Damon was walking through the aisle, when he paused behind Emily, his eyes still forward. “Good job, Winston. Nice to see you're doing okay, Heath.”
Emily nodded and waited for him to take a seat three tables down. “He must have messed up bad to get last place.”
Matt snorted.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Matt said.
“No, you don't get off that easy. You know something.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said. “Tell us.”
“I'll take it to my grave,” he said.
His cheek didn't twitch.
A familiar face waited for Emily at vat 1220. Does he put in a request for me? She also doubted the pervert would fall for the inhaler excuse again. No, she needed a new lie—something simple yet believable. After climbing into the gel unassisted, she batted her eyes at him and showed off her best flirty smile. “I really need to pee.”
“Tough.” He shoved the breathing tube in her mouth, almost dislocating her jaw. “Ready on 1220.” When she reached up to see if he had busted her lips, her hand smacked the hard visor surface.
A view of tan speckles filled Emily's eyes. She stepped back and studied the frame of an adobe shack, which rose a few feet above her head. Clumps of clay and footprints dotted the unpaved streets, and not a cloud hung in the sky to shield her from the sun.
She peeked around the shack.
Whoa…
In the center of the city, an adobe tower loomed, looking down on the residential hovels as if they were specks of sand on a beach. With the sun setting on the far side, the building's black shadow eked closer to her. She ducked behind the wall, out of the enemies' view, although she hadn't actually seen them. She didn't need to. The only way the OPS team could have made the defenders' location more obvious would be to program a cartoonish red arrow that floated in the sky and pointed at the colossal structure. Defenders Here!
Two shacks down, a flash of black caught her attention, and for the first time she watched the insertion of her squad. They materialized out of nothing, grainy like the static of a television and then three solid forms. She joined them as they huddled around A1, a girl.
“Our objective is to clear the center building of all defenders,” A1 said. “For now, let's stay on the outskirts and scout.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Emily said.
The other two soldiers nodded.
They strayed back, far from the battle, and crept through the empty outskirts. Faint gunfire crackled somewhere near the city center, the intensity of which would increase for a moment and then die down to a few sporadic shots. As Emily moved with her squad, the central building's shadow receded in the background, disappearing on the other side of the town.
Now that the defenders stared at the sun, A1 stopped. Emily ducked behind a small cobblestone wall, pulled out her binoculars and surveyed the target building. Twenty defenders—the full allotment—rushed to each corner of the roof. In their elevated position, they could view the entire battlefield and pick off any approaching targets with relative ease. Emily was witnessing it right now.
The other squad charged the building. Within seconds, the defenders crowded the roof ledge, dangling their rifles off the side. The result didn't seem fair; the attacking squad, which ran in a perfect line, fell dead on the ground in the same perfect order. Not one of them had the chance to raise a rifle and take aim. Four bodies now rested in a patch of bloodstained dirt.
Then, less than fifty feet in front of Emily, chunks of dark-brown mud exploded from the earth. The dull crackle of gunfire reached her a split second later. She and two of her teammates dropped below the wall, but A2 remained standing in full view of the defenders as if he taunted them. “We're out of range,” he said.
Emily flinched at the sound of Matt's voice.
“That's a lot in one place,” A1 said. She picked up a broken twig and dragged it through the mud, creating a square and several dots near the outside edges. A vague representation of the city. “Here's the plan. We'll strafe between these outer buildings and pick them off one by one.”
“Bad idea,” Matt said.
“I'm in charge here. We'll do this my way, and you'll follow my orders.”
Like I haven't heard that before.
“We can do it if we stay on the move,” A1 continued.
“They'll figure out your strategy in no time, if they haven't already.” Matt looked through his binoculars. “Those defenders have the high ground and the numbers. They'll wear us down until we're dead. Even if we manage to get lucky, we might kill ten—”
“That's half,” A1 interrupted. “I can live with those results.”
“So you're here to lose? Good luck.” He backpedalled along the wall, away from the squad.
A4 lifted his rifle and aimed at Matt. “Should I?”
“No,” A1 said, and pushed down the barrel. “Let him go. We can prove him wrong.”
Matt, now a distant spot of black on the horizon, paused at the corner of a remote shack and stared at the squad. No, his gaze centered on Emily. It was a silent plea. She felt pressure on her heels. A short jog. That's all it would take.
She looked at her squad-mates. They would be down by two allies, adding to an already unfair situation before the fight even started. Still, she knew that going with Matt was the common-sense choice. He had won—or made Sarah win. But an image of Raven's lifeless face, of her coffin, flashed in Emily's mind and burned at her memory. Maybe Stallings was right. Had she actually done anything wrong? Could she have prevented Raven's death? If I leave them…and something happens?
She crouched beside A1 and closed her eyes. When she reopened them, Matt was gone.
“Let's move out,” A1 said, and patted Emily on the back. “We don't need him.”
I hope you're right.
A few minutes later, Emily was rushing from building to building while the defenders, who circled the rooftop, scanned the village for the last of their targets. A silence loomed in the air, broken by the occasional gust of wind. No gunfire. No explosions. That meant Matt still roamed the streets, alive and plotting something.
She made her way closer to the city center, and soon her squad was within firing range. She rushed behind a shack, peeked around the corner and placed a defender in her sights. He was searching the town, almost looking right at her, when she squeezed off a single round. Her bullet ripped through his fatigues, and he gripped his chest. But the shot hadn't killed him. He stumbled near the ledge and toppled over the side. His scream ended with a dull thud.
She moved in on the stronghold and picked off another. The defenders scrambled around her side of the roof as their heads bobbed above the ledge in a sadistic game of Whack-A-Mole. Managing to hit one now would take a miracle shot. Was Matt right?
A1 seemed to have another idea. She jumped out from cover and sprayed the roof with automatic fire. But the extra second she stood in the street ended her night. The first defender bullet exited the back of her helmet. Behind her, a circular patch of an adobe wall darkened crimson and brown. Emily knew the girl was dead before her body came to rest in the dirt.
A4 watched her fall, and he tried to run for cover, but before he managed a full step, three bullets ripped through his legs. His chest smacked the ground, and he slid forward, kicking up a cloud of dust. The sound of his screams burrowed in Emily's brain. Now A4 dragged himself toward her, a streak of blood following him. Emily reached out her hand.
During her previous sessions in the virtual world, Emily managed to take a bullet in what seemed like every imaginable part of her body: a shot to the face more than once, a moment of acupuncture in the office building, and the sniper who literally broke her heart. Each one hurt and hurt bad, but those moments killed her. She never had a chance to study the damage.
A jet of blood sprayed across her visor, and she jerked her arm against her body. Between the red streaks, she stared at her hand—and the ground on the other side. The bullet had cut a perfect circl
e through flesh, muscle and bone. A shock of pain surged up her shoulder. Gripping her wrist, she screamed, splattering the interior of her visor with saliva and streaming tears.
Something tugged on her ankle, and she glanced down at the still alive A4. Then the sound of at least ten firing guns crackled in the desert air. He convulsed as bits of fatigues and blood splattered her legs. “Matt?” she screamed. “Matt?”
Bullets, thousands it seemed, tore into the adobe walls, digging deeper in the packed mud. Closer. Particles of clay trickled to the ground and created a growing row as if poured from a bag. Closer. It crept forward, an invisible hourglass counting the seconds until her death. “Matt,” she screamed. A chunk of debris landed on her boot. “Matt.”
The hourglass emptied.
A bullet ripped through her shoulder and knocked her onto the open street. Emily tried to scream his name one last time but only managed silence.
The world faded.
You Are Dead!
Overall time:
One hour, seven minutes, fourteen seconds.
State of death time remaining:
Five hours, fifty-two minutes, forty-six seconds.
Damn you, Matt. The MPs should have kicked your ass. Why do you keep doing this to me? Why do I let you? I hate you. Her hand soared with burning heat, and razor blades sliced across her back. She imagined herself taking short breaths. I hope those defenders put a thousand bullets in you.
No, get over it. He isn't worth it.
Focus.
Just a few hours of this. Ignore him in the morning.
Focus.
Not worth it.
Focus.
So much pain.
Just focus.
The timer faded.
Emily stared at her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a strapless, satin green dress and a corsage on her wrist. Her tight hair bun had fallen in disarray, and loose strands dangled across her head. Smudges of eyeliner covered the puffy skin below her eyes. When did this happen?
“So New York City it is,” a guy said. The voice was familiar but sounded deeper, as if slowed in time.
Emily pulled the last pin from her hair and shook her head, dropping the mess of curls to her shoulders. “Veto. Big veto. No way, no how.”
“Another?” a girl asked. “What's your excuse now? Afraid of being mugged?”
“If that happens, I'll let you talk him to death. Seriously, the second my mom finds out we're going to New York, she'll try to guilt me into seeing my dad. No thanks.” She dragged her fingers through her hair. See my dad? The grave? He isn't buried in New York City.
“Fine, but that's your last veto. The next choice is the winner.”
“Can't we just go to the beach?”
“L-A-M-E. We've been there—too many times.”
“Washington D.C.,” a different girl said.
Emily dropped her arms to her side. “You've got to be kiddi—”
Then lights burned overhead, piercing her eyelids, ending the memory as quickly as it began. Her arms swam in thick sludge, which warmed against her ribs, and she opened her eyes to the smile of the pervert, who leaned over her. Something seemed wrong; not enough time had passed. She looked at the distant locker room door, where she expected to find a crowd of ooze-covered, limping soldiers or at least hear their footsteps moving past her. But there was only the low hum. She shot out of the gel and grabbed the vat sides. “Did it break? Is everyone okay? Is anyone hurt?”
“Great job,” he said, and yanked the sensor cord. The little squares popped off her temples.
She paused in confusion. “Great—? What do you mean?”
“Your squad won.”
“Nothing went wro—huh? We won?”
“Yup.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And I…get to leave?”
“Yes. So do your teammates.”
Emily slowly climbed out of the vat, still waiting for soldiers to shuffle past her and reveal the pervert's lie, but when no one did, she headed to the locker room and tried to piece together the last few minutes of her night. She knew A1 had died. A4, too. Or maybe he didn't. Had he lived and managed to finish off the rest of the defenders—all fifteen or so? Not likely. Then her thoughts froze on Matt. “You bastard,” she said to herself.
Emily slipped across the locker room floor, throwing on the wrinkled fatigues faster than any time before, even when under the stress of a towel-running deadline. After sprinting to the elevator, she waited for less than three minutes until Matt walked toward her. He seemed fixated on the floor, probably avoiding her piercing glare. Behind him, a petite Hispanic girl and pasty-complexioned guy also approached her. Emily didn't recognize either of them.
Matt glanced over his shoulder and then looked at Emily. He placed his finger on his lips as he tilted his head in a slight nod. Asking me to keep secrets? Fine, let's see you lie your way out of this one.
The girl checked out Matt and the other guy. “Which one of you did it?”
Emily recognized her voice—A1.
“Not me,” the guy said, his voice the sole proof their commander needed.
A1 now stared at Matt, her eyes glowing with rage. “How'd you do it?”
Matt cocked his head. “Excuse me?” The words rolled off his tongue in an accent deeper than the Southern found among Nashville residents.
“Weren't you just in the Sim?”
“Gosh, no.”
Emily almost blurted out a laugh.
“I'm new,” Matt said. “Thought I'd come check these things out before tomorrow night. I'm still in orientation.”
“I'm sorry,” A1 said. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Can't wait to try out these things.”
“It isn't all that great,” Emily said, and glared at him. “Especially when a squad-mate leaves you to die.”
“Don't worry,” A1 said. “I'll find out who he is.”
“I'll also keep an eye out.”
“Me too,” A4 said. “So I can thank him for the extra sleep.”
At the upper floor, A1 and A4 went down opposite corridors and left Emily alone with Matt. She matched his pace step for step until they reached the junction of their hallways, where she checked for the presence of any MPs. The sea of white doors seemed lifeless, suffocated in the stale air—no witnesses. She stiffened her wrist, spun and swung. The sharp crack of her palm formed a perfect, red imprint on his left cheek.
But it was she who bit her lip and tried to hold back the tears. A virtual bullet-hole in the hand, she just learned, amounted to a lot of pain in the real world when slapping someone.
Matt covered his right eye, where Emily had grazed him on the follow-through. “Feel better?” he asked.
“You're a bastard. Why did you leave me—again?”
“I tried to get you to come with me.”
“We need to stay together. We're supposed to be a team. Her plan was good.”
He grabbed Emily's upper arm as if she were a child who back-talked a parent. “Is this what you want?” He lifted her sore hand. “Do you enjoy sleeping in pain every night?”
“No, but if you'd have stayed and followed her plan—”
“Look around us, Em,” he interrupted. “They sent kids, children, here. And children are what they got.”
“And you aren't? You're three weeks older than me.” Wait. How did I know that?
“It doesn't mean I need to think like one, and I'm sure as hell not going to suffer through this trial because of a bunch of idiots.”
“Oh, so now I'm an idiot because I didn't want to abandon my team?”
He rubbed his fingers across his forehead. The next words seemed to pain him. “You're not one of them. Please, stop acting like it.”
“How did you do it?”
“Does it matter?” He turned and marched to his corridor.
For a moment she just watched him walk. “Goodnight,” she whispered.
In her room, she was wide awake when Magg
ie returned from the Sim session and dropped face first into bed. If Maggie asked her why she stayed up, Emily didn't know how she would've answered; she was still sorting through the night's events. Where did he go? How did he do it? Am I really an idiot for not trusting him?
“I'm here to cash in.”
Outside the classroom, the shake officer looked over Emily, whose stomach rumbled in a low growl. His eyes finally showed a hint of recognition. “Are you sure?”
The pink liquid beckoned her. Just one bottle would stop the uncomfortable churning. The instant dose of sugar and subsequent crash might make class more than tolerable. Still, it wasn't worth the risks: feeling nauseous, dealing with cramps, getting distracted by the sudden urge to pee. No, she wanted all her senses aware when Stallings revealed Matt's victory. “I'm sure.”
Alone in the classroom, she stared at the wall clock—five minutes left.
Damon sauntered through the door first. A fresh bruise covered the right side of his neck, and he looked at her as if she disgraced his honor by beating him to class. “Morning, Heath. How'd you do last night?”
“Not bad. I stayed alive for awhile.”
“Me too. Can't wait to hear the results.”
Not today, you don't.
Sarah, covering her forehead, arrived a minute later.
“Bad death?” Emily asked.
Sarah plopped down on the stool with a tail-bone shattering thud. “So there I am, trying to show this defender my gun twirling skills, but the dude rips off my helmet and uses the ass-end of his rifle to knock me out cold. I don't have a clue how he killed me.” She shuddered. “Oww, my poor, poor body.”
Walking Ghost Phase Page 15