“Here we go,” the nurse said. She wielded the syringe like a dagger and stabbed the needle into Sarah's flesh. If any dogs lived nearby, they probably sought shelter from the ear-piercing squeal.
The MP and nurse laughed.
Sarah trembled as she pulled up her pants and limped out of the clinic. “Not a word to anyone,” she said to Emily.
“Not even Vasquez?” Emily asked.
Sarah swung her elbow toward Emily's ribs but missed by a foot. “Whoa. This stuff works fast.”
“By the way, girls,” the nurse said. “You can't get pain medication once you start ACES training.”
“Why do they even have it?” Sarah asked. Her speech slurred. “Let's come back tomorrow.”
As they walked to their corridor, Emily steadied Sarah every ten feet, and once they entered Sarah's room, the girl did a face plant into her pillow and fell asleep half a second later.
Emily returned to the hall and nudged the door shut. “One more day.”
Emily stood on the beach, watching the pink sun as it dipped below the horizon. Sand crept between her toes, and the waves crested over her feet. Then the air grew frigid; an ocean breeze rose bumps across her arms. Now a presence lingered behind her. Arms wrapped around her body, their touch strangely familiar, and she smiled and looked at the receding water. Words appeared in the sand.
Die with me.
Then the arms darkened purple. Emily struggled, trying to free herself. Chunks of flesh sloughed away. She gasped for air, but the bones squeezed tighter. She was dying.
Emily shot up in her bed, wide awake now. Sweat trickled down her forehead, and she stared at the digital clock's blood-red display. The beach? I haven't been there in years. Last time I went, it was just Mom and me. Or did someone else go? The mental film roll spliced in a new but blurry frame. A young man, the edge of his body radiating with heat swells, chased down a wind-lifted towel. Yes, someone did. Who was it? Mom, why did you follow those damn rules?
It was 4:01 A.M, and throughout the next hour, Emily sat awake and tried to piece together the missing frames of her memory. At 4:59, she covered her ears for the next minute or so in anticipation of the morning alarm. After it ended, Maggie slid out of bed, the previous day's struggle absent from her body. She stood in front of Emily with an astute and proud posture. Her lips creased into almost a smile. Even the bruises on her face appeared a shade less painful. “I lasted for an hour in the Sim last night.”
Emily dropped her feet off the edge of the bed and unbuttoned her shirt. “Is that good?”
“I usually live for twenty minutes, thirty if I'm lucky. It's your second day here, so you'll find out tonight.” Maggie sighed, releasing any semblance of a smile to memory. “Nine minutes. That's how long I survived my first night.”
“How does it feel? You know, when you die.”
“Lonely,” Maggie said. “Of course, it's just temporary. You aren't really dead.” She turned her back and finished undressing, but Emily swore Maggie muttered under her breath, “You'll only wish you were.”
During the searing shower and morning run, Emily considered Maggie's words. The nightmares seemed tame compared to what she imagined was waiting for her in the depths below. She finished the chalk shake, showed the empty bottle to the officer and entered the orientation room.
But once again, a yank on her shirt pulled her back into the hallway. She half-expected the hall officer to point out a single drop of the shake festering at the bottom of the bottle. Instead, she turned to find Sarah tugging at her. “Come look at this,” Sarah said, and led Emily around a corner, away from any prying eyes. “Don't laugh.” With a squeaky whimper, Sarah eased down the back of her pants, revealing the enormous, red bruise. “I might need another shot for this.”
Emily's cheeks expanded with air. She threw her hands over her mouth, letting the tears roll across her fingers.
Sarah stomped her foot. “Not funny.”
Emily glanced at the clock—5:59—and then gasped. “We can't be late.” Sarah struggled to fasten her belt as Emily dragged her to the orientation room.
They returned to the same place they sat yesterday, and Emily plopped down in the chair, ready to fall asleep. Sarah, however, lowered her butt at a snail's pace, whispering what sounded like a prayer. Then Sarah's squeaks of pain ended when she seemed to notice Matt strolling up the stairs, his smile beyond obvious. “Not a word,” Sarah whispered to Emily.
After sitting behind the girls, Matt leaned forward, close to Sarah's ear. “How's the pain medicine working?”
Sarah flinched. “Shut up.”
“She has a bruise the shape of California on her ass,” Emily said.
“Thanks for warning me, jerk.”
“I tried,” Matt said. “Or do you think I slapped you for my enjoyment?”
“Your enjoyment.”
“How'd you know?” Emily asked.
Matt shrugged. “Did you see anyone else popping pills?”
Soon a female voice overtook the hushed chatter. “Good morning.” Emily slumped lower in her seat, but every male straightened to full attention. A svelte, blond-haired woman carried a green duffle bag to the podium and dropped it near her feet. “Did you all sleep well?”
The answer from the room came as a few cursing mumbles.
She adjusted the microphone. “I'm Colonel Harper. My purpose is to instruct you on the proper usage of the ACES weaponry and supplies. What you learn here today may decide whether you live or die in the simulated world.”
Harper unzipped the duffle and pulled out a black rifle. “This is the M4A1 assault rifle. It's what you'll carry in the Sim.” She aimed the gun at the crowd, and a sudden rush of chaos overtook the room. Soldiers jumped out of their seats. A few climbed over the chair-backs or one another, while others hid in the aisle. Emily ducked, pressing her chest against her knees.
Sarah did the same. “Is she crazy?”
Emily peeked above the chair-backs, looking at Harper, who still pointed the gun at random directions in the crowd. Near the front row, Damon stayed motionless as three girls cowered behind him. He seemed to enjoy his position as their protector.
Harper pulled the trigger, but the gun released only a faint click, not a deafening crackle. “It's not loaded,” she said. Displaced soldiers grumbled as they made their way back to the seats. “As you can see, an empty weapon is useless.” She bent down, removed a black casing from the duffle and lifted it above her head. “This is your magazine. It holds thirty rounds.” She walked in front of the podium. “Can I have a volunteer help me demonstrate how you properly load the weapon?”
Damon's hand shot into the sky, his fingers dancing. No one else moved.
“Now what fun is only one volunteer?” Harper looked at the soldiers who, like Emily, tried to sink inside their chair cushions. Then Harper pointed at the top of the auditorium. “You. Come here.”
“Me?” Sarah said. Her voice sounded almost hysterical. She slowly began to stand.
Harper shook her head. “No, the soldier on your right.”
The chair-back in front of Emily rose above her eyes. Harper obviously meant someone else.
“You, behind the chair. Come down here.”
Emily glanced over her shoulder at the guy next to Matt, and he showed her his palms in a what-are-you-waiting-for gesture. Matt just shrugged. The moment Emily stood, blood rushed to her head. She swooned as she made her way through the row and into the aisle, where she gripped the handrail. She didn't hear a taken breath between the thudding of her boots on the floor.
At the podium, Harper handed the rifle to Emily, which she held out from her body at arm's length. The weapon was light, maybe weighing a few pounds, but her shoulders still trembled.
“I've already taken the liberty of loading a magazine,” Harper said. “Here is how you insert it.” She pushed the metal case into the underside of the gun, which clicked. “With me so far?”
Emily nodded.
“G
ood. Now we need to load a bullet inside the chamber. Place the stock against your shoulder.” Harper slapped the bottom of the rifle.
Emily leaned forward, pointing the barrel at the floor, and did as Harper instructed.
“Pull the bolt lever toward you. That's the handle on the side.”
With two fingers wrapped around the lever, Emily inched it all the way back and then let it return forward. A glimmer of brass slid past her eyes.
“You look like you've done this before.”
Emily shook her head. “No, ma'am.” The closest in her life she'd ever come to a gun was on a visit to a pawnshop. There, a shotgun sat inside a glass case beside a green and yellow box of shells. It was right next to the jewelry, where she eyed a silver necklace with a pink gemstone. But Emily's mom hadn't taken her to buy something; she brought her along on the day she sold Grandma June's wedding ring to help pay for the funeral of Emily's father.
Harper motioned to the door-guarding MPs, and without hesitation they marched near Emily and stood at attention on both sides of her. “Now, Private—” Harper looked at the patch on Emily's shirt. “—Heath, you've done wonderfully so far. But you are holding a loaded weapon. You could hurt a lot of people if you wanted. Me?” She nodded at the two MPs. “Them?” She pointed at the crowd “Is there anyone out there you don't like?”
Emily pushed the rifle toward Harper. “No, ma'am.”
“I don't think so, Private.” Harper hid her hands behind her back. “That's your weapon. I want to see you use it.”
“You—want me to shoot this thing?”
“Why else are we here? What good is a demonstration if no one can see the weapon in action?”
“Like at the wall, ma'am?”
“No,” Harper said. “Wars aren't won by shooting harmless walls. I want you, Private Heath, to aim the rifle at one of them.” She pointed at the crowd of soldiers, at Sarah, at Matt, at Raven, at Damon. “Then I want you to pull the trigger.”
A collective gasp hissed through the room. But the sound of two clicks silenced everyone. Shut up and do everything I tell you. “No one moves,” said the MP on Emily's right.
“Private,” Harper said. “Put the stock to your shoulder, take aim and fire.”
Emily dropped the rifle, which clanged on the floor. “I…I can't.”
Harper picked up the rifle and pushed it into Emily's chest. “Private, you're going to follow my orders.”
Emily held her arms firm to her side, refusing to take the gun, when something cold and metallic touched her temple. “Do it,” the MP said, and put his finger over the pistol trigger.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sarah shouted. The other MP aimed his pistol at her, and she threw her hands above her head.
“Sit down,” Harper shouted. After Sarah cowered in her chair, Harper moved behind Emily. “Now take the gun, Private.” She guided Emily's hands to the barrel grip. “I won't say it again.” The MP jabbed Emily's temple with his gun.
Emily grabbed the rifle.
“See? You can do this. Now place the stock against your shoulder, look down the barrel for a target and then pull the trigger.”
The MP who had aimed at Sarah now pointed his pistol around the room. “No one moves.”
“Don't make me do this,” Emily said. Tears welled in her eyes as she lowered the rifle.
“Sergeant,” Harper said to the MP on Emily's left. “Go up top, drag the loudmouth into the aisle and shoot her.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he said without hesitation. Before the MP took his first step, Sarah was already out of her seat, screaming, scampering across the legs of soldiers.
Emily froze. In her mind's eye, she saw Sarah in the aisle, dead, as the carpet absorbed her blood. She saw Matt, Raven and Damon looking at her with disgusted expressions.
Sarah shuffled left and right, while the MP near the bottom followed her side to side. Then he stopped in the center. “The next one of you she gets by, I'm going to shoot you, too.”
A blur of green surrounded Sarah, and three soldiers slammed her to the floor. “Let me go, you assholes. You're breaking my arm.”
“Private,” Harper said to Emily. “If you think I'll stop at her, you're mistaken.”
“Okay,” Emily screamed.
“Let her go,” Harper ordered the three soldiers.
Sarah got to her feet and, with an obvious grimace of pain on her face, rotated her shoulder.
Harper moved around Emily. “Lift the gun and look down the sights.” She maneuvered the rifle up and slid Emily's finger over the trigger.
Emily saw soldiers' gaping mouths above the divot at the end of the rifle. The whites of their eyes glowed, knees shifted to the door. She put the gun sight between two soldiers, dead center on the armrest of a chair. If she were lucky, the downward aim would send the bullet harmlessly through wood and the floor. Then warm breath beat down on Emily's neck. The rifle swayed around the room, guided by Harper's hands, until the sight settled on a petite girl near the left aisle. “Don't make me do this,” Emily said.
“We have a target. Pull the trigger.”
“No,” Emily whispered. “I can't.”
“Pull it.” Harper's voice boomed. “Do it now. Pull the trigger. Pull it.” The petite girl's eyes glistened, and her lips moved silently. She appeared to be whispering a prayer.
A sudden pressure squeezed Emily's finger. “No!”
Nothing happened.
Her finger throbbed, smashed against the unmoving trigger. Harper released Emily's hands and took the gun. The two MPs re-holstered their pistols.
Harper pointed at a tiny switch near the trigger. “This is your safety. When engaged, your weapon will not fire. Everyone give Private Heath a hand for her demonstration.”
Not one person made a sound.
“I guess no one was impressed, Private,” Harper said. “You may return to your seat.”
Emily looked at Harper. Her legs felt like rubber, ready to give out once she unlocked her knees. An officer nudged her in the back, and she willed her feet to make each step. Her heart raced and hands trembled. The auditorium chairs never seemed so inviting.
Sarah was still massaging her shoulder. “What a bitch!”
Harper ejected the unfired bullet, catching it in mid-air, and then leaned the rifle against the podium. She sifted through the duffle again and pulled out a small, black knapsack. “These are your accessories.” She lifted each item above her head as if she were showing them off to a group of potential buyers. Binoculars, rope, grenades. “The grenades have a timer you can set from three to ten seconds. Use them wisely.” She glanced around at the terrified faces. “Remember, the world you'll find in the ACES module is based on reality. There, like in an actual battle, you have no rules when it comes to ingenuity. That is your greatest weapon.”
For the final act of her demonstration, Harper ordered the soldiers to form a line, and she showed each the proper way to load and unload the rifle. Emily, having seen enough, stayed in her seat. Her stomach churned, and she slumped lower. She didn't know how much time had passed when Harper finally dismissed them.
Matt leaned over her shoulder. “You'll feel better with some food in you.” He helped her out of the seat.
At lunch, Emily stabbed her fork into the chunk of some dead animal on her tray. In her mind it was the petite girl who probably would have died had Harper turned off the safety. What would the Army tell the girl's parents? Would they know that Emily killed their daughter? Would they hate her for it? Around the table, the soldiers' faces appeared to scream better you than me.
“Does anyone else feel like they aren't telling us something?” Raven asked.
“It wouldn't shock me,” Matt said.
Damon eyed everyone's unfinished plates. “They didn't give very good details about what happens if you die. The darkness.”
“The darkness?” Emily asked. “I overheard a few soldiers talking about it.”
“Yep. The absolute darkness Mo
ore mentioned. You lay in it until the timer expires.”
“That doesn't sound so bad,” Sarah said. “Maybe I can get some sleep.”
“Doubtful. You'll still feel the wounds caused by whatever killed you. The Sim runs seven hours, so if you die in two, you wait in pain for the other five.”
Sarah gasped. “That's just wrong.”
“You better pray you're facing the enemies when they shoot you,” Matt said.
“Not funny. My poor derriere still hurts, and now my arm is killing me from those idiots in the orientation room.”
“Are you going back for more pills?”
“Hell no.”
“Then you've already learned half of what they're trying to accomplish here.”
The conversation faded to silence. Everyone appeared to understand what Matt meant, his subtle way of pointing out how suffering would teach them a lesson. Emily made painful mistakes as a child: falling off the swing when she went too high, scraping her knee when she tried to climb over the chain-link fence in her yard, and her greatest moment of stupidity—rollerskating while holding the bumper of Mr. Thomas' car as he drove down the street. Except for the last incident, her mother called those injuries accidents. Still, it didn't change how Emily tried her hardest to avoid a repeat. But here, pain seemed inevitable. Emily couldn't hide from it. Her mother wasn't here to tend to her aches and scrapes.
She scooped her food on Damon's tray, flinging bits of sauce on his shirt. “I have to go,” she said, grabbed her tray and ran off. After tossing the tray in front of the dishwasher, Emily scurried to the exit. Her vision distorted, and the bathroom door looked more distant with each unsteady step. Inside, she staggered to the first stall, lurched over the toilet and gagged. Her stomach emptied of the twisted, undigested strips of the day's lunch. A few dry heaves later, her stomach relaxed.
She laid her head on the porcelain, which cooled her cheeks and ears and tempted her eyes to close. For a brief moment, she felt better. Then the bathroom door shot open, and a patter of footsteps echoed around her, ending in the next stall. The sound of the girl's gagging crept into Emily's stomach. She puked again.
Walking Ghost Phase Page 9