Stallings slammed his fist on the desk. “Private Heath?”
She gazed at his furled eyebrows. “Sir?”
“Good or bad news?”
She already knew the good—at least Stallings' definition of the word. “The bad, sir.”
“You were late.”
“Yes, sir.”
Stallings returned to the podium. “Think you can still win without your firearm?”
Emily stayed silent.
“As for the good news—congratulations to you and Private Peters. You two set an ACES record for the fastest victory.”
“Thank you, sir,” Damon said.
Stallings then began his lecture. A few times over the next hour, Emily caught herself sharing glances between the door and three empty stools. A nagging tick in her brain—her subconscious, she guessed—gave her hope that Matt would be behind her. She also hoped Sarah might walk in the room with a smile on her face. Emily needed to see a smile.
Then the door hinge squealed. Sarah staggered into the classroom, legs wobbling under her thin frame as if her own body weight seemed too much for her to manage. She crumpled, and Emily jumped from her seat and threw out her arms, but Stallings had moved a second earlier. He grabbed Sarah's shoulders, and her face buried in his gut. Stains of a purple bruise painted her left cheek.
“Sit down, Private Heath,” Stallings said.
Emily, seeing that Stallings held Sarah, did what he asked without protest.
He propped Sarah upright and whispered something to her.
Sarah's bottom lip quivered. “Yes, sir.” On Sarah's way to the back row, Emily reached out and grazed her hand. She glanced at Emily and forced smile that seemed painful. A trickle of blood dripped out of her nose.
Sarah sat in her usual place, lowering her cheek to the desk. During the remainder of class, she never lifted her head. A puddle of blood spread around her face and rolled off the side of the desk, and with each splash of red on the carpet, Emily's leg muscles tightened.
The second that Stallings ended class, Emily jumped off her stool, almost leveling a male soldier who was trying to leave the center aisle. “Sar!” She touched the back of Sarah's neck. Her skin was on fire. “Oh my God. We need to get you to the clinic.”
“Already been there.” Her voice quivered. “Sent me away.”
Emily turned to Stallings, who reclined in his desk chair. “Sir, she needs help.”
“I'm sorry, Private. She knew the risks involved in this trial.” He went to the computer and tapped the keys until a document appeared on the projector screen. “Here's her consent form. Take note of line thirty-seven.”
Ailments will not be treated under any condition.
“Unbelievable,” Emily said. “You heartless bastard.”
Stallings jabbed his finger toward the door. “Private, get the hell out of my classroom. And take her with you.”
“Are you blind? She can't even walk.”
“If I have to call the MPs, neither of you will be walking. You have ten seconds.”
Sarah clutched Emily's arm and pulled. “It's okay. I can do this.”
“Get some food in her,” Stallings said. “She'll be fine.”
“Food?” Sarah asked. “Here? Make me better? They are trying to kill us.” Sarah smiled. “Hey, I still got it.”
“That's an order, privates.”
At the door and holding Sarah steady, Emily glared at Stallings.
Later in the mess hall, Emily finished her plate and watched Sarah pick at the edges of her outward-creeping goo. A piece of blood-soaked toilet paper dangled from her left nostril. Her skin color was ashen white, and blood vessels formed a road map across her eyes.
An empty silence lingered at their table. Raven and Matt weren't around to talk, and Emily and Sarah's classmates had chosen different company. Sometimes none at all. Near the serving line, the class jokester supported a tray against his stomach as he ate. A moment later a girl who usually ranked behind Emily in the results joined him. The only other regular at their table, John Simmons, was probably wasting away in a six-by-eight jail cell.
“They're avoiding us,” Emily said to no one in particular. “Do we look that miserable?”
Sarah dropped her fork. “You hate me, don't you?”
“No…”
Sarah stared at the empty seat beside Emily. “I opened my big mouth. I always open my mouth. And now…I'm sorry, Matt.”
“There's nothing for Matt to forgive. John used you. He wanted revenge. If you hadn't told him about Rizzo, he would have found someone else to do it. But you didn't force Matt to stop John. You didn't make him jump in front of the blade. No one did. Matt and Matt alone made the decision.”
Sarah wiped away a tear from the corner of her eye. “Just admit it, Em. I'm pathetic. I should have died in the hospital.”
“Don't say that.”
“It's true.”
“Not even cl—”
“You know why I was late to class?” Sarah interrupted. “I overslept. My roommate didn't try to wake me. The officers didn't even come in my room. I got up and ran into the hall, where like ten of them were laughing at me.” Her tears soaked the wad of bloody toilet paper. “They called me a traitor. Said I murdered my friend. Said I was next. Then Stallings tells me I've lost my gun until my squad wins. You know that's never going to happen.”
“I'll talk to Stallings. Maybe I can get you in my squad or at least get you back your gun.”
“I don't want it back. I want to go home, Em. I can't stay here.”
Emily stood, walked around the table and sat beside Sarah. “We'll finish this together. We'll go home together. Promise me you'll try.”
For a moment Sarah slowly shook her head. “I'm dying. That's how I'm going home.”
“No, you're not.” Emily draped her arm across Sarah's shoulders. “You can't. You're all I have left here.”
“No,” Sarah screamed, and shrugged away Emily's arm. “Matt was who you had. He was your best friend, and I killed him. How can you even look at me?”
“This isn't your fault.”
“I'm sorry.” Sarah shoved her tray across the table and ran to the exit.
“Sar?” Emily shouted.
Sarah didn't answer, and her whimpers grew faint until she disappeared into the hall.
A female MP marched up to Emily and tapped her nightstick on the table. “Is she coming back to finish her tray?”
Emily, glancing left and right at the myriad of eyes on her, hesitated to answer.
“Well?”
“I'll take it for her, ma'am. It's not a big deal.”
“Yes, it is, so don't touch it.” She squeezed the baton handle and sprinted out of the mess hall.
Emily grabbed both trays, dumped the untouched pile of mush in the trash and left the dishes with a frail, hairnet-wearing black man. She returned his half-smile and headed for the hallway. She reached the first intersection, when Sarah's cries resonated in the distance. They were growing louder, clearer, more desperate. Then Sarah stumbled into view, herded toward the mess hall by the MP's quick jabs to her spine. “We don't allow food to go to waste here, soldier. You're going to eat every last bite.”
Sarah glanced at Emily. The toilet paper had slipped out of her nose, letting the blood drip freely again. Wrinkles of wear marred her face.
A brief flash of Vasquez appeared in Emily's mind—a subconscious warning perhaps. She ignored it. “I emptied her tray.”
“Both of you can finish another plate.” The MP dug her fingers in Emily's arm, but Emily slapped away her hand. For a moment the woman froze, as though she asked herself if that really happened. Then she whipped the jet-black baton over her head. Emily took a deep breath and prepared for the blow.
“Lieutenant,” a voice shouted. The expected pain never came. Captain Stallings stood at the end of the hallway with his arms crossed.
“Sir?” the MP said.
“I'll take care of this. Return to the mes
s hall.”
“But sir?”
“That's an order, Lieutenant.”
The MP glared at Emily and Sarah. “If I see you two again—”
“Now, Lieutenant.”
She scowled and marched away.
Stallings stared at the two girls through narrowed eyes. “Private Winston, your little stunt cost you another month of service. Now get out of here before I call back the Lieutenant.”
“Another month?” Emily asked, appalled. “You can't do that.”
“I just did.” He looked at Sarah, who seemed like she waited for him to change his mind. “Disappear Winston.”
Sarah gazed at the carpet. “Yes—sir.” When she rounded the corner, a minute or so passed before her sobs faded beneath the mess hall noise.
“Leave her alone,” Emily said. “She's already under enough stress.”
“To my side now, Private. We need to talk.”
Emily didn't move.
“Private, I'm not going to tell you again.”
“What do you want?”
Stallings didn't answer. He held his closed hand in front of his gut. One by one, his fingers shot out—a countdown.
Before the last finger sprung from his hand, Emily sighed. “Where are we going?”
Stallings didn't answer, and Emily followed him until they reached an office in the south wing. Cherry-stained furniture decorated the quaint room, and two leather chairs rested on opposite sides of the desk. A thousand books, separated in three categories—tactical, operations and command—filled a room-length bookshelf. Two volumes caught Emily's attention, titles she recognized from her short visit to Matt's room.
Stallings went around the desk and reclined in his chair. He pointed across the desk. “Have a seat.”
She did.
“Private Heath, I don't appreciate your recent insubordination.”
She continued reading the book titles. “I really don't care.”
“You should.” Stallings sifted through the side drawer of his desk, pulled out a white sheet of paper, laid it flat and dragged his finger along a line of text. “Line forty-four of your contract states: This term of service may be extended at the discretion of any ranking officer involved in the Advanced Combat Evaluation Simulator trial.” He slid the paper toward her. “Either you fall in line or I can keep you and Private Winston here for as long as I want.”
Emily now gave him her full attention. “Sir, you saw her. She can barely hold herself together.”
“You think we should send her home?”
“Since when do you care what I think?”
“How do you know I don't? Ask me. Ask me to send her home.”
“I'm not playing this game, sir.”
“That's an order, Private. Ask me.”
“Why? So you can say no and laugh in my face?”
“You'll never know unless you ask.”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair.
“If you don't ask—no—if you don't beg me to send her home, I'll add another month to her term and three to yours.”
Emily bit her lip, hard. I'm not going to do this, she thought. I'm not going to give him what he wants.
Stallings leaned forward. A smirk crossed his face. “Private, it's only a matter of time until she breaks. She's going to die here, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.”
Emily lunged across the desk, spilling a cup of pens, and reached for his shirt, his eyes, his throat. “I'll kill you.”
Stallings shoved aside her hands and nonchalantly rolled the chair out of reach. Then three booming knocks echoed through the office. Emily glanced over her shoulder. Standing in the doorway, the muscular MP from the pharmacy twirled a baton. “Is there a problem here, sir?”
“Private Heath needs an escort to her room. Make sure she stays there until ACES training.”
“Yes, sir.” He jabbed Emily in the back. “Move it, Private.”
“Unless she has something to say,” Stallings said.
“Go to hell,” Emily shouted. The MP wrapped his arm around Emily's neck. As he dragged her across the room, she clawed at his arms, pulled at his fingers. “Sarah doesn't belong here. You're going to kill her.” Emily now cried. She couldn't free herself from the MP. Stallings owned her. Admit it. You know it's true. “I'll do anything you say, just stop torturing her.”
“Wait,” Stallings said, and the MP stopped. Stallings dug in the top desk drawer. “Where did I put that thing? Oh, here it is.” He laid out the pink form. “Do you also want to go home, Private?”
She hesitated. What kind of question is that? No, don't overthink this. Just give him straight answers. Don't mess this up. “Yes, sir.”
“I only have this one form.” Stallings smiled. The bastard almost looked sincere. “I can put your name on it. You can be home in time for dinner with your dear old mother. Wouldn't you like that? I won't tell Private Winston. This will be our little secret.” He dangled the pen above the name field. “So, Private, what name should I write?”
Emily said the name in a slow, concise rhythm. “Sarah Anne Winston.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm going to stab you with that pen,” she mumbled.
“What's that, Private? Second thoughts?”
“No, sir. Sarah Anne Winston. That's S-A-R—”
“I know how to spell, Private.” He scribbled Sarah's name and handed the form to Emily. “All she needs to do is sign, and she'll be headed home on the next transport.”
“Yes, sir.” With the paper in hand, a sensation overcame Emily, a feeling she'd all but forgotten—happiness. “I'll take it to her now.”
Emily's heart almost exploded when she burst through the door. Her legs burned as she sprinted in the halls, past the stark faces, the small doors, the reminders of suffering. Sarah was going home to a mother and little sister, and at the end of the six month trial Emily would be there for her, too. But for now Emily just wanted to speak the words, let Sarah hear that the days and nights of pain had ended. Emily raced into Sarah's corridor.
She was close. Maybe for the briefest moment, Sarah would forget her guilt. A million possibilities of Sarah's snappy one-liners ran through Emily's mind. One would suffice. Emily needed to see her friend's smile. Emily called out her name. Two girls in the hall stared, but she didn't care what they thought. Sarah was going home, beyond this place, to her family, to a normal life.
Then Emily threw open the door.
“No!” Emily lunged forward, trying to lift Sarah's legs, trying to release the sheet from her neck. “Help me,” Emily screamed. “No, God, please.” Sarah's lips glowed blue under the hallway lights. Her eyes were half-shut, and her body was limp. Adrenaline coursed in Emily's veins as she lifted with all her strength. “Help.”
A scream in the hall pierced the air, and Emily squeezed Sarah's legs tighter. Seconds or maybe minutes later, a female MP bolted through the door. “Save her, please,” Emily cried. The MP ripped a knife from her belt, hopped on the bed and sliced the sheet. Sarah dropped into Emily's arms. “No, no, no.” She lowered Sarah to the floor and cradled her head. “Sarah. Why? I saved you. You were going home.”
Sarah found her way out.
The doctor pounded on Sarah's chest and breathed into her blue lips for ten solid minutes while Emily watched from under the desk, helpless to do anything. Then the doctor finally pronounced Sarah dead. Countless faces entered the room, but not one person seemed to notice the girl hiding beneath the desk. After the MPs placed Sarah's body in a black bag and carried it out of the room, the door closed, sealing Emily in the darkness.
Muffled footsteps sounded in the hall, and shadows broke the sliver of light below the door, a few of which even stopped for a moment. It was as if the person in the hallway contemplated entering the room. But no one did.
Emily tried to make sense of the tragedies—Matt's death, Raven's last moments, Sarah's escape. Then, out of the void, their faces appeared, drifting i
n front of the door. They were pure white and without depth, as if drawn on an artist's canvas. Still, the sight didn't frighten her; the same three ghostly images floated in her mind for the past few hours. Now she could speak to them. She told them she was sorry, even begged for their forgiveness, but their lifeless expressions went unchanged. Not until the morning alarm blared did the three apparitions return to her memories.
In the hallway, the patter of bare feet sounded quieter than usual, and the corridor officer's bang on the door seemed half-hearted, like the last bit of caring had vanished from Greaver. Emily was fine with that; everyone might leave her alone. She doubted anyone would miss her. Just a bit more time.
Then the doorknob rattled, and light flooded the room. Emily's eyes burned as she tried to focus on the dark figure in the doorway. “She won't get a funeral here,” Stallings said, his tone low and steady. “But she's going home.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I wish it could have ended the way you wanted, but you'll get over it. You're a strong girl. Perhaps too strong for your own good.”
“I'm done. I don't have anyone left.”
Stallings knelt in front of her. The stench of his breath puffed in her face. “You're not done until I say you're done.”
Emily trembled. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“You have an almost unbeatable will, Private. Except I see the first cracks forming. Sarah Winston—I saw hers, too. I already knew what you'd find in this room. You should have let me put your name on that release. I guess now everyone gets to watch you break.” He grazed her cheek, but she jerked away. “That's right. You're going to lose more than a simulated battle. You're going to die here. There's still a sheet on the other bed. It would make a fine noose.”
Emily shot out from under the desk and tackled Stallings to the ground. “I hate you,” she screamed, and squeezed his throat, digging her fingernails into his soft flesh. Using her free hand, she swung wildly, connecting with his face, pounding his cheek against the carpet. A gash opened beneath his eye. Blood rolled inside his ear.
But the bastard laughed.
Then a sudden pain raced down Emily's spine, sending her reeling to the floor as she screamed. Another blow into her stomach expelled the air from her lungs. Now she lay on the floor, gasping, as two MPs loomed above her. Their batons sailed down again. A flash of light raced across her eyes.
Walking Ghost Phase Page 24