The n00b Warriors (18 page)

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Trinity said from behind Dylan.

“Yeah? I’m just reviewing everyone’s name.” Trinity sat down next to him and looked at the papers curiously.

“The great wondrous names that will save us from our ultimate doom?” she teased.

“No. Just some notes I’ve made on everyone—if I’m responsible for them, I want to at least know who they are. Did you write your mom?”

She nodded. “I told them that things were going well and my team leader said we’d all be home in a month, and they’d have a parade in our honor.”

“Know something I don’t?”

“I know that my mom wants to know her daughter isn’t in danger.”

Dylan nodded. “How come you aren’t hanging around with Johnny?”

She shrugged. “You make it sound like we’re together all the time.”

“Seems like it.” Ever since they got back from the exercise in the woods, Dylan had avoided almost everyone. He felt like the company was growing closer together, while he was drifting further away. Hunter was the only who talked to him.

“He’s just fun—what do you care, anyway?”

Dylan nodded and looked down, but didn’t say anything.

“Things have just been weird, Dylan. I’m not avoiding you—Johnny just doesn’t make me think about war. When I’m with you, that’s all that I see—and I don’t want to see it.”

“Then you guys should be together—I’m happy for you.”

“It’s not even like that! War’s changing you—you’re not even fun anymore. You’re just intense. Even when you were playing video games at the cabin—it was like you were on a mission or something.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I just want to be a kid for a bit longer, and you keep making me feel like I stopped being a kid the moment I got on the bus.”

Dylan stood abruptly and turned his back to Trinity. He looked at the mountains in the distance before finally admitting with his back still turned and his stomach wrenching, “I didn’t want to be a leader, you know. I’m scared, but I want to protect us—I want to be a good leader, and right now that means that I can’t have fun.”

Trinity stood and put her hand on his shoulder. She stayed silent, preserving the moment of peace. Then she said brightly, “Come on—word is they’re serving us real food for dinner tonight. I guess it’s our last supper!”

“I’ll meet you there,” Dylan promised.

She smiled and ran off.

He didn’t eat dinner that night. The rumor was right; they brought out the best food—steak, potatoes, and cheesecake for desert. It was the best meal they had had as recruits—for some, it would be their last. Dylan wanted no part of the dinner. He went to the kitchen and got a can of beans, instead. He ate the entire can as he wrote out a speech to tell his company later that night.

In school, it was taught that every great leader gave a great speech before battle. In high school literature classes, that’s all that they read—the speeches and letters of great leaders. They had to study their syntax, examine their themes, and write essays on why they were effective. He had memorized a few famous lines from speeches in school, and he did his best to write them verbatim.

One of the cooks asked Dylan why he wasn’t eating the other food, and he said, “I’d rather have fiber—I’ll need it when I fight.”

The cook laughed. “That sounds like something from the lips of Doc Pollack!”

Dylan nodded. “He’s a wise man.”

The cook rolled his eyes and walked away.

Dylan looked down at his speech and reread parts of it. All of it was a lie, and his heart sank as he realized that.

His speech made him think about why they were fighting. They fought for survival—they fought because of something their fathers had created years ago. They didn’t fight because they believed in a cause; they believed in the
idea
of a cause, but to believe in an actual cause would require them to know what the cause was, and none of them really knew.

Dylan told himself that the lie was okay; he had to make them believe that there was something real they were fighting for. He had to give them hope, even though there was no truth to it. It was his only way to protect them.

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Yet again, Dylan carefully studied the faces of his company. They watched him and patiently waited for his words. Finally, he said, “I can’t offer you any hope.” His hand shook as he read from the tattered piece of paper. “I’ve seen a man die—I’ve killed him with my own hands, and there’s nothing pretty about it. But I’d do it again, and I will do it again. I don’t do it because I hope that I will live or that the buddy next to me will live or that any man with a gun will live. I kill because I believe in the country that I only know about from the stories my parents have told me. A country with no wars, and with pride and dreams
—
a country that is like no other nation.”

His hand continued to shake as he took a sip of water from his canteen and then continued. “I fight for this soil, for this land, for this people. I fight to preserve its honor. I fight to restore its hope.

“Most of us are kids fighting a grownup’s war. If you wish to cry like babies—if you wish to piss your little pants—if you wish to share your emotions with anyone about how scared you are—then do it. There’s no disrespect—no dishonor in being a kid. But know that around you are people who are like you and who will fight for you. Know that while you might not make it out alive, we all fight on the same team, and we all have the same fears. You do whatever it takes to keep that gun in the armed position, continuously blasting the tiny nuts of those coward Coco Puffs.

“You’ll remember this day—this war—all of your life. However long your life is, you’ll know that you fought in Company D—with the bravest men around. Fight hard. Fight proud.”

He paused and looked up. All of their eyes were glued to his. Dylan was surprised to see Tommy in the crowd, proudly nodding. “Lead them home,” he lipped to Dylan.

“Let’s move out.”

It was silent when he finished. Dylan wondered if they had heard anything he had just said. The back cargo door of a transport truck loudly dropped, making everyone jump. Company D slowly started making their way onto the vehicle.

Tommy stopped Dylan as he headed towards the truck. “Good speech,” he said, saluting.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It’s going to be intense tonight. You’ll be holding a large area, and we suspect it’ll get hit hard again, but we’ll get you reinforcements. Hold it down and I’ll get you backup ASAP.”

Dylan nodded. He watched his company piling onto the transport truck; they still looked nervous, and he hoped his speech had done something to take away at least some of their fear.

“I’m going to make it out to the lines to see you in a few days. I’m ready to bag a few Coco Puffs myself—it’s been awhile.”

Dylan nodded again. He noticed Hunter standing next to the truck. He looked proud as he waited for Dylan, and Dylan knew that his speech had had an effect on at least one person.

“I’ll see you again,” Tommy said with a salute.

“Yes, sir,” Dylan replied, and he saluted back. It was the first time he had ever saluted anyone since joining.

Once more, he was going to war.

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(Rebel Frosted Flake, Blog Entry)

WE MUST FIGHT?

Posted: Tuesday, December 16, 2014 | 10:34 AM (GMT)

I drank my coffee this morning while watching live footage of American soldiers being led in long convoys around Seattle, positioning themselves around the city to be on guard for what the President calls an Imminent Threat.

What is the threat? Of course, no one knows for sure, but plenty have speculated. Several reporters call it a potential biological attack. I even heard one relating the possibility of terrorists manually erupting a volcano and burning down the city.

The only thing I saw for sure is fear. Fear has long been the government’s best tactic for getting civilians to sacrifice their American rights. It always starts like this. You rally people up, get them to believe that they are in danger, and then ask them to give up just a few rights so you can protect them. It always starts with a few rights that no one will miss, and then it always builds to something far greater.

Only last week, I was watching radical leaders talk about how the government was taking away rights and there would be consequences for sure—but, this week, there are no radicals. All of the people who are the voice of opposition—people who had done nothing wrong except have a difference of opinion
—
they are silent. As I sat at the TV watching the scene play out, I kept thinking over and over again: what happened to those people?

What is becoming of this nation?

Tag: Seattle

Level 10

Gehenna

Connor, one of the youngest kids in Dylan’s company, sang a camp song on the ride to the front lines. Before long, he had the whole transport truck swaying and singing a folk song they had all known since third grade. As they got closer, the sounds of war became a more forceful presence, but everyone kept on singing.

Dylan sat alone at the front of the truck, and did not sing. He watched Connor. There was a smile on his face, and Dylan wondered how he could ignore what they were heading into.

Singing through blasts, singing when it got so loud that they could barely hear what they were singing—they kept singing until a bomb exploded and shrapnel punctured Connor’s head. His blonde mullet instantly became stained red, and he fell face-forward into the bed of the truck.

Blood drained from Connor’s lifeless body and touched several of the kid’s boots. War had just become real, and the singing stopped.

Hunter, who was across from Connor’s body, started to move towards him, but Dylan pulled him back and shook his head no. He was already gone. The truck kept moving, though now it had more speed as the sounds of war grew louder and more frequent.

Trinity tapped on Dylan’s shoulder. He couldn’t hear her over the noise, but she was pointing at a building. He turned and saw a church tower. The church was gone, but the tower still stood. Just barely, he could hear the chiming of its bells. They still rang—even in war. Dylan watched the towers until he could see them no more. It seemed unreal that the city was gone, but the church bells still rang—nothing could stop them.