The n00b Warriors (31 page)

“We’ve seen an awful lot of bad things, too, ” Tommy argued.

The general smiled and patted Tommy’s hand. “I’m sure you have, son—I’m sure you have. But you’ll understand one day what I’m talking about.”

The President was making his way from table to table, working the crowd. He paused at the general and said while staring at the boys, “These boys are experts at the game of Cowboys and Indians.”

“Really?” the general said, excited as he turned to them. “I used to be pretty good when I was a boy your age.”

Dylan forced a smile that was closer to a grimace at their foolishness.

At the end of the evening, as everyone left the dinner, they spotted the President in the corner talking to his possum. “He wanted ‘special’ time with his son,” a Secret Service agent muttered to them as they left.

“This is really who’s running our country?” Dylan asked Hunter when they were back in the room.

Hunter nodded.

“I never liked fighting
—
I never believed in it—but seeing this
—
” Dylan paused as he thought of the right words. “It’s just not right.”

“At least we don’t have to fight anymore.”

“But what about everyone else? It’s such a waste. Do you think this is how the Coco government is, too?”

Tommy, who had started playing the PS3, tossed a controller at Dylan’s arm and said, “You think too much, Dylan—get over here and play some games with me!”

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(Rebel Frosted Flake, Blog Entry)

ESCAPE

Posted: Thursday, May 7, 2015 | 4:00 PM

Late last night, my bunkmate and five others attempted to escape. They were captured and shot this morning.

Six new people were brought to the tent in their place. My new bunkmate is a teenager named Freddy. He told me that he heard it was all ending soon. That’s what they tell us, but I don’t believe anyone. We don’t get any real news anymore.

Every day, I come to this library for my one hour of monitored and filtered Internet use, and am told by the official blog of the President about the progress this country is making. Every day, I read his messages about rebuilding, which makes me even more worried, because there always seems to be more to rebuild than when I last came here.

I’ve wondered a lot lately about how bad it is on the other side. I look at the soldiers growing in numbers every day, and I wonder if they know.

Today I watched the man play the PlayStation. It was the first day since I’ve been here that I didn’t ignore it. I sat with him, and I watched. He tells me it helps pass the time and helps him forget.

Perhaps it’s time for me to forget…

Tags: escape, presidents blog, forgetting

Level 18

Touring

Two Weeks Later (Two Hours Outside Nevada)

Dylan was staring blankly at the ceiling of the tour bus. It was four a.m. He hadn’t fallen asleep all night. This was how things had been. He’d be up for days before finally becoming so exhausted that he’d sleep in the middle of the day, and, even then, it was only for two or three hours. His dreams were haunted with memories of war and death, and a part of him feared sleep.

In war, everything had happened slowly. For days, they’d be on the lines, waiting for battle, and sometimes it would come and go in a matter of seconds, and then they’d wait for days for more. There was constant waiting.

When they started the newly titled “Victory, America” tour, there was a sudden change in the way Dylan was living his life. There were schedules and dates far in advance. Even in the rare moments of waiting, he knew exactly what he was waiting for and when it would happen.

The tour itself had all the vivacity and jazz of what had once been America. Bright colors and sparkling lights decorated their tour bus, and the auditoriums they spoke in had all the markings of patriotism. Bands played American ballads. Pictures of Americans in uniform posed proudly with their hands around their buddies decorated the walls. Red, white, and blue hung high and low.

After a patriotic speech by an old, retired general about why they must support the troops and their country, Dylan and the others would be introduced as the main attraction. There were four of them now. A 19-year-old girl who had been the lone survivor of a battle in the South Pacific had joined their tour. Her name was Trista Greene. She told a tale of heroism, tragedy, and survival. It was touching and made everyone cry—including Trista, every single time. Sometimes she cried real tears, but, mostly, they were fake.

They would march down the center of the auditorium single file to the tune of “God Bless America” and then sit patiently behind the lectern, listening to each other tell their stories of bravery. Trista was always first. Then Hunter. Then Dylan. And last was Tommy. They had rehearsed stories, which blended humor and emotion—stories that were written by the President’s own speechwriters. Dylan and Tommy’s speeches were meant to make the audience feel like there were great leaders in the Army, and Trista and Hunter’s speeches were meant to make people feel that their children would be safe if they followed the orders of the brave leaders. After they finished talking, they’d take questions and finally sign autographs.

During the autograph time, there were always girls. Every girl in attendance had a favorite hero, and as she asked for an autograph, there’d come the flirtatious smile. First she would say, “I think you’re
so
brave.” This was followed by an embarrassed pause and a giggle. Finally she’d ask, “Is it true you don’t have a girlfriend?” They were instructed how to answer all questions that might come up, including this one. Hunter and Dylan would nod and say, “Actually, I have a girl back at home. I promised her I’d stay faithful. But if I didn’t you’d be the kind of girl I’d like to get to know.” Tommy would take their numbers and promise to call them. He had a box that he put the numbers into, which he proudly carried around and opened when he was feeling lonely. He claimed he had talked to all of them at least once, but Dylan had doubts he had in fact talked to even one. Trista had the flirting fans, too, but not as many. Most the men her age were off fighting, although there were some territories left that had not been forced to send their kids off to fight. Usually, she had older men who begged her for a kiss on the cheek, which she always obliged to give. She had a beautiful charm about her, and Dylan thought that, when it was all over, she should be an actress.

Dylan finally decided he would not be able to sleep and got up from his bed in the back of the bus. As he stretched, he looked to the bunk on top of his, where Hunter was sleeping soundly. Trista was the only one who seemed to be struggling with things almost as much as Dylan, but she was quiet about it. Hunter had responded to not fighting mostly as the Army had hoped—he had gone back to being a kid. He had moments where he’d cry at night, but, for the most part, he was finding it easy to forget what he had been through. Dylan wished he could do the same.

The outside of the bus was refurbished and newly painted by a graphic artist who had rendered each of their faces and the tour’s logo; the outside was not a fair representation of the inside. The inside of the bus had three cramped sets of bunk beds, enough for six people. There were couches with holes, a toilet that frequently backed up, and cabinets that would give splinters if opened wrong.

Dylan walked to the front of the bus, where the eating area was. Elisa, who was their official chaperone, or babysitter, was reading a paperback novel. They couldn’t go anywhere without Elisa’s permission. She was only two years older than Dylan, and it was odd to him that she had become his guardian in a sense.

“Can’t sleep again?” Elisa asked, removing her glasses and brushing back her brown hair, which had fallen in front of her eyes as she read.

Dylan nodded. “Why are you up?” Normally, when he got up in the middle of the night, everyone but the driver was sleeping, and he’d sit next to him for a few hours until everyone woke up. The driver’s name was Kyle. He was an energetic kid from Phoenix. Like Elisa, his dad was a Senator and had got him out of fighting. He drank a lot of coffee to stay awake while he drove, and he reminded Dylan of his brother, because he was addicted to videogames. Whenever they were at a speaking engagement, Kyle would usually hang out on the bus and play Dylan’s PSP.

“We’ll be in Vegas soon. I have to meet with the mayor as soon as we get there to go over last-minute details.” She set her book down and said, “Vegas is a pretty big city, and we’ll have some extra time—maybe you should go see a doctor while you’re there. He can prescribe you something to help you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep. That’s my problem—I get nightmares—start thinking about the war. Are there any doctors who can give me something to keep me up more?”

Elisa smiled. “They can give you sleeping pills that knock you out so much you won’t even have dreams.”

Dylan picked up an apple from the center of the table and rolled it back and forth on the table’s surface. “How many days will we be in Vegas lying?”

“Two.”

“And how many until we can leave this tour?”

“Is that what you want? To get back to fighting?”

“That’s what I’m good at.” The bus made a loud noise, followed by a bump. Dylan screamed.

Elisa reached out her hand to his shoulder. “Relax, dear. It’s just a pothole.” Dylan stayed silent, and she asked, “You’ll be back home soon for a few days. Are you excited to see your parents?”

Dylan reluctantly nodded. “Sure.”

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Tommy had been speaking for over ten minutes. There were always girls watching him adoringly from the front row, and he’d make sure to wink at as many as possible while he was laughing and shouting about how he almost single-handedly won one of the greatest battles of all time.

Dylan looked down as Tommy spoke. He had heard it too many times. He always got uncomfortable when he heard Tommy’s excitement as he lied.

They were speaking at the Mirage Hotel, which they had been told before the event that, at one time, had been the venue for a circus-like show with the music of a band named The Beatles. None of them had ever heard of the group.

There were hundreds of people in the crowd.

Dylan looked up at a spotlight in the back of the arena and squinted; the lighting always made it hard to see how the audience was reacting. He imagined they were enjoying it, though.

After Tommy finished speaking, the mayor of Las Vegas got up and asked for donations to support the rebel cause. This was the part Dylan always felt worst about. No one could afford to give money; they’d have to do without things they needed if they gave even a few dollars. Just once, he wanted to stand and say it was all a lie—that the President was crazy and the cause they were supposedly fighting for didn’t even exist anymore.

When it was over and everyone started applauding, Dylan left the stage and headed for the exit.

“Dylan, wait!” Elisa called after him.

Dylan stopped and looked at her blankly, trying to come up with an excuse. “I need some rest,” he finally said.

Elisa nodded. “Sign some autographs, meet some people, and then you’ll get your rest.”

“Not tonight, Elisa.”

“Yes, tonight—and every night after. You’re under contract. You want to leave the tour, then go to your room.” She paused and added, “But don’t forget, if you leave, Tommy and Hunter go with you.”

Dylan thought for a moment and then reluctantly said, “Fine.”

“I don’t think you understand how easily all of you can be replaced.” She said sympathetically, “I like you guys, and I don’t want any of you to go, but I’ve been around politics long enough to know how these things work—just because you mean something to me doesn’t mean you mean anything to any of them.”

Dylan followed her to where they would sign autographs. A small group of protestors were waiting near the door and started yelling at Dylan when they saw him. He looked at them curiously for several seconds before several Army MP’s quickly pushed them back and arrested them.