The n00b Warriors (17 page)

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An air raid siren woke Dylan up. From his sleeping bag, he opened his eyes in time to see a large bomber with a tail of black smoke coming from its wing flying low over his head. It was heading downward towards the mountains in a last-ditch effort not to crash.

He continued to watch as the bomb bay doors opened and released their load.

The bombs hit several hundred feet away and shook the ground. Dylan looked at the rest of his company; most of them were still sleeping, and the rest were doing their best to ignore the blaring sirens.

In the two days they had been back at camp, the sirens had become a common occurrence, and everyone knew the best thing to do was ignore them since there was nothing they could do to avoid what was coming. They would either die or not die—their fate was determined by chance.

Dylan got dressed after the sirens stopped and found someone to give him a ride into Seattle. The night before, he had received a note from Tommy telling him to meet him there for a conference at the company’s Seattle headquarters.

The driver was a medic named Pollack. He had long black hair that he parted down the middle and glasses that were too big for him and were constantly sliding down his nose. He was one of the few qualified medics the Army had in Washington. He was 25 and had been in his first year at Georgetown Medical School when he was forcefully recruited three years ago. He had been in Washington for almost a year now, which meant he had lived longer than 80% of everyone else stationed in the area.

Like all soldiers in Washington, Pollack had a secret to living. “Beans,” he explained as they sped down the empty highway. “Eat plenty of beans. Best advice I can give you.”

“Beans?”

“Beans,” Pollack said matter-of-factly, rolling down his window. “They’re full of fiber—they’re all you need for a properly nourished meal.”

“I didn’t know about that.”

“There’s all kinds of beans you can have. Cold beans, warm beans, beans with meat, spicy beans, beans with bacon—endless possibilities.”

“I’m sure there are,” Dylan replied, nervously watching the road. He felt more uneasy the closer they got. It was the closest he had been so far to the main battleground. The heaviest fighting was on the northern borders of Seattle; the company headquarters were in the south of the city.

“When your men head out for your first rotation,” Pollack continued, “you make sure and get as much as will fit in your bags. And stuff them in your pockets while you’re at it.”

Dylan nodded, barely aware the medic had spoken again.

They crossed the Lake Washington Bridge and entered a new world. In Redmond, there was plenty of devastation, but it was mostly still intact; it was more abandoned than destroyed. Seattle was a pile of ruins. Few buildings had been left standing. Most had been bombed and then partially rebuilt for shelter.

They passed a wounded man on the road’s shoulder. He yelled for them to stop, but Pollack just kept driving.

“Shouldn’t we stop?”

“Can’t help every wounded man I see, now can I?” Pollack said, adjusting his glasses.

Dylan shrugged uncomfortably.

Pollack laughed. “When you start fighting, don’t you get shot unless it goes somewhere that’ll kill you quick. Anytime you get shot, anywhere it goes—that bullet’s going to kill you. There’s not enough docs up here to treat you, and you’ll end up dying a slow death if you’re stuck in the trench.”

Dylan looked at him in disbelief.

“You’ll know what I’m talking about when you see it,” Pollack said as he turned down a street with dozens of bombed buildings. “This one guy—he got shot in the foot—but he was stuck on the lines with no relief. He kept on fighting, and of course it got infected. One of his buddies told him he’d put a tourniquet on him, but he refused because he didn’t want to lose his foot. The fighting was too intense for anyone to get out there. He eventually died from that bullet.”

Dylan avoided eye contact with Pollack and looked out the window instead; he didn’t want him to know he was afraid.

“Don’t worry, though. You’re an officer now. They take a little better care of their officers.”

Dylan continued to look around at the remains of the city, amazed. “You know those old war movies they used to show us in school? That’s what this feels like—it doesn’t feel real. Seems like one big movie set.”

A bomb came soaring over the car and exploded so close that Pollack had to swerve. “Now does it feel real?” he asked with a laugh. He pulled into a large building whose wall said in black paint, “Beacon Hill Reservoir.” He pulled near the front entrance and said, “Here’s your stop.”

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Dylan handed his papers to an elderly woman sitting behind two stacked crates that had a radio on top and a picture frame with no picture. The room was large, but barren. A single dead plant near the doors was the only decoration. The woman adjusted her glasses and studied the note, then looked up at Dylan and said, “You’re the one who almost killed Tommy for a chance to play a Nintendo?”

Dylan nodded.

“Shame you didn’t kill him. They probably would have made you a general.” She stared at Dylan for a while longer before finally announcing, “Take the stairs to the second floor. Tommy’s through the second door on your left.”

Dylan found the room with no problem. It was large and full of beanbags and stacks of soda cans and the smell of old garbage. It seemed like what a room would look like if you were a child and your mother never yelled at you to clean things up—which, Dylan figured, was exactly what the room was.

A picture of the rebel President hung on the wall next to Dylan. It was old and torn in several places. Next to it was a burnt rebel flag. Framed above both things was a letter that was in Spanish; Dylan wondered if it was the treaty the rebels had signed with Mexico. It suddenly struck him as odd how rare it was to see any of these symbols elsewhere: they fought for rebels, and yet there were few references to the rebel cause anywhere except in offices most people would never see. Even the Frosted Flake uniforms did not bear the rebel flag; they had the original flag—the American one.

Tommy was in the back corner of the room, studying a large map that hung on the wall and puffing on a fake pipe that blew bubbles. The map was marked in several places with the names of various companies. Without turning, Tommy motioned Dylan to join him as he entered the room.

He began talking when Dylan reached him in front of the map. “Last night, we came under some surprise heavy firing. We have holes all over our lines.” He indicated several red circles on the map. “Those bastards really hit us hard. They achieved total surprise.”

Tommy rested his small hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “I’m putting Company D in to fill the holes.” He paused and added with sincere regret, “I’m sorry.”

“We aren’t ready,” Dylan protested. “I don’t even know my men yet, and we haven’t trained at all as a company. Give us a couple more days.”

Tommy nodded sympathetically and folded his arms. “Let me tell you something about war, Dylan. You’re never ready for it. You can go out and practice firing your weapon every day. You can run your men until they feel no pain. You can give them drills, and you can give them exercises. But the simple fact is, nothing prepares you for war. When the firing starts—when you start feeling the bullets barely miss your head—when you hear the cries of your dying buddy next to you—when that starts to happen and you don’t freeze and piss your pants, then you’re not human. Nothing can prepare your men for what they’re about to experience, and when they experience it and live, they’ll be ready to fight again.”

Dylan was quiet. It was the first time he’d seen a side of Tommy that appeared to have knowledge of what combat was.

“Get your men ready. You move out at midnight tonight.” Tommy walked to one of the boarded-up windows and stared at it like he could see outside; he reflected several seconds before finally saying, “Good luck.”

Dylan started to leave, but paused at the door to tell Tommy thanks. As he turned, he saw Tommy on all fours, digging through a box and mumbling to himself, “Where the heck did I leave my PSP?!”

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Hunter was waiting for Dylan when he returned. Hunter asked him what had happened, but Dylan ignored him. He went straight to the rest of the company, most of whom were playing touch football on the golf course.

Dylan watched the game with remorse at what he’d have to tell all those people. He caught Trinity looking at him, a concerned expression on her pretty face. Before she could ask him what was wrong, he shouted in an authoritative tone that made Hunter start, “Company meeting in five minutes.”

When everyone had gathered, Dylan studied each of them. He was their leader. They stared back—most with fearful eyes. He had yet to prove himself to most of them, and he knew that many of them had doubts he’d be able to lead them at all—thanks, in part, to Johnny spreading rumors.

“Alright, listen up,” Dylan began. “Last night, the front line took some heavy shelling. Company D has been called in early for its rotation to the front. We leave at midnight tonight.” He paused, fighting the urge to cry. He did his best to be strong, but his voice shook as he added, “If you have parents, wives, loved ones, then it’s time to write letters. Give them something to remember you by.” He straightened up and said, confident and proud like the leader he was trying so hard to be, “Dismissed.”

As his stunned company wandered off, Dylan found a quiet place and studied the map of the front lines that Tommy had given him. They would be positioned just over Union Bay, near what had at one time been the University of Washington. He memorized landmarks, positions of other companies. He memorized where there was infantry, where there were snipers, where there were medic stations. He memorized places they could retreat to for safety and the straightest paths to charge the enemies. The front line stretched across Seattle; their only job was to hold the position and make sure the lines didn’t get pushed back any further.

He thought about writing to his father and telling him what he had become, and then to his mother to tell her not to worry. But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled out the notes he had made on each of his men the day before.

There was Jesse from San Francisco. He had just turned 14. He had a twin brother who was fighting east somewhere. They were the youngest in the family. They had two older sisters who had gone off and fought and hadn’t written home in a year. His mom thought they might be alive, but everyone else knew otherwise. Jesse had been sent with a bunch of other men from the bay area right to Washington, and had yet to see action.

There was Graham from Fresno. He was 13 and boasted to everyone that he knew how to shoot a gun and had killed a Coco Puff spy. He was an only child and had lived with his grandparents. His parents had died, but not in war. Dylan suspected his bravado was just a front to cope with war. Graham had never seen action.

There was Conner from Reno. He had just turned 13 when he was recruited. He was the oldest of five other brothers. Both his parents were still alive, and neither had seen action. His dad had a medical condition that got him out of service.