Free Walking Ghost Phase by D. C. Daugherty Page B

the mirrorless room, where more than fifty barbers waded in knee-high piles of brown, black, blond and red hair. As they circled their victims, the sound of faint sobs managed to overcome the unending buzz of electric clippers. Near the back, a tattooed man waved at her, and she approached him, his smile friendly but impersonal. Emily sat , and the barber spun the chair. A bald-headed girl across from her cried while staring at the chunk of red hair in her cupped hands.
    “ Now, little lady,” the barber said, “what can I do for you?” The shears roared to life in a spine-tingling hum.
    “ Take care of my split ends?” Sarah would be proud.
    “ Not a problem.” The barber pressed the blade against Emily's scalp. His shears gurgled and sputtered, digging a clean path across her head as he sifted the waterfall of hair between his fingers and let it float before her eyes. Hundreds if not thousands of dollars spent on shampoos and conditioners, visits to her favorite stylist, years of patience, but a single man wiped away any trace of that aspect of her life in a span of thirty seconds. “Split ends taken care of,” the barber said. “That'll be forty dollars.” He laughed, shoved her in the back and ejected her from his chair. “Next.”
    Emily took the walk of shame past the dreadful eyes of waiting soldiers. Once she managed to stop scratching her scalp, she found a sign to the mess hall and fell in behind a group of baldheads. After arriving, she stopped near the door. Rectangular tables and benches covered almost every inch of space in the stadium-sized mess hall. MPs patrolled the outer walls while a group of officers kept a watchful eye from a distant, lonely table. Emily scanned the crowd for any of the four people she knew. Bald head , she thought. Bald head. Another bald head. Another bald head. Wait! Never mind, it's just a bald head.
    “ Stop standing around,” a deep voice behind her said. Someone bumped her forward, and she stumbled into the line of waiting-to-be-fed soldiers.
    Emily grabbed silverware and a plastic cup, placed them on the metal tray and slid it across the rails. The server, a hunched over, wrinkled woman whose hairnet held the strands of gray flat against her head, jabbed an oversized spoon into the only entrée on the menu—white goo. Emily's stomach growled, begging for anything to end the pain of a three-day fast, until she examined the pile of mush on her tray. The goo spread out from the effects of gravity, and the stench of vomit crawled up her nostrils. “Enjoy,” the woman said, and cackled.
    Emily slouched as she moved past full tables of bruised soldiers, their swollen eyes focusing only on their plates. They whispered amongst one another, discussing things Emily didn't understand: command turns, insertion, the darkness. She tried to listen, but the farther she walked, the more their voices faded beneath a growing laughter. She didn't notice she had left their territory until the sound became too much to ignore. Sitting at the tables around her now, raucous soldiers, who could have been models with their impeccable skin, hooted, yelled and pointed at the bruise-faced soldiers. She walked faster.
    Then a sting ripped across the back of her thigh, and a deafening pop echoed through the mess hall. She thrust her hips forward, squealing loud enough to grab the attention of everyone near her. The pile of slop slid from one side of the tray to the other as she tried to keep it from splattering on the floor. “Yeah, you shake it, girl,” someone shouted. Soldiers cawed with laughter.
    She steadied the plate, lowered her head and continued toward the backmost table. This place was obviously meant for her, the soldiers neither bruised nor standing out with obnoxious behavior. The new recruits had a little kids ' table.
    Before she sat, a tray clanged down beside her. “Ma'am,” Damon said.
    She pressed her arms against her body, fighting the urge to hug him. “Hey,