Walking Ghost Phase

by D. C. Daugherty

  “Do they even remember their home?” Emily asked.

  Halfway down the left side of the complex, they found the end of the line. There, Matt leaned against the wall, and Raven stood beside Emily and swayed with the rhythm of a pendulum. The smell of freshly mowed grass lingered in the air, so Emily glanced at the blue sky and inhaled.

  Raven looked up, too, but at the towering walls. “Hard to believe they used to keep gold here.”

  “It's not the same building,” Matt said. He tapped his knuckle against the concrete wall.

  “I know,” Raven said. “Oddly, I kept that memory—when they showed the Senator removing the first bar on TV.”

  “Yeah,” Emily said. “He seemed like he was about to pass out.” She smirked. “Do you think I could trade that memory for one a little more important?”

  “Like the day I signed those papers?” Raven asked. “I don't remember them at all. My mom read them to me a few days after I got home, and the whole time I'm just sitting there wondering what I was thinking. I mean, my parents would have gladly paid money for the treatment. I don't want to be here. I had a plan. I wanted to go to college.”

  “You'll get the chance. That bastard on the transport said we only had to stay for six months.” Emily shrugged, unsure if she tried to convince Raven or herself. “But you're right. None of us want to be here.”

  “That guy, Damon, does. I bet he'll finish his time, and on his way home he'll make them drop him off at the nearest recruiting center.”

  “At least he can do pushups.” Emily looked at Matt. “Thanks for volunteering to do mine. I thought for sure Vasquez was going to kill you. How's your stomach?”

  “I somewhat anticipated it.” He laughed under his breath. “But if I hadn't said anything, how many more pushups could you have done?”

  “Without his hand on my back?” She rolled her eyes toward the sky, as if she thought deeply about the question. “None.” She expected him to laugh again, hoped he did, and for a moment she just stared at him. “Do you mind if I ask you something? It's personal, so I won't be offended if—”

  “My parents died when I was three years old,” Matt interrupted. “My grandfather raised me, but he passed away two months ago.” He glanced over Emily. “You were going to ask why no one saw me off, right?”

  “Yeah. How did you—?”

  He leaned closer, near her ear, and whispered, “Do you know me? Have you ever seen my face?”

  She stepped back and studied his blue eyes. A blur of images—broken fragments of partial memories and strange faces—flashed through her mind. “Maybe,” she said, her tone uncertain.

  “It's a yes or no question.”

  “No.”

  “Then what else could you have asked?” He winked at her.

  She slinked away and returned to Raven's side.

  A few minutes later, they rounded the corner, where two transports dropped off the last arrivals. As the newcomers passed Emily on their way to the back of the line, a pudgy young man stopped beside her. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he wheezed. Then he lurched forward at the waist. A stream of his partially digested breakfast spewed over his bottom lip and splattered inches from her feet. Without hesitating, she jumped off the sidewalk, avoiding his multi-directional aim.

  When the last trickle of vomit crawled out of his mouth, he held out his hand in an apologetic gesture. Emily's throat tightened. Not wanting to put her empty stomach in fits, she slowly turned back to the line. Or the remnants of it. Matt was the only person still upright. He stepped around three grotesque puddles, hopped off the sidewalk and joined her side. From every direction, a chorus of gags and coughs drowned out the buzzing sound. Emily finally realized the purpose of the fans—not to keep anyone cool but to blow away the putrid smell. She placed her hand on the back of a gasping Raven. “At least the Army isn't stupid.”

  Raven's tan faded, and a gurgle bubbled in her throat. “Oh no,” she whispered. Emily grabbed a handful of Raven's hair and lifted it off her neck and cheeks. Raven then emptied her stomach of a breakfast that resembled nothing close to caviar or wine.

  The sidewalk began to disappear under a layer of undigested food as the pungent stench overpowered the fans. Emily's eyes watered, stomach twisted; a nauseous sensation crawled up her chest.

  “Going to make it?” Matt asked, and moved behind her. “Need me to do anything?”

  “I haven't eaten in three days. Couldn't puke if I tried.”

  “Why do you think I'm still standing?”

  “If you're nervous, you had me fooled.”

  Soon the last of the gagging receded below the fan's humming, and the sidewalk became vacant. Emily pushed between four girls, reclaiming her place in the new driveway line. Matt squeezed in beside her. As he stared ahead, over the heads of the shorter girls, Emily caught herself glancing at him. She'd only known him for a couple of hours, only heard him say a few words, but a nagging sensation in her stomach, an emotional twinge unlike the sickness she experienced during the pukefest, made her wonder. What real reason did Matt have to stand up for her on the transport? His excuse was downright pathetic. And the way he asked her if she knew him seemed planned. Did they know each other, even in passing? They were from the same town, after all. But she couldn't place him anywhere in her past. Now more than any time in the last three months, she despised her memory loss. Still, she tried to remember.

  Then a scream in the distance broke her thoughts.

  “Don't do it,” someone shouted. Emily and Matt stepped on the grass and stared up the disjointed line, where, about fifty feet ahead, the crowd swelled over the driveway and courtyard. A girl, part of the dress-wearing group Emily passed earlier, pushed through a mass of people who tried to hold her in line. She swiped at their hands, knocking down three girls, and broke free of the grips on her arms.

  She sprinted toward the entrance gates. “I can't be here.” Her scream silenced the line, and in a moment of perfect unity, anyone who hadn't already noticed the commotion turned to witness the girl's dash for freedom. The tower guards also noticed; their gun barrels glistened in the sunlight.

  “No,” Emily whispered.

  A voice boomed from a loudspeaker. “Return to line immediately.” But the girl pushed ahead, as if the order were meant for someone else. Her sobbing pleas grew fainter with each stride.

  Gunfire crackled across the complex, and everyone ducked low on the driveway. Grass and mud erupted in front of the girl.

  “Warning shots,” Matt said.

  The girl ignored them. She stumbled, her body wobbling, as she continued toward the gates.

  “Return to line immediately,” the loudspeaker voice boomed again. “This is your last chance to comply.”

  The girl didn't slow.

  She was about fifty feet from the gates when the gunfire rang out again. This time the guards didn't miss. Her chest exploded with blood, and her legs coiled around each other, sending her diving to the ground and sliding across the grass. She looked dead before her body came to a full stop. Emily covered her mouth and turned her head. Screams and cries filled the air. The vomiting began anew.

  A young, scowling MP jogged along the grass. “Let this be a lesson for everyone. You signed over your rights the day we saved your lives. If you violate your contract, you will lose the benefits of it.”

  “I don't think they're letting us out of here knowing what we just saw,” Matt said under his breath. He didn't seem to be speaking to anyone in particular, but it appeared everyone heard him.

  Raven buried her head in Emily's shoulder. “We're never going home.”

  The setting sun dropped below the fence as Emily took her final breath of outside air. Sobs and whispers of a thousand voices bustled in the annex. Armed MPs patrolled the outer walls, silencing anyone they neared with their mere presence. Even the air-conditioning seemed to have little effect on calming the on-edge stomachs. Inside, however, a group of blue-coverall-wearing janitors scurried about t
he room, cleaning up the messes. At least their swift mopping skills prevented the smell from festering.

  Matt placed his hand on the small of Emily's back. “There.” He pointed ahead at a large 'H' above the room-length row of counters.

  Emily turned to Raven, who was scanning across the myriad of heads. “I guess this is goodbye,” Emily said.

  Raven rubbed a length of hair between her fingers and seemed to force the half-smile, her farewell gesture. “I hope I'll see you two again.” She pushed through the crowd, toward the 'M' sign.

  “Ready?” Emily asked Matt, and mimicked Raven's hair twiddle. For a moment she looked at the blond strands. High and tight, Vasquez's voice announced in her mind. Her stomach twisted more.

  “After you,” Matt said.

  The line to the counter moved faster than the outside misery, and about five minutes later Emily approached the check-in officer, an old, wrinkled woman decked out in full Army dress. She didn't glance up to acknowledge Emily. “Name?” the woman asked.

  Emily leaned against the counter. Her heartbeat pounded the wood. “Emily Heath.”

  “Speak up, please.”

  Emily swallowed, trying to push down the lump in her throat. “Emily Heath.”

  The elderly woman finally looked up from her computer screen and stared at Emily over the top rim of her glasses. “We've been expecting you.” She snorted and stabbed a few keys on the keyboard. “Your roommate's name is Margaret Healey. Your room number is 907.” She shoved an enormous green duffle bag onto the counter and pointed at a large open hallway between the J and K lines. “Follow the signs. After you've unpacked and changed, report to the barber. Have a—wonderful stay.”

  Before Emily could turn and tell Matt goodbye, his breath warmed her neck. Goosebumps rose on her arms. “Good luck,” he said.

  Emily forced a smile and grabbed the handle of the duffle bag, but when she pulled the duffle off the counter, the weight ripped her arm down, causing her shoulder to pop. Holy shit, she thought, and looked at the frail woman who had placed the bag on the counter with ease. Not about to be embarrassed by someone's grandmother, Emily lifted the duffle with both hands and struggled toward the hallway. She glanced back at Matt. Will I see you again?

  A seemingly endless sea of white doors lined the hallway until everything in the distance vanished in the misty haze. “Margaret Healey,” Emily said to herself, making sure she remembered. Soon she passed an empty library—probably empty because of the almost bare shelves. A few doors later, a heavyset nurse watched her from behind a pharmacy counter.

  Emily turned down the first corridor, where a group of eight soldiers, their heads cleanly shaven and shoulders slumped, walked toward her. Their gazes focused on the carpet, and two girls in the front limped. As they came closer, Emily bit into her lip, hard. Streaks of blue bruises covered their necks and faces. A patch of blood had dried under the lead girl's nose. The group went by without giving a single hint of awareness that Emily existed.

  She found the door to room 907 tucked in the back right corner of the base, adjacent to a fire exit. She studied the emergency door's red lettering—Security Alarm Will Sound If Door Is Opened. The door's placement was almost insulting, a silent taunt; the Army had just killed a girl for trying to escape but provided clear path to freedom out in the open. Then Emily saw the steel rods slicing through the frame, keeping the door and her fate sealed.

  Emily inched open the unlocked door to 907, when a razor thin beam of light revealed the entirety of almost nonexistent space. A desk, the surface of which was barely large enough for an open book, sat in the center of the back wall. Fewer than three feet separated two low-rising beds. Under the covers on the right side, a girl slept, still wearing fatigues, her shaved head glowing in the dim light. The disinfectant-smelling odor of a hospital emanated from her. The girl didn't move.

  Emily closed the door, laid the duffle on the ground and rubbed her sore shoulder. “Margaret, are you awake?” Are you alive?

  The girl moaned. Emily assumed she meant yes—to being awake, that is. She was obviously alive.

  “Do you care if I turn on the lamp so I can unpack? I'll be quick.”

  Margaret tossed the cover over her face. “Go ahead.” Her voice strained.

  Emily sifted through the duffle bag: three pairs of green pants, three green button-up shirts, three white sports bras, three pairs of white underwear, three pairs of white socks, one pair of black, steel-toed boots and more soap bars than she had ever seen outside of a grocery store. Emily pulled a white trash bag and note from the duffle. Place old clothing in the white bag.

  Emily undressed and threw her clothes, including her worn-out tennis shoes, into the bag. As she changed, she balanced herself between the two beds, swaying above Margaret's body. Soon the voice of her grandmother played in her head. Those are some stylish undergarments, young lady. Where can I get a pair like 'em?

  Still, everything fit perfectly. Too perfectly. Emily wrapped her arms around her chest and shuddered. Once the doctors finished the procedure that saved her life, a little man with a crooked nose and devious grin probably ran out of a dark closet and took her measurements. He laughed maniacally as he placed the sizing tape around her vulnerable body.

  “Eat, then come back and sleep,” Margaret said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sleep all you can.” Margaret rolled over, sliding the cover off her face.

  Emily cringed. Chocolate-colored bruises stained the thin girl's left eye and bony cheeks. “Oh my God, what happened?”

  “Sim training. Sleep all you can.” She pulled the cover over her head again.

  Emily, dazed by the sight of the girl's damaged face, backed through the door and into the hall. There, she touched her own cheeks, feeling the warmth of flesh against her fingers. A few doors down, two girls stepped out of a room. Both were crying, and both fiddled with their long hair. Emily sighed, remembering her next destination.

  She followed the signs for about ten minutes until she approached a familiar but depressing sight. A line. At the front of it, soldiers fed through one door, while a second door spit out something barely resembling those who had entered a few minutes earlier. The guys who exited teased one another and slid their fingers across fresh stubble. The girls, however, kept their pasty heads lowered, scurrying past the soldiers who waited their turn to make the same humble march. As Emily waited, her fidgeting hands worked their way up to her blond hair, and other girls down the line did the same with their own hair. It was if they were saying goodbye to part of themselves.

  Then a strange hand dug into Emily's arm, and her heart slapped against her chest. “Hey, you,” the person said.

  Emily looked at the girl who no longer displayed waist-length hair or a sarcastic smile. “Sarah.” Emily hugged her.

  Sarah rubbed her scalp, which scratched like a sheet of sandpaper smoothing down a piece of wood. “It only took me eight years to grow. Maybe I can join a monastery when I get out.”

  “I'm so sorry.”

  “I see why they put their shampoo budget into soap. My roommate built the Pyramids of Egypt with hers.”

  “How is she?”

  “My roommate? She wasn't there. Yours?”

  “Yeah.” Emily leaned close to Sarah's ear. “I don't think we need to worry about our hair too much. She had bruises all over her face.”

  “Did the MPs catch the sicko who did it?”

  “She said the Sim training caused it.”

  The blood in Sarah's cheeks drained into her neck. “If we get in the same group, promise we'll stick together.”

  Someone nudged Emily forward. “Promise,” she shouted back.

  Emily entered the mirrorless room, where more than fifty barbers waded in knee-high piles of brown, black, blond and red hair. As they circled their victims, the sound of faint sobs managed to overcome the unending buzz of electric clippers. Near the back, a tattooed man waved at her, and she approached him, his smile friendl
y but impersonal. Emily sat, and the barber spun the chair. A bald-headed girl across from her cried while staring at the chunk of red hair in her cupped hands.

  “Now, little lady,” the barber said, “what can I do for you?” The shears roared to life in a spine-tingling hum.

  “Take care of my split ends?” Sarah would be proud.

  “Not a problem.” The barber pressed the blade against Emily's scalp. His shears gurgled and sputtered, digging a clean path across her head as he sifted the waterfall of hair between his fingers and let it float before her eyes. Hundreds if not thousands of dollars spent on shampoos and conditioners, visits to her favorite stylist, years of patience, but a single man wiped away any trace of that aspect of her life in a span of thirty seconds. “Split ends taken care of,” the barber said. “That'll be forty dollars.” He laughed, shoved her in the back and ejected her from his chair. “Next.”

  Emily took the walk of shame past the dreadful eyes of waiting soldiers. Once she managed to stop scratching her scalp, she found a sign to the mess hall and fell in behind a group of baldheads. After arriving, she stopped near the door. Rectangular tables and benches covered almost every inch of space in the stadium-sized mess hall. MPs patrolled the outer walls while a group of officers kept a watchful eye from a distant, lonely table. Emily scanned the crowd for any of the four people she knew. Bald head, she thought. Bald head. Another bald head. Another bald head. Wait! Never mind, it's just a bald head.

  “Stop standing around,” a deep voice behind her said. Someone bumped her forward, and she stumbled into the line of waiting-to-be-fed soldiers.

  Emily grabbed silverware and a plastic cup, placed them on the metal tray and slid it across the rails. The server, a hunched over, wrinkled woman whose hairnet held the strands of gray flat against her head, jabbed an oversized spoon into the only entrée on the menu—white goo. Emily's stomach growled, begging for anything to end the pain of a three-day fast, until she examined the pile of mush on her tray. The goo spread out from the effects of gravity, and the stench of vomit crawled up her nostrils. “Enjoy,” the woman said, and cackled.