Man Hunt (25 page)

The dark skies and thousands of house lights in the valley below didn't have an answer for her. She didn't have one for herself either.

"I can't do this," she mumbled to the skyline. "Not alone. It's too much."

At the back of the gas station was a brown dumpster inside a square of chain link fence. A rotten garbage smell had been wafting over to her and she walked towards it now. On the far side of the dumpster the smell dissipated, carried downhill by the gentle breeze. She sat on the ground, cross-legged, and went over her plan.

She would have to search for Charles in secret. That was the primary decree she had given herself. In this world, she could be recognized around any corner.

Immediately, however, another thought struck her. If she were discovered, would she even bother to utilize her backup plan? Would she be faithful to the island, tell her carefully-constructed lie, then go back, vanishing once again? Or would she break down into fits of released emotions and go running home?

The security of the entire island was never more at risk than it would be here and now, and Josie swore, frustrated at her own admiration and jealousy at the brash courage Gertrude displayed by taking this kind of a chance.

For six years she had searched within herself to come to grips with what she'd done, trying to convince herself it was the right decision. In the same way that she both hated and felt sorry for the men in training, she both doubted and felt empowered by who she now was.

I should have never called that hotline,
she thought. It must have been the thousandth time she'd done so. The millionth.

'Remember the cavewoman.'
Monica's voice. And the feeling of empowerment.

'Just let me. Just let me. I need it. I need
you.
'
Charles. And helplessness and fear. 

'She dragged it out of me last week. I'm so sorry.'
Steph. And so much doom.

'
Please. Please
make it stop.'
Another nameless man. And her breaking heart.

The voices were broken by the image that so often interrupted her daily life. The backhanded swing and the burning eyes of her one-time boyfriend and rapist.

"I'm here, you fucking bastard," she said aloud. "And if I want it, I have a real shot at revenge."

But the words only flamed her anger for a few seconds. Her mother was nearby as well, and for the first time in six years Josie knew she also had an opportunity to take it all back.

She sat on the dirty ground, hiding behind a box of garbage, wracked with indecision. She needed to endure something so much worse now than the drunken hands of some horny pig. She would have to endure the search inside herself for what to do next, and she had to do it all alone.

CHAPTER 12

It was past dusk and into full evening. Obe had been traveling on his torn feet for hours, and the stream remained as hidden as a lost relic. The rain was a steady, cold drum roll. The island's hills and valleys folded over one another like giant ribbons of green fabric.

The grass was thicker here than in green sector, and there were more trees as well. Against the backdrop of the vast, distant ocean and the rising crescent moon, it was beautiful scenery. But it was also hard going.

Obe navigated the array of slippery inclines step by individual step; his progress was both slow and constant. Pain, treachery, and even the dispiriting storm were no match for his strong legs and stronger will. They carried him well across the picturesque landscape and could have done so long into the night.

Nevertheless, he was getting tired. His rage at Rein and his fear and frustration at Jain were all but gone. Far more worrying things had wormed their way into the forefront of his mind.

His feet had gone steadily more numb as the hours had passed. He had lost so much feeling that now he no longer limped when he walked, and he hadn't winced since the last time he'd seen a far-off car chasing down a running man along a winding, dirt path. He had, however, fallen twice, and he was on the verge of admitting how much this scared him.

In the meantime, his subconscious had been busy with the squeal of the laughing child that wasn't there, the thudding of the invisible helicopter, and the ever-persistent insistence that his real name wasn't 'Obe' but began with the sound of 'C'.

He had continued his hope of finding Leb or Doov, but men were increasingly hard to come by in the pouring rain. He had come across only two more since the confrontation with Jain. One had offered to tell him where the stream was in exchange for his sneakers. Obe politely explained he no longer had them and offered food from his next bag instead. The man had declined, claiming his feet were a greater need than his stomach.

The second man had said he would take Obe straight to the stream in exchange for both of Obe's next two bags of food. Obe didn't take the deal. He believed it to be too steep of a price, especially since he was already without. And finding the stream on his own had started to become a personal quest. He would pay a greater price when the rain had stopped, perhaps, and his situation was even more desperate.

The grass on the island was not the soft green shoots that he could still remember from home. This stuff was wild grass, tall and stiff, much of it more yellow than green. All of it grew to at least his knees, and some of the tallest clumps of wild blades reached past his waist. Everywhere he looked, everywhere he walked, thick tangles of tiny white flowers grew from their tips. Before this world, he hadn't known that grass could even blossom.

But despite the danger of both sedans and slopes, there was less danger out here than he had been led to believe. He'd only seen the matted red carpet of blood indicating some man's final moments a handful of times.

It's hard to find them, though,
he reminded himself.
Mother Nature sees to that.
Still, the men always gravitated toward the city, didn't they?

Of course,
Obe thought.
Because we need companionship, and because we need food.
The weaker half of his mind– the part that still believed everything the women had beaten into him– also reminded him that the women watched each man closely, even when it seemed they weren't there, and made a point to seek out anyone who tried to hide in the hills for too long.

He struggled aimlessly up another short, steep hill. At the top he was forced to use his arms to scramble to the summit. His biceps and shoulders moaned and whined. Soon he was down it and climbing the next. He had taken to grabbing at the tall stalks of grass to help him, and the palms of his hands were getting slowly sliced apart. Soon they would begin to resemble his feet. Halfway up the little hill he tripped on something big and solid hidden under the grass and fell hard to the ground.

"Mother fucker! Get your own hill!" a voice screamed from under him.

Obe pushed aside the wall of grasses between them and laughed in spite of the man's anger. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't see you there."

"Well that's the damned point, isn't it?" The man's voice was old and weathered, and Obe realized he was older than most island men. In his sixties at the very least.

"I suppose," Obe agreed. "I'm Obe. 'Obe like probe!' they taught me." The man's frown quickly faded.

"Terd," he said. "With an 'E', but shitty just the same." A single moment of wind-swept rustling of grasses passed before both men were smirking widely.

"Nice to meet you, Terd," Obe said, offering his hand. Terd took it and shook. "Again, sorry about that. I'm impressed how well you hid yourself. How'd you do that?"

"I'll tell ya for a bite of bread," Terd said.

Of course,
Obe thought.
Everything here has its price.
"I didn't get any food today," he said.

"Oh," Terd said. "Well, I suppose I could tell you for a future."

"A 'future'?"

"Next grocery day or the one after that… whenever I ask at some point in the future… that's when I get my bite of bread."

"Oh. You… you'd do that?"

"Sure," Terd explained. "Common practice. Just don't shirk on it or the elders will have you booted out. Causes too many fights out in the field where we all need to fight together against the women."

"Ok, great. It's a deal. How'd you do it?"

"Simple," Terd said, rolling aside. Beneath him was a patch of bare earth. "You can't lay down right on the grasses," he said. "They're so tall they bend. It'll push down the grass next to you. Then you'll have a giant 'V' on the hillside that stands out like a sore thumb. Gives away your position easier than standing and waving."

"The trick is to find a thick patch– as tall as you can get it– and pull the grass out in the middle by the roots. Make yourself a little hidey-hole to crawl into. I like to lie sideways if I can. Makes the hole smaller and tougher to pick out. Some guys hold up the ripped up grass to fill it all in, and it looks great at first, but I never bother with that these days. It's a pain in the ass to get the height just right, and you can never seem to hold the fuckers still. Besides, once you fall asleep they just fall over anyway. Better to find a thick patch, lie sideways, and sleep with one eye open."

"Wow, cool," Obe said. "I never thought of that."

"Me neither. Learned that one more'n a year ago I think. 'Stoup' was his name. Stoup with a 'U'. He was a good man. Almost made elder."

"I'm sorry," Obe said. He didn't need to explain any further. Neither did Terd. But the mention of yet another dead man put a somber mood onto their exchange.

"Well, I'll see you around, I guess. Do I have to record our deal with Baj or somebody? I'm still learning all the rules of the Family."

"Naw. I'll remember. If a dispute happens the elders take care of it. If you're lucky, I'll die before I ever take it from you." Obe blinked but didn't say anything. He suddenly got the distinct feeling that Terd had survived on cunning rather than speed. At his age, it was a wonder he had survived long enough to get through green sector.

"You shouldn't talk like that," Obe finally said. "I'll get you your bread. Next grocery day. I promise."

"I reject your promise. You'll be starving then. Hungrier than you've ever been in your life. Even if you went without in green sector, which only one or two in a hundred ever do. Our bags are smaller here in blue. You'd know that if you'd gotten any today. Nah. I'll just wait another week or three. Let you get your bearings. There's no rush. I'll probably be dead by then anyway. Can't run no more." He pushed aside the grasses down by his legs and pulled up one foot. It was a horrendous mess. The pinky toe was badly infected and purple.  Yellow pus leaked from it like sap from a tree. Half the foot was purple too.

"Jesus Christ!" Obe said. He suddenly realized his feet were no longer numb. In fact, they were throbbing with pain.

"Yep, exactly," Terd agreed. "But the good Lord isn't showing up anytime soon. I've prayed and prayed, but I think God has abandoned me. I hurt a girl, see, and now I'm paying for it. Paying for it with my life. Probably pay for it with my soul, too."

Suddenly Obe was thinking of a girl from his own recent past. Her name, Lauren, came to him loud and clear. It was a name the women of Monroe's Island hadn't let him forget. He supposed even if he did go home one day, he never would.

"What… what did you do to her?" Obe asked.

Terd slowly looked away, suddenly unable to meet Obe's eyes. When he finally spoke, he spoke into the grasses on the downward slope of the hill.

"I hurt her is all. I don't wanna talk about it."

"I'm sorry," Obe mumbled. It seemed that he was doing a lot of apologizing these days. When he said it, the child's laughter came shrieking in his ears and he winced. He hadn't realized the ghostly sound had been absent. The chaotic beating of the invisible helicopter came too, louder than ever before. So loud, in fact, it seemed to be right overhead. But Obe knew it wasn't real. For one thing, the sound was more of an echo than a true sound. For another, Terd didn't show any signs of hearing. Yet it blasted in his mind until he felt like shouting at it to stop. He was surprised to hear Terd's voice when he replied. It was clear and at volume despite his mumbled tones.

"I'm sorry too," was all he said. Then he rolled onto his other side, putting his back to Obe.

Obe allowed the old man his space and quickly stood and moved on. As he reached the summit of the little hill he realized his feet didn't hurt so badly after all.

He also realized he could hear crashing waves over the sounds of laughter and rotors and names.

As soon as he heard the call of the sea, Obe gave up on finding the stream.  He suddenly
needed
to see the famed Cliffs of the Moon.

He rounded the top of a hill and came to a small, grassy plateau. In moments he was beyond that and moving down the other side. His legs felt weakened after his short rest and now simply caught his weight more than they controlled his descent.

Another short hill loomed in front of him on the far end of a little valley. Somehow, he climbed that one, too. His feet didn't protest at all. In his head were names and waves and laughter and rotors and waves upon more waves.

Down the short hill. Up the next. The rain poured down in a deluge for a full minute, muting the crash of the nearby ocean and almost pressing him flat to the hillside. He forced himself on until he again stumbled over something. His heart skipped a beat as he imagined Jain's wooden knife, and he grabbed at his empty jumpsuit, protecting the belongings he didn't have. But it was just a large clod of earth, and he plodded on.

When his damaged toe snagged a stiff blade of grass, he swiped it away angrily and tried to ignore the fresh slice of pain. He thrust aside a bush that was in his way. It snapped back and the thorns lashed at his exposed calves. He swore under his breath and gently pushed aside another one, angry he couldn't be violent to it.

As the rain finally slackened once more and he approached the next bush, he realized just how many there were in this area. When and how had he gotten off the grassy hills and arrived on a larger highland with all these thorn bushes?

Roses!
he suddenly saw.
This is a whole grove of wild rose bushes!
Surrounding him were hundreds of the beautiful flowers. Every one of them was huge– as big as grapefruits– and as white as the fallen snow. As he looked across the amazing backdrop of a full mile of darkened shrubs he realized the white blossoms numbered in the thousands. From a distance, they looked just like the pinpricks of stars in the midnight sky.

He was wading through them now, swimming laboriously with his arms sweeping awkwardly left and right trying to skirt around each branch that jutted out to scratch and gouge.

Then, suddenly, the sound of the waves was much louder and the field of rose bushes had stopped. Not ten feet beyond them, so did the ground.

A long, curving edge of the cliffs below stretched off to the right and left, creating the shape of an enormous crescent moon. The song of the constantly pounding sea reached up over the cliff edge like the giant voice of God and attacked the grove of roses. Obe stood, wavering on his exhausted legs, listening to that inviting sound.

It was said that many men who were transferred to blue sector remained there for years and could never progress to the next stage. The Cliffs of the Moon were a haven to these desperate men. Rather than continuing a life as another pawn in the women's game, the stories had it that they would jump from these cliffs to their deaths.

As Obe looked at them, he saw how visually striking they were. How beautiful. They put the field of roses behind him to shame.

The cliffs were easily a hundred feet high. Thousands of crevasses spliced and marbleized the rock walls from sea to summit. The waves frolicked and crashed as they entered the half-moon bay. And everywhere he looked, the faint moonlight reflected a glimmering, seductive dance of the million stars above.

How welcoming it all was to a man at the end of his patience. Obe suddenly understood how this place had earned a reputation despite how others on the island would have served the same purpose.

He shuffled forward the last few feet to the edge. He was nestled just east of center in the curving wall of rock. He reached one foot out and leaned carefully forward to look over and down.

The bay below was shallow and violent. There was no beach. Millions of raindrops dove into the water like tiny pelicans. Angry waves slammed upon rocks everywhere he looked. Giant whitecaps fought with each other like common alley cats, like starved men over a small bag of food. Far out past the breaking waves floated a dilapidated, wooden dock. It listed heavily to one side, half sunken and bobbing slowly with the tide.

Another dead relic,
he thought. In the scant moonlight, he could barely see a thin, black strand weaving up and down beside it. He squinted for a moment and then saw it was a short mooring line that rose and fell with the passage of each wave.

How long since a boat has been tied there?
Obe wondered.
How impossible to build one now?
Then he looked at the long, curving walls of the cliff. They were straight down, all the way to the water.
There's not even a way to get down there.
The dock, he realized, was only accessible by boat.

He scanned the fierce bay again and one large rock directly beneath him caught his attention.

Well, there's
one
way,
he thought.

Was this a rock that had killed any men? It was certainly large enough, and the peak on the right side was certainly sharp enough. With just a little jump, just a little effort, he was sure a determined man could land right on top of it.

Maybe his head would smack on the large flat portion to the left. Maybe his legs would break over that jagged peak to the right. Or maybe he wouldn't reach the rock at all, and the waves would just throw him up against the cliff wall a few dozen times.

It was a harrowing thought. And yet the sea beckoned, for as violent as it was, the rocks and the waves weren't part of the island. They were outside that world of hell.
No more pain there,
Obe reasoned.
No more running. No more sounds that aren't there.

The cliff edge he stood on marked the barrier. It was freedom down there. Freedom to live or die as a man chose.