The n00b Warriors (3 page)

I lost a lot of readers when I called for the removal of the President; today I do something even more radical—I call for the removal of the entire government. It is no longer for the people.

It appears we all have become pawns to corporate greed. Perhaps it’s time for me, too, to sell my soul to the corporate structure that has apparently corrupted the country’s brightest minds.

I no longer write this blog for myself; from here on out, I don’t write for myself. Who wants to hear the thoughts of a real person?! Today, I write under the logo of a corporation that has fed our children their breakfasts for years.

Signed,

Frosted Flakes!

TAGS: President, United States, lost causes, PlayStation, Senator Robins

Level 2

The D Bus

A grenade blast shook the ground.

Trinity jumped, while Dylan stood unfazed. He pointed at what was left of the Legoland entrance sign: E-G-O. “I guess we’re here.”

“What are they blowing up?” Trinity nervously asked, looking ahead several feet where a group of teenage boys in Army uniforms was running towards the explosion.

Dylan shrugged as he studied the ride carriage that had been overturned and caught on fire when the grenade hit it.

Near the blast, a boy sat in another carriage cradling his rifle; his hair was covered in ash. “Did you get him?”

One of the uniformed teens pointed at a chicken running across the parking lot. “There it is!” He took out his sidearm and fired a single shot.

Trinity flinched and turned away when the chicken collapsed to the ground. Dylan watched as the boy who had shot it picked its lifeless body up from the legs and held it up proudly for all his friends to see. “One shot! Did you see? Those Cocos better watch out.”

A middle-aged man pulled up in a Jeep driven by a boy who looked younger than Dylan’s brother. The man looked at the chicken, then at the teens, and yelled “Stop messing around! Recruits are starting to arrive.”

The shooter tossed aside the chicken and saluted, and the Jeep disappeared into the amusement park.

As Dylan and Trinity walked past the chicken’s carcass, Dylan said, “The old guy had three stars on his uniform! I’ve never seen a three-star soldier!”

Trinity looked back at the chicken. “Why’d they have to kill it? They’re not even going to eat it.”

“It’s just a chicken.”

Trinity started to say something, but stopped as they passed the tall tree hedge and saw the inside of the parking lot for the first time. “Look at that,” she said, amazed at the sight.

The parking lot was lined with yellow Carlsbad Unified School District buses—more than Dylan knew the district even owned. Many had faded paint jobs and appeared to have been brought out of retirement for the occasion. Beyond them were tanks and rows of Army trucks. Near the park’s main gates, a medical tent had been set up; a truck was next to the tent, and men kept pulling soldiers on gurneys from it.

One of the parents who still had a car was parked in the first parking lot, near the entrance. In the backseat, a child was crying that he didn’t want to fight, while his mother tearfully pleaded with him to get out of the car. An Army patrolman was looking over the car with another officer, both trying to decide if they should confiscate the car for Army use.

“Where do we go?” Trinity asked.

Before Dylan could answer, a truck roared up behind them and honked. Dylan and Trinity both jumped as the truck passed and a group of soldiers with wet hair yelled, “Look alive!” In the bed of the truck were surfboards.

A long, rectangle table had been set up not far from the buses. Hundreds of kids were crowded around the tables in several different lines. “I guess we go there?” Dylan said, pointing at the table. As they got closer, they saw that it was a signup table. Placards on tall poles had letters, and teens lined up behind them according to their last name.

“I’ll meet you on the other side.”

Trinity, whose last name was Marquez, made her way to the M line, while Dylan lined up in the As.

Behind the table were teachers and parent volunteers; Mr. Parker, the principal of Dylan’s high school, was in charge of the A line. He was wearing flip flops and a Hawaiian t-shirt, and was teasing and joking with each of the students as they signed their name. He was the only one at the table who appeared to be in good spirits.

Dylan looked around for more familiar faces. Two lines away, he saw Jeremy Cannon, a kid from the next block over who he and his brother occasionally played ball with. Jimmy caught Dylan’s stare and motioned for Dylan to meet him on the other side of the table when he had signed in.

At the front of the line, Principal Parker joyfully asked, “And what’s your name, young man?” The principal’s chubby appearance and the cheerful tone of his voice reminded Dylan of the Santa his mother had taken his brother and him to see several years ago at a mall in San Diego.

“Dylan Austen.” When Santa asked Dylan what he wanted for Christmas, Dylan said his father, and Santa cheerfully laughed and said, “Santa doesn’t make daddies—only toys.” He then suggested Dylan ask for a gun so he could protect the family’s home from Cocos.

Principal Parker thought about the name and then asked curiously, “You’re not Chelsea Austen’s brother, are you?”

Dylan nodded.

Suddenly, the principal was not as jolly. He looked down and said, “She was the first one from our high school to die.”

Dylan nodded again. “So where should I sign?”

The principal ignored the question. “That was one heck of a battle she died in. I remember reading about it in the paper. She was a good student, too.” He paused. “She was built like a soldier—guess you’re not like her?”

Principal Parker had been the one who told Dylan about Chelsea. When he came home from school that day, the principal was in the living room with his mother, who was crying. Dylan knew when he saw him that it was either his sister or his father. He hoped that it was his father; he had never known his father, but had managed to survive okay. Chelsea, however, had helped raise him. Principal Parker put his hand on his shoulder and said, “Son, your sister is missing and probably dead.” Dylan looked at his mother, stunned, and she began to cry harder. Principal Parker stood and said, “I’m sorry for your loss. She served the cause well.”

Principal Parker now reclined in the plastic chair he was sitting in and laughed. As he laughed, his Hawaiian shirt rose up to reveal his large, hairy stomach. “No worries—war needs all kinds of people. You’ll be good at something.” He pulled his shirt back down and pointed at a piece of paper. “Just sign your name here—it basically says your life belongs to the government.”

Dylan signed his name, then tossed the pen at the principal’s stomach.

“Good boy. Now wipe away the frown and go join the rest of your friends near the buses.”

“Thank you!” Dylan said and then did his best to mockingly imitate the principal’s laugh. He never did like the principal.

“Kid, that kind of behavior will get you killed in war—you better shape up if you want to live.”

On the other side of the table, as Dylan waited for Trinity and Jeremy to join him, he looked at the soldiers near the buses. They all looked relaxed. A row of them were sunbathing in nothing but their boxer shorts.

Not far from the soldiers, the new recruits nervously waited, far less relaxed. Some played their PSPs; others listened to their iPods; most stared, unintentionally, at the buses, knowing that they would take them to their destiny.

“It’s funny,” Dylan said when Trinity joined him. “The bus that takes us to war may be the same one that took us to kindergarten.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Lighten up, Trinity.”

“You’re the one with sweaty palms.”

When Jeremy joined him, they made their way to the rest of the new recruits and quietly waited to see what would happen next. Moments later, a tall, uniformed soldier looked at his watch and walked in front of the group of gathering teens. He had a scar across his forehead, and his uniform was too big for him.

“Listen up!” He commanded with a soft voice that didn’t match his bulky body. “My name is Simpson, but you can call me God—when you signed your name back there, you signed your life away to me. The way this works is we’ll divide you up based on strength. We’ll give you a letter, and that letter will tell you who you are in this war.”

“The guy’s kind of a jerk,” Dylan said quietly, looking at Simpson’s badge. It said “Lee,” not “Simpson.”

“None of the soldiers are even over seventeen,” Trinity whispered as she scanned the crowd.

Jeremy pointed at the tent hospital. “The ones in there are.”

A group of two dozen younger soldiers joined Simpson up front, and he hollered, “Divide ‘em up!”

Dylan turned around and saw kids were still piling into the parking lot. “This is going to take all night.”

The younger men began making their way, unorganized, through the group of recruits. As they did so, they said little. Occasionally they would ask a recruit to turn around as they looked him or her over. When they had finished looking at a recruit, they would pull out a black marker and write a letter on the recruit’s forehead. Dylan tried to make out the letters but could not.

A red-haired officer came to Dylan, Trinity, and Jeremy. His eyes went immediately to Trinity’s roller bag, and then they went to Trinity. “What is that?”

“It’s my stuff.” She paused and nervously explained, “I didn’t know how much I could take.”

He smiled and said curtly, “Of course—let me help you.” He turned and yelled, “Sack! I need a sack.” A younger kid without a uniform ran up to him, carrying a small cotton bag with a drawstring; the bag was a little smaller then a backpack. The officer unzipped Trinity’s roller bag and dumped the contents onto the asphalt, then tossed the bag several feet behind him. He handed her the cotton bag and said, “You can take whatever fits.”

“You didn’t have to toss it on the ground!” Dylan objected as Trinity began stuffing things into the sack.

“Who are you? Her boyfriend?”

“No. Her friend.”

“Well, don’t worry about it—I’ll be with you in a second.”

He kicked a pair of pink underwear with his boot. “Nice undies!”

Trinity blushed, grabbed them off his boot, and quickly shoved them into her bag.

“What’s your problem?” Dylan asked. He looked over to get some help from Jeremy, but Jeremy had turned around and was pretending to ignore what was going on.

“I said I would deal with you in a second.”

Dylan took a step forward. “How about you deal with me now?”

Red Hair started to laugh and called to his left, “Hey, Simpson! Come over here, yeah.”

Simpson, who was flirting with a girl recruit, rolled his eyes and walked over.

Trinity looked up. “Dylan, it’s fine—I can take care of myself.”

“What’s up?” Simpson said.

Red Hair grabbed Dylan’s arm and tugged harshly at it. He held the arm in front of Simpson and said, “I think this piece of bony-armed wimp wants to fight me!” He dropped Dylan arm and pushed him aside.

“That true?” Simpson asked. “You want to fight him?”

“I just want him to leave my friend alone.”

“Her?” He pointed at Trinity.

Dylan nodded.

“You bugging her?” Simpson asked Red Hair.

“No, sir.”

“Guess that means you’re lying, eh, kid?”

“Look at her bag!” Dylan pointed. “He threw everything on the ground.”

“He’s not allowed to do that?” Simpson laughed and slapped Dylan across the back. “You’re in the Army now—superior officers own you. Understood?”