The n00b Warriors (Book One)

by Scott Douglas

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said to his aide, and then he smiled at all three of them. “Hello there, brave young men!”

  They each flashed a fake smile and said hello.

  “I heard you have done some mighty brave things.”

  They stared. The aide nudged them from behind, and they each smiled again and nodded.

  Two photographers began taking pictures non-stop of the President shaking each of their hands.

  “You’re a charming bunch of boys. I bet you like John Deere tractors. Do you like tractors?”

  Tommy nodded, feigning excitement.

  “I liked tractors when I was a boy. I use to have these toy tractors that I would play with for hours. And you know what else I liked?”

  “What?” Tommy asked.

  “Marbles.”

  “Marbles?” Dylan replied, confused.

  “Sure. I still play it every day, usually about this time. I’d be playing it right now if it weren’t for you kids.”

  “Sorry,” Tommy said.

  “That’s alright. Timmy can wait.”

  “Who’s Timmy?” Dylan asked.

  The aide stepped forward before the President could answer and said, “The President’s a very busy man.” She looked to the President and added, “Sir, I think we have all the pictures we need.”

  “Nonsense,” the President replied, “I can take a break from all that boring stuff to speak with a group of charming young men.” He looked at Dylan and explained, “Timmy’s my son.” The President pointed to a possum a Secret Service agent was holding on a leash. “There he is, right there. Wave to the nice boys, Timmy.” The agent made the possum’s hands wave. “Attaboy, Timmy.” He turned back to Dylan and the others. “Timmy can be a little shy.”

  “You play marbles with him?” Tommy asked in disbelief.

  “We’re in a tournament together. I’m winning.” He whispered, “Timmy isn’t very good.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where’s my marbles?” The President turned to his aide. “Have you seen my marbles? I want to show them to the boys.”

  The aide shrugged and said, “Perhaps they’re in your office, sir. You should go look for them right now.”

  He stared at the aide blankly for several seconds and then admitted, “I’m always losing my marbles.”

  The aide smiled tolerantly.

  “I’ll show them to you later.” He sighed. “Well, what else do you enjoy doing? Do you like horses?”

  Dylan yawned and apologized. A journalist took pictures and didn’t appear to hear or care what was being said. Dylan wondered how everyone could see a President so crazy and not tell the public about it.

  “Or maybe ponies—I bet you like ponies.”

  “Ponies are very nice, sir,” Tommy said.

  The aide explained, “The boys single-handedly won an important battle in the war. Perhaps you’d like to hear about that?”

  The President slyly smiled as he looked at her. “No kidding?”

  She nodded.

  “Boy oh boy, I used to love playing war when I was a kid. Were you the Cowboys or the Indians?”

  When nobody answered, Dylan said, “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Isn’t that how you play it? Maybe it has a different name with you boys? Were you the good guys or the bad guys?” He looked at Hunter carefully and then turned to the aide, “This one was a bad guy, I bet—the quiet ones are always bad.”

  Hurt, Hunter quickly said, “I think we were all good guys, sir.”

  The President laughed. “Hot dog—I used to love that side.” He peered at the three of them. “You know, there’s four of us altogether. How would you like to play a little Cowboys and Indians right now? Two on two.”

  “Sir,” his aide said, “you have another meeting in ten minutes.”

  “Oh, this won’t take but a few minutes—what do you say, boys?”

  “Okay,” Tommy nervously answered.

  “Hot dog!” the President shouted, and then he ran full-speed straight into a tree and knocked himself unconscious. Two Secret Service agents ran to him and helped him up. They quickly put him on the golf cart and drove him off.

  “That wasn’t your fault,” the aide said. “He’s done it before—he has a bad eye. He doesn’t see right.”

  They were led back to the elevator. When they were away from the photographers, Dylan admitted to the aide, “The President’s kind of strange.”

  Hunter and Tommy nodded in agreement.

  “You have to understand, he’s under a lot of stress with the war. He gets confused about things.”

  Dylan nodded but didn’t reply.

  “You can tell people you’ve met with the President, but you cannot tell people how he behaved. Is that clear?”

  They nodded.

  “It’s for the good of the country—and it’s also in your contract.”

  They nodded again.

  “People have to believe everything is okay. They have to have that hope. If anyone asks you what it was like, say ‘It was a great honor, and his wisdom really showed.’’

  They nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “It was a great honor, and his wisdom really showed,” the three of them intoned.

  “Good. And what did you talk about?” she asked Dylan

  He shrugged.

  “Strategy,” the aide explained. “Say it.”

  “We talked about strategy,” Dylan said irritably.

  “Perfect.” The aide turned to Tommy and said, “I want you to do the talking.”

  Tommy nodded as the aide opened the door to a large room full of couches and a kitchen. At the center of the room was a large TV with a PS3 sitting on top. The aided turned to them and said, “You get five hours in here. Then you’ll be eating at an important dinner tonight with the President.”

  The aide left without giving them a chance to reply. Tommy made a beeline to the kitchen, and Hunter went straight for the games. Dylan stood near the door, confused. He watched Tommy making a sandwich and said, “Don’t either of you find this strange?”

  “What?” Tommy asked, stuffing his face.

  “That we’re on a tour to lie for a President who’s crazy? Don’t you think people have a right to know that all of this is just one giant joke?”

  Tommy shrugged. “No one would believe us—and it’s like they said, people need hope.”

  Dylan didn’t answer. He went to the couch and sat down.

  Hunter was shuffling through the movies and games. “Do you guys want to play games or watch a movie? They have everything here!”

  Tommy wandered behind the couch with his sandwich; strawberry jam oozed from the corner and hit the floor as he walked. He went to the cabinet and opened it up. Hundreds of movies were inside. “Look at this!”

  Hunter turned and then ran to the cabinet, excited. “They must have every single movie ever made!”

  Dylan threw up his hands. “Is that all you guys care about? Our friends die, and you act like nothing happened!” He paused and added, “I expect that from you, Tommy—but Hunter?”

  Hunter looked down, hurt. Tommy put his arm around Hunter’s shoulder and laughed. “Chill out, Dylan! You’re a kid again! Start acting like it!” He looked through the cabinet, carefully scanning each title. “You know what we all need? A war movie! It’ll help us unwind.” He held up Full Metal Jacket. “I’ve heard of this one! It’s supposed to be super bloody!”

  Dylan watched the movie with his arms crossed, not wanting to enjoy any form of entertainment. The first half of the movie was easy not to enjoy. It was about basic training—something he knew little about. Once the fighting began in the second half, he couldn’t help but cry; neither could Hunter. Everything in the movie had happened to them. It was like spending two hours reliving bad memories.

  Tommy’s tears seemed joyful. “It’s beautiful!” he said as a man was killed on the screen.

  # # #

  Dinner was la
rger than Dylan thought it would be. It was held in a large underground bunker, and hundreds of men and women filed in. Most were senators and governors and foreign friends of the country.

  The tables were lavishly decorated; there were plates with the rebels’ logo hand-painted and crystal vases in the center with fresh flowers. Everything Dylan touched on the table felt expensive.

  The President looked dignified and dressed as a President should be, in a suit and tie. He gave a speech about the cost of freedom and made everyone believe that there was a reason they fought.

  Dylan, Hunter, and Tommy sat at a table with a high-ranking general who said, after the speech, “I bet you’re really looking forward to the dessert.”

  “We’re not really hungry,” Tommy, who had been eating for the past five hours, said.

  “Not really hungry?” The general’s voice got louder. “How can you not be hungry? You’re boys! All boys like dessert.”

  Tommy shrugged, quelling under the general’s anger.

  “Well, it takes some of every kind,” the general said, seeming to calm down. It was quiet for a moment, and then he asked, “So what grade are you boys in?”

  Tommy shrugged. “We got pulled out of school, sir—for the war.”

  “The war?” He seemed confused. “War’s for men—they should keep you boys in school, is what they should do.”

  Dylan didn’t know what to say to that, because he agreed. He would have loved to stay in school. Hunter remained quiet.

  “Have you seen a lot of battles?” Dylan changed the subject.

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “Where have you fought?”

  The general thought about his answer. “Son,” he said slowly, “war is not something to brag about to boys—you just wouldn’t be able to understand the things I’ve seen. It would be too much.”

  “We’ve seen an awful lot of bad things, too, ” Tommy argued.

  The general smiled and patted Tommy’s hand. “I’m sure you have, son—I’m sure you have. But you’ll understand one day what I’m talking about.”

  The President was making his way from table to table, working the crowd. He paused at the general and said while staring at the boys, “These boys are experts at the game of Cowboys and Indians.”

  “Really?” the general said, excited as he turned to them. “I used to be pretty good when I was a boy your age.”

  Dylan forced a smile that was closer to a grimace at their foolishness.

  At the end of the evening, as everyone left the dinner, they spotted the President in the corner talking to his possum. “He wanted ‘special’ time with his son,” a Secret Service agent muttered to them as they left.

  “This is really who’s running our country?” Dylan asked Hunter when they were back in the room.

  Hunter nodded.

  “I never liked fighting—I never believed in it—but seeing this—” Dylan paused as he thought of the right words. “It’s just not right.”

  “At least we don’t have to fight anymore.”

  “But what about everyone else? It’s such a waste. Do you think this is how the Coco government is, too?”

  Tommy, who had started playing the PS3, tossed a controller at Dylan’s arm and said, “You think too much, Dylan—get over here and play some games with me!”

  # # #

  (Rebel Frosted Flake, Blog Entry)

  ESCAPE

  Posted: Thursday, May 7, 2015 | 4:00 PM

  Late last night, my bunkmate and five others attempted to escape. They were captured and shot this morning.

  Six new people were brought to the tent in their place. My new bunkmate is a teenager named Freddy. He told me that he heard it was all ending soon. That’s what they tell us, but I don’t believe anyone. We don’t get any real news anymore.

  Every day, I come to this library for my one hour of monitored and filtered Internet use, and am told by the official blog of the President about the progress this country is making. Every day, I read his messages about rebuilding, which makes me even more worried, because there always seems to be more to rebuild than when I last came here.

  I’ve wondered a lot lately about how bad it is on the other side. I look at the soldiers growing in numbers every day, and I wonder if they know.

  Today I watched the man play the PlayStation. It was the first day since I’ve been here that I didn’t ignore it. I sat with him, and I watched. He tells me it helps pass the time and helps him forget.

  Perhaps it’s time for me to forget…

  Tags: escape, presidents blog, forgetting

  Level 18

  Touring

  Two Weeks Later (Two Hours Outside Nevada)

  Dylan was staring blankly at the ceiling of the tour bus. It was four a.m. He hadn’t fallen asleep all night. This was how things had been. He’d be up for days before finally becoming so exhausted that he’d sleep in the middle of the day, and, even then, it was only for two or three hours. His dreams were haunted with memories of war and death, and a part of him feared sleep.

  In war, everything had happened slowly. For days, they’d be on the lines, waiting for battle, and sometimes it would come and go in a matter of seconds, and then they’d wait for days for more. There was constant waiting.

  When they started the newly titled “Victory, America” tour, there was a sudden change in the way Dylan was living his life. There were schedules and dates far in advance. Even in the rare moments of waiting, he knew exactly what he was waiting for and when it would happen.

  The tour itself had all the vivacity and jazz of what had once been America. Bright colors and sparkling lights decorated their tour bus, and the auditoriums they spoke in had all the markings of patriotism. Bands played American ballads. Pictures of Americans in uniform posed proudly with their hands around their buddies decorated the walls. Red, white, and blue hung high and low.

  After a patriotic speech by an old, retired general about why they must support the troops and their country, Dylan and the others would be introduced as the main attraction. There were four of them now. A 19-year-old girl who had been the lone survivor of a battle in the South Pacific had joined their tour. Her name was Trista Greene. She told a tale of heroism, tragedy, and survival. It was touching and made everyone cry—including Trista, every single time. Sometimes she cried real tears, but, mostly, they were fake.

  They would march down the center of the auditorium single file to the tune of “God Bless America” and then sit patiently behind the lectern, listening to each other tell their stories of bravery. Trista was always first. Then Hunter. Then Dylan. And last was Tommy. They had rehearsed stories, which blended humor and emotion—stories that were written by the President’s own speechwriters. Dylan and Tommy’s speeches were meant to make the audience feel like there were great leaders in the Army, and Trista and Hunter’s speeches were meant to make people feel that their children would be safe if they followed the orders of the brave leaders. After they finished talking, they’d take questions and finally sign autographs.

  During the autograph time, there were always girls. Every girl in attendance had a favorite hero, and as she asked for an autograph, there’d come the flirtatious smile. First she would say, “I think you’re so brave.” This was followed by an embarrassed pause and a giggle. Finally she’d ask, “Is it true you don’t have a girlfriend?” They were instructed how to answer all questions that might come up, including this one. Hunter and Dylan would nod and say, “Actually, I have a girl back at home. I promised her I’d stay faithful. But if I didn’t you’d be the kind of girl I’d like to get to know.” Tommy would take their numbers and promise to call them. He had a box that he put the numbers into, which he proudly carried around and opened when he was feeling lonely. He claimed he had talked to all of them at least once, but Dylan had doubts he had in fact talked to even one. Trista had the flirting fans, too, but not as many. Most the men her age were off fighting, although there were some territor
ies left that had not been forced to send their kids off to fight. Usually, she had older men who begged her for a kiss on the cheek, which she always obliged to give. She had a beautiful charm about her, and Dylan thought that, when it was all over, she should be an actress.

  Dylan finally decided he would not be able to sleep and got up from his bed in the back of the bus. As he stretched, he looked to the bunk on top of his, where Hunter was sleeping soundly. Trista was the only one who seemed to be struggling with things almost as much as Dylan, but she was quiet about it. Hunter had responded to not fighting mostly as the Army had hoped—he had gone back to being a kid. He had moments where he’d cry at night, but, for the most part, he was finding it easy to forget what he had been through. Dylan wished he could do the same.