The Rebels, page 10
part #2 of Feed Series
“But if you know they’re coming, they probably know you know, yet they sent me with a message,” he paused, wondering if he was merely being groggy, “don’t you think there’s something else going on?”
She sat up, her sleeping bag rustling with the movement. “But why? Why would they do that?” She glanced down at him, only a shadowy profile in the dark. The half-moon hung low enough that he could see it through the open vent on the side wall of the tent. “If only I could pace in here, it might help.” She grinned, gathered her knees to her chest, and rocked back and forth. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought you into my tent. There weren’t a lot of options. We only have enough tents for our people. Your friends, Ramone and the two girls, are in the big tent. I wanted to take care of you, so I had you brought to mine.”
He nodded, feeling awkward despite the humming noise of pain. “Back in your good graces?”
“Only just,” she said.
“So, this camp of yours, it wouldn’t happen to have something in the way of a pain-killer would it?”
She moved to her knees quickly. “Has it worn off, then? We dosed you, but that was a few hours ago. Let me go get you some more. I didn’t count on you waking up, otherwise I would have had some here.” She ducked out before finishing her sentence.
Ghosteye sighed. He’d forgotten how it was to be around her—like being in a dark room with bright lights and throbbing, rave music. She was vibrant. Too vibrant. She was the opposite of Ghosteye, which was what drew him to her. There was something in her nature that challenged him. Sometimes that was exhausting, other times he enjoyed the distraction. Right then he needed distraction. His fingers throbbed dully, his left foot sang shrilly with each pulse, his right foot, well, it was as quiet as a church mouse compared to everything else. In sum, it was too much. Before Beth returned, he pushed himself slowly onto his right elbow. The sleeping bag fell away to expose his pale, bare chest. Well, his clothes had been dirty and, probably, bloody. Cool mountain air ran frigid fingers over his skin. It felt good after the sleeping bag and the feverish heat emanating from his bruised body.
Beth returned with a bottle of water and some pills—strong ones that would make him sleep. He took them and settled back onto his sleeping bag. Beth used her elbow to prop herself up next to him again.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. I just forgot how you look.”
Something about the way she said it made him feel insecure. He pulled the sleeping bag over his chest. She caught his hand. “Don’t. I didn’t mean I don’t like it. I missed you.”
“Then why’d you leave?” he asked, letting her turn the cover back. The air had cooled him enough that the sweat had dried and now he was cold.
She sighed. “You know why. It wasn’t about how I felt about you. It was what you did. I couldn’t change you, and anyway, I wanted you to change on your own. Because it mattered to you.”
He nodded, “He changed me.”
“Who?”
“Ramone.”
She laughed, pulling her hand away. Where she’d traced her fingers over his chest and stomach, a pleasant sensation lingered. He used to be ticklish. Beth had changed that. “Him? He’s the one who made the feeds.”
Ghosteye shook his head. “He didn’t. He made the cameras. The feeds were an unintentional result of the cameras. No, the feeds, that was someone else.”
“Someone has to be responsible, Gale. We call him the father of the feeds. He’s been our scapegoat.”
“Well, you picked an innocent man, if that means anything to you. He’s the one who’ll stop the feeds.”
She frowned, and even in the dark, he could see it. Maybe it was the moonlight. Or maybe it was just a feeling. It worried him. The worry, that had to be the pain medicine. “Him? No, us. We’re going to stop them. We have a plan.”
“You do?” He wanted to laugh. Beth. His little dreadlocked, sandalwood-smelling Beth. “Tell me.” He smiled, but something about the way she said they had a plan gave him chills. He could feel her fingers running over the tiny bumps along his stomach.
“It has to do with Ramone. We’ll use him as a bargaining chip. I figured it out when I was interrogating the Enforcer. He told me they’d intended to use Ramone to make something, I don’t know, whatever they suspected him of creating. But the Enforcer wouldn’t confess. Anyway, after they tried to get him to talk, they were going to take him in. They knew he was harboring something. So, of course, we’re going to use that. Get them to let us make an oversight committee to regulate the feeds and the cameras. Right now they answer to no one.” She said it with aplomb, like it was a brilliant idea.
“You’re serious?” he asked. He was sure his jaw dropped throughout her explanation. She didn’t seem to notice. She nodded. “Beth, that’s your plan? Regulation? Laws? A committee? And you’re going to trade Ramone for that?” He hissed it, aware that his voice could travel through the thin walls of the tent and out into the dark camp.
“I’ve tried the other ways, Gale. They don’t work. At least, violence doesn’t work. You know my history. You can’t do much behind bars. I know. And now we have something they want. And they pull the strings back in Washington.” She pushed away from him and sat up, crossing her legs and hunching over. Moonlight shone on the side of her face, casting a shadow in the hollow of her cheek. She was so beautiful.
“Ramone’s too important for you to just barter him away. He changed me. People follow him.”
“People? You and two women.”
He nodded. His eyes felt heavy. “There are more. I’m sure. I just haven’t found all of them yet.” His speech became slurred.
“You sound sleepy. Or drunk,” she laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “Rest. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“We’re not through, Beth. You can’t treat people’s lives like this. You taught me that.” The moon seemed to settle on her shoulder, like a bird. It was the medicine, he knew, but the image stayed with him into his dreams.
***
Ramone wandered through the trees, white and black trunks bare but for the peeling bark flaking in the earthy mountain breeze. The sun would be rising soon, but right now the sky overhead was a pale, washed out blue. He came to a small pond and stood on the rocky beach for a moment before crouching down to watch the morning change. Taking deep, lung-bursting breaths, he focused on not thinking about what lay behind him. Just think of the morning. Across the pond, a small mountain stream fed into it and beside the stream, several black and white cattle moved through the trees, ears twitching as Ramone settled into his crouch. As silence descended again with his stillness, their large heads swung toward the ground and the clumps of brush at their feet.
Soon, a nearby bird began to chirp. The wind ruffled Ramone’s hair and the coolness made his heart race. Closing his eyes, he listened harder. Hooves against rocks. The blustering sound of the cattle nosing through the resurrecting grasses. The first rays of sunlight touched his eyelids, warmth spreading over his face. A smile pulled at his lips, but he resisted.
“You can come out. I know you’re there,” he said, remaining crouched.
“Well, aren’t you the sly one,” a voice said. Ramone stood up quickly. It wasn’t who he expected. He turned as Bethany strode out of the trees and up to the shoreline to stand beside him with her hands in the pockets of her cargo pants. She wore a dark blue fleece jacket, hiking boots, and a knit cap over her dreads.
“I was being quiet. Your boots aren’t exactly designed for sneaking.”
“Not that I was sneaking. I was merely following you.”
Ramone smirked. “Concerned I might be meeting with my contacts?”
“Contacts? I just thought you might be running off. We still need you. But,” she laughed, “should I be worried things are not as they seem?”
Ramone turned back to the pond. The cattle had disappeared, and the sun was now entirely over the mountaintops. “They never are, are they?” He threw a flat rock he’d been toying with into the water and watched the ripples expand.
“I guess not.” She kicked a half buried stone with the toe of her boot. “Are you?” she asked, squinting up at him.
“Am I what?”
“Running off.”
He laughed mirthlessly and rubbed the palms of his hands across his pants awkwardly. “No. There’s no where to run, Beth. You know that. I’m as safe here as anywhere.”
“That’s not very safe. The Enforcer, and Gale, claim someone’s coming here.”
“Gale?”
“You know him as Ghosteye.”
Ramone nodded. “My guardian angel, yes.”
She laughed. It sounded bitter. “From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t done a very good job of protecting you.”
Ramone shrugged, but didn’t say anything.
“Do you believe them—that someone’s coming here?”
“Does it matter what I think?”
She bent down to pick up the rock she’d dislodged with her boot. “I figure you have a working knowledge of who we’re dealing with here.”
“I’m afraid my knowledge is flawed. Otherwise I would have seen the Enforcer coming. I didn’t.”
“That’s Gale’s fault. He told me. He’s the one who alerted the Enforcer.”
Ramone felt his expression darken before he caught himself. Bethany tossed the rock into the pond, watching the splash with a look of satisfaction. “Why?”
“Why what? Why’d he tell them? I don’t know. Gale used to be part of the machinery. He believed what he was doing was art, like painting or writing a play. I tried to convince him otherwise, but you can see how well that worked. The only thing that changed him, according to Gale, was you.”
Ramone looked away, feeling the weight of that responsibility settling on his shoulders. It was there a second and he let it go, and with it, the desire to call them fools—Marci, Blythe, and now this Ghosteye. What would he do? Fight them forever? The battle wasn’t with them, but with Kirkwood and this sort of new media.
“So what do you think?”
He looked a question at her.
“About them coming here,” she continued.
“They came for me. They’ll come for you. And I’ve led them to you. I’m sorry.” He shrugged helplessly.
“I knew it would happen someday. Will you fight with us?”
He laughed. “With what? My bare hands?”
“Those cattle over there, that were here when you came out of the trees. Who do you think they belong to?”
He glanced across the pond, searching for the cattle, but all he could see was the trampled weeds and clumped mud where their hooves had been. “A rancher somewhere. Are they yours?”
She nodded. “Cattle’s not all we have.”
“Ah,” he said, rubbing his hands together and then folding his arms. “Then, yes, I suppose I will.”
“Good. We’ll need you. And the girls, do you think they’ll fight too?”
“Blythe will. I’m not sure about Marci.”
“I bet I can convince her.”
“She’s not exactly a pacifist.”
“Then it should be easy. Let’s go back to camp. I can sketch out our plan.”
Back in camp, someone pulled Beth aside and she excused herself. Ramone strolled, lost in thought, to the campfire he’d already become familiar with—a few of the camp tenants were tending it and cooking breakfast already—and sat down.
“Hungry?” one of them asked, a tall broad-shouldered fellow in bare feet. His dreadlocks were long and pulled up into a pony-tail, he had some kind of tribal tattoo on his face, and a nose piercing. Ramone nodded. They scooped some eggs onto a pie-tin and handed it to Ramone, along with a plastic fork. “Don’t throw the tin and the fork away. We use them again.”
“Don’t worry, it’s washed,” another said when he saw the look on Ramone’s face. This one’s hair was short, just barely beginning to form into dreadlocks, and his fingers were full of silver rings. He smiled at Ramone, revealing straight, unnaturally white teeth—a recent convert, Ramone thought. Maybe he’d been going through appearance upgrades before joining the camp.
“Of course. Thanks,” Ramone said and began eating. The eggs tasted like they’d been laid by the golden hen from the fairy tales. Ramone didn’t remember eating anything quite so magnificent. “These are amazing,” he said.
“Free range. We keep our own hens,” the one with the tribal tattoo answered. “Also, you’re probably hungry.”
“So you’re him, eh?” The one with rings asked.
“Him, who?” Ramone responded, pausing between mouthfuls.
“The father of the feeds.”
Ramone swallowed then laughed. “I don’t know why you people call me that. I didn’t create the feeds. I’m a nanoengineer. I created the cameras. They were an optic camera, designed to replace irises in people with neurally damaged eyes.” He put the pie-tin down as he explained it, shutting his own eyes in exasperation. “I didn’t even think of the surveillance application. I should have, yes, but I didn’t. Someone else pushed them in that direction. I’m not wholly responsible for the feeds. I’m not the one robbing the world of privacy. I’m sorry.”
“Whoa, it’s ok, man. Breathe, man,” the one with the tribal tattoo said. “I believe you.”
“Good. Even if you didn’t, it’s the truth.” Ramone opened his eyes, looking at the eggs, suddenly not hungry.
“Beth started calling you that, and we all just kind of followed her lead,” the one with the be-ringed fingers said.
“Without doing your own research?” Ramone asked.
They both nodded, looking sheepish.
Ramone sighed and stood, intending to go back to the tent for Marci and Blythe. He never thought he’d desire their company over that of others, at least not the company of Marci. “Thanks for the eggs.”
He left the campfire, crossing the gravel and weeds, heading for the big tent where he’d beat up the Enforcer. Elliot. It disgusted him to use a name to refer to that monster.
“Ramone?” an unfamiliar voice said.
He looked to his left. A man on crutches approached him. Pale-faced, short hair sticking up like it hadn’t been washed in a few days, tall and thin. He didn’t belong in the camp, that much was clear.
“Yes?” Ramone answered, readying to run before he realized he didn’t need to.
“I can’t believe you made it, really, but I’m so glad. That day when I shut the feed down, I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.”
Realization dawned on Ramone. “Ghosteye.”
The tall thin man nodded and hobbled closer. “I bet you’re a mixed bag about me. Am I your friend or your enemy? Well, I’ve been both, but right now, and as far into the future as I can see right now, I’m on your side. Can we go somewhere and talk? I have some things I need to tell you.”
“What happened to you?” Ramone asked, feeling skeptical about the man, even though he was aware the Editor had somehow helped them.
“I ran into an Enforcer of my own. And, well, she was ruthless,” he said, with a smirk. “As you can see.”
Ramone took in the foot, and the bandaged fingers. “You got off easy.”
Ghosteye laughed, a bursting, awkward laugh with a smile that cracked his face open. “That I did, that I did.” As quick as the laugh had come, came the somber look after. “I’m very sorry for what Elliot did to you. I blame myself for that.” Ghosteye hobbled closer and, balancing one crutch beneath his arm, extended a hand. “Please accept my apology.”
Ramone studied the hand before taking it. He gave Ghosteye one nod. “Come with me,” he said, and led the Editor slowly back to his tent.
***
Blythe groaned and rolled to her back. Her hip and knee felt like they’d been crushed beneath a steam-roller where they’d dug into the cot. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have believed that Bethany had intentionally given them the most uncomfortable sleeping arrangements she could dig up. The army surplus blanket was warm enough, if scratchy as steel wool, but the pillow was as flat as a pancake.
She sat up and rubbed her face. The inside of the large tent glowed with the diffuse daylight coming from the outside, but it was still shadowy enough that Marci was just a dark lump in the cot next to her. Ramone’s cot on the other side of Blythe was empty. She frowned, remembering the anticlimactic night. All that build up in her head—at last! They’d be sleeping in the same room, anything could happen! But no. Their first night together and nothing. He hadn’t even reached out to steal a touch. She’d had trouble falling asleep, herself, thinking of him next to her, so close. She wasn’t sure when she finally drifted off, but it had been well beyond an hour before she’d gotten her heart to stop racing and her thoughts to stop running wild. When was the last time she’d felt the thrill of a man’s proximity in the night? Too long, she thought with a sigh.
“Marci, hey, wake up,” Blythe said, nudging Marci. The girl grunted and snorted.
“What?” she groaned.
“It’s morning.”
“So?”
“We have things to do. Get up.”
“This is the first decent sleep I’ve gotten in days. What time is it?”
Blythe could barely understand her—it sounded like she had cotton in her mouth.
“I need another hour, at least,” Marci complained and rolled over, as much as she could on the tiny cot, and went back to sleep.
Blythe slipped her feet into the boots at side of her own cot and laced them up. She stood, shouldered her bag, and went around the boxes separating their sleeping area from the rest of tent, heading for the entrance flap. From her bag she pulled out a small mirror and tried to smooth her hair down. Yes, she did look like death reanimated, she realized dismally. On top of it all, her clothes were wrinkled and frumpy. And on top of that, those clothes came from that dive in the middle of nowhere U.S.A. and were inherently ugly. Hiking boots, gray canvas pants, and a pink T-shirt announcing that she was a Sagittarius. It was either that or one of those shirts with a pack of wolves howling at the moon. Blythe had picked the lesser of two evils.
