Free The War Game by Crystal Black Page A

buses.
     
    ~~~
     
                  They handcuffed us and we boarded the bus. We sat together in the first row.
                  “Think you could outsmart us, hiding up in a roller coaster?” the man with the lop-sided face sneered.
                  Then a bus driver and another soldier stepped on. I don’t know if I have ever seen this one before, they all start to look alike after a while. Unless they’re missing an arm or have a lopsided face. He sat next from us, with his gun pointing at us the entire time. I didn’t think this soldier had it in him to shoot us but I wouldn’t doubt his nervous fingers might unlock the trigger.
                  The newer soldiers are always the nervous ones. And usually the traitors. But eventually, once they feel power, they’ll learn to crave it. Demand it.
                  I stared out the window since I hated looking at the ugly, greasy soldiers. John sat on the edge of his seat, like he was ready to be my bullet vest. I would tell him not to bother, but I didn’t want to say anything since a soldier has his way of turning around whatever you say, even if you ask for water.
                  Nothing was said to us except, “If you don’t play by the rules then you move back a space. You’re lucky you didn’t lose a turn.”
                  The ride must have taken about half an hour. I saw no other cars out on the road, if you don’t count the fleet of buses that were trailing behind us.
                  The bus stopped in front of the university, the same one I was at.
                  The hole that demolished the front door of the building I was in had been rebuilt. Weird. And there was a new hole in the building next to it. The only ones who could have rebuilt it would have to be the soldiers. Unless they pointed the guns and made the prisoners do their work for them.
                  I guessed they had to set up the pieces before they could play.
                  We waited for what seemed to be forever. We scooted as close to the window as people were being shuffled into the bus as soon as the handcuffs came off of them. They got dust and ash and blood on us. We wiped it back onto the bus. The soldier was too busy ushering in the new folks to notice. One guy, probably not even thirty yet, looked particularly demolished. I think he was trying to cough the dust and blood from out of his mouth but all that came out was this gurgling, rattling noise. He looked too tired to lean over and spit out whatever it was in his mouth.
                  Lop-sided guy went down the aisle counting people. Again, no one talked. Unless you count the occasional puking as talking. He announced to the bus driver, “Eighty-eight,” and then we waited some more.
                  “Eighty-seven,” John whispered underneath his breath. The guy had stopped gurgling.
                 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CAMP M
     
     
                  This camp already had a bunch of people in it. Bunch of coughing, mucus-spewing, dry-heaving, sick people.
                  Part of this camp had been a former strip mall. Some other newer buildings were built, so the whole camp is basically an enclosed square courtyard. Make that a cement courtyard where you can still see the faded white lines once spray-painted on the ground for the mall’s former parking lot.
                  As we got off the bus, a soldier said, “Refreshments will be served in the cafeteria.” Like we were at a party or an awards banquet or something.
                  Well, at least it ain’t a last meal.
                  So everyone off the buses went to the cafeteria (a giant white tent with rows of cheap, plastic picnic tables with the benches attached) and the refreshments were already placed on the table, waiting for