The n00b Warriors

by Scott Douglas

  The commander was not much older than Lyle and had a bad case of acne. Lyle saluted him cursorily. “Missed a heck of a party last night, Pus Face.”

  He nodded. “Glad you had fun—some of us have to work.”

  Lyle smiled and turned to Dylan, “Truth is, Dylan, he doesn’t like going outside on account of his acne problem.”

  The commander looked down awkwardly at a stack of papers, and then looked beyond Lyle to Dylan. “Heard you fought an incredible fight last night.”

  Dylan nodded. He was tired of hearing about the fight.

  The commander reclined in his chair and said, “Young man, where I come from, you answer your superior offer, ‘Yes, Sir.’”

  “Sorry, sir—yes, sir, it was a good fight.”

  The commander stood, irritated, and walked to a pinball machine by the wall. “Did you inform him I’m old-school?”

  “I told him, Pus Face.” Lyle paused and gave Dylan a “what gives” look. “You know how these new team leaders are—barely trained and don’t know the rules.”

  They waited as the commander finished playing a game and then went to a mirror on the wall and started poking at a zit. “What do you think happened yesterday?” he finally asked, looking at Dylan in the mirror.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean did you get lucky or did you really know what you were doing?”

  “I was just trying to live, sir.”

  “So survival?” he quizzed.

  Dylan shrugged. “I guess.”

  “We need more men like that—men trying to survive.” He paused, popping a zit and then wiping the pus from the mirror with his sleeve. “Get what’s left of your company and head to the bus loading area. You’re heading out in one hour—you’ll be assigned more soldiers once you reach your destination.”

  “Where are we going, sir?”

  “You’ll see.” He sat back at his desk.

  As the two of them left the headquarters, Dylan asked, “Why do you get to call him Pus Face and I have to call him sir?”

  “I’m with Company C now—he’s not my commander.” Lyle went to the window in the hall and looked down at the pool. It was full of kids. He turned, saluted Dylan, and said, “It’s been a pleasure leading you, but this is where I leave you.” Before Dylan could reply, Lyle was running away, taking his shirt off as he went. Halfway down the hall, he stopped, turned, and yelled with a laugh, “Good luck in Seattle! You’ll need it!”

  “Seattle?!”

  Lyle smirked. “Maybe you’ll find the Golden Wii.”

  “What’s the Golden Wii?” Dylan called as Lyle ran off.

  # # #

  The Battle of Seattle had begun five years before. Coco forces had attacked via Canada and now controlled all areas north of Seattle. The Frosted Flake generals initially stated that the battle was primarily over Seattle’s ports, which they deemed necessary to supply their troops, but they later said the secondary target was the headquarters of Nintendo of America, located just east of Seattle in Redmond. They claimed the headquarters had stockpiled thousands of systems and millions of games. Dylan had often wondered if they said that just to keep up the spirits of the younger soldiers.

  News of the battle’s intensity spread quickly throughout the country, and, soon, very few parents wanted to have their children sent to Seattle. There was a song when Dylan was in school that kids sang to irritate the teachers or tease the kids who had family fighting in the war; it was called “The Ballad of Poor John Lee,” who was sent to Seattle to fight. In Seattle, Poor John Lee was shot and tortured, and, so the song goes, he now sings every night about how badly he wants to die.

  A bus drove Dylan and his company onto the tarmac of Orange County airport two hours later. He had not told anyone where Lyle said they were going, because he hoped it was a lie, but as he saw the large cargo play waiting to fly them away, he knew that Seattle was likely their destination.

  “We’ll need you to have your company surrender their belongings,” a soldier told Dylan as he exited the bus. “There won’t be enough room on the plane.”

  Dylan looked at the empty plane and asked, “Can’t we just hold them on our laps? They aren’t big.”

  “No, sir.” The soldier pointed at the ramp next the plane and said, “Just put them there.”

  Hunter started going through his bag and pulled out his PSP. The soldier looked at him and shook his head. “Everything stays.”

  Hunter looked at Dylan despairingly.

  “I’m sorry, Hunter—I’ll find you another one wherever we end up.”

  “It’s Sarah’s.”

  “I’m sorry, Hunter.”

  Trinity came close to Dylan and whispered, pointing to a wooden crate being loaded onto the plane, “Dylan, that crate says Seattle—are we going to Seattle?”

  Dylan didn’t answer.

  “Dylan?”

  “The commander didn’t say, but Lyle mentioned it.”

  “You didn’t tell me?” she asked, hurt.

  “I tell you what you need to know.”

  “You’ve been a jerk all day!” she said, pushing him away.

  As the company loaded onto the plane, Dylan watched a group of soldiers going through their bags and dividing all of their belongings.

  He’d had to give up Jacob’s game; he’d had to give up everything he owned. He realized for the first time that everything he had was 100% Army-owned. He no longer had any possessions from home.

  Dylan took a seat next to Trinity on the plane. She stood and took the next seat over. Dylan rolled his eyes and followed her. “Maybe I was lucky getting this position and I shouldn’t really have it. But luck or no luck, I have to start acting like a leader—” he paused, then finished almost pleadingly, “and you need to treat me like one.”

  Suddenly, the ramp on the back of the plane started to close, and the windowless fuselage that they were sitting in began to get dark.

  “Maybe you can find us some light, mighty team leader?” Trinity said.

  Dylan closed his eyes and listened to the roar of the engines, trying to pretend for just a moment that none of it was real.

  While his eyes were closed, he thought back to how he felt about planes when he was little. Every Friday in school, students were led into the gymnasium for an assembly. The principal would update students on the war’s progress, and then a veteran would recount heroic stories of battle. Before it was over, they would play a video called The Sounds of War, which showed fighting set to the sound of popular video game music and had a different soldier each episode talking about how proud he was to serve his country by fighting the enemy. Dylan was always most interested in the planes; they looked so free in the air.

  When he was eight, he saw a real plane for the first time in his life. He was taking a test in school; the plane was low, and everyone thought it was a bomb, but there were no sirens. In unison, the entire class ran to the windows in time to see it. It was large—a cargo plane like the one he was now in—and it had engines so loud that they shook the windows even after it passed. They knew they were safe when they saw the ten-star flag, but they continued to watch, entranced by the sheer beauty of its power. It was like a flying fortress.

  Dylan had never wanted to go to war, but in that moment, he had wished he could join just for the chance of riding in something so mighty and free to go anywhere. He knew he wasn’t strong enough to fight, but he imagined that perhaps he might make a good pilot. Skill was more important than strength in an airplane.

  But now he was inside one, and he saw no beauty or might—it was just a large, dark, hollow shell. All the glamor was gone.

  # # #

  “Prepare for impact,” a voice crackled over the intercom nearly three hours later. An explosion rocked the plane, and the plane dived several feet downward and then evened out.

  The plane began its descent moments later, as Dylan and his company listened in the darkness to the echoes of mortar rounds firing and exploding
nearby. They were on the ground in minutes.

  A figure jumped onto the ramp before it had opened all the way. “Who’s in charge of this group?” he demanded, walking into the plane.

  Dylan stood and approached him. As his eyes adjusted to the sun, he noticed the three stripes on the person’s uniform. As his eyes adjusted more, he saw that the person appeared to be younger than Hunter. He wore camouflage shorts, hat, and tank top, with no shoes. He was overweight, and his belly stuck out of his shirt and hung over his shorts.

  The three-stripe boy saluted Dylan quickly and said, “Welcome to Washington. I’m Tommy Bazooka.” He had a high-pitched voice that cracked as he spoke.

  Dylan exited the plane and saw, for the first time, Seattle. They had landed on what was once a freeway but had been turned into a small landing strip. The day was still early, but the sky was dark. In the distance, Dylan saw smoke, and the air smelt of ash. Occasional sounds of cannons and mortars could be heard in the distance.

  Dylan followed the runway to the end of the strip and saw where the freeway began again. Tommy caught his stare and said, “You’re standing on the path to hell, my friend. That road leads to Seattle.”

  “We aren’t in Seattle?”

  Tommy laughed. “You’d know by the dying of the guy next to you if you were in Seattle. This is Redmond.” He paused and looked several feet to the side of him at a building covered in black soot. “Home of Nintendo of America—company headquarters.”

  Dylan looked interestedly at the building and then back at Tommy. “Is it true that they still make games?”

  “No eye contact with me, soldier.”

  Dylan nodded and stared at Tommy’s muddy bare feet and long toenails while he waited for him to continue.

  “It’s true they make games—but not there. They left that building two years before the war in Seattle broke out. I heard they set up shop near San Francisco, but the truth is, no one knows for sure.”

  “What about the Golden Wii?” Dylan asked curiously, remembering what Lyle had said to him.

  “The Golden Wii? Who told you about that?”

  “My last team leader. What is it, sir?”

  Tommy narrowed his eyes at Dylan, then finally said, “It’s—a story for another day.” He turned to face everyone else. “Listen up, soldiers. I’ve killed thirty-seven Coco Puffs this month alone. I used to go out to the field and fight believing there was a point to it all—that I could advance to the next level and one day win the game. Now it’s just about survival. Some of you maybe think your life has a purpose—let me make it perfectly clear: from here on out, your only purpose is to survive.” He turned back to Dylan and pointed towards the headquarters. “Just over those buildings is Bellevue golf course. That’s your new home for the next few days. Take your troops there and get them set up and rested. I’ll meet you tomorrow morning to introduce you to your new men.”

  “One day, I want to meet just one person in this war who’s sane,” Trinity said as Tommy walked off.

  “You’re talking to me again?”

  “For now.”

  Dylan accepted that and turned to watch Tommy walk away. “He seems alright.”

  Before Trinity could reply, Tommy turned around, pointed his fingers like imaginary guns at Dylan, and pretended to shoot him, laughing wildly with each fake shot.

  “That’s the guy who’s giving us orders?” Hunter said quietly.

  Dylan nodded and hollered, “Let’s move out.”

  Everyone left the plane, pausing when they passed by the sign that said Nintendo. Schools passed out government-issued PSPs when children entered their first year of primary education. It was the only gaming system their generation had known. None of them had ever played anything Nintendo-made; it was an elitist system that none of them had even had the luxury of seeing up close.

  “Maybe there’s some hidden inside?” Hunter said, staring at the sign.

  “Maybe,” Dylan replied, looking down the street and trying to make out where the entrance of the golf course was.

  As Dylan continued to stare, a bullet whizzed by his head and nicked the “N” of Nintendo. For a moment, everyone froze, but once Dylan realized what had happened, he ordered loudly, “Everyone hit the ground,” just as a second bullet went by them.

  “What’s going on?” Trinity cried.

  Dylan ignored her, studying their surroundings. “Did anyone see where it came from?”

  No one answered, and a third bullet passed over their heads. Dylan spotted a ditch 20 feet away. “Next bullet,” he explained, “we make a run for that ditch while they reload—we’re sitting ducks out here.”

  Before anyone had said anything, a fourth bullet passed over them, and Dylan hollered, “Now!” leading the way to the ditch at a run.

  “Now what?” Trinity panted once they had made it safely to the ditch.

  Dylan didn’t answer. He waited a couple seconds and then said, “I think whoever is shooting has stopped.” He slowly started to climb the incline of the ditch.

  “Dylan, stop!” Trinity said. “He could be nearby waiting for us to come back up.”

  Dylan knew she was right. “Only one way to find out.”

  He peeked up and scanned the remains of the Nintendo parking lot, trying to spot who had just opened fired on them. The lot was empty. Finally, he concluded, “No one’s out here, and we need to get somewhere safer—let’s go.”

  As Dylan stood, he heard a loud screeching sound in the sky, and he looked up just as a large mortar round came crashing down, knocking him unconscious on impact.

  # # #

  (Rebel Frosted Flake, Blog Entry)

  THE FUTURE IS NOW

  Posted: Friday, October 31, 2014 | 7:17 AM (GMT)

  Take up arms.

  The time for revolt has come and gone long ago. Now is the time to protect yourself against the foe that is government.

  Yesterday’s militia attack on the capital is just the beginning of what is to come. The militia was stopped before serious damage was inflicted, but it was just the beginning of what will surely be many more.

  The government of our fathers no longer exists. Today’s government is nothing more than a corporation built on greed and corruption. It was only a matter of time before a group stepped up to try and take back the government, and it’s only a matter of time before more and more arise just like it.

  I do not support these groups. Though their ideals may represent my own, their means to get them are neither just nor American. But they are not going away—they will play a role in America’s future until the government backs away from the corruption that they have recently embraced or are defeated by the militia groups that grow more powerful with each arrogant decision that the government makes

  Tags: American Values Militia Group, corruption, militia attacks

  Level 6

  Becoming Official

  Dylan felt water being squirted on his face and tried to use his hands to wipe it away, but they were tied down. He struggled to free them for a second, keeping his eyes shut against the water, and then heard giggling followed by Tommy’s high-pitched voice. “Relax! It’s just water.”

  He felt a rag wipe off the water, and he opened his eyes and saw Tommy standing over him holding a larger water gun. “Good morning, sleeping beauty!”

  Dylan slowly looked around the room. He could see rows of beds and nurses in white outfits. The ceiling was fabric, and he realized he was in a tent. He felt a warm hand rub his own, and he looked to his right and saw Trinity standing next to his bed. “Is this the hospital?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Tommy said.

  “The mortar knocked you backwards, and you hit the back of your head pretty hard,” Trinity explained. She gave Tommy a dirty look. “He let two guards cut out early so they could play video games with him, and two Cocos got into the area—that’s who was shooting at us.”

  “Happens all the time,” Tommy said breezily. “And it’s just a small bruise—no
big deal. Nurse gave you something to sleep—you’ve been out since yesterday.” He paused and looked towards the exit. “Which means you’ve had all the rest you need, so come on and get up.”

  “He’s still weak,” Trinity objected.

  “He’s fine—I’ve seen guys missing limbs running—or actually hopping—marathons out here. I’m getting chow. I’ll meet you out front in twenty minutes.”