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“Any idea why Ghosteye wanted to allow that?” Bethany asked, nodding thoughtfully.

Blythe pursed her lips. “Well, I suspect because he had a change of heart about what he was doing. In fact, he told me that if I met someone here named Bethany, that he wanted her to know what he’d done.” Blythe was familiar with the woman’s rhetorical style. Beth was the type of woman who knew the answers to her questions, for the most part, but wanted to get everyone on the same course as her. It was irritating as hell.

“Thank you,” the hippy said, nodding her head and looking into the middle distance before continuing. “Well, I had always imagined meeting the father of the feeds in a different way. Usually it was with me demonstrating how pissed off I was at how he destroyed the world.” The younger woman glanced at Ramone as she spoke, grinning sarcastically, looking for his reaction.

Blythe found herself sitting up reflexively, ready to pounce at the first indication that the girl had done, or was about to do, something to Ramone.

“Calm down. He came to us peacefully, repentant for what he’s done. I’m not going to hurt him,” she smiled widely, arrogantly. “We have a problem, however. The Enforcer undoubtedly let his superiors know where he was before he entered our camp. Our camp, as Ramone may have mentioned, is in a geologically dead area—it suppresses magnetism and our heat signatures somehow. So the nanocameras don’t work here. That’s not to say we’re hidden from all eyes, which is why we cover our camp with camouflage netting. So we’re only safe here for as long as it takes them to find us. We have Ramone. And they’re going to want him.”

“Well, now what? We can’t let them have Ramone,” Marci interjected, sounding angry. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, shoulders slightly hunched, for all the world looking like a soldier ready for battle.

“And we won’t let them have him,” Bethany said. “His mind is worth a fortune. We need what he has there.”

Behind the reflective lenses of his glasses, Blythe saw Ramone’s blue eyes looking at her. A ball of anxiety formed in her gut.
He’s more to me than a mind. He’s Ramone. This might not end up well,
she found herself thinking.

Chapter 14

It took the train nearly a day to reach Ghosteye’s stop. Though it traveled at high speeds, the way was full of bends as contorted as a river, going through canyons and mountain passes. That required slowing.

Along the way, Ghosteye memorized the other passengers and their positions in his car before sleeping a few hours. He wanted to know where people were in case someone moved, trying nonchalantly to close in on him. The Organization—and by default, the
Decemviri
—would have their eyes on him. As soon as possible, they’d put someone on his trail. He happened to know of a base of operations in one of the towns his train went through. It was likely someone would board there in order to catch him. If someone was coming at all.

The problem was that there was no way for him to hide. Any disguise he tried would be seen by Them through the cameras. Them. Eyes closed, head resting against the window, Ghosteye raised his eyebrows. Already calling them, Them. Already apart from Them. No longer a member of that enormous, invisible Cthulhu-like monster.

Cthulhu. What a great monster.

The train slowed. Ghosteye woke with a start. Rubbing his eyes quickly, he glanced around the train-car. Outside, the mountain city they coasted into was cloaked in darkness. Lights flickered along streets and in the windows of cabins marching up black mountains. This was the town. Someone would surely board the train with Ghosteye in mind.

Within the car, the passengers hadn’t changed much. The redhead remained in her seat, head rocking back and forth lazily as she dozed. The immigrant family remained two tables in front of him. An old man that had boarded prior to Ghosteye’s last nap sat directly across the table from him. Ghosteye counted them, then settled back into his seat, watching the town out his window.

What was the point of all this running he wondered, remembering his dreams now. The cursed last thought he had before falling asleep, of that damned monster! Older than the world itself, and perhaps the only scary monster in the history of monsters. Back when Ghosteye had time to read, he’d always reserved a place of horrified honor for Cthulhu. And the dreams he’d woken from were filled with a powerful, many-tentacled creature lurking in the shadows, exposing itself only rarely, and driving men mad if it didn’t stop their hearts first when it did.

Just like Them. The Organization, as some called it. The
Decemviri
, as it was known by those with some knowledge of the upper echelons of the media conglomerates.

Ghosteye squinted, watching the redhead. She was cute. Was she with Them? She seemed harmless. He found the immigrant family, most of them were sleeping too, except for the father. Were they with Them?

Ghosteye settled back into his seat, running his fingers through his hair, pinching the bridge of his thin nose. A family would be a perfect disguise. No one would suspect it. He turned to his reflection in the window. Despite the nap, he still looked tired. His normally spiked hair drooped a bit, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The pale complexion he’d inherited from his British father didn’t help. He always appeared sallow, even after getting some sun, which was unusual considering his job. Removing his black-framed glasses, Ghosteye sank further into his seat, propped his knees up against the table in front of him and waited.

Soon the train squealed to a stop in the station. The platform sped by outside Ghosteye’s window, the florescent lights casting a greenish hue upon the people waiting. Men in trench coats and dress-shoes looked up from their slates and bent to pick up their briefcases. Black-haired women wearing various uniforms that reminded Ghosteye of the janitors at his high school rushed up to the edge of the platform. Who would it be? Ghosteye wondered. He knew someone would come. If not one person, two. Quite possibly more.

What could he do? He let them come.

People poured into his train car and filled up the empty seats. Ghosteye left his backpack on the seat next to him, hoping it would deter everyone.

“This seat taken?” a soft female voice said.

Ghosteye put his glasses back on and looked up. A woman of perhaps fifty, somewhat on the heavier side with curly brown hair up in a half-ponytail, smiled at him as she waited for his response. “Yeah, actually it is. Sorry.”

She didn’t move. “Come on now, son. I don’t bite,” she grinned, and shoved his pack toward him with her leather briefcase as she settled herself in the seat.

“Maybe I do,” Ghosteye answered, gathering his pack into his arms.

She laughed a bit louder than Ghosteye would have liked. “Trust me, I’ve been riding this train long enough to not be frightened of harmless men like yourself. How can I tell? you’re wondering. Well, let’s just say I’ve been around the block too many times to count. And no, I’m not a prostitute,” she chuckled, leaning toward him to give him a joking nudge-nudge, a grin, and a wink. “Barbara Peterson, nice to meet you.” She said, offering her hand.

Ghosteye felt himself bristling. Reluctantly he took her hand and shook it. She was drawing attention to him, not to mention the fact that she presumed to know what he was thinking was irritating as hell. He felt himself giving her a polite smile while trying to hide behind his pack. “Please, I would never assume you were a prostitute. I just prefer to sit by myself on the train.” He hoped she’d respect his honesty and leave, perhaps.

“Life’s too short, young man. That’s my motto. I’ve been riding trains for years and the best part about it, besides the scenery, of course, is the people. I met a man once who’d been a prisoner of war. Can you believe that?” she shook her head, making tsk-tsk noises with her tongue, then let out a surprisingly low whistle. “Boy, the stories he told. You should have heard them. They’d have burned your ears right down to nubs. Nubs. I’m actually surprised he even cared to tell the stories. Seems a little too much like reliving torture to me, you know.” She glanced at him and nodded.

“Well, maybe he was lying.” That was all Ghosteye could think to say. He glanced at the man across the table who stared pointedly at the screen of his tablet. His eyes flickered in Ghosteye’s direction for moment and then back to his own business, apparently inconvenienced by the loud conversation. Ghosteye's cheeks were red in embarrassment and frustration. His smile felt plastered on. This was why he hated to leave his apartment.

Used to hate it. The apartment was gone. He needed to think in the present.

“What?” she yelled, leaning back in a show of almost mock-surprise. “Why on earth would someone lie about that? No, no. No way.” Her voice was apparently the kind that only had two volumes. Extremely loud or silent. Ghosteye could feel the eyes of every passenger in the train-car upon him.

“It was just a suggestion,” he said quietly. “Listen, I’ve known plenty of people who found lying benefited them. Even if it was unnecessary. Their past was made up of one exceptional story after another. They began to sound like a veritable James Bond from the old spy movies. You remember those?” This was also why Ghosteye stayed away from people: he was a bumbling jerk when it came to making friends. He’d already offended the woman and he’d only said two or three things to her.

“I get you. Yes, I know exactly what you’re talking about, son. But this man was no liar. He showed me the scars from the canings. Weird? I know. That’s the kind of thing that happens on the train, though.” She chuckled again and leaned toward him with a wink.

Ghosteye muffled a sigh and looked out the window as the train accelerated out of the station. Soon the lights dimmed slightly as people settled into their seats. It was two hours to the next stop.

“Ghosteye, right?” A voice said quietly into the back of his head. Ghosteye froze. His skin crawled with chills. “That’s ok. I know.”

He turned slowly back toward the aisle and the woman. The low-voice came from her. Surprisingly enough. A ball of fear sprouted in Ghosteye’s stomach, its roots shooting down into his legs and toes.

She nodded and winked at him. “Meet me in the bathroom at the back of the car in two minutes. Just do it. This doesn’t have to be ugly.” The quiet pitch of her voice seemed unearthly on her, after all the loud, obnoxious conversation. Before Ghosteye could nod, she jumped up.

“I’ll just be a minute. Nature calls, you know,” she said loudly, chuckling. “Save my seat.” She trudged down the aisle to the bathroom. Ghosteye watched her disappear into the bathroom, feeling his blood turn icy.

He’d expected a man. An Enforcer. This woman couldn’t be an Enforcer. Could she? 

Two minutes passed. Ghosteye knew his face was pale. Paler than normal. Had anyone else noticed? There was nowhere to run, really. Every car of the train probably had someone on it. Watching him. Maybe even the man across the table from him, who continued to stare down at his slate, deeply engrossed in whatever glowing universe lay within it. Ghosteye was no James Bond. The thought of jumping from the speeding train sickened him. The thought of climbing atop it made the bile rise in his stomach. Swallowing that lump of fear, he rose to trembling legs and moved down the aisle, carrying his pack with him. The bathroom was going to be crowded.

*****

The brig consisted of a large wire animal cage, the kind used for large dogs. It was paltry really. Elliott sniffed as he considered it. The bottom was lined with a foam pad and a thick piece of particle board adorned the top. The dreadlocked monstrosity pushing him along threw Elliot in without loosening his wrists and Elliot fell against the back of the cage before stumbling to his side and rolling onto his hands. The wires of the cage dug into the skin of his cheek as he fell. Something trickled down his neck. Probably blood.

Elliot remained on his back, staring up at the underside of the plywood. It was dry, but he could see evidence that it had been saturated, mostly around the corners where they were curled and crumbling. After a moment, he rolled to his side and managed to sit up.

They knew, of course, where Elliot was. He wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up in the next day or so. The Director had his own jet. There was probably an airstrip nearby that Elliot didn’t know about. Was it only the Director who was involved at this point? Or had the leadership, the
Decemviri,
gotten involved? Elliot began to pass the time imagining what would happen when his superiors arrived. A gruesome bloodbath? Tear gas? Would they simply arrest the entire camp?

He hoped for a bloodbath.

Several hours went by before someone came for him. The camp was pathetic, Elliot noticed as they escorted him to another tent. The majority of the tenants looked like the innocuous, hippy leader and the man leading Elliot. Tree-hugger types wearing tie-dye and jeans or cargo shorts. Their hair was almost universally done in the style of dreadlocks. Many of them sat around their campfires, smoking or playing drums. That was to be expected of such low-lifes; useless wastes of oxygen. What shocked Elliot was seeing some of them doing things akin to work.

“Is that a butter churn?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The man leading him—the same one who’d put him in the cage—scowled without saying anything. Elliot laughed under his breath. Fear was an unusual emotion, one Elliot rarely felt in daily operations. He didn’t feel it now, in fact.

It was a butter churn. Elliot watched as two girls laughed and pumped the wooden handle intermittently, passing a cigarette back and forth as they took turns. They must have dug the thing out of a museum or some old cabin where it had gathered dust and remained forgotten till now. Why not just buy butter? They had to buy the cream, or milk, or whatever butter was made from. Unless they had cattle somewhere. That was a thought. Maybe this little operation was larger than Elliot could tell?

“Go in,” the hippy said when they arrived at a tent. It was larger than the others with a higher roof. He would have expected a tent like this in the center of camp. Instead it was pushed into the trees at the edge, nestled against the base of the mountain range. Out of sight. As hidden as a tent could be in a camp full of tents.

Elliot ducked in, his hands still secured behind his back. His eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows—the green canvas tent let little light through and he quickly surveyed his surroundings. There was an empty chair in the middle of the square room and the floor was covered with rugs. Battery-powered lamps stood on a few wooden crates around the perimeter of the tent. They glowed with a florescent light, casting odd shadows across the dusty rugs. 

“Have a seat,” a voice said. He looked to his right. The girl who’d had him put in the brig emerged from between a stack of crates. She paused in her tracks with her hands behind her back like some sort of dictator. The posture didn’t match her hair. Elliot laughed internally while moving to the chair slowly. He resisted the urge to look to his left to make sure she was the only one in the tent with him. That would convey fear.

“Let me do this, Bethany” another voice said before he fully settled into the chair. He knew that voice. Ramone. His quarry. Elliot watched as Ramone stepped into the light from behind yet another stack of crates. These lined the wall that shared the tent entrance. Apparently there were crates everywhere —a supply tent—a fact he could only now fully see; at this rate the entire camp was in there with him, hiding between crates. Elliot waited for more surprises, half-expecting others to pop into the light from the shadows cast by the crates.