Walking Ghost Phase (36 page)

Emily climbed out of bed at 6:24 a.m. Someone higher up was apparently nice enough to disable the morning alarm, and she might have appreciated the gesture had she slept the night before. Stumbling in the darkness, she grazed the wood frame of Maggie
's bed. Maggie moaned, reached up and clicked on the light.

“
Sorry,” Emily said.

Maggie, through squinting eyes, looked past her.
“Who dropped off that?”

On the door hung a dress uniform. The olive green jacket had no medals or lapels, and the name patch was blank. Beneath the matching skirt rested a pair of black pumps in a plastic bag. Emily hadn
't seen the person who left the outfit, although she never dozed off in the night.

Maggie climbed out of bed and crouched beside Emily
's legs. “There's a note.” She skimmed the piece of paper and then passed it to Emily.

The least I could do
— W. Stallings.

In the week or so Emily had spent at Greaver, she learned a universal truth about how things operated in the Army. Sure, Stallings
' may have signed the note, but someone higher in the chain-of-command granted him permission to deliver the uniform. And the Greaver higher-ups always had an ulterior motive. Regardless of her outfit, many soldiers would stare at her during the funeral, but if she arrived in a uniform—her, a trial soldier, a lowly test subject—the Major or Colonel who approved the gift would guarantee that everyone witnessed suffering on prominent display. Anything for motivation. “I'm not wearing it,” Emily said.

Maggie rubbed the cotton sleeve.
“Are you sure?”

Emily just stared at her, and the uniform was still hanging on the door when they left for the funeral later that evening.

Because Matt had lost his parents and grandparents, and since he didn't have a brother or sister—the immediate family—no one from the outside world was allowed to mourn him. The generals and colonels who had offered condolences to Raven's family now appeared relegated to mingle with a group of lieutenants and captains. Near the courtyard windows, an MP directed soldiers toward the ballroom's oaken double doors.

Emily wanted
a moment to collect herself, to prepare her mind before she entered the ballroom, but the swarm of bodies soon herded her through the doors. The faint sound of a violin playing a dismally slow song came from two overhead speakers. She checked left and right between the walking soldiers for an open seat near the back. A sea of green swallowed every row.

She moved closer to the front, and the mob dwindled. When the three soldiers ahead of her filtered into rows with empty seats, she lowered her gaze. As long as she kept her eyes on the carpet or on the tip of her boots, she could manage a small hope that Matt would be waiting for her in the elevator, that he would walk
alongside her in the corridors after a victory. In her mind, if she didn't see the coffin, it didn't exist.

Captain Stallings approached her and draped his arm across her shoulders.
“Private, your place is in the front.”

No. Not there.
She dug her fingers in his sleeve as he guided her through the center aisle.

Sarah, her eyes perfect circles and glistening with tears, met them near the front row and threw her arms around Emily
's back. “I'm so sorry.” The violin's melody ended, and silence overtook the room. Emily sensed the stares. “He loved you,” Sarah whispered. “You know that, right?”

Emily
's chest tightened. Any thoughts she may have entertained about not crying, about not letting the higher-ups see her suffer, ended in that moment. Sarah led her across the front row to an empty seat. Throughout the service, Emily glanced up only once to look at Matt's face peeking above the coffin.

An hour later soldiers mingled in the lobby, and Emily wandered through the crowd. A few bouts of laughter rang out—a welcome break—but those moments of happiness lowered to whispers whenever she neared any group of soldiers, even defenders. After the third time, she walked to the ceiling-high windows, away from everyone, and basked in the sunlight.

A lone soldier, whose attendance she didn't expect, made a direct path to her. Redness swelled around his eyes. “I'm sorry,” Rizzo said, and lowered his gaze. “I'm also sorry I said those things to you in the Sim.”

“
Thank you.”

“
Your friend, Raven? I never would have fired on her if I had known what might have happened. It's just—whenever I'm in the Sim, I feel like I'm losing my mind. I say stuff I would never say out here. I do these awful things. It's like someone is constantly screaming in my ear
Win, Win, Win
.”

Emily turned her back to him.
I'm not your confessional.

“
That day Matt came over and yelled at us, told us how heartless we were, said we were playing in a make-believe world—it hit home. He was right. I meant to tell him, but now he's gone. He's gone because of me. I'm here because of him. I don't know if I should be happy or blame him.” He squeezed her shoulder. “But I'd trade places with him in a heartbeat if I could. Sometimes it's bitter how things work out. Just think if you'd have gone to the beach instead of Washington.”

Emily
spun and narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“
That's what your friend Raven said to me on the roof. 'Don't hate me for Washington, Em. We should have gone to the beach.'“ A tear dropped from Rizzo's eye. “Said she was ready to go home. I think it was then that I knew I'd killed her.”

Emily didn
't say good-bye to Rizzo; her mind had erased his presence. Now her aimless stride mirrored what she saw every day in the soldiers who made their way to the elevators. The walk of the dead. She passed through the glass doors and into the Greaver Courtyard, where an early winter wind numbed her flesh. Even in the breeze, all three flags hung limp, and she leaned on the flagpole. Rays from the setting sun bathed her face. She closed her eyes.

“
You need to leave this place.” The voice was distant, an echo in her mind.

I want to. What was his plan? Why couldn
't he tell me?

Then a crackle of footsteps on frozen grass broke her trance. Near the Annex entrance, two colonels puffed on cigars, their exhaled breath forming endless vapor trails in the air. One glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Now they were talking.

“She's not going to break, is she?”

“
She'll lose. She has no choice.”

“
And we won't stop until she realizes it.”

“
Start it now.”

Emily gazed out on the horizon at the trees below the setting sun. Her face burned; her teeth ground. Those men had stacked the odds, but Matt still found a way to win. Now he was gone—one obstacle removed from the experiment
's goal. Emily was the other constant in his victories. They had surely seen the replay of her instructing Damon on how to defeat the last group of defenders in the oil field simulation. Did they also plan to eliminate her?

She turned back to the colonels, but they were gone. She stared
at the windows, where the funeral crowd inside the Annex lobby had dwindled to a few straggling soldiers. The colonels weren't there, either, just Stallings, who stood near the ballroom doors and directed a group of soldiers to the hallway. Emily shoved through the glass doors.

Stallings ordered the last soldier to Sim training before he acknowledged her.
“Private, I know this is difficult for you, so if you'd like another day—”

She interrupted him.
“Who were those two colonels in the courtyard? Did they come through here?”

“
Private, don't forget who you're speaking to. Address me as s—”

“
Who were they? Why were they talking about me like that?”

“
Private, I understand you might be having a rough time, but that is no excuse for this behavior.”

Emily sighed.
“Sir, two colonels were out there with me.”

Stallings looked past her at the courtyard, his expression confused.
“Private, no one has been outside but you.”

“
Sir, they were smoking cigars. You can still smell it. They talked like you all wanted me to fail.”

He placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Private, I had to keep the MPs from dragging you back inside the Annex. Trial soldiers aren't allowed in the courtyard.”

She pointed at the glass doors.
“They were there. I saw them.”

Stal
lings straightened to a rigid military posture. “Private, no one else went outside. I understand that you and Private Holcomb were close, and we've given you a bit of leeway because of that relationship. But I'm losing my patience. I suggest you go to your room and get a good night's rest. I'll see you in class tomorrow.”

“
And if I want to join the other soldiers?” She glanced at the clock—18:46.
Plenty of time
.

“
Private, I don't recommend you do that.”

“
Because you didn't expect me go back yet? You need time to make sure I fail?”

“
Private Heath, I don't know what you thought you heard outside, but you should go to your room. Get your head straight.
Don't
go to Simulator training.”

“
You'd like that, wouldn't you?” She slowly backpedaled, wondering if he might grab her at any moment.

“
Don't test me, Private.”

“
Sorry, sir.” She spun around and raced down the hallway. The black streak in the carpet passed under her as she ran through the first corridor, where, behind the pharmacy counter, the obese nurse and humongous MP stared with curious expressions. In the next corridor, she sidestepped two patrolling MPs, ignoring their grumbles about her reckless speed. She could have listened; no pounding footsteps gave her chase; she had plenty of time. But her legs didn't ache, lungs didn't burn.

At 18:54, Emily reached the elevator hallway and waited behind the usual crowd of grim-faced soldiers.
Soon a murmur of whispers and turning heads found her.

“
What is she doing here?”

“
This soon?”

“
They said she wouldn't be back for another day at least.”

Then a single chime rang out and silenced the gossip. As the doors of a single elevator slid open, the soldiers began to move, but it took Emily a moment to notice she wasn
't getting any closer to the front. She stood on her toes. A speck of light emanated from the still-empty elevator. Had the officers ordered the soldiers to stop her? Was this why Stallings didn't follow her?

Move already
, she wanted to scream.

They moved all right.

Soldiers on the left faced right and soldiers on the right faced left. The center, where the two halves met, appeared engaged in a nose-to-nose stare down. Soon the soldiers shuffled apart in a moment of perfect unison. A clear path to the elevator formed. At the end of the row, a petite girl wrapped one hand around the safety laser, preventing the doors from closing, and motioned to Emily with her other hand. “They aren't going to wait forever,” the girl said.

As Emily walked the path, soldiers stared at their boots, glanced at the ceiling or looked blankly ahead—anywhere but at her. She patted the petite girl on the shoulder.
“Thank you.”

Petite-girl didn
't answer. Like the other soldiers, she gazed in another direction.

Emily stepped inside the elevator and went to the back. Before she could turn around, the bell chimed. She hadn
't heard the pounding of boots, the scratching of fatigues or the nervous coughs—the sounds of soldiers packing into the cramped space. A sliver of green peeked behind the closing elevator doors. She descended alone.

After changing, Emily jogged to
vat 7. The attending white-coat, a young brunette, glanced up from the electronics and flinched. “I—was told not to expect you tonight.”

Emily said nothing and climbed the stairs. There would be no toe-dipping test of the gel temperature tonight; her skin already burned. She hopped into the vat.

The white-coat fumbled with the oxygen tube. “I think I should ask my commanding officer for permission.”

Emily ripped the tube from the woman
's hand. “Just do it—please?”

The white-coat shrugged in the direction of some unseen person inside the overhead control room. A moment later she looked at Emily.
“Good luck.”

The world faded.

Emily's eyes adjusted to the Sim, and black letters, stenciled on a brown backdrop, came into focus—
Property of the US Army
. It was a supply box, which sat in the center of an eight-box-high column. The stacked rows formed a constricting passageway, an elaborate maze where the odor of gun oil and cardboard lingered in the air. A faint crackle of gunfire zinged across the mammoth ceiling of rusted metal, bent steel and broken windows.