The n00b Warriors (30 page)

The President’s official blog today gave hope that it would be over soon. The enemy cells, he says, are 80% contained.

Citizens seem to be working together to stop the rebel cells. Every day, the White House’s page is updated with cells that have been contained. It’s all encouraging.

Tags: censorship, presidents’ blog

Level 17

The President of the United States

Dylan remembered his mom telling him once, before he left to fight, that the President was the leader of the country, but no one had seen him since the old President was assassinated, and he’d gone into hiding two years ago. He still acted out his role as President and gave orders, but they moved him around a lot. Dylan didn’t know it then, but most people had believed the Coco President’s claim that the President was dead, because he never appeared—except on television, which many people said wasn’t even him.

As they went up a large elevator, an aide told the three of them that meeting the President was important and even an honor.

“I don’t feel very honored,” Dylan said dully. The President was the one person who could use his power to end the war, but it seemed to Dylan that he didn’t even make an effort.

“Then fake it,” the aide advised.

Her statement surprised Dylan; the way she said it made Dylan feel like he wasn’t the only person who had to force a smile in the presence of the President.

They were taken to a desert garden and told to wait next to a cactus. Several Secret Service agents were wandering around, surveying the empty desert alertly.

The President drove up in a golf cart. He was polished and well-dressed above the waist, but below that were shorts and bony, shaved legs that were covered with scabs and discoloration. He looked frail and had a slight limp. He smelled like sweat and mold.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said to his aide, and then he smiled at all three of them. “Hello there, brave young men!”

They each flashed a fake smile and said hello.

“I heard you have done some mighty brave things.”

They stared. The aide nudged them from behind, and they each smiled again and nodded.

Two photographers began taking pictures non-stop of the President shaking each of their hands.

“You’re a charming bunch of boys. I bet you like John Deere tractors. Do you like tractors?”

Tommy nodded, feigning excitement.

“I liked tractors when I was a boy. I use to have these toy tractors that I would play with for hours. And you know what else I liked?”

“What?” Tommy asked.

“Marbles.”

“Marbles?” Dylan replied, confused.

“Sure. I still play it every day, usually about this time. I’d be playing it right now if it weren’t for you kids.”

“Sorry,” Tommy said.

“That’s alright. Timmy can wait.”

“Who’s Timmy?” Dylan asked.

The aide stepped forward before the President could answer and said, “The President’s a very busy man.” She looked to the President and added, “Sir, I think we have all the pictures we need.”

“Nonsense,” the President replied, “I can take a break from all that boring stuff to speak with a group of charming young men.” He looked at Dylan and explained, “Timmy’s my son.” The President pointed to a possum a Secret Service agent was holding on a leash. “There he is, right there. Wave to the nice boys, Timmy.” The agent made the possum’s hands wave. “Attaboy, Timmy.” He turned back to Dylan and the others. “Timmy can be a little shy.”

“You play marbles with him?” Tommy asked in disbelief.

“We’re in a tournament together. I’m winning.” He whispered, “Timmy isn’t very good.”

“Oh.”

“Where’s my marbles?” The President turned to his aide. “Have you seen my marbles? I want to show them to the boys.”

The aide shrugged and said, “Perhaps they’re in your office, sir. You should go look for them right now.”

He stared at the aide blankly for several seconds and then admitted, “I’m always losing my marbles.”

The aide smiled tolerantly.

“I’ll show them to you later.” He sighed. “Well, what else do you enjoy doing? Do you like horses?”

Dylan yawned and apologized. A journalist took pictures and didn’t appear to hear or care what was being said. Dylan wondered how everyone could see a President so crazy and not tell the public about it.

“Or maybe ponies—I bet you like ponies.”

“Ponies are very nice, sir,” Tommy said.

The aide explained, “The boys single-handedly won an important battle in the war. Perhaps you’d like to hear about that?”

The President slyly smiled as he looked at her. “No kidding?”

She nodded.

“Boy oh boy, I used to love playing war when I was a kid. Were you the Cowboys or the Indians?”

When nobody answered, Dylan said, “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Isn’t that how you play it? Maybe it has a different name with you boys? Were you the good guys or the bad guys?” He looked at Hunter carefully and then turned to the aide, “This one was a bad guy, I bet—the quiet ones are always bad.”

 Hurt, Hunter quickly said, “I think we were all good guys, sir.”

The President laughed. “Hot dog—I used to love that side.” He peered at the three of them. “You know, there’s four of us altogether. How would you like to play a little Cowboys and Indians right now? Two on two.”

“Sir,” his aide said, “you have another meeting in ten minutes.”

“Oh, this won’t take but a few minutes—what do you say, boys?”

“Okay,” Tommy nervously answered.

“Hot dog!” the President shouted, and then he ran full-speed straight into a tree and knocked himself unconscious. Two Secret Service agents ran to him and helped him up. They quickly put him on the golf cart and drove him off.

“That wasn’t your fault,” the aide said. “He’s done it before—he has a bad eye. He doesn’t see right.”

They were led back to the elevator. When they were away from the photographers, Dylan admitted to the aide, “The President’s kind of strange.”

Hunter and Tommy nodded in agreement.

“You have to understand, he’s under a lot of stress with the war. He gets confused about things.”

Dylan nodded but didn’t reply.

“You can tell people you’ve met with the President, but you cannot tell people how he behaved. Is that clear?”

They nodded.

“It’s for the good of the country—and it’s also in your contract.”

They nodded again.

“People have to believe everything is okay. They have to have that hope. If anyone asks you what it was like, say ‘It was a great honor, and his wisdom really showed.’’

They nodded.

“Say it.”

“It was a great honor, and his wisdom really showed,” the three of them intoned.

“Good. And what did you talk about?” she asked Dylan

He shrugged.

“Strategy,” the aide explained. “Say it.”

“We talked about strategy,” Dylan said irritably.

“Perfect.” The aide turned to Tommy and said, “I want you to do the talking.”

Tommy nodded as the aide opened the door to a large room full of couches and a kitchen. At the center of the room was a large TV with a PS3 sitting on top. The aided turned to them and said, “You get five hours in here. Then you’ll be eating at an important dinner tonight with the President.”

The aide left without giving them a chance to reply. Tommy made a beeline to the kitchen, and Hunter went straight for the games. Dylan stood near the door, confused. He watched Tommy making a sandwich and said, “Don’t either of you find this strange?”

“What?” Tommy asked, stuffing his face.

“That we’re on a tour to lie for a President who’s crazy? Don’t you think people have a right to know that all of this is just one giant joke?”

Tommy shrugged. “No one would believe us—and it’s like they said, people need hope.”

Dylan didn’t answer. He went to the couch and sat down.

Hunter was shuffling through the movies and games. “Do you guys want to play games or watch a movie? They have everything here!”

Tommy wandered behind the couch with his sandwich; strawberry jam oozed from the corner and hit the floor as he walked. He went to the cabinet and opened it up. Hundreds of movies were inside. “Look at this!”

Hunter turned and then ran to the cabinet, excited. “They must have every single movie ever made!”

Dylan threw up his hands. “Is that all you guys care about? Our friends die, and you act like nothing happened!” He paused and added, “I expect that from you, Tommy—but Hunter?”

Hunter looked down, hurt. Tommy put his arm around Hunter’s shoulder and laughed. “Chill out, Dylan! You’re a kid again! Start acting like it!” He looked through the cabinet, carefully scanning each title. “You know what we all need? A war movie! It’ll help us unwind.” He held up
Full Metal Jacket
. “I’ve heard of this one! It’s supposed to be super bloody!”

Dylan watched the movie with his arms crossed, not wanting to enjoy any form of entertainment. The first half of the movie was easy not to enjoy. It was about basic training—something he knew little about. Once the fighting began in the second half, he couldn’t help but cry; neither could Hunter. Everything in the movie had happened to them. It was like spending two hours reliving bad memories.

Tommy’s tears seemed joyful. “It’s beautiful!” he said as a man was killed on the screen.

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Dinner was larger than Dylan thought it would be. It was held in a large underground bunker, and hundreds of men and women filed in. Most were senators and governors and foreign friends of the country.

The tables were lavishly decorated; there were plates with the rebels’ logo hand-painted and crystal vases in the center with fresh flowers. Everything Dylan touched on the table felt expensive.

The President looked dignified and dressed as a President should be, in a suit and tie. He gave a speech about the cost of freedom and made everyone believe that there was a reason they fought.

Dylan, Hunter, and Tommy sat at a table with a high-ranking general who said, after the speech, “I bet you’re really looking forward to the dessert.”

“We’re not really hungry,” Tommy, who had been eating for the past five hours, said.

“Not really hungry?” The general’s voice got louder. “How can you not be hungry? You’re boys! All boys like dessert.”

Tommy shrugged, quelling under the general’s anger.

“Well, it takes some of every kind,” the general said, seeming to calm down. It was quiet for a moment, and then he asked, “So what grade are you boys in?”

Tommy shrugged. “We got pulled out of school, sir—for the war.”

“The war?” He seemed confused. “War’s for men—they should keep you boys in school, is what they should do.”

Dylan didn’t know what to say to that, because he agreed. He would have loved to stay in school. Hunter remained quiet.

“Have you seen a lot of battles?” Dylan changed the subject.

He shrugged. “I’ve seen enough.”

“Where have you fought?”

The general thought about his answer. “Son,” he said slowly, “war is not something to brag about to boys—you just wouldn’t be able to understand the things I’ve seen. It would be too much.”