The n00b Warriors (8 page)

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Come on! The patties are shaped like Mickey’s head.”

Dylan nodded. Lyle explained, “Leave ‘em be. You remember how it was when you had your first kill—probably didn’t eat for a week.”

Goofy nodded, “But not by choice. We were surrounded by Cocos for two days and didn’t have food.”

Dylan, Trinity, and Hunter left Lyle and his friend and found a small table in front of Mickey Mouse’s house, still too overwhelmed to speak. In silence, they watched soldiers celebrating the slaughter of the final Coco Puff holdouts.

Loud music crackled through small speakers, and all of the rides had been turned on. Huge soldiers crammed into little-kid ride carriages, several girls were using the top of Donald Duck’s houseboat as a dance floor, and the “Toon” portion of the sign that said “Toontown” had been replaced with a banner that said “Rebel.”

It reminded Dylan of the block parties that used to happen near his house. In the early years of the war, there was one every month—to celebrate new men, and later women, going off to fight. As Dylan got older, and fewer people returned home from fighting, the parties got less frequent until they finally stopped altogether. At one time, the neighborhood had been banded closely together, but in the past five years, the friendliness had stopped. Food supplies had decreased, and it was hard to be friendly to the person you were competing with for food.

After finishing his burger, Lyle came over to them holding a large cup. “Try it,” he offered, “it helps you forget—we call it Mickey Juice.”

Dylan shook his head.

Lyle shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m off to the officer’s quarter—if you change your mind, there’s plenty of juice in Mickey’s house.”

Thirty minutes later, a small go-cart loudly made its way into Toontown, driven by a Mexican soldier with a patch over his right eye. He drove recklessly fast, narrowly missing hitting several people.

One-Eye stopped at the barbeques and appeared to be asking questions. Finally, someone pointed at Dylan, and he approached where Dylan was sitting with Hunter and Trinity. He studied each of them carefully with his eye, then asked, “You’re Dylan from Company D, right?”

Dylan nodded.

“Come with me.”

“Where to?”

“You’ll see.”

Dylan turned helplessly to Trinity . “Just wait for me, okay?”

He followed One-Eye to the go-cart, and the man quickly maneuvered the small car out of the land.

“Some fight your men put up,” the soldier hollered over the loud gas engine.

Dylan nodded and flinched as One-Eye swerved to avoid hitting a small girl who was carrying several drinks.

The soldier pulled some beef jerky from a pack hanging on the back of his seat and said, “I’ve fought a few battles, but never actually been pinned down—it must have been quite a rush.” He paused and chewed the jerky as he reflected, and then added, “I was in a simulator once in training that had us pinned down—ran the same module twenty times, and I died every single time. I imagine it would be different results in real life, though.”

Dylan was not listening to the man. They were not far from where the battle had been, and he couldn’t help but stare at the scene with both terror and curiosity: bodies still lay on the cement, waiting to be carried away, and ammunition shells were scattered everywhere. Heavily armed men stood on the merry-go-round as it went in a circle playing its carnival music—each of them was drinking, laughing, and seemed to be enjoying the morbid scene. One-Eye saluted them, but they did not salute back.

The man pointed at his eye patch and announced, “Didn’t get this from battle, though—in case you’re wondering. Got bored one night and had a pencil fight with a buddy of mine—called me a Mexican spy.” He smiled and added, “Guess things got carried away, right?!”

“Must have been some fight,” Dylan mumbled.

One-Eye stopped the go-cart at the entrance of the Monorail. “Let’s go,” he said, getting out of the car and leading Dylan up the escalator.

“Wait here,” he instructed on the loading platform. He turned and started to walk away, but stopped before reaching the escalator. “I hope I get the chance to fight with you sometime.” He saluted, but Dylan did not salute back.

Dylan walked to the edge of the platform and look at what remained of Autopia. Much of the small highway that miniature cars used to travel on had been blasted away. A scarecrow-like doll sat on a post at the entrance, and its head was full of bullets; the word “Coco” was written in red pen all over the hands and legs.

He saw the Monorail enter the park and turned to face it. As it slowly pulled into the station, he looked curiously into each car. The seats had all been torn out. The first car had a long dining table, where officers were laughing and eating. The next car was full of TVs and videogames, and the last few cars were lounges.

Lyle appeared in the doorway of the final car and hollered, “Over here, Dylan!” He had taken off his uniform and was now wearing jeans, a tank top, and a hat that had the “Halo Universe” logo.

Inside the Monorail, Lyle sat behind a large oak desk and motioned for Dylan to sit in the chair in front of the desk. As he did so, Dylan noticed Hunter’s PSP on top of the desk next to a signed photograph of the President.

“Cigar?” Lyle offered, pulling a box from the drawer and lighting one for himself.

“No, thanks.”

“They taste terrible, but they’ll make you look older and help you earn respect.”

Lyle saw Dylan looking at the photo of the President and explained, “Last year, when the President lived in the park for a bit, they had this car converted into the Oval Office. They said he would ride around the park with his head hanging out the window like some kind of dog or something. One of the generals said he’s completely insane—I don’t believe him, though—strong leadership is the only reason we’re winning this war.”

Dylan looked at the photo of the President and asked, “Did he have that signed photo of himself when he lived here?” There was a picture of the President in the halls of Dylan’s school, but Dylan knew little about him. Last year, a Coco airplane had dropped propaganda leaflets from the air. The mayor forbade anyone to read them, but Dylan found one in his backyard, and it said the rebel President had been dead for years and the entire government was controlled by his cabinet and on the verge of collapse.

“How should I know that?”

“Are we really winning the war?”

Lyle nodded wildly. “Whole thing will be over by Christmas.” He stood up and walked to a miniature pool table at the front of the car and set up the balls. “You play?”

Dylan shook his head.

“Me neither, but how hard can it be, right?”

“I guess.”

Lyle opened a bottle of wine and said after drinking half of it, “Don’t just stand around looking like a fool. Get over here and play with me. This is what adults do when they have serious conversations. They shoot pool, so the serious stuff doesn’t sound as serious.”

Dylan walked to the table. “Is this what this is, then? A serious conversation?”

Lyle looked at Dylan out of the corner of his eye, then slapped him on the shoulder with a laugh that Dylan thought sounded less confident than usual. “Relax! Just wanted to talk to you, is all.” Lyle picked up a shotgun that was leaning against the table and used it to break the rack. He handed the gun to Dylan and said, “I guess it’s your turn, right?”

Before Dylan made any reply, Lyle glared down at the pool table and asked abruptly, “What was it like?”

“What?”

“To kill.”

Dylan blinked. “It was
—
I don’t know. Numbing, I guess. I didn’t have time to dwell on it—I was just trying to live.”

“I figured as much,” Lyle said quietly. He looked over at a Donald Duck head in the corner of the room. “Don’t spread this around, but I’ve never done it, myself.”

“Killed?”

Lyle nodded. He strode to the Donald head and put it on, then flopped down on a giant beanbag near the pool table.

“What about today? That couple you shot?”

“I mean in a battle. I’ve never been in battle.”

Dylan looked at him quizzically.

Lyle took the mask off long enough to take another sip from the wine bottle, then put it back on.

“That’s the advantage of my position—I send the company out, but I don’t fight. I just have to figure out the best place to send you. I’ve played it plenty of times in the video games,” his voice got a bit louder, “so I know I’ll be ready if I have to—I’d just prefer to avoid it for now.”

“But you didn’t send us anywhere,” Dylan argued. “How did you know we’d be by the merry-go-round?”

“Where else would you go? You’re kids—who doesn’t like a ride?”

A sickening thought hit Dylan. “Did you turn it on?”

“Not me personally. It was all done remotely. We had intel that there was movement in that region, and we suspected they were staked out in the Peter Pan ride, so we sent you in. We had to do something to lure them out—you were the bait.”

Dylan felt like he’d been punched in the stomach again. “Some of the kids that died weren’t even armed.”

“That’s war, my lad.” Lyle tossed the wine to Dylan. “Take some.”

Dylan managed to catch the bottle but shook his head, furious.

“Relax, it’s apple cider—I’m not the drunk you think I am. It’s all an act—that’s all anything is in this war—all an act. Play the right role and you just may live.” Lyle took the Donald head off, looking irritated. “You’re a hero, Dylan! The hero of Disneyland! Sometimes you got to let a few people die to succeed—war’s a real bitch that way.” His face relaxed, and he threw the mask at Dylan with a laugh. “It’s easier when you’re hiding behind a mask. Try it on.”

Lyle stood up again and smacked several of the pool balls with his hand, then said, “I can’t concentrate on playing games right now—guess I’m just not ready for these adult conversations, right?” He walked back to the desk, pulled a remote from the drawer, and pointed it behind Dylan at a painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware. The painting turned to an animated Asian cartoon. “The problem with war is, after a bloody day, it’s hard to concentrate on what’s on TV, but it’s only after a big fight that you get to watch TV.”

When Dylan didn’t respond, Lyle hurried on, “I haven’t been able to enjoy anything on the tube for weeks—months. Just once, I’d like to come in one of these rooms after a long day of killing and spread out on the bed and enjoy what I’m watching. I don’t even laugh at the funny commercials, soldier—that’s how bad it is.” He turned to Dylan, talking so fast that Dylan thought it was probably impossible for his brain to catch up. “You must have had TV were you came from. Tell me about it—what do you like on TV?”

Dylan looked at his feet, then finally shrugged and muttered, “The Coco Puffs knocked out satellite and antenna signals almost two years ago.”

“That’s a shame—a damn shame, soldier. What about before that?”

Dylan thought back. “The last thing I watched was a rerun of
The Cosby Show
.”

Lyle nodded. “Cosby—now there’s a funny man.”
      
He stood and walked clumsily to where Dylan was standing and rested his arm on his shoulder. “You fought well today, soldier.”

Dylan didn’t speak.

“There’s a promotion coming your way for the wisdom you showed today—comes at my personal recommendation. Get some rest. There’ll be war orders tomorrow.”

“Already?”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, kid—nothing.”

Lyle pushed a button on the desk, opening the Monorail door. He pointed at it, and Dylan walked out. As the doors started to shut, he heard Lyle say, “I’m gonna puke.”

The entrance of Toontown was blocked by two soldiers playing hacky-sack when Dylan returned. He tried to go around them, but one of the soldiers said, “Toontown’s closed—they’re getting ready for a firework show.”

“My friends are in there.”

“Not anymore—it’s been cleared out.” The soldier looked past Dylan and said, “Probably find ‘em up at Main Street. That’s where the party went.”