Immolation: An Altered Realms Prequel Novel Page 2

  "If you need anything, call me. No matter what you decide. I've seen quite a few people in your situation recently." He paused, turning his back on Donte, "My brother just got shipped off to Russia. They say it's even worse than Brazil."

  As the tall, falsely tan man walked out the door, he raised his hand in a weak excuse for a wave goodbye. The sight did little to comfort Donte, as he laid in bed thinking about what he had just signed. He was in no condition to read the contracts, but he was certain that it was all boilerplate non-disclosure and a reinstatement of the confidentiality contract he signed when joining up. There was little he could do about it anyway, he signed the papers and needed to rest. Tired, on drugs, and barely able to think, he turned on the projector in his small room and passed out.

  Again, he saw his life before being shipped out. Sean, his mom, his brother, and a fuzzy image of his father all played out before him like a shitty low-budget reality television show. He was laughing, crying, and smiling. At some point he woke up screaming. He didn't know why or how long he had been thrashing in his bed. A moment later a nurse rushed in, strapped him to his bed, and upped the dosage on his painkillers. In his fugue, he assumed she was just another part of his dreams. With a new set of opiates rushing into his system, he fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

  For three days, Donte laid in his bed. He would wake up unable to remember the events of the past week clearly, and reach for the small red button on his IV to dose himself with painkillers. No longer strapped down, he would get up and make his way to the restroom on his new leg. Then he would stare blankly at his small packet and try to understand what was wrong. Every day he would ask to see his friend, only to be told that he was gone. Each time he would scream and cry, refusing to believe it was all real. Deep down he knew it was true, his friend was gone. His new leg was proof. Yet his mind would not allow him to hold onto the information. So he stared at his papers and clicked his button, while different doctors and nurses checked on him throughout the day.

  His brother and father never called, never visited. He wondered if they even knew what was going on. Donte tried to call several times, each ending with the same result. As he dialed their numbers, he would forget what he was doing, or freeze in panic, like his life was in danger. Trembling overtook his hands, his breathing grew heavy, and he hung up. Talking to them felt like the wrong thing to do. He had to deal with his issues on his own. Each night he struggled to sleep, relying on his beautiful red button to send him off to the void.

  On the fourth day, his doctor walked in with her husband, Sergeant Anders. They asked how he was doing, told him that it wasn't his fault and that everything would get back to normal. She urged him to go to counseling, he ordered him to. Donte sighed, his sergeant's attempt at comedy was appreciated, but unsuccessful. The surly, middle-aged, dark-skinned man had absolutely no authority over medical decisions, but it didn't stop him from being right. Donte's will was gone. If his nurse wasn't a beautiful Latin queen he probably would have given up on getting out of bed and pissed himself. The sight of a beautiful woman in scrubs was really the only reason he had to get up. His new leg was nowhere near responsive enough, his best friend was gone, and his family was nowhere to be seen. He couldn't even gather the will to call them and yell at them for not showing up.

  For a long while, Donte sat and thought about what he had to look forward to, forgetting that two people who actually cared about him were still sitting in the room. Could he realistically go back to doing what he did before, even if physically capable? Would he be able to handle it? As he laid in his bed thinking about what his life would look like, he felt heavy. The weight of the world was too much to bear, and he broke. In front of the one man he never wanted to disappoint, he shattered into a thousand pieces and wept.

  "I'm so sorry. I couldn't do anything. Fuck, man. I'm so sorry." He cried, unsure of who he was talking to. "I was right there, but I couldn't do anything. I fucking froze, man. Just froze."

  As Donte covered his face, snot, and tears pooling in his palms, Anders spoke, "I don't know who you're talking to, Donte, but you have something wrong." He said, his voice deep, and commanding, yet reassuring, "You saved my life, the lives of four members of our unit, and the ambassador. You're a goddamn hero. With a medal to prove it."

  "Bullshit!" Donte screamed, "You had to carry my ass behind that building. I didn't do shit."

  "Oh, son. You really don't remember, do you?" The words of his sergeant, his mentor, came out concerned, "You dragged me to that building. I had a hole in my thigh the size of a golf ball. You had a broken fucking ankle and you dragged my ass behind a building to patch me up. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be here right now. None of us would." As he talked, the six-foot-four man stood from his chair and placed his hand on Donte's back. "Now, I don't know how you remember things, but Sean was not your fault. Those mother fuckers shot him in the chest with a mag-rifle. Nothing would have helped."

  "I should have done something. I should have seen it coming. Something was off."

  "No one saw it coming. You are not to blame for this. They were using our ID signature. They knew our fucking assignments, call signs, and orders. We're lucky to be here. Those of us who still are, have you to thank for that. I don't know what else to tell you, son. You need to see someone, get this shit worked out. Because what you think happened and what actually did are two completely different things, and I can't lose you to this shit too. If that paper you keep staring at is an offer for help, take it. Because I've seen what happens to people who don't. You do not want to end up there. Hell, you keep clicking that button, and it's not even hooked up to anything anymore."

  At the man's word, Donte looked down, following the off-white line from his favorite button towards the IV. His CO was right. Nothing was connected. At some point, one of the nurses must have disconnected it. Pain swept over him like hot coals. His muscles tensed as if they were on fire. The illusion broke, and so did he. Every muscle in Donte’s body shook uncontrollably as his thumb hammered down on the disconnected button. Memories of what really happened that day flooded into his mind like water from a burst dam.

  He had saved his sergeant and ambassador, but he failed to save his friend. The one person who knew him, understood him, was gone. There was nothing he could do about it. Even though he knew that there was nothing he could do, he refused to forgive himself for something outside of his control. Letting out a deep breath, Sergeant Anders stood, taking the button from Donte’s hand.

  The stern man's voice cracked at the sight of one of his men, laying in bed physically whole, but mentally shattered. “You’re not going to get any more of this. You don’t need it.”

  Adding to her husband’s words, the doctor said, “Your legs and body are fine. We will be releasing you later tonight or tomorrow morning. Take a day or two off, but make sure you come back for physical therapy and counseling. You’re going to need it.”

  Before walking out the door, Sergeant Anders squeezed Donte’s shoulder, forcing the broken man to look him in the eyes, “Promise me you’ll get help, son. And remember, you have people who care about you. We are always going to be here for you.”

  Nodding at the man's words, Donte closed and wiped his eyes before turning to look out his window. He hated feeling weak. To him, his emotions and pain were a disease. He needed to be strong, to make it on his own. As the two left his room, he reached out for his button one last time only to find it gone. Anders had taken it with him.

  The next morning, as he was wheeled out of the hospital, Donte stared blankly at the sterile white walls. Behind the nurse's station, next to charts, hung ridiculous posters of cats and dogs playing in fields. Snapshots of beautiful scenery covered by inspirational quotes sat next to medical charts and schedules. That was where he spent most of his time before being shipped out, smiling and chatting up fellow nurses. He wondered if he would ever be able to go back to that way of life. Forcing himself to smile, he waved at an orderly as he roll
ed past their cluttered desk.

  As the quiet automatic doors of the hospital's entrance opened, a rush of warm, humid air blew across Donte’s skin. Reflections of the bright morning sky glinted off of the mirror-like polish of a silver driverless car, momentarily blinding him. After his eyes adjusted to natural light and the man pushing his chair locked its wheels, Donte stood. The freshly grown skin on his new leg stretched, tugging along the nearly invisible scar at the end of his knee. There was no pain, only discomfort that reminded him of his false limb.

  Empty autonomous vehicles flew by, the roads nearly empty in UWG occupied Sau Paulo. The former tourist destination had become a ghost town at the start of the occupation. War has a way of turning a beautiful metropolis into a wasteland. No matter what the United World Government said, they were at war. The entire army of Brazil was not a terrorist organization. Lost in his mind, Donte stared out of his window as ads for some new energy drink played in the background. Before long the electric motors of the car hummed, recharging as the vehicle pulled up to his new temporary home. The doors opened as a perky recorded voice thanked him for his service.

  Before him was a three-story structure, surrounded by rapidly built guard posts and fortifications. Looking over the hotel, turned outpatient barracks, Donte sighed. He hated dorms, especially when he had to share a room with someone he didn’t know. After scanning his ID tag at the gate, the guards waved him on. One of the four men, Private Hill, showed him to his room in a welcome silence. As the man opened the door, Donte noticed a scar on the man's wrist and a noticeable change in skin tone.

  Catching Don’s confused look the tall dark-skinned private nodded, “It’s a prosthetic. Works just like the old one, though.” At the man's words Donte looked to his own leg, reaching for it. Before he could speak, Hill continued with compassion in his voice, “New leg?”

  “Yeah. How could you tell?”

  “It’s the way you walk. Well that, and the fact that a medical transport dropped you off at the recovery center.” After a short pause the man looked Donte in the eyes, “It gets better, trust me. You can trust Doctor Lee. She knows her shit.”

  “Doctor Lee?”

  “She’s the shrink. Lives here in the outpatient dorms, gives an assessment on whether you can return to work or not. Talk to her, it helps. She’s good people.” Private Hill said, before turning and heading down the long hallway, “If you need anything, hit me up. I’m in room 203.”

  Pulling his key card from its slot in the lock, Donte went into his room. Everything he had in his locker in Campinas had already been sent over. He found his laptop, phone, and clothes in a crate at the foot of his bed. Inside was a new uniform. Pulling the cover from its plastic wrapping, he tested the fit. The brim of the hat was short, and its band felt snug on his head. Grey pixelated markings blended into tan, brown, and muted green splotches, making the camouflage perfect for urban warfare. The sight of the item brought back painful memories.

  A door slamming in the distance made his muscles tense as he threw the cover across the room. For hours Donte paced in his room, trying to get used to his new appendage. Every movement felt stiff, uncoordinated. His skin grafts healed nearly instantly, but the elasticity of the new skin and false flesh was nothing like natural tissue. Phantom pains crept up from his toes as each hydrophilic lever pushed back from the floor, propelling him forward. All he could think about was his button, and how badly he needed a drink. How badly he needed to be anywhere but in a dimly lit room alone.

  As the day came to an end, Donte’s pacing was interrupted by a quick knock at his door. Not a second later, the door opened to show two people. One was a man in a uniform almost exactly like the one in his wooden footlocker, the other was a slender olive-skinned female in casual clothes. She wore tight-fitting jeans, and a T-shirt with a band logo on it. On her chest, next to a flying P with lightning bolts on either side, was a nametag. Dr. Lee.

  “Sup, you must be the new guy.” The man said, making his way to one of the two closets in the room.

  “Ah, Mister Esperanza, I see you’ve settled in nicely.” The homey-looking doctor followed in a chipper tone. “How are you finding your new accommodations?”

  Startled, Donte’s mind went blank as he shouted, “Good. Everything’s fine, ma’am. You can call me Don, ma’am.” As a force of habit, he stood at attention, his false leg wavering slightly as he straightened.

  “No need for formality, Don. I’m a civilian doctor,” She said, her accent distinctly Bostonian. “Please, think of me as a friend. My name is Annabell, but you can call me Ann.”

  Chapter 3

  For weeks Donte’s schedule stayed the same. He would eat breakfast, visit with Ann, take a medical transport to a physical rehabilitation center, eat lunch, visit with Ann, then go home and eat dinner alone. His roommate, Jeff, was almost never home. When he was, the two rarely spoke more than four words to each other. In nearly a month, all Donte had learned was that Private Baker was from Montana, he liked Pickle Barrel sandwiches, loved hunting, and had an artificial lung made using technology that could 3D print organs.

  At first, Donte assumed that the man's quiet demeanor was caused by his injury. As the man packed his bags and went back into active duty, Donte found that Baker was just quiet. While questioning Ann about Jeff, Donte learned more of the man's injury. A few weeks before his own encounter with the rebels, Jeff’s unit was ambushed while establishing a forward operating base near Goiânia. Like Donte, most of Jeff’s unit was wiped out. The quiet soldier had been offered the same deal as Donte, but refused outright. Instead, he asked to undergo standard rehab and be sent back into active duty.

  Donte could understand why his roommate wanted to get back into action. Sitting in his room, doing light work, struggling through physical therapy, and talking to Ann was helping, but getting back at those who had taken his best friend sounded like a wonderful idea. Thinking about picking up a weapon again made Donte shake uncontrollably. He knew he would not be able to get back in the field, not yet.

  The day after Jeff left, Donte sat in his room staring at the walls. Without the other man to occupy space, the spartan dorm felt more like a prison. The walls were empty, everything was uniform, and he had no one to remind him that he was not alone. While his former roommate did little to comfort him, he was a constant reminder that his situation was not the end of the world. The man's quiet resolve let Donte know that life moved on, whether he wanted it to or not. By mid-day, he had missed breakfast. The next thing he failed to attend was his appointment with Ann.

  Knowing they would come looking for him, Donte got out of bed. After getting dressed, he grabbed a few snack bars and a book from his trunk then left. He knew he had no way to get off base, unless he was in a medical transport or had orders, but he had to do something different. The monotony was killing him. Rather than trying to escape, he simply walked around his building until he found a small corridor between two units. It was dimly lit and quiet. Perfect, he thought, staring at a stool surrounded by discarded nicotine vape pods.

  For hours he sat, flipping through the pages of Transcend Online by Duke Limilenko, a LitRPG novel about a group of friends playing a VRMMORPG. It was over twenty years old, but was relatively close to what he imagined it would be like if he were to take Ian’s offer. Full immersion Virtual Reality was new, and next to nothing had been released except for testimonials about how amazing it was. Entarra Online was the only game that utilized the technology, outside of military training simulations being held in private servers. The experience was said to mirror reality in every way, except for the adjustable settings for pain and trauma.

  While reading through the pages of his book, he thought about what it would be like to live life in another world. He thought of what a dreamless night of sleep would be like, as flashes of violence raced through his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could not erase what happened. Talking to Ann helped a lot, but it was not a cure. She spoke of immersion therapy, and h
ow effective it was. To her, the ability to adjust a patient's neurological response to trauma in real-time was the closest thing to a cure for mental health issues that Humans had. The woman had become more of a friend than a doctor, but she still urged him to consider the offer of digital therapy. Noticing his hand shaking, Donte broke from his thoughts and looked down at his book. He stopped at a scene where a group of players were forced into slavery, so some random asshole could gain power.

  The pages depicted men and women being beaten, tortured, and a large-scale battle between a town and the self-proclaimed slaver king’s army. While Donte knew the slaver king failed, he broke down and wept. His tears had nothing to do with the book, they fell because the person who gave him the book was no longer there. Thoughts of Sean flooded back to him, they had read this book together. His friend had introduced him to LitRPG, giving him stacks of paperback books. Unable to control himself, Donte let the book fall to the dusty street of the alleyway. Looking up, he saw a ladder to the roof.

  Cool steel pressed into his palms as he climbed, his mind blank. He knew he had to escape, but did not know if some weird digital world would be enough. After a few minutes, Donte climbed the outside of a cage that was supposed to prevent anyone without a key access to the roof of the tall barracks. It had been bent back, someone had been there before. As he pulled himself onto the flat roof, he saw a set of lounge chairs and a table with empty beer bottles. More empty pods sat littered around the makeshift hideout. Seeing them for the second time, a memory flashed into place. Jeff smoked a lot. He would often sit in the room puffing away at his Pearl vape pen in silence.

  Walking over to the small table, Donte saw a scrap of paper with scribbled writing. Holding it in place was a Sig Sauer M18. The old service weapons were in the process of being replaced by the newer model Colt G18 gauss pistols. What one was doing on the roof of a barracks was beyond Donte, until he picked up the piece of paper. The letter was a scribbled mess, each word shakily written, but its contents were clear. At some point, Jeff planned on killing himself. Donte could understand the notion, he had climbed up on the roof to explore that option as well. Yet, seeing the weapon in his hand, alongside the words of a man who felt the same way, he felt sad and angry. If the man had reached out he would have helped. Of all people, the two should have been there for each other.