The Rebels, page 6
part #2 of Feed Series
“Conceited too? My, my,” Blythe tsked.
“I’m not conceited. I just see the facts. And the facts are, I’m not ugly, I take care of myself, and plenty of men look at me. Therefore, I must be attractive.”
“Honey, and I never say honey and I’m only going to say this once, men would look at a woman with lust in their eyes even if she had the head of moose. As long as it had a body. It’s no accomplishment to get their attention. And it doesn’t mean you’re attractive.”
That stung. But Marci didn’t want to fight. She just didn’t want to be insulted. She bit her lip, held back the criticism and all the return insults buzzing around her brain like angry hornets, and said instead, as calmly as possible, “Blythe, really. Back off. Ramone doesn’t want me. He wants you. I’m not your competition.” Marci had to concede. And she did. It was the mature thing to do.
The other woman jolted up, then leaned back again, apparently fighting the urge to turn and stare at Marci in alarm. “Please. I’m not jealous of you. A man like Ramone would want a woman, any way. Not a little girl.”
“Fine. I’d like to make peace and you want to fight. Let’s not talk at all, then. When you feel like it, you can tell me about the benefactor who thinks I’m important. It’d be nice to be wanted for a change, even if it’s not by you or Ramone,” Marci said, putting her earbuds in and finding a playlist on her tablet to listen to.
Blythe sat up again, this time returning her seat to its upright position and looking over her shoulder. “Did Ramone say something that made you think he doesn’t want you here?”
Reluctantly, Marci removed an ear bud. “What, you mean other than back at his house, when I arrived and he told you to ditch me? And the time when he told me he didn’t want me here? Yeah, in fact, there was another occasion when Ramone made me feel like crap. Back in that town when you went to buy him some clothes. He told me to leave. That’s why I went in the store, not because my fashion sense dictated I stock up on the latest fall trends from country-boys-r-us, if you want to know. Thanks for helping me remember that Ramone hates my guts. Would you like to discuss the other men who’ve helped me feel like shit? How about Stewart? Right before I came out here, my roommate, Stewart helped me realize my full potential as a talented young skank. It was wonderful.”
In the dark, Marci could see Blythe’s unchanging expression as the other woman glanced over her shoulder. She stared at Marci impassively, and that’s what kept Marci going. She wanted to see that face crack and turn sympathetic. Somehow the other woman was untouched. The only thing that stopped Marci was Marci, not a protesting Blythe, like Marci wanted. Damn, she must be a good lawyer.
“You must have done something, Marci. Ramone wouldn’t say or do anything to hurt you without being provoked. Unless,” Blythe said, then stopped. Reaching both hands up, she smoothed her hair into a ponytail and secured it with the band from her wrist.
“Unless what? I didn’t provoke him,” she lied. Did Blythe buy it? If Marci had to pick a way to defend her life, it wouldn’t be with a bluff or a lie. She was cursed. It was a marvel, really. The only daughter of disgustingly wealthy parents and somehow, she’d never gotten the knack of lying.
Blythe shifted in her seat, putting her hands on the wheel, suddenly preoccupied and still ignoring Marci’s questions. “What’s taking him so long?”
“Should I go look for him? I don’t know why I would, really, he’s been such a jerk to me. But I think there’s so much good in him. He’s just been hurt ever since that evil bastard did that stuff to him, right, Blythe? Blythe?” Blythe wasn’t listening, or if she was, she wasn’t in the mood to answer, which started to infuriate Marci. They were finally getting somewhere! “What did you mean when you said unless?”
“Oh no,” Blythe said, her face turned toward the passenger window.
“What?” Marci asked, looking out the window to her right. A car had exited the freeway and was approaching the Aston Martin. “What’s wrong? It’s just a car. People use rest-stops all the time. Don’t they? I haven’t used very many myself, but from what I understand, when people take long road trips out here in the west, they like to use them.”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s nothing,” she acknowledged.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Right? I mean, right?” Marci felt her stomach turn cold, as the vehicle, some kind of dark four-door number, pulled into the parking space next to them.
“Please,” Blythe said. It sounded like a prayer.
The driver’s door opened and through the window, Marci saw him. Blythe made a whimpering sort of noise which made Marci look toward her, and that’s when Marci noticed Ramone on the sidewalk between them and the restrooms. Without thinking, Marci threw her suitcase aside and forcefully opened the car door nearest their new neighbor. The man, the horrible, horrible bastard man, had stepped out of his car and was right in the pathway of Marci’s door, which slammed against his back. He stumbled forward slightly. Before he could recover entirely from the blunt force, Marci was behind him.
Using her right foot, Marci kicked the Enforcer in the hollow of his knee. Rebalancing her weight on her right foot, she used her left foot to hook his and swept his left leg out from under him. He fell forward into his car door and cried out in pain. As he struggled to regain his footing, Marci brought her elbow down with all the weight of her body on the top of his shoulder where it joined his neck. He crumpled like a wooden puppet.
“Ramone!” she screamed. “Hurry! Get in!” She spared a moment to look for him. He was right where she’d last seen him, as though his feet were stuck in the sidewalk. Blythe stood up out of the Aston Martin on the opposite side and joined Marci in urging Ramone to move.
The Enforcer stirred, a groan rising from his crumpled body beneath Marci. She lifted a foot and kicked him in the back of the head. Part of her considered attempting to kill him with her bare hands, but the thought made her stomach queasy.
“Hurry the hell up! What the fuck are you waiting for?” Marci shouted.
Finally, Ramone broke into a run. He slid to a stop at the back door on the driver’s side and jumped in. Marci gave the man at her feet one more kick before getting in herself.
FOUR
THE CAMP
“Why didn’t we slash his tires or something?” Marci asked. Ramone had barely caught his breath, feeling his heart slow as she spoke.
“We should have,” he muttered, looking out the rear window from his place beside Marci. There was no sign of the Enforcer’s car behind them.
“Turn around and go back, Blythe, we can do it now,” Marci urged, her voice sounding high-pitched and somewhat hysterical.
“You really think he’ll still be there?” Blythe’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “No way, Marci. We’re not going back. Even if he’s still there, he might wake up. What did you do to him, anyway?”
Ramone crouched and crawled between the seats to the front seat—as grateful as he was to the surprising fierce college girl, he didn’t want to sit beside her the rest of the way. To wherever they were going. He still didn’t know.
Ramone heard the click of Marci’s seatbelt as she settled in and he fastened his own. At least he hoped it was her seatbelt. He wasn’t too familiar with the sounds of guns. Not that anyone had guns anymore. Well, no one Kirkwood and his board of directors didn’t want to have guns, that is.
“Not much. Just a well-placed kick here, a well-placed kick there. Neutralized the threat, that kind of thing.” She sounded self-satisfied and Ramone could just picture her young, obnoxiously beautiful face looking pleased.
“Did it kill him?” Blythe asked, sounding hopeful. Ramone wanted them to be quiet. He wanted a break from people to collect his thoughts. His head still thrummed with the vibrations of fear. The fear of being caught. Of enduring the ministrations of the Enforcer again. He realized that his nihilism had just been naive bravado. He didn’t want to be hurt again.
“Hardly. I doubt it. I mean, I’ve never killed anyone before. Well, actually, I guess I’ve never beat up on them that badly either. I kind of think killing someone will feel differently. That didn’t feel like, you know, killing someone, per se.” The girl actually sounded disappointed. Too thoughtful. It made Ramone’s stomach turn. He remembered the pain inflicted by that man, so, why did Ramone care? Why did it fill him with remorse to consider the Enforcer being hurt?
“How would you know? For all you know, judging from your experience, you wouldn’t. Maybe he’s dead,” Blythe answered. When did they become such good friends?
“I wouldn’t. But I doubt he’s dead. At least, if we look at it from the perspective of what would be easiest for us—him being dead—well, what you want to happen never happens. We ought to assume he’s alive and still on our tail. I wish I had my gun. Back before they took them all away, my dad made me learn to shoot. He also made me take martial arts classes, ballet, dance, hunting. You name it. It was sheer torture,” she stopped suddenly, cutting off the last word. “Oh, um, sorry, Ramone. It wasn’t that bad, I guess. He’s a paranoid businessman, that’s all. And I suffered for it. Not that it was suffering compared to . . . compared to other things.”
Blythe shook her head, glancing sideways at Ramone to see if the mention of that word affected him. Ramone stared straight ahead, feigning something he didn’t feel: complacency. A twitching pain in his legs said he was in a state otherwise. That must be it. He almost nodded at the realization: The pain lingered. If the torture had gone on longer, maybe he would have gotten to a point where his mind left his body. As it was, all it did was root him firmer than ever into his body. His cells. His DNA. He was himself. Ramone. The body and spirit stamped into one like ink meshed into paper. And the thought of others feeling what he felt in that room was something he never wanted to see again, in his mind, on a screen, on a feed—it sickened him. Even though he hated the Enforcer with a fierceness he hadn’t even reserved for the thieves who’d ruined the technology he’d borne, well, he also felt something else for that man. That animal. That thing.
Sympathy.
The body, the flesh, the soul, the heart, it was one. For now, anyway, Ramone knew too well how pain felt and he never wanted another soul to feel what he’d felt.
“Wishing for a gun’s not going to do us much good. Just forget it, anyway. I’m not going to ask you to kill anyone, and I don’t think Ramone is, either. Are you, Ramone?” Blythe gave him another sideways glance and smiled.
“Hardly,” he answered, with a smirk, coming back from his reverie. Being unsocial now wouldn’t help anything. He tried to return Blythe’s smile, but couldn’t shake the sick feeling at the thought of the Enforcer being hurt and left for dead. The man had very nearly killed Ramone! He should wish for it. “How fast are you going?” He asked, straining to see the speedometer from his seat. “Faster, please. Let’s put as much distance between us and him as possible.” That would help, maybe. Distance. The more the better. The night-shrouded hills surrounding them zoomed by as Blythe increased their speed. With the moon and the darkness, everything seemed to glow. It was as though they were on an alien planet and with the way Ramone was feeling, it might as well have been. Ramone rarely ventured out of the city these days. Well, those days. They were in the past now, weren’t they? And he didn’t see himself going back any time soon. The rut he’d been in back there in the city with Sue extended that far—no adventure, no spontaneity, none of the let’s-try-new-things sense about their world. Oh, sure, just after the money poured in from the fledgling days of the optic nanocameras, they’d used it to see parts of the world they’d only dreamed of seeing. But the shininess wore off shortly after the cameras began to be used for surveillance. How had he not foreseen such applications?
“Ramone?” Blythe repeated. Marci wasn’t speaking to him, still. He supposed he owed her an apology. Or a thank-you.
“What?”
“You alright?”
“Sorry. Still in shock, I think.”
“Of course. That was quite the scare.”
“Marci?” He said it without turning, his gaze on the next range of mountains in the distance, moonlight cascading across them like a white veil over an obsidian lake, illuminating the contours and canyons.
“Hmm?”
“I owe you one,” he said. Then, a little softer, “Thank-you.”
“No biggie.”
There was silence. Ramone knew a stillness like that would make most people awkward, but he relished it. After a few moments, Blythe cleared her throat. “Well. So, the GPS says we only have thirty more miles. Should we continue on? I’m thinking: what if Mr. Psycho torturer follows us?”
“Everyone who matters already knows where we are, anyway. I mean, hello? The satellites the GPS is using? Right? And well, everything else,” Marci offered.
“That’s true. Ramone?” Blythe glanced at him quickly.
“I agree. We’re not exactly playing cloak and dagger here, beyond our own little imaginations. Unless someone figured out how to turn off the cameras.” He looked to see if Blythe knew something she hadn’t shared already. She shook her head. “Well, then. I guess just plunge ahead.”
Dawn crept toward them as they drew closer to the coordinates the Editor had given Blythe. They turned off the main road several miles back and wound through shallow canyons along small creeks that eventually disappeared, leaving an empty bed of dusty rocks. The road turned to dirt that saw little traffic, judging from the weeds thriving along the center of the track.
“Um, so, I didn’t want to say anything, but is this the part where the road disappears entirely and a man jumps out with a chainsaw and cuts all of us up? Or Bigfoot accosts us? Or chupacabras or someone like that?” Marci’s voice broke over the shrill silence. Ramone didn’t want to admit it, but his thoughts were running on a similar course. Finally, a quiet that disconcerted him. So this must be how normal people feel. He heard Marci’s seatbelt zip back and the center one click as she moved away from her door.
“That, or a pack of torturers and other henchman,” he muttered.
“No, this is right. I’m sure. We’re almost there. Well, unless—” Blythe broke off, afraid to admit her own fears.
“Unless what?” Marci asked urgently.
“It’s OK. I’m sure. I’ve heard of areas like this,” Ramone heard himself saying. Heard what, you fool? that unfaithful part of him mocked.
“What are you talking about?” Blythe asked, hunching over the steering wheel, her shoulders nearly touching her earlobes.
“Dead places. Geologic oddities where magnetism is suppressed. I think that’s where we are—where we’re going.” Hope bubbled in his stomach and fizzed up into his throat. And rather than tamp it down with dismal thoughts of their doom, he let himself experience the taste of it.
The sky lightened to pink in the east. The faint road crested a small hill and bent around an outcropping of cliff. Ramone gasped as they rounded the turn and a valley opened up before them, shielded on all sides by towering mountains. Scattered across the valley floor beneath cottonwoods and mesquite trees were hundreds of multicolored tents and smoldering campfires. It looked like the images he’d seen of Everest Base Camp, popularized by the extreme mountaineering feeds. Those feeds were done by cameras attached to the participants bodies, since the nanocameras still weren’t allowed to go into non-U.S. airspace. He’d only seen a smattering of those feeds, because, like all feeds Ramone had stopped watching the adventuring channels once they’d been taken over by the modern feed mentality, manifest by things like accidental deaths being broadcast. It was . . . macabre. And just wrong. To air someone’s last moments like that. Of course, the other side argued that they were honoring the spirit and courage of the brave person who died—what better way to do that than to show them dying as they did the thing they loved most?
“Wow,” Marci said, whistling. She was leaning forward between the two front seats, her breathing loud in Ramone’s ear.
Next to some of the tents there were SUVs and trailers, large black ones—which had an oddly corporate feel to them, almost like some kind of endorsement by a powerful third-party. And then there were the more organic looking station wagons plastered with the stickers of outdoorsy brands, the rainbow flag of some Caribbean country, or other equal rights standards. He knew exactly who he was dealing with when he digested these cues.
“Well, I didn’t expect that. At least, I did, but not to this extent,” Blythe breathed, taking in the scene.
Ramone nodded, feeling a bit taken aback himself. The rebels were tree-huggers. But is that what Blythe meant?
“I suppose we should park and walk?” she said, swallowing as she pulled the Aston Martin off the trail into a low patch of weeds, and cutting the engine under a mesquite with an sprawling umbrella canopy.
“That seems safe,” Marci answered. Ramone thought he detected a note of sarcasm in her voice.
Ramone paused, standing with his door open and staring at the tire iron on the floor of the passenger side. Should he take it? Would he need it here? It was heavy, and here, at least, they were outnumbered. So if he needed to defend himself against them, the tire iron would be laughably innocuous. At least in his hands, that would be true. He was no martial arts expert. Not a fighter of any sort, really. He gently closed the door of the Aston Martin and prayed to some God that he’d never seen or detected in his life in any way, really, that he wouldn’t regret leaving the tool in the vehicle.
The three of them headed on foot toward camp. Among the tents there was a general stirring as members of the rebel group ducked out into the cold morning air or peeked through their doorways to see who had come.
Marci hissed quietly. “What if they shoot us? Should we be waving a white flag in front of us?”
“Don’t be silly,” Ramone answered, feeling stupid at her suggestion for some reason. But anyway, if someone did start shooting at them, what chance would they have? No one has guns anymore, he told himself. More to assuage his fears than that he believed all guns had been disposed of.
