Walking Ghost Phase (9 page)

“
That guy, Damon, does. I bet he'll finish his time, and on his way home he'll make them drop him off at the nearest recruiting center.”

“
At least he can do pushups.” Emily looked at Matt. “Thanks for volunteering to do mine. I thought for sure Vasquez was going to kill you. How's your stomach?”

“
I somewhat anticipated it.” He laughed under his breath. “But if I hadn't said anything, how many more pushups could you have done?”

“
Without his hand on my back?” She rolled her eyes toward the sky, as if she thought deeply about the question. “None.” She expected him to laugh again, hoped he did, and for a moment she just stared at him. “Do you mind if I ask you something? It's personal, so I won't be offended if—”

“
My parents died when I was three years old,” Matt interrupted. “My grandfather raised me, but he passed away two months ago.” He glanced over Emily. “You were going to ask why no one saw me off, right?”

“
Yeah. How did you—?”

He leaned clos
er, near her ear, and whispered, “Do you know me? Have you ever seen my face?”

She stepped back and
studied his blue eyes. A blur of images—broken fragments of partial memories and strange faces—flashed through her mind. “Maybe,” she said, her tone uncertain.

“
It's a yes or no question.”

“
No.”

“
Then what else could you have asked?” He winked at her.

She slinked away and returned to Raven
's side.

A few minutes later, they rounded the corner, where two transports dropped off the last arrivals. As the newcomers passed Emily on their way to the back of the line,
a pudgy young man stopped beside her. Sweat rolled down his forehead, and he wheezed. Then he lurched forward at the waist. A stream of his partially digested breakfast spewed over his bottom lip and splattered inches from her feet. Without hesitating, she jumped off the sidewalk, avoiding his multi-directional aim.

When th
e last trickle of vomit crawled out of his mouth, he held out his hand in an apologetic gesture. Emily's throat tightened. Not wanting to put her empty stomach in fits, she slowly turned back to the line. Or the remnants of it. Matt was the only person still upright. He stepped around three grotesque puddles, hopped off the sidewalk and joined her side. From every direction, a chorus of gags and coughs drowned out the buzzing sound. Emily finally realized the purpose of the fans—not to keep anyone cool but to blow away the putrid smell. She placed her hand on the back of a gasping Raven. “At least the Army isn't stupid.”

Raven
's tan faded, and a gurgle bubbled in her throat. “Oh no,” she whispered. Emily grabbed a handful of Raven's hair and lifted it off her neck and cheeks. Raven then emptied her stomach of a breakfast that resembled nothing close to caviar or wine.

The sidewalk began to disappear under a layer of undigested food as the pungent stench overpowered the fan
s. Emily's eyes watered, stomach twisted; a nauseous sensation crawled up her chest.

“
Going to make it?” Matt asked, and moved behind her. “Need me to do anything?”

“
I haven't eaten in three days. Couldn't puke if I tried.”

“
Why do you think I'm still standing?”

“
If you're nervous, you had me fooled.”

Soon
the last of the gagging receded below the fan's humming, and the sidewalk became vacant. Emily pushed between four girls, reclaiming her place in the new driveway line. Matt squeezed in beside her. As he stared ahead, over the heads of the shorter girls, Emily caught herself glancing at him. She'd only known him for a couple of hours, only heard him say a few words, but a nagging sensation in her stomach, an emotional twinge unlike the sickness she experienced during the pukefest, made her wonder. What real reason did Matt have to stand up for her on the transport? His excuse was downright pathetic. And the way he asked her if she knew him seemed planned. Did they know each other, even in passing? They were from the same town, after all. But she couldn't place him anywhere in her past. Now more than any time in the last three months, she despised her memory loss. Still, she tried to remember.

Then a scream in the distance broke her thoughts.

“Don't do it,” someone shouted. Emily and Matt stepped on the grass and stared up the disjointed line, where, about fifty feet ahead, the crowd swelled over the driveway and courtyard. A girl, part of the dress-wearing group Emily passed earlier, pushed through a mass of people who tried to hold her in line. She swiped at their hands, knocking down three girls, and broke free of the grips on her arms.

She sprinted toward the entrance gates.
“I can't be here.” Her scream silenced the line, and in a moment of perfect unity, anyone who hadn't already noticed the commotion turned to witness the girl's dash for freedom. The tower guards also noticed; their gun barrels glistened in the sunlight.

“
No,” Emily whispered.

A voice boomed from a loudspeaker.
“Return to line immediately.” But the girl pushed ahead, as if the order were meant for someone else. Her sobbing pleas grew fainter with each stride.

Gunfire crackled across the complex, and everyone ducked l
ow on the driveway. Grass and mud erupted in front of the girl.

“
Warning shots,” Matt said.

The
girl ignored them. She stumbled, her body wobbling, as she continued toward the gates.

“
Return to line immediately,” the loudspeaker voice boomed again. “This is your last chance to comply.”

The girl didn
't slow.

She was about fifty feet from the gates when the gu
nfire rang out again. This time the guards didn't miss. Her chest exploded with blood, and her legs coiled around each other, sending her diving to the ground and sliding across the grass. She looked dead before her body came to a full stop. Emily covered her mouth and turned her head. Screams and cries filled the air. The vomiting began anew.

A young, scowling MP jogged along the grass.
“Let this be a lesson for everyone. You signed over your rights the day we saved your lives. If you violate your contract, you will lose the benefits of it.”

“
I don't think they're letting us out of here knowing what we just saw,” Matt said under his breath. He didn't seem to be speaking to anyone in particular, but it appeared everyone heard him.

Raven buried her head in Emily
's shoulder. “We're never going home.”

The setting sun dropped below the fence as Emily took her final breath of outside air. Sobs and whispers of a thousand voices bustled
in the annex. Armed MPs patrolled the outer walls, silencing anyone they neared with their mere presence. Even the air-conditioning seemed to have little effect on calming the on-edge stomachs. Inside, however, a group of blue-coverall-wearing janitors scurried about the room, cleaning up the messes. At least their swift mopping skills prevented the smell from festering.

Matt placed his hand on the small of Emily
's back. “There.” He pointed ahead at a large 'H' above the room-length row of counters.

Emily turned to Raven, who was scanning across the myriad of heads.
“I guess this is goodbye,” Emily said.

Raven rubbed a length of hair between her fingers and seemed to force the half-smile, her farewell gesture.
“I hope I'll see you two again.” She pushed through the crowd, toward the 'M' sign.

“
Ready?” Emily asked Matt, and mimicked Raven's hair twiddle. For a moment she looked at the blond strands.
High and tight
, Vasquez's voice announced in her mind. Her stomach twisted more.

“
After you,” Matt said.

The line to the counter moved faster than the outside misery, and about five minutes later Emily approached the check-in officer, an old, wrinkled woman decked out in full Army dress. She didn
't glance up to acknowledge Emily. “Name?” the woman asked.

Emily leaned against the counter. Her heartbeat pounded the wood.
“Emily Heath.”

“
Speak up, please.”

Emily swallowed, trying to push down the lump in her throat.
“Emily Heath.”

The elderly woman finally looked up from her computer screen and stared at Emily over the top rim of her glasses.
“We've been expecting you.” She snorted and stabbed a few keys on the keyboard. “Your roommate's name is Margaret Healey. Your room number is 907.” She shoved an enormous green duffle bag onto the counter and pointed at a large open hallway between the J and K lines. “Follow the signs. After you've unpacked and changed, report to the barber. Have a—
wonderful
stay.”

Before Emily could turn and tell Matt goodbye, his breath warmed her neck. Goosebumps rose on her arms.
“Good luck,” he said.

Emily forced a smile and grabb
ed the handle of the duffle bag, but when she pulled the duffle off the counter, the weight ripped her arm down, causing her shoulder to pop.
Holy shit,
she thought, and looked at the frail woman who had placed the bag on the counter with ease. Not about to be embarrassed by someone's grandmother, Emily lifted the duffle with both hands and struggled toward the hallway. She glanced back at Matt.
Will I see you again?

A seemingly endless sea of white doors lined the hallway until everything
in the distance vanished in the misty haze. “Margaret Healey,” Emily said to herself, making sure she remembered. Soon she passed an empty library—probably empty because of the almost bare shelves. A few doors later, a heavyset nurse watched her from behind a pharmacy counter.

Emily turned down the first corridor, where a group of eight soldiers, their heads cleanly shaven and shoulders slumped, walked toward her. Their gazes focused on the carpet, and two girls in the front limped. As they came closer, Emily bit into her lip, hard. Streaks of blue bruises covered their necks and faces. A patch of blood had dried under the lead girl
's nose. The group went by without giving a single hint of awareness that Emily existed.

She found the door to room 907 tucked in the back right corner of the base, adjacent to a fire exit. She studied the emergency door
's red lettering—
Security Alarm Will Sound If Door Is Opened.
The door's placement was almost insulting, a silent taunt; the Army had just killed a girl for trying to escape but provided clear path to freedom out in the open. Then Emily saw the steel rods slicing through the frame, keeping the door and her fate sealed.

Emily inched open the unlocked door to 907, when a razor thin beam of light revealed the entirety of almost nonexistent space. A desk, the surface of which was barely large
enough for an open book, sat in the center of the back wall. Fewer than three feet separated two low-rising beds. Under the covers on the right side, a girl slept, still wearing fatigues, her shaved head glowing in the dim light. The disinfectant-smelling odor of a hospital emanated from her. The girl didn't move.

Emily closed the door, laid the duffle on the ground and rubb
ed her sore shoulder. “Margaret, are you awake?”
Are you alive?

The girl moaned. Emily a
ssumed she meant yes—to being awake, that is. She was obviously alive.

“
Do you care if I turn on the lamp so I can unpack? I'll be quick.”

Margaret tossed the cover over her face.
“Go ahead.” Her voice strained.

Emily sifted through the duffle bag: three pairs of green pants, three green button-up shirts, three white sports bras, three pairs of white underwear, three pairs of white socks, one pair of black, steel-toed boots and more soap bars than she had ever seen outside of a grocery store. Emily pulled a white trash bag and note from the duffle.
Place old clothing in the white bag.

Emily undressed and threw her clothes, including her worn-out tennis shoes, into the bag. As she changed, she balanced herself between the two beds, swaying
above Margaret's body. Soon the voice of her grandmother played in her head.
Those are some stylish undergarments, young lady. Where can I get a pair like 'em?