The n00b Warriors

by Scott Douglas

  Dylan nodded and looked down, but didn’t say anything.

  “Things have just been weird, Dylan. I’m not avoiding you—Johnny just doesn’t make me think about war. When I’m with you, that’s all that I see—and I don’t want to see it.”

  “Then you guys should be together—I’m happy for you.”

  “It’s not even like that! War’s changing you—you’re not even fun anymore. You’re just intense. Even when you were playing video games at the cabin—it was like you were on a mission or something.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I just want to be a kid for a bit longer, and you keep making me feel like I stopped being a kid the moment I got on the bus.”

  Dylan stood abruptly and turned his back to Trinity. He looked at the mountains in the distance before finally admitting with his back still turned and his stomach wrenching, “I didn’t want to be a leader, you know. I’m scared, but I want to protect us—I want to be a good leader, and right now that means that I can’t have fun.”

  Trinity stood and put her hand on his shoulder. She stayed silent, preserving the moment of peace. Then she said brightly, “Come on—word is they’re serving us real food for dinner tonight. I guess it’s our last supper!”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Dylan promised.

  She smiled and ran off.

  He didn’t eat dinner that night. The rumor was right; they brought out the best food—steak, potatoes, and cheesecake for desert. It was the best meal they had had as recruits—for some, it would be their last. Dylan wanted no part of the dinner. He went to the kitchen and got a can of beans, instead. He ate the entire can as he wrote out a speech to tell his company later that night.

  In school, it was taught that every great leader gave a great speech before battle. In high school literature classes, that’s all that they read—the speeches and letters of great leaders. They had to study their syntax, examine their themes, and write essays on why they were effective. He had memorized a few famous lines from speeches in school, and he did his best to write them verbatim.

  One of the cooks asked Dylan why he wasn’t eating the other food, and he said, “I’d rather have fiber—I’ll need it when I fight.”

  The cook laughed. “That sounds like something from the lips of Doc Pollack!”

  Dylan nodded. “He’s a wise man.”

  The cook rolled his eyes and walked away.

  Dylan looked down at his speech and reread parts of it. All of it was a lie, and his heart sank as he realized that.

  His speech made him think about why they were fighting. They fought for survival—they fought because of something their fathers had created years ago. They didn’t fight because they believed in a cause; they believed in the idea of a cause, but to believe in an actual cause would require them to know what the cause was, and none of them really knew.

  Dylan told himself that the lie was okay; he had to make them believe that there was something real they were fighting for. He had to give them hope, even though there was no truth to it. It was his only way to protect them.

  # # #

  Yet again, Dylan carefully studied the faces of his company. They watched him and patiently waited for his words. Finally, he said, “I can’t offer you any hope.” His hand shook as he read from the tattered piece of paper. “I’ve seen a man die—I’ve killed him with my own hands, and there’s nothing pretty about it. But I’d do it again, and I will do it again. I don’t do it because I hope that I will live or that the buddy next to me will live or that any man with a gun will live. I kill because I believe in the country that I only know about from the stories my parents have told me. A country with no wars, and with pride and dreams—a country that is like no other nation.”

  His hand continued to shake as he took a sip of water from his canteen and then continued. “I fight for this soil, for this land, for this people. I fight to preserve its honor. I fight to restore its hope.

  “Most of us are kids fighting a grownup’s war. If you wish to cry like babies—if you wish to piss your little pants—if you wish to share your emotions with anyone about how scared you are—then do it. There’s no disrespect—no dishonor in being a kid. But know that around you are people who are like you and who will fight for you. Know that while you might not make it out alive, we all fight on the same team, and we all have the same fears. You do whatever it takes to keep that gun in the armed position, continuously blasting the tiny nuts of those coward Coco Puffs.

  “You’ll remember this day—this war—all of your life. However long your life is, you’ll know that you fought in Company D—with the bravest men around. Fight hard. Fight proud.”

  He paused and looked up. All of their eyes were glued to his. Dylan was surprised to see Tommy in the crowd, proudly nodding. “Lead them home,” he lipped to Dylan.

  “Let’s move out.”

  It was silent when he finished. Dylan wondered if they had heard anything he had just said. The back cargo door of a transport truck loudly dropped, making everyone jump. Company D slowly started making their way onto the vehicle.

  Tommy stopped Dylan as he headed towards the truck. “Good speech,” he said, saluting.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s going to be intense tonight. You’ll be holding a large area, and we suspect it’ll get hit hard again, but we’ll get you reinforcements. Hold it down and I’ll get you backup ASAP.”

  Dylan nodded. He watched his company piling onto the transport truck; they still looked nervous, and he hoped his speech had done something to take away at least some of their fear.

  “I’m going to make it out to the lines to see you in a few days. I’m ready to bag a few Coco Puffs myself—it’s been awhile.”

  Dylan nodded again. He noticed Hunter standing next to the truck. He looked proud as he waited for Dylan, and Dylan knew that his speech had had an effect on at least one person.

  “I’ll see you again,” Tommy said with a salute.

  “Yes, sir,” Dylan replied, and he saluted back. It was the first time he had ever saluted anyone since joining.

  Once more, he was going to war.

  # # #

  (Rebel Frosted Flake, Blog Entry)

  WE MUST FIGHT?

  Posted: Tuesday, December 16, 2014 | 10:34 AM (GMT)

  I drank my coffee this morning while watching live footage of American soldiers being led in long convoys around Seattle, positioning themselves around the city to be on guard for what the President calls an Imminent Threat.

  What is the threat? Of course, no one knows for sure, but plenty have speculated. Several reporters call it a potential biological attack. I even heard one relating the possibility of terrorists manually erupting a volcano and burning down the city.

  The only thing I saw for sure is fear. Fear has long been the government’s best tactic for getting civilians to sacrifice their American rights. It always starts like this. You rally people up, get them to believe that they are in danger, and then ask them to give up just a few rights so you can protect them. It always starts with a few rights that no one will miss, and then it always builds to something far greater.

  Only last week, I was watching radical leaders talk about how the government was taking away rights and there would be consequences for sure—but, this week, there are no radicals. All of the people who are the voice of opposition—people who had done nothing wrong except have a difference of opinion—they are silent. As I sat at the TV watching the scene play out, I kept thinking over and over again: what happened to those people?

  What is becoming of this nation?

  Tag: Seattle

  Level 10

  Gehenna

  Connor, one of the youngest kids in Dylan’s company, sang a camp song on the ride to the front lines. Before long, he had the whole transport truck swaying and singing a folk song they had all known since third grade. As they got closer, the sounds of war became a more forceful presence, but everyone kept on singing.

  Dylan s
at alone at the front of the truck, and did not sing. He watched Connor. There was a smile on his face, and Dylan wondered how he could ignore what they were heading into.

  Singing through blasts, singing when it got so loud that they could barely hear what they were singing—they kept singing until a bomb exploded and shrapnel punctured Connor’s head. His blonde mullet instantly became stained red, and he fell face-forward into the bed of the truck.

  Blood drained from Connor’s lifeless body and touched several of the kid’s boots. War had just become real, and the singing stopped.

  Hunter, who was across from Connor’s body, started to move towards him, but Dylan pulled him back and shook his head no. He was already gone. The truck kept moving, though now it had more speed as the sounds of war grew louder and more frequent.

  Trinity tapped on Dylan’s shoulder. He couldn’t hear her over the noise, but she was pointing at a building. He turned and saw a church tower. The church was gone, but the tower still stood. Just barely, he could hear the chiming of its bells. They still rang—even in war. Dylan watched the towers until he could see them no more. It seemed unreal that the city was gone, but the church bells still rang—nothing could stop them.

  There were three zones in Seattle: the Forward Zone, where the trenches were and where they were heading; the Rear Zone, where the headquarters and hospital were; and the Battle Zone, the area they were currently traveling through. This zone was full of artillery and tanks; some were being used as they passed, but most were out of service.

  The Battle Zone was also full of rubble and crumbling buildings. There was little hint that the road they were on had been paved at one time. Dylan watched men and women quickly loading mortar into one of the artillery canons as they passed. A part of him wanted to be them. They didn’t have to see who they killed and hurt; they were given radioed-in locations, and they fired from a long distance, never knowing if they even hit anything.

  A hundred feet away, he was an overturned medical truck that was on fire. Soldiers were trying to pull bodies from it, but as they did so, the entire truck exploded into a huge fireball that went up nearly 100 feet. The force of the explosion rocked the truck that Dylan’s company was in. Dylan remembered a teacher who had once said the Rules of Engagement forbade you to ever fire on the injured or doctors. He didn’t know if that was true, but he knew that the Rules of Engagement wouldn’t apply in Seattle—there was only one rule in Seattle: Survive.

  They passed a sign that said “Washington Park Arboretum.” The sign was odd to Dylan; there was no such thing as a park in a warzone. Whatever beauty and nature there had once been, it was now long gone.

  More bombs came. There was more than one close call. The truck dodged left and right, avoiding the explosions. Dylan listened to the sounds and thought back to Disneyland—the only battlefield he knew. Already he knew that this was a different warfront; this was the real warfront. He still wasn’t sure what exactly that meant, but he knew that the war here was constant—the fighting never seemed to stop.

  The truck stopped without warning, and the driver turned and nodded at Dylan. Dylan quickly hopped up from his seat in the truck’s bed. “Alright everyone, move out,” he commanded as he jumped from the truck to the surface.

  No one could hear what he said over the blasts and gunfire and bombs flying above and occasional fighter jets firing at their objectives, but they knew what he meant, and no one stalled.

  They followed Dylan, clinging shoulder to shoulder, as they ran. Two of the kids froze. Dylan didn’t realize it until they were several feet away from the rest of the group. He yelled, but they couldn’t hear him. He motioned, but they didn’t follow. They just stood hopelessly—clinging to each other—too fearful to even shake. He signaled to Hunter to move everyone forward so he could go back to get the two stragglers. Just as he turned around, a bomb exploded, and they both were gone.

  Dylan was now the frozen one. He stared at the small crater the bomb had made, at the charred and lifeless bodies as they smoked on the ground. He was not even aware of the noise anymore. Then he felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned. Milton was pulling at his shirt and yelling that he had to move on. He still didn’t move; he tried to think what their names were, but he couldn’t remember. Milton pushed him again, and this time shouted into Dylan’s ear, “There’s nothing you can do. The others need you!”

  Dylan nodded, and then ran with Milton to catch up with Hunter and lead the troops forward.

  A bomb exploded so close to Hunter that the impact made him lose his balance as he ran. When he got back up, he was crying, and he grabbed on to Dylan’s hand. They ran several hundred feet before Dylan even noticed that they were holding hands.

  Dylan didn’t know where he was going, but he knew if they kept on running, they’d reach their trench. It was dark and hopelessly smoky, but frequent explosions helped keep it just bright enough to see.

  Subconsciously, Dylan hoped that this was another test, that at any minute Tommy would jump out from nowhere, laughing and saying it was just a silly game he’d made up to amuse the men. But this was no joke.

  Every building in sight was crushed. Bodies were scattered on the ground. Dylan watched several different people trip and fall over corpses; vehicles were turned over; women were left naked; the dust was thick; the smell of death was thicker. But they kept running, too afraid to realize they were tired and scared.

  Fifty feet away, they saw a helicopter shot from the sky. They watched in horror as the bright light on the bottom of it got closer and closer until it finally crashed not far from them in a burning blaze.

  Men were running towards them, telling them to turn around. “Run for your lives,” they shouted, “they’re trying to kill us!” One of Dylan’s soldiers started to follow the men going the other way. Dylan grabbed her by her shoulder as she ran past and shook his head no, forcing her to stay with the company.

  A bomb blasted not far away. When several more hit the same area, Dylan led everyone to a collapsed multistory business complex, where they waited a few minutes. When the nearby bombing had stopped, they ran again.

  They came to the remains of a drawbridge, and Dylan knew they would have to cross it. The middle of the bridge had been blown away, and no car could cross, but there was a beam just wide enough for them to run over single file. If the map was correct, Dylan knew that the University of Washington was just on the other side, and that was where they were supposed to be.

  The deeper they got into the war zone, the softer the sounds got. Most the bombs were now flying over them instead of crashing right next to them.

  About a mile after crossing the bridge, Dylan tripped and fell into a trench, and was met by the high-strung Company B team leader.

  “Glad to see you,” he said to Dylan. “I lost ninety percent of my men in the attacks yesterday. Welcome to the Forty-Fifth Street Parallel Trench.”

  Dylan nodded and looked around as the rest of his company jumped down beside him. It was the first time he had ever seen a real trench. In high school, they had practiced building trenches, but it was nothing like this. The ones in high school were solid and perfect. The 45th Street trench was muddy and falling apart.

  “Name’s Faulkner, by the way.” He grabbed Dylan’s hand and began to forcefully shake it, then he looked at the rest of the company that was piling into the trench and said, “Got a young bunch of kids on your hand. What company did you say you were with?”

  “D.”

  “D?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “They must be desperate or stupid if they’re sending D men out here. This is A-B turf.”

  Dylan nodded again, still too shocked to speak.

  “Well, get your men settled in. There should be fighting all night.”

  Faulkner was 25 and a graduate of Stanford University. He had been recruited three years ago and had traveled all over the world. This was his third rotation to the front lines in the four months he had been in Washington. �
��I should have been dead three times over, but I keep lucking out.” He told Dylan all he knew about battlefront war in one sentence: “Fire first, question later.” And he told him the nickname of the front, “Gehenna,” which in ancient times was where children were sacrificed to the gods.

  “Where’d you start out, anyway?” Faulkner asked, pouring Dylan a cup of coffee.

  “Saw my first battle at Disneyland.”

  “Disneyland? I’ve heard stories. Did you ride Space Mountain when it was over?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “That’s what I would have done. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

  “Is it always like this here?”

  “Like what?”

  “So intense.”