why hasn't the Sim ended?”
“Not sure.”
“Guys, guys, guys. I only count thirty-nine bodies.”
“You're telling me they left one person at base? One friggin' person?”
“Dammit, you mean we've got to run all the way over there?”
Emily smiled. And I won't even fire a shot.
“A couple minutes run and we can go to bed. Can't complain.”
“Let's do it.”
The thud of boots faded to silence, and the radio went quiet. Soon the blur of eight black figures raced toward her, getting larger, closer. Sitting on the ledge and in perfect view, she gave them an easy target. They only needed enough range to pick her off with a single, well-placed shot. The attackers moved closer still.
Emily shut her eyes, expecting the killing bullet to strike her at any moment, the darkness to seal off her senses, the long and painful wait. She was ready. Footsteps circled the dirt below. The attackers definitely had the range. “Do it,” she screamed.
Something rattled behind her. “Kill you?” the attacker asked. “Why would I do that?”
Emily's chest tightened, suffocating the beat of her heart. Her heels dug into the building side. The voice didn't exist. It couldn't. The Sim is messing with my mind.
The attacker wrapped his arms around her body. “I'm not going to leave you this time.”
“You're not real. This is Stallings' idea of a joke.” She stared at the sky. “Haha, Stallings. You got me.” Then she turned her cheek, feeling the soldier's skin, recognizing its touch. “Just kill me so your squad can get to sleep.”
“Look at me, Em. I'm here. I want to take you home.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “This isn't right.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“One look?” He kissed her neck.
“You aren't real.”
“No, I'm not. But neither are you.”
“What?” She turned. There he was. Matt. A full head of hair, blue eyes and a smile. She looked away. “Kill me. I can't take this.”
“If you wanted to die, you'd have pulled the trigger yourself. You don't want to leave this place. But I need you to.”
She pushed her rifle toward him. “You do it.”
“No.”
“You like seeing me suffer? You're not a very good friend.”
“I'm more than your friend, Em. I love you. I've loved you since we were children. I want to be with you, but we can't stay here much longer. We still have time to see Raven and Sarah.”
“How?”
Matt glanced over the ledge. “I know you're scared. You believe you're fighting Stallings. You think that doing nothing will win this battle. It won't.”
“You want me to ki…”
“Only you can make the choice.”
She stared at the ground, at the specks of litter below. A hundred foot drop. It would be quick, painless, she hoped. “Promise me you'll be there.”
“I can't, because you shouldn't worry about what might be on the other side. You just need to want the release.”
Her breathing grew shallow. “I don't know if you're really him. I don't know if I'm dreaming.” She inched closer to the ledge. “Matt?”
“Em…”
“I want to go home.”
She closed her eyes. Soon the wind ripped through her fatigues.
The darkness had an unexpected clarity; absent was the void of nothingness. The timer hadn't appeared. Emily felt her arms, legs, the wiggle of her toes. The warm gel splashed against her body. With a deep breath, she lunged forward, her eyes shooting open to a faintly yellow glow of light. As she looked around the chamber, silence surrounded her in every direction. Not a single white-coat scurried about the room, and the vats near her were empty. In the distance, a single elevator stayed open. “Hello?” she called.
“She's awake,” a voice said. It was muffled, as if the wind spoke.
“Come home, baby,” another whispered. “We're waiting.”
“Is someone there?” Emily asked.
Silence.
She climbed out of the vat, found a towel on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Where is everyone?” A trail of gel footprints followed her to the elevator. Once she stepped inside, the top-floor button lit. The door slid shut, and the elevator ascended.
“Listen to him,” a voice said.
Emily glanced at the intercom, from where the voice seemed to come. “Is this a joke? If you wanted to scare me, Stallings, I'm scared. You win.”
“Stallings isn't real,” the voice answered.
“Who is that?” She stood on her tiptoes and examined the speaker.
Then the bell chimed, and the elevator door opened. For a moment she stared at the section of wall in front of her. The white doors had vanished, and the carpet appeared new, leaving no evidence of the black streak. “Hello?” She slowly stepped off the elevator.
The hallway lights f
lickered and dimmed. Beside her, a pin-sized dot glowed on the wall, and it soon grew larger, stretching from the floor to ceiling. Blurry and distorted colors formed out of the whiteness. Emily neared the wall, imposing her shadow on the image. She looked around. No projector? “What is this?”
The picture focused, and the image showed an empty sidewalk. Behind her, voices grew louder, as though a crowd headed toward her. A young woman in a business suit, her heels clacking the concrete, walked across the image. The voices surrounded Emily now. A man and boy appeared next, strolling hand in hand. Soon the sidewalk filled with people who materialized from one side of the display and vanished once they reached the other side.
Down the hall, more brilliant dots glowed, and the pedestrians continued their walk through the new images. Emily rubbed her fingers along the wall. “Is this a dream?”
Then the closest display flashed. The sidewalk blinked out of existence, replaced by a new image. Emily covered her lips. Toppled buildings and debris spilled into the streets, fires danced in the wind, smoke rose to the clouds. At the center of destruction, a crater stretched out to a familiar location. The Washington Monument. Reduced to a pitiful stub of concrete.
The display changed to a pristine street of granite-faced townhomes. Ambulances and fire trucks, their sirens blaring, raced toward the background fires.
“Are we on?” a female voice asked. The camera rotated, focusing on an Asian woman. She lifted a microphone to her chin. “We have only limited information at this time, but a source inside the local Nuclear Emergency Support Team provided us with a preliminary report. At approximately 1:18 p.m. eastern time, a nuclear device, estimated at six kilotons, detonated near the Washington Monument. NEST is coordinating with local emergency services for rescue operations.”
“Anna?” The man's voice, apparently that of newscaster in the studio, came from the display. “How concerned is NEST about fallout?”
“Well, Jim, the weapon employed fission to trigger a small fusion reaction—in other words, a neutron bomb. Since a neutron bomb causes most of its biological damage through short-lived radiation, NEST has allowed rescue services access near ground zero. Our source also informed us that the level of sophistication needed to create such a device would likely rule out any small terrorist organizations. Presently, no one has claimed responsibility for the attack.”
Walking Ghost Phase Page 25
