The Last Rebel: Survivor (13 page)

Morty was a city-bred guy, having been raised in the Bronx and having worked in a number of cities including Chicago, Baltimore, and New York, so before he had come to Wyoming, where Compound W was, he had also done research on how to survive in the wild if he had to, and now he was putting what he knew to the test. Of course before he had decided to head west he had taken a test in a magazine on his suitability to survive in the wild and he fell into a category that said:
Stay in Gotham.

He knew he should have been exhausted. He had gone at least forty miles, most of it at a fast clip but some of it trotting and, occasionally, running flat out, just to bleed off the anxiety that would boil up inside him. But you don’t get tired when you’re running scared. Good thing he wasn’t swimming where sharks were. Along the way he had collided with a number of brushes and branches, and once had fallen and his head had missed a big, jagged rock by a half inch. Those scratches would have been an invite to dinner for every shark with a nose.

He had been able to keep in the woods all the way—though he was tempted to run out in the open where he didn’t have to worry about wild animals and where he could really put some distance between himself and them. But he wondered just how visible he would be if they got close. The moon was almost full, and the sky was blanketed with stars to an unbelievable degree. Christ, he might be visible in the woods. He knew the Rejects didn’t have any planes or choppers—at least not yet—but he did not doubt their determination if they found out who he was. But they did have tracking dogs, and a special “escape unit” for just this kind of thing. If they found out who he was, they would come after him fast, and if they caught up with him, he didn’t want to think of what they would do. The easiest way, which they sometimes did, was to shoot you. But they were great on making examples of people, and to make sure you suffered, so they might hang you, garrote you, boil you alive, draw and quarter you, crucify you. Or a recent favorite, mount you on a sharpened stake that would slowly drive up into your intestines. He had seen one guy who had been caught with a prayer missal pulled apart by wild horses, his arms being torn from their sockets, the horses running away with the man’s arms bouncing along the ground like two legs of lamb. Watching this—and it was compulsory for everyone in the compound to watch it—had almost made him puke. In fact, a number of people did puke, and a couple cried. But they all had gotten the message.

Loyalty was high on the Rejects’s bill of particulars, and he was hardly that. If they found out about him, and went after him and caught him, he would not see the sun come up. That he knew absolutely and surely as he knew his name. His real name, not Mort Adams, which he had ID’d himself as.

Still, when he was in the woods he was not thinking so much of the Rejects as he was of animals. Bears were nocturnal creatures. One fantasy had him coming around a bend and face-to-face with a black bear or grizzly, though he had heard that if they heard you coming they would run the other way.

Whatever, when he was moving through the woods he carried the .45 the Rejects had issued to him, safety off. If something appeared he would shoot first and ask questions later. He had also had the foresight to take a box of cartridges with him. He had this stored in his backpack. He would probably be so nervous if he encountered
Ursus horribilis
he would empty all sixteen shots into him—or whatever found its mark.

Right now, Morty was not feeling so good, not only because he knew he was facing great danger, but because he wasn’t facing it too well, something he had been able to do quite handily before. And he had been in some badass places, like Bosnia, during various wars in Africa, as well as going undercover in a motorcycle club in the States. All had required great chutzpah, and his balls had come through with flying colors. But he had never seen such savagery as with the Rejects, and after a while watching people die in such horrible ways every single day of the week started to get to him.

Abruptly now, he heard something. He stopped and listened. It was in the distance, the direction he was coming from. It was the yip-yip-yip of a coyote, and the sound of something light and fast running across the forest floor.

He looked around. There didn’t seem to be anything dangerous around. A couple of times when he had stopped he saw pairs of red eyes—fortunately very low to the ground—looking at him, but then the eyes had dissolved and the creatures had run away.

He was not, of course, defenseless in case a wild animal came at him. He had wanted to steal a shotgun or any number of other weapons that the Rejects had stockpiled, but if he was caught with one he would have been questioned exhaustively, and if they suspected anything they would invite him to sit on a stake. The Rejects didn’t trouble themselves with the finer points, like proof and corroboration. They just killed you and moved on.

The yip-yipping sound stopped, and Rosen listened a little more, then clapped his hands, this to alert any bear in the area that he was coming through. You didn’t want to surprise a bear, he had heard, particularly a sow with cubs. And if you came across a cub you’d better move out of the area quickly. Mama was sure to be nearby.

Of course, the Rejects might not have found out who he was. That was in his head. But chances were, that they would, and if he didn’t act on that he knew that he would have no way to talk his way out. They would take him and before he knew it he would be killed in a very special way.

There was no question that if they found out who he was they would come after him. No question at all. And not just anyone. Part of the compound was earmarked as a prison, and despite the severe penalties for trying to escape, a number of people had tried it and then were pursued by the escape unit. So far as Rosen knew, no one had escaped yet.

He had to get out and tell the world what was going on. He wouldn’t win a Pulitzer, he’d win a Nobel. He actually did think he would win a Pulitzer. This story was huge.

Ahead, he heard a sound and slowed, then stopped. It was a creek, a brook, or maybe a river. He thought it was a creek, the water running but not too intensely.
Hey
, he thought,
I’m turning into a fucking naturalist.

He started to trot toward it and then he saw that it was a creek, a thin ribbon of silver, illuminated by moonlight, running through the forest. He knew how he would get across. He sped up and leaped. The creek or whatever they called it was about six feet wide. He made it across with three feet to spare. Fear had made him a world-class broad jumper.

He was glad he had kept moving. No matter how hot the day, Wyoming nights were cool or cold. He was sweating. He had not had time to get the best gear to travel in—he would have preferred shorts—but he had to get out of there fast. The work pants and shirt were not the ideal things to be wearing when you wanted to move fast through the forest. And the pack on his back didn’t help either.

Occasionally, he would come across a path and follow it and if he saw that it curved he would be particularly careful to clap his hands. At one point, about five minutes after he had jumped the stream, Rosen saw something in the distance, maybe a hundred yards away, that stopped him dead. It looked like there was a large, even huge animal standing in the woods.

But how big could it be? he thought. There weren’t any elephants in the woods of Wyoming, and this animal was big enough to be an elephant. He took a few steps closer, where he got a better angle and saw that it was a HumVee, the kind of vehicle that was popularized in the Iraq wars.

Rosen stopped, not knowing what to do next. Maybe, he thought, the Rejects had gotten wise to him and found a road and circled around to head him off. No way. Also, he never saw any of them with a HumVee. Only those black jeeps and SUVs.

He gripped the .45 hard. He might as well face it now. He could start to run, but they would catch him. He’d better try to shoot his way out now. Maybe he would win. Maybe he would be able to commandeer the vehicle. He knew one thing. If they were going to get him, he’d be sure to keep one bullet—for himself. No way would be go through whatever it was they would put him through.

Then, another idea. Maybe he should just take off back the way he came, cut across the desert section. He had his trusty compass, he could keep going east, at least.

No, he’d keep going. Maybe it wasn’t them, maybe it was, but they didn’t have a clue it was him. . . . Maybe he could slip by.

As stealthily as he could, he threaded his way through the forest, each step bringing him closer to the vehicle. Then he saw a tent. A tent. It couldn’t be the Rejects’. Why would they set up a tent? They wouldn’t. It was someone else. Of course there was no telling if they were hostile or not. The Rejects weren’t the only bad guys in the forest.

One good thing about the Rejects. They were required to wear the gray uniforms and stupid little caps to ID themselves. And it was bright enough for him to see what color whoever it was was wearing—or wasn’t.

But he couldn’t see anyone.

He crept closer, going from tree to tree, and finally he was only fifteen yards away. He looked at the vehicle and the tent. Where were the people? he thought. Probably inside the tent.

And why was he so curious who they were and what they were? He should just slip by and get away. He was curious because that’s just the way he was. He was a reporter, and that was the nature of the beast, at least the good ones.

And then he heard a tiny crunching sound behind him and everything went black.

NINE

Rosen became aware that he was awake, lying on his back, and that it was dark—or night. His stomach squeezed. The silhouettes of two people loomed above him and appeared to be looking down at him. He was also aware that the .45 was no longer in his hand. He realized he was on the run, that these were Rejects. That before too long he would be dead. All he could hope for was that it would happen quickly.

He could make out shapes—and color. No gray. They weren’t Rejects. It was a man and a woman. There was no gun in sight, but he still got the feeling that these were not people to be trifled with.

“Who are you?” the man asked. It was impossible to see his face. All Rosen knew was that he was tall.

“Morton Adams.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just walking through the woods,” Rosen said, immediately realizing how lame, even stupid, his explanation was.

“Why?” the man said.

“I don’t know. I’m just a traveler walking through the woods.”

“With a loaded .45?”

“Well, there’s wildlife in the woods.”

“A .45 isn’t the kind of gun one often uses for that.”

“Who are you?” Rosen asked. “Are you Rejects?”

“No. We’re just people traveling north.”

Maybe he would not die. He had to take a chance. He debated with himself. Maybe they were Rejects in disguise. Maybe they weren’t. If he guessed wrong about these people he could be watching the world go by from his perch on a stake that was anchored in his butt and going deeper at the rate of about an inch an hour.

“Actually, I’m running away from the Rejects.”

There was a pause, and the man and woman looked at each other, then down at him.

“Why?”

Again, Rosen had a choice to make. He could tell them everything, or just a bit. He was always against full disclosure. When you did that you had no cards left to play.

“Because I’m a reporter for
Rolling Stone
magazine. My real name is Morton Rosen. And I was sent out here to do a story on them. I was undercover among them. If they ever found out, I’d be dead.”

“Are they after you now?”

“I don’t think so,” Rosen said, “but I got the feeling that my days with them were numbered. That’s why I took off from their camp.”

“What camp?” the man asked.

“They call it Compound W.”

“Where is it?”

“About forty miles from here. Near Little Piney, Wyoming.”

There was a pause. Rosen got the feeling that the couple had relaxed. Maybe he had made the right move.

“My name is Jim LaDoux. This is Beverly Harper. You want something to eat?”

“You better believe it. I lit out of there so fast I forgot to take food.”

“Sorry I whacked you,” Jim said, “but I didn’t know who you were and you were approaching our campsite carrying a weapon.”

“No problem,” Rosen said. “I understand.”

Jim grabbed Rosen by the hand and pulled him to his feet. Rosen got the sense that this was one strong dude.

“Why don’t you wait here with Bev?” LaDoux said. “I got the food in a tree about a hundred yards from here.”

Rosen nodded. He had learned that when he had researched going UC. He just nodded, but he thought:
Morty Rosen, woodsman
.

He and the woman, “Bev,” waited, watching as the man disappeared into the woods. He had glanced at her when he was pulled to his feet, and now he glanced again. Food, he thought, wasn’t the only thing he hadn’t had much of. He had had sex with one of the Reject soldiers, but she was a hard bitch with all the warmth of an entrenching tool and screwed with about the same effect on his body. He could have had sex with any of the young female prisoners any time he wanted, but he wondered how he would write that up. Also, he wondered what it would do to his high-flying morality.