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“I’d venture to guess—the same reason you are?”

“The reason I came hasn’t amounted to much, but, here I am, about to get myself killed,” she clicked her tongue and tilted her head to one side. “It’s weird, I never thought I’d say that and actually mean it. I used to, you know, not really mean it when I knew I was going to be in trouble with my parents,” she said the last part absently, wondering if her parents had noticed she was gone yet. It might be awhile before that happened, since she didn’t live at home.

“Well, not exactly the
same
reason,” he answered, smiling at the fire, his eyes darting in her direction then back at the fire.

She laughed, shook her head, and crossed her leg. His smile was contagious, she’d give him that, but his awkwardness was almost as palpable as Ramone’s. Glancing at him again, she noticed that despite the thin line that comprised his mouth, the narrowness of his face, and the paleness of his complexion, his eyes were vivid and full of expression. When he smiled, his face brightened to something more than just a drab pale-faced man.

“You don’t like the plan, then?” he asked, his smile vanishing as he stared into the fire, the dancing flames reflecting in the cool liquidity of his eyes. Marci felt a sudden longing to make him smile again.

She shrugged, more to herself than him, since he didn’t notice anyway. “It doesn’t matter what I think, does it.” It was a statement, not a question. “Ramone came up with it, and you, I guess. I’m just supposed to do what I’m told at this point.”

He nodded somberly. “What would you do differently? If it were up to you?”

“No idea. I just don’t think we know what’s going to happen, and that’s what concerns me most. If someone actually comes here in search of Ramone, won’t the others be in danger?”

“No one could have known, well, except me, what the Organization is capable of. And even I have no idea what they’re willing to do at this point.”

“I just don’t see why it matters, anyway. I thought I did, but maybe that was just when I thought I—you know, I had a chance.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “I know,” she said with a sigh. “I never had a chance. But I didn’t know soon enough.” She shot him a stormy, sulky glance and lowered her head between her shoulders.

“So, Ramone never gave you what you wanted?” Ghosteye asked suddenly without turning to her.

“Let’s not talk about Ramone anymore, but no, he didn’t.”

“What if he had?”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” she repeated.

“What would you rather talk about?”

“You. And Bethany. You two have a past?”

“Well, I’d hardly describe it like that,” he said, shifting in his seat, appearing uncomfortable.

“But you lived together?”

He dipped his head, “Er, yes, we did.”

“But you wouldn’t describe it as having a past?”

He laughed and changed positions, “If you put it that way, then yes, we did. But I—well
she
, left me.”

“Why?”

“I hardly know, really, but then, I can’t say why she was ever with me in the first place,” he looked away, turning his head so the back of it faced Marci. Before he turned away, she noted that his cheeks were red. The back of his hair was messy like he’d been laying on it or running his fingers through it.

“What, are you so repulsive that you can’t see why a woman would be interested in you?” Marci laughed as she said it, not believing he really felt that way about himself.

He turned back to the fire, the red had faded from his face, but a slight smile remained. “Not precisely repulsive, no, but Beth’s not exactly the best match for me. She’s very intense, demanding, and—” he hesitated, his gaze flickering between Marci and the fire, “you know, social.”

Marci leaned toward him in her chair, pulling a hand out of the pouch, placing it under her chin, and resting her elbow on the canvas arm of the camp chair. “And you’re not social?” she asked, batting her eyelashes at him in a gesture she hoped he saw as teasing. Funny. Flirtatious.

“No, no, not really,” he said, laughing and blushing. “I see what you’re doing. It’s funny. I appreciate funny. I didn’t say I had no sense of humor. But, ahem, I’m not the most social of people. I prefer comfort. Comfortable surroundings. Comfortable acquaintances. I’m like a hobbit.”

“A hobbit?” Marci repeated, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

“Yes, like the book, by Tolkien?”

“Never read it. I’m not a big reader,” she admitted, dropping her hand back to her lap and slipping it into the pouch. She leaned away from him, slumping back into the corner of the chair.

“Not a reader? Really?” His eyes widened and he looked around as though seeking affirmation for his surprise.

“You’re surprised? Are you joking with me?”

He grinned and shook his head. “Somewhat. You got me. But truly, reading is good. I support it. Even though I am, er,
was,
an Editor. My first love is reading. The editing gig was a job I sort of fell into. And the Hobbit is a very, very good book. I cried at the end.” He announced that like it was an accomplishment to become emotional, sitting up straighter and placing a hand to his chest solemnly. 

“You cried? Seriously? Wow.” She laughed once, wondering if he was about to give her the classic, irritating speech about reading, like one of those public service posters that used to fill the subways. They took them down after the feeds became more profitable and popular. Marci had a hard time believing anyone read for pleasure. Her college classes were the only reason Marci could see to participate in that time-consuming, slow-going activity.

“You don’t believe me?” Ghosteye said, sounding aghast. “Oh wait, you’re just irritated that I like to read, aren’t you? Yes, that’s it, I can see it.” He pointed a long, bony finger at her, somewhat lazily, then let it come to rest on his upper lip. “Hmmm, what can we do about this? Let me think.”

“Do about it? You don’t have to do anything. Really. I’m happy the way things are.”

“What? With no books? No intrigue? No outlandish plots? No adventure?”

“You just finished telling me how you prefer comforts to new things.”

“That’s different. Books take you places you’d never go in real life.”

“I get that from the feeds.”

“But this is different. You go there in your mind. And then it lives inside you.”

“Uh-huh. Listen, you give me a book, a REAL book, if you can find it, and I’ll read it. It might take me ten years, but I’ll read it. It won’t be better than the feeds, though.” Something about what she said reassured her, as though talking about a future meant there’d be one.

“You will? Is that a promise? I know just the book.” He grinned, templing his fingers and lowering his brow like a devious mastermind.

“The Hobbit?” she asked, glancing at him askance.

“Mwah ha ha ha,” was his only answer. Marci shook her head. Seeing him smile really was reward enough for saying she’d read the stupid book.

Chapter 17

Dawn paled the outer walls of the thick brown canvas tent. Blythe lay awake, listening to Ramone and Marci breathing on either side of her, each on their own cot. About three feet separated the cots. Sometimes it didn’t feel like enough. Well, between the two of them, Blythe would have preferred Ramone closer and Marci in another tent entirely. She still couldn’t believe the camp wasn’t able to outfit them better. When new people joined, what did they do for supplies?

Blythe took a deep breath, realizing she felt reinvigorated despite not sleeping much. She rolled onto her side, facing Ramone. The outline of his face became more visible by the minute. The last time she experienced something like last night was . . . ages ago. It was better than she remembered. Privacy. Each touch hers and hers alone, knowing it was hers, and not something potentially viewed by another. Even with her limited understanding of how the bots and the filters worked, the possibility of someone else seeing what transpired always sickened her. She must be an anomaly. If she wasn’t, where were the others who shared her views on it?

This camp. Maybe they were all that was left of the entire civilized world who saw the loss of privacy a violation of a basic human right.

Ramone snored lightly. Something about it sounded content. A lion after feasting on a fresh kill—totally sated and in need of a deep sleep. She smiled to herself, strangely pleased to have been the one to bring him to that point. It was satisfying, as well, to not begrudge him that contentment the way she eventually had with her ex-husband. She sighed, remembering that confusing mess. The sheer number of complications one encountered in a marriage were multiplied exponentially when the feeds and nanocameras were added to the equation. Best to not even think about it.

Blythe recalled how Ramone ran away—what, a week ago, now? Was that all? It felt like months had transpired since then—and wondered if he regretted what they’d shared. Or
would
regret, when he woke. For her part, Blythe didn’t. Perhaps it was knowing that Sue was with her own lover, having severed her bond to Ramone and any claims on him. Perhaps it was that Blythe no longer cared for boundaries—lord, she hoped not. Or maybe it was something else, something totally nameless and she wouldn’t identify it for a long time. She was fine with that. Could live with it.

“Why’d you run away from me, Ramone? Is this something you don’t want?” she recalled asking as he ran a hand across her bare back.

“No, no, of course not. I want this. You. So much,” he answered, his voice trembling. “It’s something I can’t explain, but it’s in the past now. Let’s not dwell on it. I was only afraid of how much I wanted you. Beyond reason.” He laughed softly.

Blythe smiled, kissing his collarbone. “Tell me that again, how much you want me.”

He pulled her against him tightly. “Let me show you.”

Ramone shifted, snorting a bit, pulling Blythe back to the present, though she wanted nothing more than to relive the past. Just for a few more moments, she thought with a sigh. Suddenly, there was a rumbling in the distance. Thunder? No, she thought, her heart racing, responding to the unknown. Dread filled her as the sound drew closer.

Please let it be thunder. Please let it be a storm
, she repeated to herself, wondering if the universe would ever care what she wanted. 

The sound came closer. Helicopters. Perhaps military choppers. She was no expert. Still, she bolted upright and began dressing.

“Ramone,” she said, shaking him. “Get up. Something’s coming.”

Ramone jerked awake and nearly rolled off his cot. “What?” he asked, rubbing his face, his voice thick with sleep.

“Helicopters. Can you hear them? It must be
them
,” she whispered urgently, hoping that Marci would sleep through it. Whatever happened, Blythe wanted to the girl to miss this. The girl.
Ha, now she was thinking of Marci as a girl. Just a young thing.

“Shit,” Ramone cursed, rising and dressing.

They proceeded quietly, though it hardly mattered with the approaching roar of the choppers. The dread that pushed Blythe to pray—to God, or the Universe, Buddha, whoever would listen!—swelled to proportions she’d never known before. Somehow Marci remained asleep as Blythe finished and crept away quietly, Ramone following close behind her. College worked wonders for sleeping habits, Blythe guessed.

The two of them undid the entrance flap and stepped out into the harsh gray light, greeted with the frenzied sight of the camp inhabitants scurrying about like ants in a disturbed hill. There was no visible sign of the choppers, but Blythe suspected it was only a matter of seconds before something terrible happened. What shocked her now was the arsenal the camp apparently had. Beyond the types of guns she’d heard the two female hippies discussing the previous morning, there were black assault rifles and rocket launchers. Some men rushed past her and Ramone, each of them balancing a launcher on their shoulders.

“Well, I guess that’s Bethany’s
plan
,” Ramone said, his voice sounding disgusted.

“You don’t like it?” Blythe asked.

“I’m annoyed she didn’t share it with us. But, at this point, it’s about the best we can do. Those RPG’s will take down the choppers if they’re good at using them. If nothing else, it will scare the hell out of whoever’s on their way here.”

“They’re landing in the meadow!” Someone shouted from beyond the closest tents.

“The meadow!” another repeated, followed by several others closer to them, passing on the information.

Soon those within sight turned southeast, heading for the meadow, supposedly—Blythe had never seen a meadow nearby, but then she hadn’t done much exploring since arriving.

“Let’s follow them,” Ramone said, taking her by the hand and pulling her along.

“Are you crazy?” She asked, but followed him anyway.

“Yes. But you knew that by now,” he answered. She thought she detected a grin in his voice.

Blythe felt a wallop of adrenalin coursing through her in response to the fear of what they were running toward. Ramone was a new, bright thing in her life, a guiding light, a veritable shining star of hope to redeem a lost world, which, now that it was within reach, tantalized her. She had done nearly everything to capture him. And now, was she about to lose him?

She found herself mentally repeating prayers again to whatever deity would listen as she ran over the cold hard ground, around boulders and trees, toward the roaring sound of blades chopping the air in two.

*****

Ghosteye hobbled toward the sound of roaring choppers, his heart racing, his breath catching too easily and forcing him to stop to regain his wind. Beth left him in the tent they shared, before he even had time to finish dressing. He was alone as he climbed the hill, moving along an overgrown trail that fought him every step of the way. He wasn’t even sure if it was a trail, it was so crowded with narrow, naked branches that whipped against his bare arms, stinging him hotly as he pushed forward. His foot throbbed uncomfortably, especially when he bumped it against the occasional stray root when he wasn’t careful, causing him to let out a yelp of surprise and pain.

“Sons of bitches,” he muttered to himself, loathing nature and all its efforts to unite against him. “
This
is why I never wanted to go out.” He said it aloud, to get his mind off the pain as much as to gripe about the things beyond his control. Whatever was happening would be over by the time he got there if he didn’t hurry.

He continued to grumble about everything from the fact that he was missing out on the action to why he’d even come to this pathetic camp in the first place. Smells of decaying leaves and freshly turned dirt accosted his senses—there was a strange disconnect between the odors and the heavy sounds of machinery coming down the hill. Thoughts of how he’d frame the scene he was living floated into his mind—like
this
, man against nature,
crippled
man against nature, fighting his way to the top of the rise, like that Greek version of hell.
When I get there, I’ll tumble back down and have to fight to the top again, fractured foot and all.

“Yes, but what song?” he asked himself, musing, trying to ignore the ache in his leg and foot. The crutches made negotiating the narrow trail almost impossible. But what else could he do?

“Song?” A voice behind him asked.

He jumped, dropping a crutch. It was Marci. She picked up the crutch for him before he had a chance to retrieve it.

“Sorry,” she said, with a short laugh, dusting off the underarm cushion and handing it to him. “I thought you could hear me. I was running till I caught up to you.”

“I was thinking too loud—thoughts running wild trying to
not
think about this blasted foot.” He gestured to his foot. Bethany had found an Ace bandage somewhere the night before and the fabric had collected enough dried leaves to look like he was part shrubbery. Marci laughed again.

“Where is everyone? I searched the camp and when I couldn’t find anyone, I followed the sound of helicopters. Are they getting a shipment or something?”

Her voice sounded hopeful, but Ghosteye could see the concern in her eyes. Blue. Her eyes, big and blue like a frozen lake. A pang went through him. “Uh, well, I think not.” He regretted the half-hearted response as soon as the words left his mouth.

“So what? This is it, then?” her hands flopped against her jean-covered thighs, exasperated. “Let’s just go back now.”

Ghosteye turned and began up the hill again, hoping she’d follow. “Let’s go. He needs us.” He glanced over his shoulder without stopping. “Come on, then. You know he needs us.”

Another glance showed him that she’d begun to follow, drudging along in a sulky manner. “This is going to suck. I hate him right now.”

“It would suck more to stay behind and never know. We’re almost there, anyway.” Both of them had begun to shout to be heard over the roar of the choppers. Looking up, Ghosteye made out the nose of a military chopper, about three hundred feet above them. His heart pounded as he crested the hill and the tableau unfolded before him.

Along the nearest edge of the meadow, which was a little larger than two football fields, Bethany’s hippie soldiers stood in haphazard ranks, each of them bearing some sort of weapon—assault rifles, most of them, except for a few launchers on the shoulders of several men. They were a weird sight, to say the least, and Ghosteye nearly laughed, until he remembered the dreadlocked guerilla fighters of the central Americas. That’s how they looked, only less menacing.

Bethany had dug up a megaphone from somewhere and presently she had it pressed to her lips and was shouting for the opposing force to stand down. That force consisted of about forty to fifty soldiers—actual military soldiers, to be exact—who were armed as well. All of them carried assault rifles that managed to look more threatening than those of Bethany’s force. Maybe it was the high-powered scopes and camouflage uniforms. Those numbers didn’t include the additional soldiers rappelling from the five hovering choppers.
Why aren’t they firing on the choppers?
Ghosteye wondered. At the front of these enemy units—enemies? He’d just defected less than a week ago—stood a man in an impeccable black suit, hair shorn in a precise close cropped haircut, ears that stood off his head like Dumbo, and large fish-like lips. The Director.

His arms were folded, a forefinger tapped his lips, and the rest of him was very still as he surveyed Bethany’s misfit soldiers.

But where was Ramone?

Ghosteye searched for him quickly to no avail.

A ball of anxiety formed in Ghosteye’s stomach. He leaned on his crutches, watching, feeling Marci draw up next to him until their legs were touching. The sensation, while it normally might be a violation of his space, rooted him in reality. Being an Editor so long had its side-effects. His cheeks felt flushed for a moment, noticing the narrow warmth of Marci’s leg against him, then it vanished as he continued to add up what was going to happen. Being an Editor also had its perks—he could read a situation quickly.

“Should we go down there?” Marci asked, her voice a low, tense whisper.

“You’re joking, right? With all those guns? No, no, no way. Well, I mean, not to look like a chicken, but honestly, I doubt half of those hippies even know how to shoot. It should be easy—point, and pull the trigger, but I’m sure they could botch it up. If we could, we should hide and watch, but we’ve already been spotted.” He nodded his head in the direction of the enemy. “That fish-faced man? He’s the Director. He’s got a notorious reputation where I work—used to work. He could make what Elliot did to Ramone look like a trip to the spa.”

Marci sucked her breath in through clenched teeth. “Really? Do you think he’s going to catch us?”

Ghosteye shook his head, glancing at her for a moment then back at the Director. “He’s got bigger fish to fry right now. Besides, if I have anything to do with it, no way.” He didn’t know what he could do, really, but he’d do anything to protect Marci. And Ramone, if he could find the man. He scanned the opposing groups again, searching for him. Still nothing. “Come on,” he said, hobbling off the trail into the brush. Ghosteye had spotted a small group of boulders a few feet from the tree-line about twenty paces from the path where they stood. He could sit down and observe with a bit of cover should it become necessary. What else could he do? He wasn’t about to go barging into the middle of the meadow, hoping to break up the standoff. Bethany seemed to have things under control. Besides, where the hell had she procured all the artillery? There was more going on with her than he’d ever known or would have guessed. A past. And to be honest, he felt a bit betrayed. More betrayed than her vanishing, years ago, since that had involved both of them. This—well, this was just a deliberate obfuscation of her past.