Walking Ghost Phase

by D. C. Daugherty

  The reporter walked off the screen and into the next. Emily followed her. The background changed to a hospital parking lot where police cars and military vehicles formed a barrier around the entrance. The sun, now a blur of red behind the smoke, hung low on the horizon.

  Breaking News scrolled along the bottom of the display. “This is what we know. A survivor of the event—” A picture of a man wearing an Army dress jacket and hat appeared in the top right corner of the screen. A brief memory flashed in Emily's mind. Blue coveralls. Almost knocking her down. Cussing into a cell phone. “—Sergeant William Robertson, dishonorably discharged for reasons unknown at this time, has claimed to have insider knowledge of the attack. Government investigators are onsite and have deployed military units and local law enforcement to secure the location. We don't know what Robertson is telling the Feds or whether he acted alone, but our source, however, described Robertson's behavior as that of a betrayed confidant.” The reporter walked off screen.

  Emily followed her again. Now the background changed to a warehouse. A few street lamps illuminated the reporter's face and razor-wire fence behind her. “Is this as close as we can get?” She lifted the microphone. “Government investigators have been very tight-lipped about what is occurring inside this warehouse, but our FBI source told us this. At approximately 7:02 p.m. eastern time, an Army special forces unit stormed the building behind us and shot and killed this man—” The picture appeared in the display corner.

  Emily's throat felt as if two invisible hands strangled her. “Logner,” she said, her tone low.

  “—Army psychologist Colonel Richard Logner. As some of you may recall from leaked memos, Colonel Logner was under investigation for security lapses during his role as lead developer of a cancelled Army training program. Our sources speculate that he allegedly acquired the nuclear device with the hope that the event would increase defense spending and subsequently return funding to his program.”

  A gust of wind slung the reporter's hair across her face as a helicopter descended to a lone patch of grass inside the warehouse compound. “It appears more personnel are arriving.” A woman wearing a brown trench coat stepped out of the helicopter, followed by a man in dress pants, a dress shirt and a tie.

  Then the newsreel paused.

  The image pixilated as it zoomed on the woman's face. Emily had seen her before: at the beach house and driving the car in front of Matt's childhood home. But she wasn't the same woman who spent her days staring through the window and at the park. Emily's head ached. Her eyes bulged from the buildup of tears. “No…it can't…” A trickle of blood dripped out of her nose and splashed on the carpet, disappearing in the red strands. “Mom…” The camera then focused on the man in the shirt and tie. “No…you died…”

  Through her blurry vision, Emily watched the screen change again. Now the picture showed a simple door in the Greaver hallways. Two MPs pushed it open. Inside the room, Matt was lying on his bed and reading one of the military tomes. “Come with us,” an MP said.

  Matt seemed hesitant, but he stood and followed the MPs. Moments later they stopped at a blank section of wall. Ripples, like waves in the ocean, flowed through the wood, and a new door appeared out of nothingness. “Step inside.” After Matt did, the door slammed shut.

  The room, pure white and no larger than Emily's bedroom, was empty—no furniture, no pictures, no clocks. A wobbling sound, as if the room rode on an unbalanced tire, filled the air. The far wall rippled with more waves, and Matt planted his back against the door. The face of a gray-haired man materialized from the paint. “Matthew Holcomb?”

  Matt nodded.

  The image grew larger, and now the man came into full view. Behind him, white-coats scrambled around the background of rusted beams and broken windows. “It's good to finally meet you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I'm Dr. Paul Stevens, an Army psychologist. Do you know where you are? Do you know where I am?”

  “I assume you're with our bodies. Did you stop Logner?”

  “You don't remember the incident?”

  “No. I lost consciousness when—” Matt looked around the room. “—this thing started.”

  “But you recall everything up to that moment?”

  “Yes.”

  “We suspected as much.” Stevens held up a brown folder and opened it. “If Logner had access to this file, I doubt we'd be talking right now. You had your tonsils removed when you were six years old and remembered the entire operation. A traumatic event for any child, I'm sure.” Stevens turned the page. “Separated your shoulder in a bicycle wreck at age eleven. Once again, you gave details of the surgical procedure only a conscious person could have known. We call this phenomenon Anesthesia—”

  “Awareness,” Matt interrupted. “I know what it is, Doc, so get to the point. My memories have returned. Why am I still here?”

  “The sequence used by the device has a delay between the time your memories are altered and the moment of entry into the simulation. We hypothesize that you regained your memories within that window. Do you know why?”

  “I heard Logner talking about his objective after he thought I was under.” Matt rubbed his temples. “Knowing the inevitable kind of defeats the purpose, I guess.”

  Stevens lowered his head and slowly nodded. “So you understand what's going to happen?”

  “I do, and I've accepted it.”

  “This is a hell of a mess, son. I'm sorry it happened to you and your friends. But we're here now. We're going to end this. We'll have you out in a few minutes.”

  “What about them? Emily, Sarah, Raven?”

  “The program has to run to its conclusion. That's the only way we can retrieve them with their memories intact. They'll come out eventually.”

  Behind Stevens came a piercing scream. “You liar.” The same woman who had stepped off the helicopter shoved her finger in Stevens' face. “He deserves to know.” Two soldiers grabbed the woman and pulled her out of view. “Tell him,” she continued to scream.

  “Mrs. Heath?” Matt shouted. “Mrs. Heath?”

  Stevens disappeared from the screen, and Mrs. Heath's frantic screams stopped. When he returned, he glanced left. “Halt the extraction procedure.”

  “What are you not telling me?” Matt asked. “What are you hiding?”

  “Matthew, the computer runs an algorithm whereby it analyzes multiple potential outcomes. Once it discovers the most probable outcome toward achieving the objective, the computer engages that scenario.”

  “English, Doc.”

  “The system is going to look for the best way to make their lives a living hell until they concede that death is preferable to prolonged misery. Raven McDonald and Sarah Winston have a 99.9 percent chance of achieving the objective under the current scenario. Once they do, the computer will release their memories and expel them from the system. They're going to make it out. As we speak, Raven McDonald is already nearing her completion. Sarah Winston will follow her a week or so later.”

  “What about Emily?”

  Stevens rubbed the bridge of his nose. “The computer ran a million scenarios against her personality. The highest percent of probable success it could achieve came in around eight percent. The computer accepted that scenario. She is stubborn.”

  “You have no idea,” Matt said under his breath. “What happens to her if she doesn't…” Matt swallowed. “…accept her death.”

  “The program will continue to run until she dies out here or falls below a certain outcome probability in there. If the latter situation occurs, or if we pull her out manually, she will do so without her memories.”

  “What does that mean? And don't lie to me, Doc.”

  “She won't recognize her parents. She'll still think her father is dead. Her childhood—gone. Beyond what she has learned in the program, she won't remember anything about you, Sarah Winston or Raven McDonald. For the remainder of her short life, she'll be a fragment of who she once was.”
/>   Not hesitating, Matt answered. “Don't extract me.”

  “Your parents are out here, Matthew. They want to see you before you...pass.”

  “Tell them I love them, but I'm not coming back without Emily. They'll understand.”

  “You can't help her. You can't come out and tell her the world is imaginary. It's all she knows. Her mind is convinced.”

  “I'll make her see the truth.”

  “If you interfere, her scenario probability might fall to an unacceptable level.”

  “Eight percent,” Matt shouted. “Eight percent. You know as well as I do that eight percent is pretty much a guaranteed failure. The way I see it, I get to spend my time with her in good health, not in a hospital bed while we watch each other die. Even if I fail—” Matt shook his head. “—I won't fail.”

  “What's your plan?”

  “The same thing I've always done. I'll gain her trust. When the time comes, she'll believe me.”

  “She might. However, you cannot inform her of the truth right now. We already ran that scenario. It does not result in success.”

  Matt nodded. “Doc, no matter what, don't pull me out until she's safe.”

  “I can't make any promises, but while you're inside, I'll do what I can to help you. Good luck, Matthew.”

  The camera panned out. Near the far wall of the warehouse, four unconscious people were lying on gurneys. Sensors wrapped around their heads, IVs strung along their arms. A row of computers beside them flashed and beeped. Then the camera zoomed in on a particular face.

  Emily's face.

  The screen went blank.

  Emily cupped her hands over her mouth, leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. “No.” Tears rolled down her fingers. “This is a dream. I'm going to wake up. It's the Sim. I'm still in the Sim.”

  “You are, just not the one you think.” The voice was too familiar.

  Emily glanced up.

  Across from her and sitting on the floor, Matt rubbed a loose strand of his frayed jeans through his fingers. He looked the same as the day he boarded the transport. “The purpose of this entire program was to train soldiers to accept their deaths, to make them fight until the end without hesitation or remorse, to remove the primal instinct of fight or flight. Logner needed participants for his experiment, and his bomb provided four people, four lifelong friends.”

  “Friends? You left me here.”

  Behind Matt, the screen changed to an image of the white room. He was standing with his back against the wall as Stevens' digital face stared down at him. “Matthew, we have a serious issue. Emily has fallen below her safety threshold.” Stevens sighed. “In my line of work I never thought I'd say this. You've made her too happy. The system is preparing to eject her.”

  “Tell me how to stop it.”

  “Her death scenario is playing out as we speak. She isn't the target, but her personality will put her directly in the conflict.”

  “I won't let her do it.” Matt stepped out of the room.

  The screen changed again, this time to an image of Matt wearing a hospital gown and sitting on the edge of a gurney. A crying woman and man hugged him as Stevens watched another doctor check Matt's heart. When the doctor shined a light in Matt's eyes, Emily saw the rage.

  “Excellent plan,” Stevens said. “Your death has boosted her outcome chances to nearly thirty percent.”

  Matt jumped off the gurney, struggling to keep his balance. “Not good enough. Send me back.”

  “Matthew, we don't know how.”

  “Figure it out.”

  The screen went blank.

  “They manipulated John?” Emily asked. “Did he get out?”

  “So you're starting to believe this isn't real?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Then why don't you ask him?” Matt nodded toward something behind Emily.

  Emily turned, and her face was a few inches from the green pants of someone. She looked up. John Simmons loomed over her, staring ahead, his expression blank. Emily fell back on her elbows and scrambled to Matt's side.

  Matt didn't move. “Identify,” he said.

  “My program designation is JS-229,” John said. “My personality is based on the extracted memories of John Franklin Simmons, age 22. I am outfitted with standard level infantry-combat subroutines.”

  Emily rose to her feet and slowly approached John. “He's not real?”

  “No,” Matt said. “Neither are they.”

  Emily sensed the presence behind her. Damon, Stallings, Rizzo and Maggie were standing in perfect military posture, their faces blank like John's.

  “Identify,” Matt said again.

  The four soldiers began to recite their names—a cacophony of voices pounding on Emily's eardrums, digging at her brain. She shoved her hands over her ears. “Make them stop.”

  At once, the hall went silent, and Emily lowered her hands.

  “Stallings, continue identify,” Matt said.

  “—my personality is based on Wade Victor Stallings, age 47, and Richard Albert Logner, age 55.”

  “After my funeral,” Matt said, “Logner's personality replaced the nice Captain.” He held her shoulders. “Em, we were fighting a computer program. You saw how predictable they acted in the Sim.”

  Emily stared at the floor. “You knew. It's how you won.”

  The wall flashed alive again, showing the interior of Logner's warehouse. A heart monitor beeped as the woman from the helicopter held Emily's hand. “I'm here, baby. Please, wake up. Please.”

  “She wants to see you,” Matt said. “Your dad, too. He's not dead. The program simply made you think he was. And Raven and Sarah…they're also out there…they miss you.” Matt pulled Emily against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. “But we don't have much time.”

  Her body trembled. “This can't be happening. It's a dream.”

  “It's not. You know it's not. Em…we're going to die.”

  For a moment she just cried as Matt rubbed the back of her head. But he wasn't touching her shaved scalp. Blond hair now flowed along her cheeks. “They can alter this world, right? We can stay here. Make it like home?”

  “That's not how this works.”

  “They can try,” she screamed.

  “We planned on a life together. College. Marriage. A house someday. The dog.” He let out a short laugh. “Blizzard, the white husky. Those were our dreams. The way we wanted our lives.” He gently tipped up her chin and looked her in the eyes. “Things don't always work out the way we'd like. If you want to stay, I'm not going anywhere this time. But I'd rather see you complete again. I want you to remember our dreams of a life together. The dreams that made you happy. But we can't share those here in this false world. Out there, we can still die together. We can still have our final dream.”

  “I'd like that,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Follow me.” He led her down the hallway of blank walls. Though it was a different environment without the doors and carpet streak, Emily recognized where he took her. Soon they entered a familiar corridor, but the shower room and her bedroom no longer existed. The emergency exit, however, remained. Matt stopped and slid his hand along the release bar, which was now unlocked.

  “This will take me home?” she asked. “Just like that?”

  “No,” he said. “Outside this door, the program is running normally. You know what's in the courtyard. You know what happens if someone tries to escape.”

  Emily hesitated. In her mind's eye, she saw herself unconscious and lying in the gurney. She seemed at peace as the woman—her mother—cried at the bedside. She imagined the laughter of her friends and the woman's smile when she came out of the coma. She remembered Raven's face, Sarah's sarcastic smirk. She heard their voices as if they were her own.

  I don't belong here.

  I'm ready to go home.

  Emily put her hand on the door's release bar.

  Matt grabbed her wrist, pulled her into
his chest and pressed his lips to hers. “I'll see you soon.” And he let her go.

  She pushed open the door, and at once, the alarm blared. Ahead in the courtyard, grass twinkled under the afternoon sun. The driveway was empty of convoys and patrolling MPs. Only guard towers and fences loomed in the distance.

  Emily ran.

  She crossed the driveway, and the loudspeaker crackled. “Return to base immediately.”

  She ignored it, pushing harder as the grass stabbed at her bare feet. The distant figures up high shifted toward her, their guns winking at her with a glare of light. The fence was now less than a hundred yards away. The loudspeaker crackled again. “Return to base immediately. This is your final warning.”

  Then the roar of wind in her ears went silent. The soles of her feet numbed; the ground no longer seemed below her. The loudspeaker cut off before the final order blared. It was as if time had frozen.

  A flash of fire expelled from the rifles.

  Everything faded.

  Darkness.

  Emily was standing in her living room while her mother and father studied a stack of papers at the window table. “I'm not going,” Emily said. Her tone sounded full of spite.

  “Honey, New York has good schools,” her mother said.

  “Did you have to do this right before my senior year?”

  “Emily,” her father said. “You know I didn't plan this. We aren't the only family affected. Sarah's father is in the same predicament.”

  “Yeah, but he's not making her leave. Her mom's staying until graduation.”

  “That's not a bad idea,” her mother said. “I can help the realtor show the house while we try to sell it. Flights are cheap. It's only for a year.”

  “Or he can find a new job here,” Emily said.

  “I've put my life into this company,” her father said. “It's been good to us. They're helping pay for your college.”