The n00b Warriors

by Scott Douglas

  “Hey, Dylan! Wait up! You’re going to walk there without me?” Trinity, one of Dylan’s neighbors and best friends, called, said. She was dragging a large roller suitcase and wearing a homemade summer dress with flower imprints. Dylan wondered for a moment if she was going to the Legoland entrance or running off to live with some distant relative.

  “You’re bringing a pretty full load, aren’t you?” Dylan and Trinity were in the same grade and had walked to school together every day for the past five years. She had moved to Carlsbad with her mother after her dad died of cancer. She was the only person he knew who had a father who had died in something besides the war. They lived with her grandma. Dylan’s father had always suspected her grandma was a spy, because she only spoke Spanish. But Trinity was one of Dylan’s best friends, and, though he refused to admit, he had always had a crush on her.

  Trinity nodded. “My mom said it was better to bring a lot and throw it away than not enough.” She paused. “You nervous?”

  “Nervous about dying? Who’d be nervous about that?”

  “We aren’t going to die.”

  “Not now, but how many people do you know who have made it out of this war alive?”

  “What about your dad?”

  “My dad is missing a leg and half his brains. He’d be better off dead.”

  Trinity stopped. “You know what, Dylan? Walk by yourself. I’m afraid, and you’re not doing anything to help.”

  “Come on, Trinity! I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything.”

  Dylan grabbed Trinity’s suitcase and began pulling it for her. They walked silently for several minutes. Finally, Dylan offered, “Your hair always smells good.”

  Trinity laughed and shyly brushed back her curly black hair, “You’re flirting with me now?”

  “Shut up! I’m not flirting. I’m just saying even when we’re going off to fight some war, you still smell good.”

  “You’re flirting, Dylan!”

  “Fine, then I take it back. I was just making talk.”

  “The smell of hair and dying! You find funny things to talk about.”

  Dylan looked at the other kids who were also walking towards Legoland and said, “It kind of looks like everyone is just walking to school, doesn’t it?”

  She looked down sadly and shrugged.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you really think it will happen? Do you really think we’ll die?”

  “Don’t think about that. I’m sorry I said it.”

  A transport truck drove across the intersection ahead of them, carrying wounded soldiers. That kind of truck had become a more frequent sight in recent months; the soldiers who had a chance of living were all taken to the naval base in San Diego.

  Trinity stared after the truck. “You won’t last like that. They stick the weak ones on the front lines—they’re not going to waste someone strong when they got someone like you.” She looked up hopefully. “Let’s run, Dylan! They can’t take us if we run!”

  “Where do you want to go? The armies are everywhere—the war’s everywhere! They’ll recruit us on the spot the minute they see us and use us as guinea pigs. At least this way we have a chance.” Dylan looked over and saw that Trinity was crying. He hesitantly took her hand and said, “I’ll take care of you.”

  Trinity’s voice quavered. “I don’t need you. I can take care of myself.”

  “It will be easier if we take care of each other.”

  Trinity looked at him and smiled through her tears. “Your hands are sweaty.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re nervous—guess you’re human after all.”

  # # #

  (Rebel Frosted Flake, Blog entry: one year before the start of the Forever War)

  PLAYSTATION USA

  Posted: Tuesday, September 9, 2014 | 09:51 PM (PST)

  Over the last few weeks, there has been much said across the blogosphere about President Winfrey’s recently instated PlayStation Policy. I was the first blogger to interview the President and attack the policy’s proposition to use federal money to bail out Sony’s near-bankrupt PlayStation division. At the time of my interview, I never imagined that Congress232 would agree to a plan to use federal money on a foreign corporation in exchange for sharing profits.

  In the President’s address to Congress, he said, “In the current structure of the world, its powers can no longer function without countries running like businesses.” Congress apparently agrees, because not even one member voted against the President’s plan.

  And did you hear Senator Robins’ comments? “The President’s plan represents the first real policy that can put the country back on the right course.” Senator Robins used to be the voice of reason for this country. How much money did it take to convince him that this plan is reasonable, much less right? Are there any leaders left to steer this country back in the right direction?

  I have to wonder now…while the government’s off making money with its so-called “business,” who governs the country? And I, for one, am just a little frightened of the thought that the future of our country depends on the gaming habits of our children. Will the President propose tomorrow that I let my son or daughter play video games because it supports the country? Will video games replace textbooks in school?!

  I lost a lot of readers when I called for the removal of the President; today I do something even more radical—I call for the removal of the entire government. It is no longer for the people.

  It appears we all have become pawns to corporate greed. Perhaps it’s time for me, too, to sell my soul to the corporate structure that has apparently corrupted the country’s brightest minds.

  I no longer write this blog for myself; from here on out, I don’t write for myself. Who wants to hear the thoughts of a real person?! Today, I write under the logo of a corporation that has fed our children their breakfasts for years.

  Signed,

  Frosted Flakes!

  TAGS: President, United States, lost causes, PlayStation, Senator Robins

  Level 2

  The D Bus

  A grenade blast shook the ground.

  Trinity jumped, while Dylan stood unfazed. He pointed at what was left of the Legoland entrance sign: E-G-O. “I guess we’re here.”

  “What are they blowing up?” Trinity nervously asked, looking ahead several feet where a group of teenage boys in Army uniforms was running towards the explosion.

  Dylan shrugged as he studied the ride carriage that had been overturned and caught on fire when the grenade hit it.

  Near the blast, a boy sat in another carriage cradling his rifle; his hair was covered in ash. “Did you get him?”

  One of the uniformed teens pointed at a chicken running across the parking lot. “There it is!” He took out his sidearm and fired a single shot.

  Trinity flinched and turned away when the chicken collapsed to the ground. Dylan watched as the boy who had shot it picked its lifeless body up from the legs and held it up proudly for all his friends to see. “One shot! Did you see? Those Cocos better watch out.”

  A middle-aged man pulled up in a Jeep driven by a boy who looked younger than Dylan’s brother. The man looked at the chicken, then at the teens, and yelled “Stop messing around! Recruits are starting to arrive.”

  The shooter tossed aside the chicken and saluted, and the Jeep disappeared into the amusement park.

  As Dylan and Trinity walked past the chicken’s carcass, Dylan said, “The old guy had three stars on his uniform! I’ve never seen a three-star soldier!”

  Trinity looked back at the chicken. “Why’d they have to kill it? They’re not even going to eat it.”

  “It’s just a chicken.”

  Trinity started to say something, but stopped as they passed the tall tree hedge and saw the inside of the parking lot for the first time. “Look at that,” she said, amazed at the sight.

  The parking lot was lined with yellow Carlsb
ad Unified School District buses—more than Dylan knew the district even owned. Many had faded paint jobs and appeared to have been brought out of retirement for the occasion. Beyond them were tanks and rows of Army trucks. Near the park’s main gates, a medical tent had been set up; a truck was next to the tent, and men kept pulling soldiers on gurneys from it.

  One of the parents who still had a car was parked in the first parking lot, near the entrance. In the backseat, a child was crying that he didn’t want to fight, while his mother tearfully pleaded with him to get out of the car. An Army patrolman was looking over the car with another officer, both trying to decide if they should confiscate the car for Army use.

  “Where do we go?” Trinity asked.

  Before Dylan could answer, a truck roared up behind them and honked. Dylan and Trinity both jumped as the truck passed and a group of soldiers with wet hair yelled, “Look alive!” In the bed of the truck were surfboards.

  A long, rectangle table had been set up not far from the buses. Hundreds of kids were crowded around the tables in several different lines. “I guess we go there?” Dylan said, pointing at the table. As they got closer, they saw that it was a signup table. Placards on tall poles had letters, and teens lined up behind them according to their last name.

  “I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  Trinity, whose last name was Marquez, made her way to the M line, while Dylan lined up in the As.

  Behind the table were teachers and parent volunteers; Mr. Parker, the principal of Dylan’s high school, was in charge of the A line. He was wearing flip flops and a Hawaiian t-shirt, and was teasing and joking with each of the students as they signed their name. He was the only one at the table who appeared to be in good spirits.

  Dylan looked around for more familiar faces. Two lines away, he saw Jeremy Cannon, a kid from the next block over who he and his brother occasionally played ball with. Jimmy caught Dylan’s stare and motioned for Dylan to meet him on the other side of the table when he had signed in.

  At the front of the line, Principal Parker joyfully asked, “And what’s your name, young man?” The principal’s chubby appearance and the cheerful tone of his voice reminded Dylan of the Santa his mother had taken his brother and him to see several years ago at a mall in San Diego.

  “Dylan Austen.” When Santa asked Dylan what he wanted for Christmas, Dylan said his father, and Santa cheerfully laughed and said, “Santa doesn’t make daddies—only toys.” He then suggested Dylan ask for a gun so he could protect the family’s home from Cocos.

  Principal Parker thought about the name and then asked curiously, “You’re not Chelsea Austen’s brother, are you?”

  Dylan nodded.

  Suddenly, the principal was not as jolly. He looked down and said, “She was the first one from our high school to die.”

  Dylan nodded again. “So where should I sign?”

  The principal ignored the question. “That was one heck of a battle she died in. I remember reading about it in the paper. She was a good student, too.” He paused. “She was built like a soldier—guess you’re not like her?”

  Principal Parker had been the one who told Dylan about Chelsea. When he came home from school that day, the principal was in the living room with his mother, who was crying. Dylan knew when he saw him that it was either his sister or his father. He hoped that it was his father; he had never known his father, but had managed to survive okay. Chelsea, however, had helped raise him. Principal Parker put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Son, your sister is missing and probably dead.” Dylan looked at his mother, stunned, and she began to cry harder. Principal Parker stood and said, “I’m sorry for your loss. She served the cause well.”

  Principal Parker now reclined in the plastic chair he was sitting in and laughed. As he laughed, his Hawaiian shirt rose up to reveal his large, hairy stomach. “No worries—war needs all kinds of people. You’ll be good at something.” He pulled his shirt back down and pointed at a piece of paper. “Just sign your name here—it basically says your life belongs to the government.”

  Dylan signed his name, then tossed the pen at the principal’s stomach.

  “Good boy. Now wipe away the frown and go join the rest of your friends near the buses.”

  “Thank you!” Dylan said and then did his best to mockingly imitate the principal’s laugh. He never did like the principal.

  “Kid, that kind of behavior will get you killed in war—you better shape up if you want to live.”

  On the other side of the table, as Dylan waited for Trinity and Jeremy to join him, he looked at the soldiers near the buses. They all looked relaxed. A row of them were sunbathing in nothing but their boxer shorts.

  Not far from the soldiers, the new recruits nervously waited, far less relaxed. Some played their PSPs; others listened to their iPods; most stared, unintentionally, at the buses, knowing that they would take them to their destiny.

  “It’s funny,” Dylan said when Trinity joined him. “The bus that takes us to war may be the same one that took us to kindergarten.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Lighten up, Trinity.”

  “You’re the one with sweaty palms.”

  When Jeremy joined him, they made their way to the rest of the new recruits and quietly waited to see what would happen next. Moments later, a tall, uniformed soldier looked at his watch and walked in front of the group of gathering teens. He had a scar across his forehead, and his uniform was too big for him.

  “Listen up!” He commanded with a soft voice that didn’t match his bulky body. “My name is Simpson, but you can call me God—when you signed your name back there, you signed your life away to me. The way this works is we’ll divide you up based on strength. We’ll give you a letter, and that letter will tell you who you are in this war.”

  “The guy’s kind of a jerk,” Dylan said quietly, looking at Simpson’s badge. It said “Lee,” not “Simpson.”

  “None of the soldiers are even over seventeen,” Trinity whispered as she scanned the crowd.

  Jeremy pointed at the tent hospital. “The ones in there are.”

  A group of two dozen younger soldiers joined Simpson up front, and he hollered, “Divide ‘em up!”

  Dylan turned around and saw kids were still piling into the parking lot. “This is going to take all night.”

  The younger men began making their way, unorganized, through the group of recruits. As they did so, they said little. Occasionally they would ask a recruit to turn around as they looked him or her over. When they had finished looking at a recruit, they would pull out a black marker and write a letter on the recruit’s forehead. Dylan tried to make out the letters but could not.

  A red-haired officer came to Dylan, Trinity, and Jeremy. His eyes went immediately to Trinity’s roller bag, and then they went to Trinity. “What is that?”

  “It’s my stuff.” She paused and nervously explained, “I didn’t know how much I could take.”

  He smiled and said curtly, “Of course—let me help you.” He turned and yelled, “Sack! I need a sack.” A younger kid without a uniform ran up to him, carrying a small cotton bag with a drawstring; the bag was a little smaller then a backpack. The officer unzipped Trinity’s roller bag and dumped the contents onto the asphalt, then tossed the bag several feet behind him. He handed her the cotton bag and said, “You can take whatever fits.”

  “You didn’t have to toss it on the ground!” Dylan objected as Trinity began stuffing things into the sack.

  “Who are you? Her boyfriend?”

  “No. Her friend.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it—I’ll be with you in a second.”

  He kicked a pair of pink underwear with his boot. “Nice undies!”

  Trinity blushed, grabbed them off his boot, and quickly shoved them into her bag.

  “What’s your problem?” Dylan asked. He looked over to get some help from Jeremy, but Jeremy had turned around and was pretending to ignore what was
going on.

  “I said I would deal with you in a second.”

  Dylan took a step forward. “How about you deal with me now?”

  Red Hair started to laugh and called to his left, “Hey, Simpson! Come over here, yeah.”