Walking Ghost Phase

by D. C. Daugherty

  Matt kissed her neck. “What do you think?”

  *****

  At 02:28, the hallway lights flooded the bedroom and woke Emily. She squinted, trying to make out the figure in the doorway. Then her thoughts began to slice through the tired haze. The leg resting atop hers. The conversation last night. Her roommate. “Oh, shit,” she said.

  Matt sat up, lifting Emily with him, and they both looked at Maggie, who was standing between the beds.

  “I'm so sorry,” Emily said. “I—we—nothing—”

  Maggie grinned. “It's okay. I don't care.” She stuck her head into the hall. “But the other girls might not like it if he stays until morning.”

  “Oops,” Matt said, and slid around Emily, dropping his feet off the bed and inside his boots. “See you in the morning?”

  “Of course,” Emily said.

  He shook Maggie's hand. “Nice to meet you and goodnight.”

  After he left, Maggie crashed face first into her mattress. “Should I expect to see him often?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Dizzy from the concentrated dose of sugar in the shake, Emily swayed as she entered the classroom. Matt was already there, sitting alone in the middle row, resting his elbows on the table. A glistening drop of sweat trickled down his forehead.

  Emily glanced at the clock—5:55. “Did you run here?”

  “My morning exercise ended in this corridor.” The excuse raced through his lips.

  Emily studied him, hearing his short, rapid breaths. She didn't need to see the cheek twitch; his bluish face told her all she needed to know. “Liar.”

  He lowered his head and gasped for air. “One of these days you're going to be wrong.”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  For the next few minutes, soldiers piled into the classroom. Their faces glowed with a kaleidoscope of bruising, and their eyeballs appeared to have soaked for hours in a bowl of red dye. At 5:59, Sarah strolled through the door, also sharing the same spectrum of bruises, but her stride—the Queen of Everything waltz, as Matt called it—had returned in full force.

  She froze in mid-step and looked at Matt. “Why's your face red? Did you lose last night?” Her eyes hopped to Emily, to Matt and then back to Emily. “Ohhhhhhh. Why am I not surprised?”

  “You're not?” Matt asked.

  She plopped down on her usual stool. “Not really. I knew I should have started a pool on when it happened. Could have made some good money.”

  “You're definitely in a better mood,” Emily said.

  Sarah scribbled something in her notebook. “I think I was making this place out to be worse than it is.”

  Emily glanced at Matt and shrugged. Sarah continued writing.

  Stallings entered the room and, as usual, went straight to his computer. Results time. Sarah died in thirty minutes; not too bad but definitely not worthy of a cheerful morning. Damon placed near the top, still yet to achieve victory. Matt and Emily didn't get the same applause as the previous day's announcement of their victory, but a few soldiers clapped. Once more Stallings emphasized how the end of the four-member squads made the win meaningless. In the front row, Damon nodded in agreement. Stallings then moved into his lecture.

  Around 6:45 and after two pages of notes, a dull sensation pressed against Emily's stomach. Her kidneys burned. She crossed her legs and squirmed. The Captain's detailed lecture became a monotonous buzz of jumbled static as she experienced the worst of the Greaver rules. The plaque behind Stallings' podium spelled it out in the number two slot, right under Sarah's least favorite rule of No Sleeping. The second rule was, of course, No Bathroom Breaks.

  Matt glanced at her a few times and seemed to notice her face contorting with discomfort, but when he tried to touch her arm, she flinched. The Army didn't need the Sim to make her or anyone else suffer. The pain in her bladder presented a better method, one without the bruises. Load the soldiers up with several jugs of water and make them sit through a six-hour-long lecture—minus access to a bathroom. Right then, that plan sounded unusually cruel. Emily chewed on her bottom lip; the taste of blood swirled in her mouth.

  Stallings ended class five minutes early, a blessing he bestowed upon Emily's bladder as it prepared to pinch a nerve. She jumped off her stool. “I'll meet you all in the mess hall,” she said, and ran out of the classroom. The nearest bathroom was around the first corner, a path she mentally traversed a thousand times over the last few hours. When she barreled into the bathroom, the door hinges loosened, and flakes of ceiling tile drifted to the floor.

  A few minutes later and clutching her relieved but sore stomach, Emily returned to the hallway. There, a cacophony of voices came from a distant corridor. It wasn't odd for soldiers to be wandering the hall now, the time of the day when most classes ended, and she might have normally ignored the noise, but a distinct laugh caught her attention—Sarah's laugh. Emily waited near the bathroom door as the voices grew louder. Then a group of soldiers strolled around the corner, three guys plus a girl who wasn't Sarah. They didn't seem to notice Emily.

  “How the hell does he do it?” the girl asked. A purple bruise circled her eye.

  A lanky but muscular soldier in the front looked over his shoulder at the girl. “He's lucky. Nothing more. But you girls probably don't put up much of a fight.”

  Emily's knees locked, muscles tightened and arms froze against her sides. A slight breeze could have knocked her to the floor. The soldier's brown eyes sunk deep in his skull, expressed by the graceful lines of his cheekbones. Now her gaze trailed down his face to the thin, red bruise across his Adam's apple. Memories replayed in her mind. His taunts. Trying to draw her out. Killing Raven.

  He moved closer still.

  “Rizzo, you're an ass,” the girl said.

  “I know,” he replied, as if the girl meant it as a compliment.

  Once he disappeared around the next corner, Emily's lungs forced her to breathe. Her legs wobbled, returning to her control, and she slowly continued to the mess hall.

  At lunch, the first bite of yellow glop settled in Emily's throat as her stomach squealed in protest, begging her not to swallow. Across from her, John Simmons sloshed a piece of half-eaten meat in a puddle of burnt gravy. Emily looked once, and a reflex forced her arm to shoot outward. The metal tray screeched to the center of the table.

  “Something wrong?” Matt asked.

  “I don't feel so great.” She rubbed her stomach. “The morning shakes aren't doing me any favors.”

  “I know,” John said. “I used to drink protein shakes when I played football. Those things were bad enough. But whatever they put in the shakes here—I don't even want to think about it.”

  Matt grazed Emily's thigh under the table. “Take your time. I'll wait.”

  She pulled the tray in front of her and lifted the fork again. But a tremble now pulsed through her hand; the fork clanked against the tray. The twang of a distinct voice rose above the crowd noise and reached her table. She glanced at the defenders.

  Sitting four tables behind her, Rizzo laughed with his friends. Matt also looked, and he still stared when Rizzo turned. Even a half-blind person could have seen the bruise on his neck. Matt was suddenly on his feet.

  Emily grabbed his arm. “No. Don't.”

  Matt shrugged away her hand. “He won't do anything. Trust me.” He walked toward the defender table.

  “Where's he going?” John asked.

  “And who's the dude?” Sarah asked. “That's a nice bruise on his neck. Did Matt do that to him?”

  “Yeah,” Emily replied. “He said some pretty nasty things last night. Mostly about how he wasn't sorr—” She caught herself in mid-sentence, remembering who sat across from her. John Simmons had suffered enough, and she didn't need to give him another reason. “He was just being a typical defender.”

  Matt stopped behind Rizzo and poked him in the back. Every defender turned. They knew Matt, knew what he
had accomplished. They also didn't hide their dislike for him. Two defenders wearing shirts three sizes too small for their muscular physiques stood on both sides of Matt. Over the mess hall noise came Rizzo's voice. “What do you want?”

  Then a sharp pain surged through Emily's shin. Across the table, Sarah silently mouthed something, and as Emily tried to make out the words, Sarah tilted her head toward John, who seemed engrossed in the possible fight. Emily casually held one finger over her lips.

  Sarah now knew who killed Raven.

  When Emily turned back to the defender table, Matt was speaking to Rizzo, although a muscular defender kept placing his hand on Matt's shoulder. The other defenders squirmed as Matt brushed away the guy's hand. Then the crack of a baton echoed through the mess hall and silenced the voices. An MP near the serving line stared at the defender table. Matt glanced at the MP, made a final inaudible comment and walked away.

  Back at the table, he buried his head in his hands, not saying anything.

  “What was that all about?” John asked.

  “It's not important,” Matt said.

  “Half their table is crying,” Sarah said. “What did you tell them?”

  “The truth.”

  Emily had yet to experience the new rule change, but she already hated it. A few days before Stallings' announced Sarah's win, the Sim conspiracy theories became a frequent topic of lunchtime discussion: the computer was rigged, the defenders had help, Greaver was really an experiment to test how much pain someone could endure. Even the tale of Sarah's victory seemed too far-fetched for most soldiers. Then Emily and her classmates watched the replay of a lone attacker defeating the enemy. She also experienced her first win after stealing a couple of night-vision-equipped helmets. The defenders weren't unbeatable after all.

  Now the Army changed everything, and their description of the changes employed the spin of a seasoned politician. Both squads doubled in size—eight versus forty. Both squads shared the same objective—wipe out the opposition. To the inexperienced soldier, it might have sounded like a fair increase in both forces. It was anything but fair.

  Sure, Emily had always ended up in a four-person squad, the same as every other attacker. The defenders also seemed to have their numbers capped at twenty. However, Stallings' description of the changes never addressed one glaring issue. The Sim was always eight attackers per map, just split in two teams of four. Eight versus twenty now became eight versus forty. Fairness apparently meant something else to the rule-makers.

  When the elevator bell chimed and doors opened, she squeezed between the warm bodies, pushing her back against Matt's chest. The rapid beat of his heart pulsed through her shoulders. To her right, a young Arab male trembled while a Hispanic girl sniffled and took quick breaths. No one attempted to hide the aura of fear, and Emily even caught herself staring at the floor, ready to climb into Matt's arms if a rolling puddle of yellow crept toward her.

  Matt lowered his chin on her shoulder.

  “Do you ever get nervous?” she whispered.

  “If you weren't with me, I'd probably puke.”

  “Be serious.”

  He held her hand, sending a tremor through her arm. “I am.”

  Emily turned and looked at his face. She waited for the twitch, wanted this to be a lie. Instead, a nauseous bubble rose in her throat. “No. Please, no. I enjoyed more than three hours of sleep.”

  The rest of the prep routine passed in a blur.

  As the simulated world appeared, her eyes adjusted to the sight of a setting sun. Its rays pierced two large windows and illuminated the room of beeping and flashing electronic control boards. Emily peered outside, where a maze of midnight-black pipes zigzagged across the front courtyard. A familiar hand rubbed the small of her back.

  “What's our objective?” Matt asked.

  Emily turned and saw their short, stocky commander. “Defend the pipelines by defeating the enemy,” he said.

  “Oh, shit,” Emily whispered. She squeezed Matt's hand, and he looked at her and nodded. A1's voice was too distinct for anyone not to recognize.

  “And you'll follow my orders, deserter.” Damon aimed his rifle at Matt's chest. “Or don't. I'm fine either way.”

  Matt slowly pulled the binoculars from his knapsack, turned his back to Damon and studied the horizon. Emily's thoughts shifted to the problems Damon might cause for her squad's goal of achieving victory. She assumed Matt was wondering the same and not actually looking for anything in the desert

  Taking Damon's command by force didn't seem like a viable option; his loss would make the battle seven versus forty. Of course, that scenario discounted anyone joining Damon's side. No, Matt would need to talk Damon out of leadership.

  One versus forty probably offered better odds than that ever happening.

  “They're en route,” Matt said. “About a mile away. It looks like they've sent more than half their force.”

  “Take defensive positions near the front,” Damon said. “Defend the pipes.”

  “That's not a good idea.”

  Damon jerked back on his gun's bolt, and the shine of a bullet entering the chamber reflected a glare of light. “I don't give a damn what you think. This is my squad. We move out and defend.” Damon pressed the barrel of his rifle under Matt's chin.

  “We have about six minutes until twenty-five defenders overwhelm our position. If you put us on the front lines in a straight firefight, they'll tear through us in seconds.” Matt lifted his chin. “Your tactics will make our deaths inevitable, so go ahead. Pull the trigger.”

  “That's one order from you that I will take.”

  Emily watched Damon, the slow movement of his finger against the trigger, the fog of his breath inside the visor. The muscles in his hands flexed.

  The world faded.

  What the hell? she thought. Did Damon kill me? He was aiming the gun at Matt. Was it someone else? I don't feel shot. And I can move my fingers?

  Reconnecting. Please Stand By…

  O-kay…

  The orange glow of the simulated sun returned in a brief flash. As Emily's eyes regained focus, a hazy black figure raced in front of her. The girl, an A3 floating above her helmet, shoved aside Damon's arm, and a single gunshot echoed through the tiny control room, the bullet sailing wide of Matt's head. Cinderblock ash drizzled from a hole in the wall.

  Damon jabbed his finger into her sternum. “Do you want to join him, too? I have plenty of bullets.”

  “No,” A3 said. “I want to sleep. I'd like to wake up without more bruises. He's won before. You haven't. If he says your plan is stupid, it probably is.”

  A6 moved to Matt's side. “I'm with him.”

  “Five minutes,” Matt said.

  Damon pointed at Emily. “What about you?”

  “Please, listen to him,” she said, and revealed her identity.

  For a moment Damon stood in silence as the remaining three soldiers gathered behind Matt. “What's your brilliant plan? Maybe I'll follow it. Maybe I won't.”

  “If the Sim is accurate,” Matt said, “those pipes in the courtyard are built to withstand a bullet.” He slammed the butt of his rifle against the window. Shards of glass clinked on the floor, and about a second later, more pieces crackled in the courtyard dirt. “Two of you take positions up here. Don't hold your fire. Buy us an extra minute.”

  “Got it,” A3 said, and grabbed A6's arm.

  “The rest of you, move out,” Matt ordered.

  They sprinted down the steel mesh stairs, through the maze of dimpled pipelines and into the front courtyard of more pipes. A razor-wire fence surrounded the complex at a distance of about fifty yards from the main building. Straight ahead, a single entrance led out to the vast desert landscape. Heat swells blurred everything else, including the wavy black forms of the approaching defenders.

  Matt crept along the pipes and tapped his knuckles against each section. The dull vibration died out in the stagnant air. “Emily, do you think these pipes can
withstand a fire?”

  “Three minutes,” Damon said.

  The distant figures doubled in size. “I'd assume so,” she said. Why are you asking me?

  “Will they or won't they?” Matt asked.

  You already think they will. “Yes.”

  Matt motioned to the other squad members. “Open the valves. Flood the courtyard.”

  “Hey, moron,” Damon said. “An oil flame won't spread that fast, and even if you manage to dump a thin layer before they arrive, you'll be lucky to catch their boots on fire.”

  Matt spun open the first valve, which turned with a shrill squeal. “Just do it. Get back inside when they're all open.”

  Squad members, even Damon, followed Matt's lead and opened the spigots. Pitch-black oil spurted out of the taps and bubbled across the dirt. “One minute,” Matt shouted. By then, the puddle of sludge had oozed to the entrance gate and control-building door.

  A crackle of gunfire erupted from the upstairs window. “They're here, they're here,” A3 shouted.

  “Take cover,” Matt said.

  As Emily backpedaled to the refinery entrance, the two lead defenders, still a hundred yards or so outside the entrance, slumped forward and rolled across the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. Three more defenders tripped over the bodies.

  She planted her back against the inside wall, adjacent to the door. Matt positioned himself on the opposite side. “How close are they?” he asked.

  “Maybe thirty yards away.”

  “Did they slow down?”

  “Not by much.”

  Matt pulled out a grenade and twisted the timer. “Seven seconds ought to do it.” He yanked out the pin and, without looking, slung the explosive through the door. It rolled across the oil slick, wrapping itself in the sticky muck. “It's about to get hot.”

  Even with her eyes closed and the visor shielding her face, a flash of orange burned Emily's pupils. Sweat droplets trickled down her cheeks. The fatigues molded to her skin. She felt a sudden urge to look at her non-existent hair—to see if it was burning.

  When the heat began to dissipate, she spun into the doorway and aimed out on the courtyard. But she didn't fire. Instead, she caught herself in a fit of quiet laughter. No more than thirty or forty feet away, defenders danced in the ankle-high flames; they kicked up their legs and slapped at their boots. Whoops and shouts from her squad now filled the control center.