by Allen Zadoff
“It could be like this every night. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“You, naked every night? It would be a change of pace, I’ll say that much.”
“You’re such a guy,” she says.
I grin.
“I didn’t mean just sex,” she says. She takes my face in her hands and brings it close to hers. “I meant us every night.”
Us.
There’s something powerful about the word. I let it wash over me, then feel some relief when it passes.
The mission is everything. And I have work to do.
“What are you thinking about, Daniel?”
“I’m thinking we’d better send you back to your room before something happens.”
“Maybe I want it to happen.”
“There’s no rush,” I say.
She opens her mouth like she’s going to contradict me, then she stops herself.
“You’re right,” she says. “There’s no rush.”
She dresses quickly. I want to stop her half a dozen times, but I don’t.
When she’s done, she pecks me on the cheek and slips out the door.
It hurts to watch her go. Not in my head. Someplace else, someplace deeper.
Closer to my heart.
I CLOSE MY EYES FOR A WHILE AFTER THAT, BUT I DON’T SLEEP.
I lie in bed thinking about Miranda, the things she’s shared with me since I’ve come to the camp, her dreams of the future, the way she’s torn between duty to her father and the life she wants to live.
I think about it for a while, and then I let it go.
It’s hard to focus now. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since I’ve slept. My body is trained to function with little sleep, but at a certain point I begin to lose operational awareness. I’ve learned how to take micronaps, small bursts of REM sleep that allow me to stretch the time between periods of full sleep. But even those seem out of reach now.
The disappearance of Father, the operation at the water treatment plant, my interactions with Lee and Miranda, all of these conspire to keep me from sleep.
Eventually I give up and sit in a chair, attempting to slow my thoughts and move my focus back to where it belongs, not on Miranda or Lee, or even on The Program.
I focus on the mission.
On Moore.
I think about Moore sending teams of young kids through the countryside at night, searching out targets.
They call it a game. I call it something else.
Domestic terrorism.
During my missions I am never given the reasons why a target has been assigned by The Program. I am trained not to ask questions, to focus only target acquisition and removal, leaving the why of it to others.
But living among Moore and his people, I can’t help but see the danger they represent.
This, more than anything, helps to steady my intentions. Whatever the purpose of this mission from The Program’s perspective, I have my own purpose now.
I have to stop Moore.
I sit in the chair thinking of ways to do it. By the time I glance at the clock, it’s seven AM.
I ate some trail mix last night, but that’s not enough to fuel multiple days of mission operations. I need real food.
I dress quickly and head for the main house, following the smell of bacon in the air. In the central square, I see the ashes of last night’s bonfire being raked up by two young kids, one of whom collects trash in a large plastic bag.
I walk past them unchallenged and head toward the main house.
I press the handle on the front door, but unlike in the video game, it is unlocked.
I ready myself, and then I open the door and step inside for the first time.
IT’S MOORE.
He’s standing in the hallway inside the door as if he’s been waiting for me. Francisco and Aaron are by his side.
“Good morning,” I say, like I’m happy to see him.
“You’re in a good mood,” he says.
“Absolutely,” I say, but not for the reasons he might think.
“How was last night?” he says.
For a moment I think he’s talking about Miranda being in my room, but I doubt he’d be smiling if he knew.
“You mean the treatment plant?” I say. “That was interesting.”
“Not the word I was expecting.”
I shrug. “It’s a lot to process all at once.”
Young people pass by us heading to breakfast. When they see Moore and me talking, they hug the wall, giving us plenty of space.
“Lee told me what happened,” Moore says. “It sounds like you had some doubts about the mission.”
I want to be real with Moore, letting him hear my concerns but not pushing far enough to risk losing him.
“That’s a fair way of characterizing it,” I say.
“I thought you wanted to be a soldier,” Moore says.
“I do.”
“Last night was preparation for the battle.”
“The battle against the dangerous people of Manchester, New Hampshire?”
Moore’s face reddens with anger. I see the tension ripple through Aaron’s shoulders as he prepares for trouble.
“Explain it to me,” I say quickly. “Help me understand.”
Moore nods, his face returning to normal.
“Are you familiar with the shot heard round the world?” he says.
“The first shot of the American Revolution.”
“That’s right. It was the Battle of Lexington and Concord, where the patriots fired against their colonial oppressors for the first time. It was in that moment that the world changed.”
“What does that have to do with last night?”
“We are modern-day patriots,” Moore says. “We who choose to live at this camp. We are practicing for that first shot. We don’t know when or how it will need to be fired, but we know we must be ready. You said you wanted to be a soldier—”
“More than anything.”
“That’s what a soldier does. He trains for the day when he will be needed by his commander.”
I pause, thinking about what Moore has said. He has a masterful way of using truisms to support his ideas. One can easily agree with the truth of the surface statements without questioning the ideas themselves.
It makes it easy for me to agree with Moore, at least for the time being.
“I understand what you’re saying.”
Moore smiles. “I know you do, Daniel. I have confidence in you. So does Lee. He told me so last night.”
“Is that right?” I say, wondering what Lee said to his father.
Moore signals for Francisco to come forward.
“Francisco’s going to take you home now,” Moore says.
“Home?” I say, my voice rising.
I feel myself getting upset, lost in the character of Daniel. He’s opened his heart and now he’s being rejected by Moore.
“Please. I don’t want to go,” I say.
I play it up, letting myself get desperate in front of Moore. If he throws me out, my mission is over.
Moore holds up his hands, trying to calm me.
“I’m sending you home because I want you to make arrangements with your parents,” he says.
“Arrangements for what?”
“To come back and stay with us for a while.”
“For a camp session?”
“There is no camp session, Daniel. Not anymore.”
This is what Miranda was trying to tell me in the forest the first night.
“What about the recruiting event?” I say.
He waves his hand as if it was insignificant.
“That was for appearances. We’ve moved beyond camps and temporary fixes and on to the next phase of our growth.”
“What phase?”
I want to ask another question, but Moore steps closer and looks me in the eye.
“Do you trust me, Daniel? Even if you don’t fully understand my methods?”
“I do.”
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Moore reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. It would not be out of character to flinch, especially after getting squeezed in the parking lot the other night and seeing Moore put the pincer movement on his son the first night.
But I don’t flinch. I let him touch me.
His hand is firm and steady on my shoulder.
“Do what you have to do to convince your parents,” he says. “Then come back to us.”
“I will,” I say. “As soon as I can.”
“YOU GOT THE BIG INVITE,” FRANCISCO SAYS.
“It’s not like I’m the first,” I say.
We’re walking away from the main house together, heading toward an area where vehicles are parked.
“No,” he says, “but Moore sealed the compound last month. The fact that he let you in is a miracle.”
“Why did he close it down?”
“Safety precaution,” Francisco says simply.
I think about the dead soldier. Father said he got into the compound. Assuming he was discovered, could that have been the trigger for Moore sealing the compound from the real world? If so, why would he open it now to let me in?
We turn the corner, and I glance back toward the main house.
“You know, I’ve never been inside the main house. Not past the front hallway at least.”
“You’ll get there eventually,” he says. “It took me a while. Now I live there.”
“Is it nice?”
“Not nice,” he says. “But I’m close to Moore. That’s what’s important.”
At that moment I see Lee walking around the corner, heading for the main house.
“Lee!” I shout.
“I’ll grab the truck and meet you over there,” Francisco says, pointing to a paved area to the side of the building.
I nod, and he hurries away.
I look back at Lee. It’s obvious he’s seen me, but he keeps walking.
“Hold up a second,” I shout, jogging over to him.
He hesitates, then stops to wait for me.
“How are you doing?” I say.
He shrugs.
“Your dad asked me to stay for a while. I’m going home to get my stuff.”
“That’s great news.”
“He said he talked to you about last night. Whatever you said, it worked. I just wanted to tell you thanks.”
“No need,” Lee says. “I told him the truth. That’s all.”
“Right, but there are a lot of ways to tell the truth.”
“Not with my father. There’s only one.”
He looks at me, his face serious.
“Always tell him the truth, Daniel. He’s going to find out anyway. If you lie, it’s just going to be worse for you later.”
A horn beeps. A truck pulls up to the side of the building, Francisco in the driver’s seat.
“That’s my ride,” I say. “Maybe we’ll get to spend some time together when I get back.”
He nods, noncommittal. I want to leave him with a positive impression of me.
“Thanks for helping me get in here,” I say. “It means a lot to me. Really. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
He smiles, warming to me.
“Okay, okay,” he says. “I can’t take any more ass kissing.”
“Just one more thing,” I say. “Will you take me to the shooting range when I get back? That combat rifle scared the shit out of me.”
He laughs.
“See you when you get back,” he says.
TWO BOYS WITH RIFLES STAND GUARD AT THE ROADBLOCK.
It has been fortified since we drove past it yesterday, a thick wooden barrier placed across the road with a spike strip below it that would puncture the tires on any vehicle smaller than a half-track.
When the armed boys see Francisco, they nod. One of them pulls back the spike strip while the other opens the gate.
“That’s a pretty serious roadblock,” I say after we pass through.
“These are serious times,” Francisco says, but he doesn’t elaborate.
One road in and out of the valley, a military-style roadblock at its base. A laser perimeter around the camp with sentries at night. High-tech digital signal blocking around and above. And these are just the defenses I’ve identified. There are likely more hidden away out of sight.
What exactly is Moore protecting inside Camp Liberty?
We drive the steep mile-long incline that leads out of the valley.
“Look over your shoulder,” Francisco says.
I look back. In the daylight, Liberty looks almost quaint, a scattering of buildings nestled in the green embrace of a mountain pass.
“What do you think?”
“It’s small,” I say.
“A tiny outpost. From up here, you see that it’s lucky to exist at all.”
“That’s why you work so hard to protect it?” I say.
“I work hard because it’s my home now.”
“Are you a permanent?”
“Where did you hear that term?”
“Lee told me.”
“Yeah, I’m a permanent,” he says. “Something like that.”
“How did you persuade your parents to let you stay?”
“They didn’t have a choice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m nineteen now,” he says. “My parents don’t get a vote anymore.”
Usually I can tell someone’s age, but it’s been hard to determine with Francisco. The long hair and beard make him appear older, but when I look at his eyes now, I can see that he’s just a few years older than me.
“Must be nice,” I say. “To be independent, I mean.”
“It’s got plusses and minuses,” he says.
Three white panel vans approach us heading toward the camp. It’s a narrow road, and Francisco has to slow and move to the very edge to allow them to pass. As they go by, he toots his horn once and waves. The lead driver waves back to him.
I glance through the window of the second van, and in the moment it takes to pass us, I see her.
The English teacher with wild hair. The one who tried to kill Moore.
At least I think it’s her. She’s in the passenger seat, looking away from me, a wool cap pulled low over her hair, but I’m rarely wrong about things like this. My memory works like a photographic database, logging facial structures, eye shapes, hairstyles, and postural quirks.
If it’s the English teacher, why would she be invited back to camp after what happened at the center?
I consider asking Francisco about it, but I decide against it.
A few seconds later the vans are gone, and Francisco pulls back out onto the road. We start around the long curve that leads to the other side of the mountain and civilization.
“Why do you think Moore invited me to stay?” I say.
“I know why.”
He jerks the wheel, narrowly avoiding a large rock that’s fallen onto the road from the mountainside.
“I’m all ears,” I say.
“Moore will have to tell you that himself when and if he decides. But I can guarantee you it wasn’t a spontaneous decision. We were up half the night talking about you, and then we took a vote.”
“We?”
“He and I.”
“Not Aaron?”
“I’m head of security, not Aaron.”
He sits a little straighter in his seat. It’s obviously a point of pride for him.
“Not much of a vote with just the two of you,” I say. “Tough to settle deadlocks, too.”
“Not really. His vote counts twice.”
We come down the other side of the mountain, Francisco’s speed increasing as the road widens.
“Which way did you vote?” I ask
“I voted for you to stay. Does that surprise you?”
“A little. Yeah. Especially after you were such a son of a bitch that first night.”
“It’s not my job to be nice. Not to strangers.”
“What is yo
ur job?”
“Assess. And defend if necessary.”
“Have you assessed?”
“I have. I watched you very closely last night.”
I look at Francisco. He’s a lot more astute than he appears at first. It’s easy to be thrown off by his wild-man appearance.
“And what did you decide?”
“I voted to keep you here.”
“I haven’t done anything to prove myself.”
“It doesn’t matter. I voted for potential.”
“You think I have potential?” I say.
“More than you know.”
“But I didn’t even take the gloves last night,” I say.
“You think taking the gloves was the right thing to do?”
“We have to follow orders. That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“We follow,” Francisco says, “but not blindly. It’s a choice.”
“What the difference?”
“Everyone in the world is a follower. They follow an agenda, whether it’s set by school, parents, a job, society. The only question is who or what they choose to follow. Most people don’t even realize there’s a choice to make, so they end up stumbling blindly through their lives, wondering why they’re so unhappy when they’re doing everything right.”
“You’ve made a choice. That’s what you’re telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Are you happy with it?”
“Most days. Yes.”
He pops down the sun visor, squinting as we take a ramp that briefly turns us east.
“Liberty is much better then where I was before,” Francisco says.
“Where were you before?”
“In hell.”
Francisco turns the corner, and I recognize the neighborhood near the house where I prepped with Father yesterday.
“You said you lived near here, right?” Francisco says.
“You can let me off at Cumberland Farms up here. I’m going to grab something to eat before I go home. You guys had me so busy, I didn’t get any food. Except for that stale trail mix you gave me last night.”
Francisco grins.
“We’ll feed you plenty when you come back,” he says. “If you come back.”
“I’m coming back,” I say. “Believe it.”
He pulls into the parking lot and stops the car.
