Cookie Love, Part 2

[Author’s Note: This isn’t, technically, a story that takes place in the reality-based version of Left Behind.  It’s simply an attempt to respond to the latest T.F. post by writing a love story…about cookies and airports.]

Sam shuffled in to the security line, glad to be rid of her giant suitcase.  She craned her neck and attempted to look between the shoulders and heads of the people ahead of her.  Every once in a while she caught a glimpse of a shaggy head of hair rising head and shoulders above almost every one else.  Once he turned, caught her eye and smiled.  She couldn’t help but smile back.

It had been a strange week, that was for sure.

She certainly hadn’t planned on having anything to do with boys during the trip to DC.  It had only been a couple weeks ago that she’d decided to take a much needed break.  Freshman year of high school was the last time she’d been single, after all.

Not that she’d planned it that way, really.  Throughout junior high she’d been ignored.  She’d lacked sports acumen and wasn’t exactly surrounded by people who admired her for the A grades that littered her report cards.  She was an egghead, everyone had said, a teacher’s pet.  It wasn’t a good way to make friends or gain popularity.

Freshman year had been worse.  While all her friends were starting to date and go to dances she was overlooked.  And it wasn’t just because she was lower than everyone else’s field of vision.  Everyone seemed to look past or through her.  She was a no one, a nobody.  And it hurt.  It didn’t matter that she attended Waubonsie Valley, a suburban Chicago school so vast it had multiple campuses, separated by class year.  It didn’t matter that it was almost impossible to be noticed in such a place.  She wanted to make a name for herself.

She’d spent the summer after her freshman year out at her grandparents’ house in Rhode Island.  For reasons she didn’t understand at the time several of the local boys noticed her and spent the summer subtly, at least in their minds, jockeying for her attention.  She’d figured out then that boys were actually pretty easy, if you knew what you were doing.

Basically, you needed to do something that made you stand out.  After you got some attention you just had to get their competitive juices flowing.  Once they were all trying to get past each other there was nothing more to it.

Newly confident, she’d returned to school in the fall with a more open personality, more ready smile, and a penchant for a sexier wardrobe.  She hadn’t wanted to go for the slut look, just less plain and more eye-catching than she’d ever worn before.  But that was just step one.

Step 2 was about rejection.  Specifically of the first few boys who actually did notice her and tried to ask her out.  The first time, she’d been forced to admit, felt pretty good.  She had power, the feeling of controlling someone else’s emotions and destiny.  It hadn’t hurt that the boy in question was Tommy Gilchrist, who she’d had a major crush on in junior high and had rejected her the previous year when she’d asked him to Turnabout.

The next couple after that weren’t nearly so satisfying.  One of them was a rather sweet, awkward guy named Ben who probably hadn’t even noticed her change of attitude or wardrobe.  But he didn’t fit in with her concept of who she was and what she wanted to be, so she’d just shot him down without giving it much thought until later.

By the time she really took to self reflection, though, her strategy had begun to pay off.  There was something about being regarded as a stone cold bitch that got everyone’s attention.  Not all of it was good attention, of course, but as the old saying goes, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

She’d made sure to keep up her grades while rebranding herself.  By graduation she had the one of the highest GPAs in her class, a mound of ex-boyfriends and a reputation as a slut with a Napoleon complex.  Her plan had been to skip most of that during college.  She’d figured she’d meet a nice guy and they’d fall in love over poetry and foreign films or some other such stereotypical college romance fantasy.

It hadn’t worked out that way.  She’d discovered right off the bat that college boys were just as easy to manipulate as high school boys.  Maybe even more so.  She’d also discovered that they had no interest in deep discussions of Keats, Kafka, or Kieslowski.  At least, not the ones she seemed to meet.

She’d also discovered that the word “slut” wasn’t really tossed around too much in college.  Everyone was doing it, after all.  It was easier to just keep doing what she’d been doing before.  She didn’t have to think about it too much, didn’t have to risk getting her heart broken.  And she’d gotten used to always having someone around, even if she was sure she only wanted him for a little while.

Over Christmas break that year she’d run in to Ben.  He’d told her that he’d met a girl his freshman year in college and was seriously considering proposing to her.  As he’d spoken he’d gotten this faraway look, like there was nothing in the world but his beloved.

A little voice in the back of her head said, “That could be you he’s talking about.”

When she got back to campus she’d tried to go back to her normal life.  But in the back of her mind all she could think about was how much she’d fucked up, how in trying so damn hard to be what she wanted to be she’d become someone she didn’t want to be.  She found herself waking up in the middle of the night and crying.

One night about a month ago she’d woken her then-temporary-boyfriend.  He’d sat up, looked at her, and said, “Wanna fool around?”

She’d kicked him out of her room before he’d managed to get his pants all the way on.  Several floormates had been drawn out of bed by the sound of her screaming, forcing him in to what she was sure was a deeply embarrassing retreat.  She didn’t care.  Six years of bottled up anger and repressed self-loathing had chased him out in to that hallway.

She’d felt lighter, somehow.  More flexible.  Almost like she could go for a run and lift right off the concrete.

The next morning she’d decided to swear off boys for a while.  The upcoming trip to DC had seemed like a good opportunity to make it stick.

That first morning she’d seen the big, awkward kid nervously glancing at her across the room.  Something about him had just made her want to go over and hug him, tell him he’d be okay.  At lunch time she’d finally figured out why.  He reminded her, just a little, of Ben.

It had really just been a mad impulse that had led her to go talk to him on the Mall.  His confusion and fright had been cute, in that way that lost puppies are cute.  His obvious, stuttering inability to explain why it was strange and disturbing that they had the same name was endearing.  Then they’d sat and talked about books and movies and she hadn’t wanted it to end.

What had been a somewhat altruistic attempt to exorcise her own demons and convince herself that she wasn’t just a calculating slut and not a stone cold bitch had become something else.  The rest of the week had gone by in a whirlwind of all-day lectures and long night time conversations with Sam.  That thought brought a smile as she heard him say her full name, drawing out the second and third syllables as if to draw attention from the fact that the first syllable was the same for both.

She’d taken to calling him “Samuel” as a joke.  He’d seemed somehow pleased with that.

Again she craned her neck.  Sam was looking for her.

They locked eyes.  She winked.  He smiled.

But she could have sworn it looked like he was blinking back tears.

Cookie Love, Part 1

[Author’s Note: This isn’t, technically, a story that takes place in the reality-based version of Left Behind.  It’s simply an attempt to respond to the latest T.F. post by writing a love story…about cookies and airports.]

Sam stood up and hefted his bag as the bus rolled to a squeaking, rumbling stop outside the main terminal at Dulles.  He trudged down the center aisle, staring at the floor.  It was, without a doubt, the worst day of his life.

His classmates were noisy, excited, ready to get back to their lives.  Tom Jenkins – the closest thing to a friend Sam had in the group – bumped him on the shoulder.  “C’mon, man, get moving.  The faster you go the faster we can get to one of the parties on Adams.”

Sam obliged, picking up the pace.  But he didn’t want to get back, he wanted to stay.  He stepped off the bus, hoping and praying for news of a delayed flight.  Lake effect snow, perhaps, causing a freak white out.  It was a highly unlikely occurrence, though.  Even Chicago weather didn’t get crazy enough for snowstorms in late May.

Still, if there was any tiny bit of a possibility that the universe cared about Sam’s happiness, he knew something would happen.  And a blizzard in May would be a pretty good sign.

He looked to his left, scanning the knot of students next to where the ISU bus had already nearly emptied out.  The face he most wanted to see was nowhere and for a moment he wondered if she was already gone.  But, no, that wasn’t possible.  He’d seen her get on the bus, waved at her in that last moment before she disappeared in to the dark world of tinted windows and frayed upholstery.

Then, suddenly, the crowd parted and she emerged, smiling, dragging a blue suitcase that was big enough for her to pack herself in and fly home for just the cost of a checked bag fee and an incredibly uncomfortable flight.  It was funny, he realized for the first time, how someone so tiny could have a smile so big and eyes that seemed to hold the entire world.

He shouldered his bag and walked towards her.  They met between the two busses and he stopped to hug her.  She stood on her tip toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“So this is it, huh?” she said as they drew apart.  Her smile faltered for just a moment.

“Yeah.  I guess so.”

“Well,” she shrugged, “At least our gates are right next to each other.  So we’ve got a little while longer.”

“Yeah,” he smiled at the thought, “I guess we do.”

“Okay, everyone,” Professor Briggs shouted, “Let’s get moving.  We’ve got to get through baggage check.”

They parted company.  For an agonizing hour he waited in the baggage line and then the security line, feeling every second tick by on the clock while he reflected on every moment he’d spent with her and thought about how unlikely the whole thing was.  He still couldn’t believe it had happened, still wanted to deny it was already over.

Sam had grown up in a small town in the middle of the vast corn and soy fields of western Illinois.  He’d had his first real growth spurt in the fourth grade and practically overnight found that he was in possession of a body that was far too big for his reflexes to control.  He had also instantly lost any chance to excel at sports.

In junior high and then high school the coaches of all the teams had wanted him.  They’d seen the kid who stood head and shoulders above everyone else and assumed he would make their team unstoppable.  But every time someone threw him a ball he’d drop it.  Every time he tried to run and do something else at the same time he’d trip over his own feet.

Eventually he’d stopped trying to be what his coaches wanted him to be.  Eventually they’d stopped trying to figure out how to turn him in to what they needed.  And with that he’d just kind of dropped off the social radar at his high school.

Sam didn’t really mind.  He’d discovered he was more at home tinkering with computers or lost in the pages of books.  He might not have gotten invited to parties on Friday nights, but he’d realized at some point that he didn’t much like them, anyway.

Still, there was one problem that came with his glaring lack of a social life.  In a school where most of the activities and attention revolved around parties, sports, and the activities of the 4-H Club or the Future Farmers of America, the quiet kid who stayed home and tinkered with computers didn’t get much attention.  Especially from girls.

That, of course, didn’t mean that he paid them no attention.  Like any teenage boy he’d spent his days in class daydreaming about how to get the attention of the pretty girls in his class.  And there had been no shortage of pretty girls to choose from.

The endless cropscape of the vast, long-tamed former American frontiers that stretch across the endless Great Plains and fertile Midwest long ago created a new stock character for the bards of rock, blues, and country music to write endless songs and the writers to pen endless novels about.  She is the character known as a “small town beauty.”  Born of parents who still work with their hands, corn-fed and healthy, the small town beauty beguiles all who come across her.  She might be a blue-eyed blonde or a green-eyed brunette, but she always has the same story.

She grew up in a small town on the edge of that vast frontier wilderness that still exists in fiction.  She spent her early years running through the woods, riding horses, and learning to hunt, fish, and cook over an open fire.  As she got older she would spend her Sunday mornings properly dressed and in her family’s usual pew in church, smiling to herself about her Saturday nights spent driving too fast and teasing the boys to distraction.

In the songs and in the books the small town beauty is always eighteen going on nineteen.  She’s forever immortalized in that place between innocence and knowledge, youth and experience, the small town and the huge world.  She is bronzed skin, easy smiles, taught muscles, and wide-eyed wonder.

The big problem with the small town beauty is that she doesn’t exist.  She is the amalgamation of the hopes and dreams of men searching for a lost utopia.  She is the invention of marketing genius.  She is the renewal of the cultural memory of Helen of Troy, that face so beautiful she launched a thousand ships and a ten-year war.

The slightly-less-big problem with the small town beauty is that there is a germ of truth to the story.  In those small towns in Illinois there are an awful lot of girls who spent their days outside running, jumping, and working.  There are an awful lot of girls who learned how to shoot a deer at eight and replace a carburetor at ten.  There are an awful lot of girls who love fast cars and teasing boys with their smiles and bronzed skin.

All of them seemed to make it in to Sam’s integrated school district.

None of them ever noticed Sam.

Sam, unfortunately, never quite managed to push either one of those facts out of his mind.

He’d dreamed about the day Jenny DuBois would notice him.  He’d imagined how great it would be if Anne Montgomery one day realized how much more interesting it was to talk to him than the meatheads she usually dated.  By the time he graduated from high school he’d had a scenario dreamed up for how he’d gain the attentions and affections of practically every girl in his school.  But none had ever come even remotely close to reality.

When he left home for Western Illinois University he’d been excited.  It was a chance to re-invent himself.  It was a chance to meet girls from all over who had no idea that he was the awkward, dorky kid who never got noticed.  He knew he’d take the school by storm, figure out how to prove to everyone how cool he could be.

Unfortunately, however, the dorky, awkward version of himself was the only one Sam knew.  He’d been just as tongue-tied as ever in the presence of girls he met on campus.  He’d been just as likely to want to spend his weekends with a book or sitting in front of a computer screen.

The upside, though, was that he’d gotten excellent grades and attracted the attention of his professors.  So during his sophomore year when a week-long seminar in Washington, DC in cooperation with a group from Illinois State University was presented, Professor Briggs had suggested that Sam sign up.  Even though all of the students going were juniors or seniors.

On the first day in Washington the two groups had basically been allowed to meet and mingle.  During the introductory breakfast he’d stood back and scanned to crowd from the edges, still a little intimidated by being the youngest there and the only one who obviously didn’t have a lot of friends and acquaintances in the group.

He’d found his eyes lingering on one particular girl from the ISU side for reasons he couldn’t really understand.  She was about as unlike those tall, tanned, small town girls he’d left behind.  “Short” and “pale,” were, in fact, the words he’d use to describe her.  Also, even though he had no idea what the term was really supposed to mean, he kept thinking, “mousy.”

But there was just…something…about her.  Perhaps it was the way she smiled at jokes and laughed with a lilting tone that carried even to where he stood.  Perhaps it was the way her eyes twinkled when she smiled.  Maybe it was the carefree way she threw her dishwater-blonde hair over her shoulder.  He didn’t know.

At one point she’d looked right at him as he’d looked at her.  She smiled that wide smile of hers at him.  He’d looked away, cheeks burning with embarrassment, vowing to not look at the strangely mesmerizing girl for the rest of the week.

It hadn’t worked.

The two groups had spent the morning touring the area around the White House and Capitol Hill.  At lunch gathered on the National Mall for prepared box lunches.  They contained a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a cookie.

Sam had sat down to eat his sandwich.

All of the sudden she’d been in front of him, brandishing a cookie.  “Hey, um, you wouldn’t happen to have an oatmeal raisin cookie, would you?  I’ll trade you this chocolate chip cookie for it.”

He’d stared at her for a moment that was probably just long enough to stretch from awkward to uncomfortable.  When he’d managed to regain his senses he’d looked at his own cookie.  “No,” he’d said, heart falling.  “Sorry.  I’ve got chocolate chip, too.”

“Oh,” she’d said, “Too bad.”  Then she’d sat down.  “You win some, you lose some, right?”

“Y-yeah,” he’d stammered out, “I guess.”

“I’m Sam.  Well, Samantha.  But everyone calls me Sam.”

“Oh,” he said.  “That’s awkward.”

“Y’know,” she’d replied, a look made up of equal parts confusion and amusement working its way across her face, “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who’s ever thought that.”

Lead Thoughts and Lost Horizons, Part 5

[Note: This has been on hiatus far too long. I've been meaning to get back to it, but life just kind of passes by. Either way, my intention is to get an entry a week or so. There's much story left to tell.]

The dream slowly drifted away, leaving only the faint traces of a strange scene. He couldn’t remember specifics, only setting and idea. His dreams were always like that.

A sold out theater. Movie, live show, it didn’t matter. He’d been sitting half way back, in the middle of the main section of seating, surrounded by strangers, friends, and family. He laughed in all the appropriate places, cried at all the right times. He was part of the crowd. But he was still alone.

On either side of him were empty seats, oppressive in their silence.

The fact that he wasn’t in an empty bed surprised him, cleared away the last, lingering mists of the lethargic dream state.

Dawn.

He turned and looked at her, sleeping peacefully, the hint of a smile on her face. The clock on the night stand behind her read 2:04.

He wanted to go back to sleep but knew it wouldn’t happen now. He’d never been good at falling asleep, at least not since Basic. And a life lived in secret, first running around jungles and deserts, always in enemy territory, then on the lam, constantly in danger, hadn’t helped. It had been useful, had saved his life on several occasions. He wasn’t ready to give that up, even if he was capable.

He looked at Dawn again. He didn’t understand her, probably couldn’t. She’d let him in. He’d put her in danger, probably in more ways than he would ever know. But she, too, had put him in danger. They'd found him when he decided to stay in one place. Even though that had ultimately been good he still felt trapped.

“You deserve better,” he whispered. She didn’t respond. “You need to find someone who’s actually able to stay with you.”

He rolled out of bed, pulled on the pair of jeans sitting on the floor, and grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand on his side of the bed. He pulled Smith’s card out of the pocket of the jeans and snuck in to the living room. It was time to arrange a meeting, time to start moving again.

After he dialed the number he stared at the phone for a long while. It was a tougher decision than he’d realized. He knew he couldn’t stay, but suddenly realized he didn’t really want to go.

Still, he knew that in the end he had no choice. He pushed the call button.

The phone on the other end picked up on the second ring. “Smith.” It wasn’t the voice of someone awakened from sleep, but someone who was fully alert.

“I, uh…” he wasn’t sure what to say. He’d expected to leave a message on Smith’s voicemail. “This is, um, this is…Alex Simkins,” his own name sounded strange in his ears. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour.”

“I’m always awake at this hour,” Smith said. “I assume you’re calling to talk about the job.”

“Yes.”

“Be at my office at 9. We’ll talk then.”

“Your office, 9 am.”

“That’s what I said. Anything else?”

“No, not right now, Special Agent Smith.”

“If you get in to any trouble with law enforcement, just show them my card.”

The call cut off.

He flipped the phone closed, stared at it for a moment, then turned back towards the bedroom. Dawn was standing in the doorway, loosely wrapped in a robe, arms crossed over her chest. She looked like she was about to start sobbing.

“So I guess this is getting to be a thing with me,” she said.

“What?”

“The men in my life disappearing from my bed.”

“I…” he had no idea what to say, “I can’t explain it. But this is what I have to do.”

“Yeah, whatever.” She shook her head, then turned and walked back in to the darkness of her bedroom. “You’re just saying that to make your cowardice sound like bravery, you know.” The challenge seemed to come from the walls around him.

* * *

He’d passed through Chicago a few times before, so he knew enough to head in to the city with enough time to account for traffic. But 290 was almost completely empty when he got on. He knew it was a weekday, probably a Tuesday, but those distinctions really didn’t matter anymore. His life had been lacking those standard demarcations for so long that he had a hard time remembering half the time.

It looked to him like the rest of the world had taken on that same attitude. Five cars were headed in to the city when he got on the road. A few more trickled on to the highway as he got closer in, but he never had to drop the Acura’s speed below 65.

Closer in to the city the highway passed next to the tracks for the El trains. Almost no one waited on the platforms. The trains seemed empty. Police with dogs walked up and down the platforms. He caught a glimpse of a cop checking the ID of a commuter.

Traffic began to slow down as he got closer in to the city. Several police cars and a SWAT truck sat off to the side of the road, lights on. Something was going on. Something serious. They generally didn’t send SWAT to car accidents.

The situation rapidly became clear. There was a security checkpoint. Two big, concrete barriers had been set across the ramp to Lower Wacker, forcing traffic in to a choke point that passed beneath a building that stretched across the highway.

He rapidly corrected his assessment. It wasn’t a choke point, but a kill zone. Several second and third floor windows in the building had been broken out. The snouts of .50 cal machine guns poked in to the open air, covering the roadway.

Traffic from the other direction, however, wasn’t being blocked. Apparently they were worried about something getting in to the city but not concerned about what might get out. Rob thought about the collection of guns in the trunk of the RSX and briefly regretted bringing them with.

But there was no way to know. Besides, what was he supposed to do with them? He sure as hell couldn’t have left them at Dawn’s place.

Even with traffic completely stopped the wait wasn’t long. There weren’t many cars and apparently the police weren’t requiring full searches.

An officer tapped on his window. He rolled it down and handed his license over.

“Alex Simkins,” the cop said, reading his ID. “What brings you in to the city today?” The question was delivered in a surprisingly pleasant tone.

“I have a meeting,” Rob replied, deciding not to take any chances. He flashed Smith’s card.

The cop’s eyes widened. He handed the ID back. “Well, then, you’re clear to go, sir.”

“Thanks, officer.” Rob decided to risk a question. “If I may ask, what’s going on?”

“I couldn’t tell you, sir,” the cop said. “I think you know the man to ask, though.”

“Ah. Thanks.”

“Have a pleasant day, sir.”

Rob tossed off a quick salute, rolled up his window, and drove in to Chicago.

Meta-Hattie Comes Out to Play

[Author's Note: For anyone who wanders in here uninitiated, one of the common themes of Left Behind Fridays is that every once in a while Chloe and Hattie transcended Jerry Jenkin's atrocious writing and inhuman characterizations. We named these unintended characters Meta-Hattie and Meta-Chloe. Since these are the only two sympathetic characters and few people love hot meta-girl-on-meta-girl action more than Slacktivites, we often rooted for them to hook up, knowing it would not happen. Still, you can imagine what it would be like if they did, right?]

Hattie stared at the dark ceiling. She couldn't sleep most nights, at least not without the help of a couple glasses of red wine. Too many flights across a half-dozen time zones, too many nights in a lonely, empty bed. Too many memories. Too many ghosts.

It was cold in Chloe's room. The air settled on her flesh, raised it in a vain attempt to hold in heat and life. The only warmth came from the flesh pressed against hers and the warm breath Chloe exhaled rhythmically across her shoulder and neck. The leg wrapped around hers and arm encircling her chest were heavy, but not oppressively so. They were warm, comfortable, familiar, desperate.

Chloe held her like a drowning woman, terrified even in her sleep that she'd awaken alone and adrift. Hattie understood. She'd been there, too.

"I'm not going anywhere," Kate had said one night while they lay in their bed listening to the radiators pop and fizzle, keeping the cold outside at bay. "You don't have to worry."

Hattie propped herself up on an elbow. "What are you talking about?"

Kate turned to face her. The moonlight streaming through the window flashed in her brown eyes and lit her black hair with rich, midnight hues. "You talk in your sleep sometimes. It wakes me up."

"What?" Hattie half-smiled at her in confusion. "What do I say?"

"Most of the time it's something like, 'No, don't go. Don't leave me here.'"

"Oh." She flopped back on her pillow, somehow afraid to face Kate. "What do you do?"

"I hold you." Kate's hand found hers under the covers, squeezed it. "Whisper in your ear that it will be okay, that I'm not going anywhere."

Hattie blinked back tears. "Would it make you feel any better if I told you it's not you I'm worried about?"

Her father had left them when she was eight. Just walked out one day in a flurry of f-bombs and tears. It had left a hole in her heart that she'd always felt wouldn't close. The only place that hole was ever filled was in that bed with Kate, surrounded by popping radiators and moonlight.

It was the only time in her life she wasn't afraid of the dark. She'd never believed in ghosts or worried about the things that went bump in the night. It was the inactivity, the time spent staring at the ceiling, the place where the real hauntings arrive. The scariest ghosts aren't those of dead men and women from long ago, but the dead dreams that had to be left behind.

Around the time Hattie began to discover both girls and boys, her mother decided that they all needed some god in their lives. She'd dragged Hattie and her older sister to a church down the street and introduced them to the junior high and high school youth pastors.

Hattie took to the pastor immediately. He was kind, funny, patient, and seemed filled with more wisdom than her thirteen-year-old brain could comprehend. Once, after he delivered a youth group night message on dating and relationships, she had approached him. "I like boys," she'd said, "I really do. But I like girls, too. What's so wrong with that?"

He'd offered to counsel her, help her understand that what she felt was against the Bible and how to fix it. Then one night he told her he had a secret therapy and that he'd share it with her as long as she promised to never, ever tell anyone about it. Then he'd unbuttoned his pants.

Hattie begged her mother to find a new church, to never go back to that one again. She'd assumed it was just some bit of teen angst and dropped her vulnerable daughter off at the church the next youth group night. Now when the pastor approached she shrank away, afraid to talk to him, afraid to let him touch her.

That night she'd noticed that she wasn't the only one. Other girls had that trapped, frightened look. Other girls shrank away when he approached. Her fear gave way to fury. That night after youth group the words tumbled out of her mouth and her mother had listened with mounting horror and fury.

"Honey," she'd said, picking up the phone to dial the police, "I don't care if the sign on his door says pastor or President. You never, ever have to let anyone hold that kind of power over you."

The next day they'd gotten a call from the head pastor of the church. He asked them to come in at their convenience, but as soon as possible. Please.

"We have a way of approaching issues of marital infidelity and sexual sin," he'd said, leaning forward intently in his chair. He was a kindly man, one who had taken his role as shepherd seriously and honestly regarded those who attended his church, even once, as his responsibility. "We usually allow those who have committed such sins to admit their transgressions and submit to the rules of conduct as handed down by Paul."

Hattie didn't understand what he was saying, but began to get worried. It sounded an awful lot like he was saying that she was somehow at fault and that she would receive equal blame, that she'd have to stand up and confess her sins of being raped in front of the whole crowd.

"However," he continued, "In cases such as this we turn to worldly authorities. What Tom did was wrong and he deserves punishment both before god and the law." He'd turned and looked directly at Hattie. "I know it will be tough, but if you want to continue coming to this church we would like to show you that Jesus didn't come to take advantage of anyone, but to offer healing and love."

She went to the next youth group night. It was a somber affair as adolescent minds attempted to cope with the loss of their pastor on so many levels.

She'd gone in to the bathroom at one point, looking for a chance to be alone, convinced that all of the other kids knew what she'd done and hated her for putting herself and her needs above theirs.

The bathroom door opened. "I hoped you'd come back, at least once."

Hattie found herself standing in front of a dark-haired girl she'd never met. She was still in that awkward space between girl- and womanhood. Her legs were too thin, her chest too big, her movements slightly awkward, like the motors that told her body what to do were growing slower than the rest of her. Hattie recognized her immediately as one of the girls who'd shied away from the pastor, one of the girls who'd given her the strength to stand up.

The girl crossed the room, put her hand on Hattie's cheek and stared at her for a long second. Then, suddenly, she'd pulled her face to Hattie's and kissed her.

"My, uh, my dad told us last week that he has to move for his job," she said, long before Hattie could recover the ability to speak, "But I've still got a month or so before we have to go. Maybe, uh, maybe we could spend some time together...?"

For a brief moment Hattie believed in god. "Uh, sure."

"Cool," the girl smiled, her teeth too big for her mouth but beautiful nonetheless. "I'm Kate."

When Kate left they'd promised to keep in touch, promised that those days and nights of fumbling, awkward teenage experimentation weren't just the activities of two girls who had been forced to grow old faster than they grew up. They'd promised to be friends, that what they'd found had meant something, hadn't just been therapy. So they sent each other letters, talked on the phone, chatted on AIM, made plans to cross the vast gulf between them and visit that were more fantasy than reality.

Then, the summer before their sophomore year the news had come. Kate was moving back.

Pictures are a funny thing. Sometimes they're the best thing about a person, a captured moment of happiness that serves as a trigger to a better time that will never again return. Sometimes, though, they don't do their subject justice. Some people need to be seen in the flesh, captured in motion, appreciated in the moment.

Even though Hattie had seen pictures of Kate in the time they'd been apart, she was wholly unprepared for what she saw the first time they were again in the same room. The awkward thirteen-year-old was gone, replaced by a dark-haired beauty. She'd filled out in all the right places and at fifteen could have passed for twenty and been on the cover of fashion magazines. She was the sort of girl, too, who looked like age would only help her, refine her, continually smooth out the girlish lines in to those of a sculpted, confident woman, the sort who would break hearts by the dozens without ever realizing it. This was helped in no small part by the fact that the girlish awkwardness had disappeared, replaced by a smooth, confident grace.

As unprepared for Kate's appearance as she was, Hattie was shocked by the first words to come out of her mouth. "My god, Hattie," she'd said, "The pictures don't do you justice. You're gorgeous."

Kate would go on to the varsity dance team and end up as one of the most popular girls in school, every red-blooded American boy's wet dream. But Kate carried this distinction with a twist. She'd made a vow to herself after her terrible experience in that junior high pastor's office that she'd never try to hide her sexuality, never be ashamed of it, never tell anyone that she thought she should change. "Besides," she'd said once with a wink, "All the boys in school want to imagine that the girls' locker room is a big girl-on-girl orgy, anyway. I don't ruin their expectations, I fulfill them."

Some people simply carry within themselves the strength of character to overcome all obstacles, push past all pain, turn the negative in to a positive. It was to Hattie's eternal regret that no matter how much time she spent with Kate, no matter how many times Kate had told her to believe in herself, she simply couldn't.

"You know what your problem is?" Kate asked. They'd just finished and were lying in knotted, soaked sheets, basking in the afterglow.

"No, what?"

"You don't know how goddamn awesome you really are."

"Okay." Hattie knew she didn't sound convinced.

"Seriously, girl, you've got to project it." Kate hopped out of bed and stood, naked, in the murky light of her dusky bedroom. "Like this." She walked across the room, the picture of poise and confidence, her legs working rhythmically. Hattie studied the way the muscles in her thighs flexed, the way her ass cheeks raised and lowered in piston motion, the way her breasts bounced ever so slightly. She crossed the room, turned, crossed again. "Now you do it."

Hattie obeyed, rising out of the bed and crossing the room, doing her best to project confidence she didn't feel. All her confidence came from Kate. Without her there was nothing.

"Good job, girl." Kate put her hands on both sides of Hattie's head, pulled her close enough that their foreheads touched. Hattie grabbed Kate's waist, reveling, as always, in the closeness of her touch. "Project that confidence and you'll eventually realize that it's coming from inside you." Kate kissed her, lightly. "You're amazing. You know that, right?"

"I guess."

"Now, can you do something for me?"

"Sure, anything."

"Be my date to Homecoming."

Hattie wilted. Kate had asked her to Homecoming last year, then again to their junior prom. She'd said no, that she couldn't. Kate had said she understood, said, "Hey, that's cool, we'll stay at home, watch a movie, you know. Girl time."

The thought of going to Homecoming terrified her. It wasn't even about the fear of being found out, since if Kate and Hattie's relationship was a secret, it was the worst-kept secret in history. Hattie's mother referred to Kate as her third daughter. Hattie had even gone on a vacation with Kate's family over the summer. They regularly held hands while at school and had even engaged in the time-honored high school tradition of making out at their lockers between classes.

In a flash Hattie realized that she had nothing to fear, not from the staring eyes of her classmates. The only thing she really had to fear was that look of hurt, disappointment, and confusion in Kate's eyes. She couldn't handle it again.

"Yes. Yes I will." Kate's smile lit up the room. It's warmth should have been enough to keep the cold away from Hattie forever.

The cold air mocked her, pulling her back to Chloe's unfamiliar bed.

That Homecoming Dance had been one of the happiest nights of her life. She and Kate had gotten dressed to the nines, rented a limo, and spent the night in each other's arms. Towards the end of the night the senior class president had grabbed the mic from the band and said, "I know we picked the court a couple weeks ago, but I'd like to make a special recognition." A spotlight suddenly descended on Kate and Hattie. All eyes turned towards them. "I know it can be tough to be different, and to try to fit in even if you don't want to. For having the courage to be themselves, I'd like to declare Kate and Hattie our honorary Homecoming Queens."

As the applause washed over them, the two girls might as well have been the only ones in the room. Hattie had vowed then and there to never hurt Kate again. It was a vow that lasted until she met Rayford.

He'd been a dashing, handsome Captain. She was just starting out her career and eager to please.

He'd taken her under his wing, so to speak, showed her the ropes. He'd been there for her, watched out for her, made sure she was okay.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, that old hole in her heart began to open again. Somehow in Rayford's presence she became an eight-year-old girl again, wondering where daddy went, if he would ever come back again, if he really loved her.

She knew now that he'd just been using her, working out some sort of kink. But at the time she'd believed him when he told her that his marriage was falling apart, that Irene just wasn't doing anything for him anymore, that he respected her too much to simply see her as a mistress, that they'd be together some day, but the right way.

Kate had delivered an ultimatum, and for the first time since meeting her in the bathroom all those years ago Hattie had seen doubt and fear in her beloved's eyes. It turned out the fear was justified. Kate had told her to go to hell, to never talk to her again.

Hattie's purse was lying next to the bed. She let her arm flop off the edge, reached in, found her cell phone. She opened the contacts list, went to K.

Kate.

The word stared at her, bathing her face in its luminescence.

She wanted to hit the call button, wanted to put the phone to her ear, wanted to hear Kate's voice. She wanted to say, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was an idiot," over and over and over again. She wanted Kate to hear the words that constantly flooded her brain, threatening to drown her.

Ever since she realized Rayford was nothing but a lying bastard she had spent her nights in an empty, cold bed, staring at her phone, imagining where Kate was. Maybe she was somewhere else, maybe she was still in that apartment, listening to the popping radiators, wondering what had happened, staring at a cell phone, wondering why it didn't ring. She'd probably moved on, though, found solace in another woman's arms, hopefully a woman who deserved her this time. Hattie certainly didn't.

Chloe stirred, awakened by the light. Hattie turned the screen off, dropped the phone back in her purse, hoped Chloe hadn't noticed.

"Hey," Chloe mumbled, "You're awake."

"Yeah. Couldn't sleep."

"You wanna, you know, go again."

"Sure."

Chloe smiled, blissfully unaware of what she was getting herself in to, unaware that she was only going to get herself hurt, that Hattie wasn't worth a goddamn thing. Chloe unlocked her legs from Hattie's and turned over in the bed as Hattie spread her thighs. A moment later Hattie's view of the ceiling was eclipsed and her world reduced to a small cavern of flesh.

She grabbed Chloe's ass, directing her to the proper placement, and gave in to the moment, hoping it would last forever.

She didn't want to think about anything else any more.

Ged's This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours

One of Right Behind's authors, Geds, has a series of posts up that might be interesting to readers of this blog. Although we do offer links to our author's blogs in the sidebar, I found these particular posts to be very well written and thought they deserved a special shout out. They're about Ged's perspective on various aspects of modern Christianity from his current position outside the movement, and ending with an essay about his current beliefs.

• This is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, Part 1, November 9, 2008.
  
• This is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, Part 2, November 11, 2008.
  
• This is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, Part 3, November 29, 2008.
  
• This is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, Part 4, December 2, 2008.
  
• This is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, Part 5, December 4, 2008.
  
• This is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, Part 6, December 21, 2008.
  

If you find exceptional works that might be of interest to Right Behind readers, you can always use the email link in the sidebar to bring it to my attention, or if you're already an author, you can post it yourself.

Speaking of which, if you are an author of Right Behind and have another blog that you'd like to highlight, let me know; the ones posted are the only ones that I was able to find for our authors. Similarly, if you just read Right Behind and want to list a blog in our own "Cloud of Witnesses" let me know and I'll start a section for that as well.

Meta-Chloe Comes Out to Play

[Author's Note: For anyone who wanders in here uninitiated, one of the common themes of Left Behind Fridays is that every once in a while Chloe and Hattie transcended Jerry Jenkin's atrocious writing and inhuman characterizations. We named these unintended characters Meta-Hattie and Meta-Chloe. Since these are the only two sympathetic characters and few people love hot meta-girl-on-meta-girl action more than Slacktivites, we often root for them to hook up, even though we know it won't happen. Still, you can imagine what it would be like if they did, right?]

"Jesus god," Chloe whispered to herself as she pulled back the curtain. Hattie was just pulling up in front of the house. "By the blood of Christ I command you demons of temptation to go away from me." The words she'd secretly laughed at her mother for came out of her mouth easily. It had happened a lot since she'd started attending New Hope Village Church.

"Demons are everywhere, trying to lead you in to temptation, my child," her mother had told her all those years ago while giving her hair one last tease right before Johnny showed up to take her to Homecoming. "You mustn't let them. They hate hearing about the blood of Jesus, so make sure they hear it as much as possible."

Chloe had just rolled her eyes.

"And don't you go giving them any openings, either," her mother continued. "I know all about those underwear catalogs. I know you're mad at me for throwing them out, but when you start thinking about putting on those little lacy panties you just start thinking about letting some boy take them off. God doesn't want that for you."

"Yes, mother," Chloe sighed. It was easier to let her think that she was planning on buying the stuff in her stack of Victoria's Secret catalogs than admitting what she actually used them for. That would probably lead to an exorcism. It would probably get Johnny in trouble, too. He had just as much to lose as she did if their cover was blown.

Hattie got out of her car and shut the door behind her. She slung her purse over her shoulder and flipped her long, blond hair over her shoulders. She walked around behind the car with long, purposeful strides atop her high-heeled boots, her long, khaki-encased legs rhythmically thrusting through the opening of her knee-length, black coat.

At the curb Hattie hesitated slightly and flipped her hair again. Loose flakes of the gently falling snow shook loose as her hair cascaded over her shoulders in long, luscious strands that curled up ever so slightly at the ends.

Chloe's mouth went dry.

She closed her eyes.

Hattie stopped for just a moment, gently kissed her belly button. Then her nose continued to trace its gentle, meandering path up her stomach, stopping every once in a while for a quick, gentle kiss. Everywhere Hattie's nose and lips went her hair followed slightly behind. Chloe felt every strand as they caressed her flesh.

The nose reached her left breast and continued on, straight, true, purposeful this time. It traced its way up past her nipple. Stopped.

Warm, soft lips enclosed her nipple. A wet tongue slipped out from between them...

"BythebloodofChristIcommandyoutoleave. BythebloodofChristIcommandyoutoleave," Chloe whispered quickly, desperately. But the words were powerless, just like when she whispered them to her ceiling at night. She had wanted Hattie from the moment she met her at the restaurant, known she was perfect when Hattie had grabbed her wrist under the table and said, "C'mon. Bathroom. Girl time," and rescued her from her father's arrogant discourse about the truth of things he'd once mocked and the uncomfortable leer of the ever-so-creepy Buck.

A hand on grabbed her shoulder. She jumped.

"Whoa, sorry, kid. Didn't mean to startle you," her father said. "Who are you talking to?"

"Uh, Jesus," she replied. "I was, uh, I was praying that he'd reveal himself to Hattie and she would come to know the truth."

"Good for you, kid," he replied. "Pray that Jesus works fast, though. She's late and I'm going to have to leave for the airport pretty soon."

"Uh, okay." Chloe turned to her father just as Hattie passed the front window, smiled, lifted her arm and made one of those cupped-hand waves. Was she imagining things, or had Hattie's smile been directed more at her than her father?

Then she caught the look on her father's face. She recognized it immediately and hated it with a passion.

She hadn't known what the look meant the first time she saw it. It was in third grade and her parents had come to her school for Parents' Night. Pretty Miss Kent had been at the front of the room, explaining what the class was doing that year. Chloe had turned to see her father studying her teacher, intently watching every move. At the time she'd thought it was great that her father was so interested in what she was learning.

A few weeks later her father had announced he was going to a parent-teacher conference. Her mother was out of town, setting up some sort of Women's Retreat with the church, so he had to go alone. He'd left her with the neighbor and been gone for hours.

Two months later Miss Kent stood in front of the class with tears in her eyes and told her students something had come up and she had to leave. Bitter Old Mrs. Bingham had taken over the class and school wasn't nearly as fun from then on, especially when the rumor started that it was Chloe's father who sent Miss Kent away and everyone made her life miserable.

In high school her friend Jamie had come over once and only once. When Chloe finally asked why, she'd said she felt creeped out whenever he was around.

She'd gotten her parents to let Erin stay over on her first holiday break from Stanford. The first night, after a round of hushed, giggly lovemaking, heightened all the more by their inexperience and the real risk of discovery, Erin had propped herself up on an elbow, begun tracing abstract forms across Chloe's stomach with a finger, and said, "So I notice you and your dad have the same taste in women."

Chloe had batted Erin's hand away, rolled over to face the wall and cried herself to sleep.

Her father's hand leaving her shoulder surprised her nearly as much as its arrival had. "I should probably let Hattie in," he said, walking over to the door. "Can you, uh, can you leave us alone for a minute, kid?"

"Sure, dad." She turned from the window and headed for the stairs, but not before the door opened.

"Hey, Ray," she heard Hattie say. Then she threw a, "Hey, girl," over his shoulder.

"Hi," Chloe practically yelled the word over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs, terrified she was about to burst in to tears.

She reached the second floor and quickly crossed the hall to her room, careful to control her emotions long enough to avoid slamming the door behind her. Then she turned and faced the full-length mirror attached to the wall.

"You're only kidding yourself, Chloe," she told her reflection. "You don't have a chance with Hattie, even if she is in to girls." She ran her hand through her hair, then down her cheek. "Your hair is all flat and stringy. Your face is too round." She scanned down her body, picking out all the other problems she could see. Her breasts were too small, her middle too big, her hips too wide.

Hattie was...well, she was perfect. She had that long, blond hair, those clear blue eyes and full lips and the sort of complexion that never required makeup. Then, just because an amazing face wasn't nearly good enough, she had those perky little tits, that flat and toned midsection, that infinitely grabbable, perfect ass, and those long, amazing legs that always looked perfect emerging from a pair of stiletto heels.

Besides, she was a professional woman in her mid-twenties, about to take a job working directly for the most powerful man on Earth. Hattie was no college girl, on her own for the first time and looking to experiment. She was in a completely different league, possibly on another plane of existence.

Erin might have been the closest Chloe would ever come to a woman like Hattie. She, too, had been a tall blond. But where Hattie wore her hair at its natural, strawberry blonde color, Erin was a platinum bottle blond. She'd traded Hattie's lean, athletic proportions for the slightly top-heavy look of a would-be porn star.

Chloe knew at the time that most of the people on the planet would be happy to share a bed with Erin. She'd admitted that her disappointments were petty and stupid and that Erin really was a wonderful girlfriend. She'd even taken that first night visiting the Steele home in stride, apologized profusely, and made up for her mistake in creative and enthusiastic fashion.

Then their second year at Stanford began with The Talk.

"Over the summer I met a guy."

"You what?"

"I met a guy. His name is Sam, he's studying to be an electrical engineer. He's a great guy. You'd like him a lot."

"But what about us?"

"Come on, Chloe. You know what this was. A little experimentation. We're away from home for the first time, looking to have some fun. But, you know, we're going to have to go back to the real world sooner or later."

The real world. Those words echoed in her mind.

Chloe tore herself away from the mirror and collapsed on to her bed. Her real world sucked. Her lecherous bastard of a father was downstairs with the woman of her dreams, lecturing her about Jesus and the end of the world. Even at that, Hattie might as well be in another universe for all the chance that Chloe had with her. The first woman she'd ever loved had walked away one day, acting like all those nights in her arms didn't matter, all those long, slow, Saturday afternoons making love had just been quick and meaningless fucks between strangers because, hey, it was all a crazy experiment.

The worst thing was that all this Jesus shit was supposed to make it all better. Pray the prayer, go to church, tell others how awesome it all is. Jesus will make you all better. It sure wasn't turning out that way.

She collapsed on to her bed in a spasm of sobs.

The door opened. "Hey, Chloe, you still here?" It was Hattie.

Chloe sat up, wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Yeah. What's up?"

Hattie closed the door, crossed the room, and sat down on the bed. "Hey, girl, you okay?" she asked, concern written all over her face. "Those pretty green eyes of yours shouldn't be all red like that."

Chloe sniffed and managed a weak smile. "I'm just having a bad day, that's all."

"Oh." Hattie reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair behind Chloe's left ear with the back of her fingers. "Well maybe this will cheer you up."

Hattie's hand continued to the back of Chloe's head and held it in place as Hattie leaned forward, tilting her head slightly to the right.

Their lips met. Chloe closed her eyes and soaked in every detail. The feel of the hand at the back of her head. The smell of Hattie's skin. The warm, soft lips pressing against hers, parting ever so slightly. The tip of a tongue poking out, beginning to explore.

Two sharp knocks on the door.

Hattie jumped back. Her hand dropped to Chloe's shoulder.

The door opened.

"Hey, I'm out of here. I'll be back on Friday," Chloe's father said, sticking his upper body in to the room. He paused for a second and a puzzled look crossed his face. "What, uh, what's going on here?"

"Girl stuff, Ray," Hattie said. "You'd probably rather not know."

"Ah," he said. "Thanks, Hattie. It's been hard on Chloe and me since her mother disappeared. I'm sure it will be good to have another woman around."

He pulled back out of the room and closed the door behind him. Hattie and Chloe stared silently at each other, afraid to even breath, counting footsteps down the stairs.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Chloe," Hattie finally broke the silence, "But your father is a dumbass."

"Oh, believe me, I know. But you came here to talk to him, so what does that make you?"

"Silly girl," Hattie smiled, "I wasn't here for your father. I was here for you."

"Oh."

"And it's my understanding that he's going to be gone for four whole days."

"I, uh, I believe you're right."

"Good, then." Hattie's right hand crept up Chloe's neck and returned to its spot at the back of her head. Her left hand crossed from her lap to Chloe's thigh and began moving up and down, spreading warmth along the inside of her leg.

Chloe closed her eyes and smiled.

"Now, then," Hattie said, "Where were we?"

Lead Thoughts and Lost Horizons, Part 4

"So what do we do now?" she asked quietly as she pulled in to the spot next to Rob's gifted Acura.

"What do we do about what?"

"You know," she turned the car off, "Us. Um, assuming there is an us to talk about."

"Well," he said, hitting the seat belt button and opening the door, "Since there is a you and a me, that technically means there's an us." He got out of the car.

"You know that's not what I mean," she replied, head popping up over the roof of the car. "You really can't be that dense, can you?"

He didn't respond immediately, far more focused on checking the RSX to make sure nothing had been disturbed. He'd left a small arsenal in a parking lot for a week, and even though it was hidden and the car didn't look like it had been disturbed he wanted to be sure. "No," he finally said, peering through the back window, "I'm not that dense. I just don't see what the big deal is here."

"Really?"

"Yeah." He looked back at her. She was standing behind her car, hands crossed over her chest, waiting. "This might not be the ideal way to start a relationship, but it's what we've got. Hell," he laughed, "This might be the most sensible beginning to a relationship I've had yet."

"That's pathetic."

"I don't know," he shrugged, "I've picked up my fair share of girls in bars. That's pathetic, really."

"So you're saying I'm better than a bar skank? Thanks. That's a high compliment."

He walked over to her and gently gripped her shoulders. "That's not what I'm saying at all, Dawn. I'm saying," he sighed, "Hell, I don't know what I'm saying. It's just that you're focused too much on the fact that this whole thing is pretty unconventional. I'm trying to say not to worry about it too much."

"Okay." She put her hand behind his head and pulled it down. "Thank you," she whispered right before their lips met.

"You're, uh, you're welcome?" he replied when he could finally speak again.

She laughed, then turned and lead him in to her building. "So am I allowed to ask you about your past now?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Yeah. I don't know that you'll like the answers, though."

"Try me."

"I enlisted right out of high school. There was nothing for me at home and no money for college, so it was the only way to escape from my shitty life." He stopped as she opened the door of her apartment.

"Keep talking," she said, pointing at the couch, "I'm hungry."

"What's on the menu?"

"I can make you anything you want as long as it's a turkey sandwich."

"Guess I'll take a turkey sandwich, then," he said, flopping down on the couch. "Anyway, I signed up, then I went for the Rangers as soon as I got the chance. I spent some time in Iraq and some time in Afghanistan. I got a reputation as the guy who worked the hardest, shot the straightest, and had the biggest pair in one of the most elite fighting units in the world. That got me some attention and I was given the chance to take a new, special assignment. I took it without asking too many questions. Turns out that Delta Force was knocking on my door."

"What's Delta Force?"

"It's one of the most elite special forces units in the world. If the United States needs someone killed or something destroyed and it has to be done with the minimum possible force and the maximum amount of deniability, Delta Force gets the job."

"Oh. So you were a good soldier, then?"

"Uh, yeah."

"So what happened?" she came out of the kitchen with two sandwiches on a plate.

"I was in some backwater town down in some backwater country where the United States officially had no military presence and, according to official records, I've never actually been."

"That's a neat trick."

"I know," he smiled. "Anyway, some local warlord was apparently getting small arms and ammo to nearby Al Qaeda cells in the area. They, in turn, were going to topple the America-friendly government, install the warlord as the supreme ruler, start perpetual Jihad and do all that junk. It was our job to make sure that this didn't happen."

"Logical."

"Indeed." He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "We went in at midnight. The warlord, his family, and some of his top lieutenants were in a walled compound at the center of a little town. We weren't officially there, so we had to get in and get out before any police or army units could respond and do it with the minimum possible collateral damage.

"Everything went smoothly until my buddy Garb and I hit one of the rooms. I went high, Garb went low. I swept the room and stopped when I found a young woman clutching two kids. If I'd tracked about three more feet I would have found the guy with the AK-74 hiding in the corner, ready to spray me with bullets."

"Wow."

Rob nodded. "Fortunately, Garb was more on top of it than I was. He dropped the bastard.

"It, uh, it shook me up a little bit. But I figured I'd shrug it off. I hesitated once, I wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

"About six months later we were in Africa, acting as military advisers to some insurgent group. Me and Garb and a couple other guys were riding herd on a group of guys who were making a quick attack on an ammo dump. They fucked it up real bad and we ended up in a running firefight against some militia unit."

He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them hard. "I, uh," he opened his eyes again and sighed heavily. "I came around a corner and found a couple of kids. They couldn't have been more than 12 and I swear they were smaller than the AK-47s they had pointed at me."

"I just stopped." He looked down at the couch and bit his lower lip. "All I could see were kids. It was like they weren't carrying AKs. They were just fucking kids. I forgot my job, I forgot my training, I forgot that they could kill me. And then one pulled the trigger."

He waved his hand over his right shoulder. "The shots went wide. That was when my training kicked in. The kid was tiny, probably didn't get enough food, and the gun's kick nearly knocked him over. I put three rounds in to his buddy, then killed the first kid. Then I turned around.

"Garb was there. He'd been following me, watching my back. He'd come around the corner at the wrong time. One of the kid's bullets hit him in the elbow, the next blew his jaw off, and the third took off the top of his head."

Rob chewed on his lower lip for a moment, blinking back tears. "I had to carry my best friend back to camp, bleeding all over my uniform. Then I accompanied the body back to the States. I had to stand there and lie to his mother and his wife about where we'd been and how he'd died. Admitting we'd been in Nowhere, Africa destabilizing some pissant government for the enduring glory of Uncle Sam would have been bad PR."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." He shook his head. "It just pisses me off. I was watching some commercial right before the funeral. Some fucking organization or another had trucked out the mother of a soldier who died in Iraq so she could beg people to keep fighting over there to make sure her son hadn't died in vain. I stood up and shouted, 'Samuel Joseph Garber died in vain, you stupid shit. Shut the fuck up!' then stormed out of the room.

"Garb's brother followed me out of the room. He had this look like he was going to beat the shit out of me for daring to say such a thing. I told him that if he really wanted to honor his brother's memory he'd best think about what sort of insane system justifies the death of one person by sending in another one to die.

"Then, just to add insult to injury, that damn church that protests at all the military funerals showed up. That motorcycle group that protests the protesters showed up, too. Then the media showed up and it was just this big circus. I had to stand in front of that casket, next to Garb's wife and mother and father with some dipshit screeching about god hating fags outside and cameras waiting to capture all the grief for the six o'clock news." He sighed.

"I just couldn't take it any more. I was given leave and recommended for psychiatric evaluation. But I just disappeared. The government couldn't let a guy with my skills and knowledge run free, so they chased pretty hard. I stayed one step ahead until, well, until you."

"Oh." She squeezed his knee. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "It had to happen eventually. And I guess it worked out. That Smith guy didn't want to lock me up, he wanted to offer me a job."

"Are you going to take it?"

"Hell, no."

"Good," she smiled, "Stay here with me."

Lead Thoughts and Lost Horizons, Part 3

Rob shuffled out of Smith's office and followed Agent Cline down the hallway. She paused at a door, pushing it slightly open. "For what it's worth," she said, "I hope you join up. We need someone like you right now."

"I'll think about it," he said, holding up Smith's card for her to see. "I've got the direct line to call and everything."

"Call it. But, uh, tell her first."

"Tell who?"

Cline pushed the door open all the way.

"Oh."

Rob stepped through the door in to a small reception area. Dawn was sitting across the room, arms crossed, elbows at her knees, tapping her feet impatiently. She was looking down at the floor.

For a moment he considered turning around and walking back out the door. He couldn't face, well, anything. He cleared his throat, quietly.

"Uh, Dawn?"

She looked up, startled. Then a smile shot across her face and she was up, flying across the floor and in to his arms. "Rob," she said, voice muffled by his shoulder, "Oh, god, I thought you were in so much trouble."

"I, uh, I was." He squeezed her tight. "I'm so sorry. Y'know, for, um, for this."

"It's okay," she said. "That Smith guy explained everything to me."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"Even that my name's not really Rob?"

She took a step back and clasped his hands, then pulled them to her chest. "He told me everything that wasn't classified and that he knew. I figured out that there might have been a reason for you to lie about your name."

"Oh."

"If it makes you feel any better, I think Rob suits you much better than Alex, anyway," she flashed a toothy grin, then kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm starting to think so, too."

"Just promise me one thing."

"Shoot."

"You'll tell me about Alexander Simkins someday, too."

"I was about to when the goons showed up."

She threw her arms around his neck. "I've been convinced that's what you were going to do for the last two weeks."

Before he could offer a response she pulled his head down and kissed him long and hard.

* * *

Her car was parked outside the federal building. They headed out to the suburbs in a strange, mobile room ruled by silence and intimacy.

"So, uh, you're really okay with this?" he finally asked.

"With what?"

"Me not being who I say I am, the whole government showing up at your door thing, you know, this?"

She took a deep, staccato breath. "I'm a little weirded out," she told him, "But..."

Silence again descended. He counted the white lines of the Eisenhower as they passed under the car's hood. She spoke again on fifty-three.

"Yeah. I think I'm okay with it." He turned towards her in time to catch a small shrug. "I wasn't sure, but then when you walked in to the room just now I just, I...I don't know. It seemed right. As stupid and crazy as these last weeks -- hell, these last could months -- have been, seeing you walk in to that room and hearing you say my name was the first thing that's felt right in a really long time." She turned and looked at him. "And that goes to back before the world turned upside down."

"Oh." He looked down at his feet, unsure of what to say.

"Really, when it gets down to it, I didn't know you that well, so I guess I can get to know you as Rob or Alex or whatever and it won't be too big of a problem."

He chuckled. "Maybe not."

"Oh, god," she suddenly said, rolling her head back towards the driver's side window, "Am I actually listening to myself?"

"Huh?"

"I must sound like the neediest psycho in the world. Our...our...whatever we have started with you breaking in to the house of my ex, who was married as you recall. Then I found out you were using an assumed identity and running from the government. And all I do is say, 'That's great, I'll fall for you whatever your name is.' Wow. I just. Wow."

"You want me to leave?"

"No. But maybe you should for your own safety."

"I highly doubt that you could hurt me. I was pretty well trained."

She turned and looked at him. "There are a lot of ways someone can get hurt. I highly doubt that the military taught you how to defend youself from the most dangerous ones."

"Maybe not," he replied, turning back to count white lines.

One.

Two.

Three.

The silence lasted until they pulled in to her apartment complex.

Lead Thoughts and Lost Horizons, Part 2

"This will cost her her life you know," Big Nose stared hard through him.

"It's the truth."

"Then why did you desert?"

"I couldn't take it any more."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't have much of a choice."

The door behind Big Nose opened. "Okay, Karl, I've seen enough."

It took a moment for Rob to focus. A new suit stood in the doorway. He carried himself with authority. Spook, probably. Former Ranger by the looks of it.

Big Nose nodded once. He picked up the DVD player and walked out of the room.

New Guy crossed the room and extended a hand. "Would you prefer your old name or your new?"

He stared at the hand in confusion. "I prefer Rob."

"Then come with me, Rob. We have a lot to talk about."

"How's...how's Dawn?"

"She's fine. For the record, I'm very sorry we had to do that to you. Now come on, up with you."

"Why was she crying?"

"She had just been told you might be executed for treason."

"Oh."

"Come on, then. Get up."

Rob took the offered hand and numbly followed New Guy out of the interrogation room. They walked down a long, white hall, then another, then a third, then took an elevator up several floors. Another hallway. A closed door. New Guy opened it. A locker room.

"There's a fresh set of fatigues. Clean up. Someone will bring you to my office when you're done. By the way, I'm Special Agent Smith."

"Of course you are."

Smith snorted. "I get that a lot."

Rob closed the door, peeled the gritty clothes he'd been wearing during his captivity off, stepped in to a shower stall and turned the water on. He stood in the flow and stared at the wall for a long time, dazed, on the verge of tears. He'd gotten sloppy, let someone in. Now he was caught and she was a knife at his throat.

No more. He'd get out of this somehow. He could run.

Newfound determination filled him. He cleaned up quickly, found the fresh clothing, and walked out of the locker room.

Hot One was waiting for him. She'd traded the tight skirt and fuck me pumps for a conservative pant suit that showed no cleavage. "Rob," she said, "Special Agent Smith wanted me to escort you. I should tell you that I'm Agent Cline."

"Um, hi."

"It's awkward, I know." She smiled, then started walking down the hall. He shrugged and followed. "By the way, she must be really special."

"Huh?"

"Dawn."

"Oh."

"I was starting to think it would take months to break you."

They took the same elevator up a few more floors and walked down another hallway to an office. "He's ready for you," Cline said, opening the door.

Rob walked through the door. Smith was seated behind a cluttered desk. He didn't even offer the pretense of rising. "Rob, please," he gestured to a chair across the desk, "Sit. Let's talk."

Rob took the offered chair. "About what?"

"I have a job for you, if you're willing to take it."

This was the last thing he'd expected. "You what?"

Smith leaned forward. "I'm sorry for all the shit we put you through, I really am. But these are desperate times and we have to do extraordinary things, up to and including working with people who a month ago we would have left to rot in Leavenworth."

"Like me."

"Like you." Smith sighed heavily. "I have a lot of friends in the regular Army and the Guard. I asked a few of them to keep an eye out for people who might be able to help me in my task. You have the skills and determination to do what we needed, but I couldn't afford to have someone who I couldn't trust working for me. And I certainly couldn't justify working with someone who left Delta Force to commit treasonous acts."

"So that interrogation was a job interview?"

"You could call it that."

"It's nice that you you think you can trust me and all, but I'm not really feeling I can trust you."

"I understand." Smith held up a thick folder. "This is your file." He began feeding pages in to a shredder next to the desk. "It's going away. You've got a clean slate and, I dare say, you can be Rob or you can be Alexander Simkins. Hell, you can be Alexander Graham Bell for all it matters. You're free. But your country needs you now."

"To do what?"

"To find people."

"And kill them?"

Smith shook his head emphatically. "Absolutely not. We need you to help people." He finished with the shredder and leaned across the desk. "I'll level with you. It's absolute chaos out there. We're not advertising it, but the armed forces of this nation are at just over 50% strength and maybe a quarter of their expected effectiveness. A lot of people have disappeared and a lot simply went AWOL. Militia groups and gangs have sprung up all over the place and are grinding the Guards down. We couldn't win a war right now if we wanted. Hell, we couldn't fight a war right now."

Something clicked in Rob's head. "So is that why the U.S. Ambassador suggested turning everything over to the U.N.?"

Smith stared at him for a moment, blinking silently. "Um, not exactly," he finally said. "In fact, no one is really sure why that happened. The Joint Chiefs are up in arms over it and word has it that the British Ambassador isn't welcome home any more after his move to support the motion. Quite frankly, as weak as we are, turning control over to the United Nations will only weaken us further."

"So have we recalled the ambassador and reversed course?"

The Special Agent rubbed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. "No," he said after a moment. "The President went in to a closed-door session with that Carpathia creep mad as hell and came back like they were the best of buddies. Congress is panicking and word has it that they'll either turn control over or declare war on the U.N."

"What's going to happen?"

"Well, that's where you come in. Some of our most vocal opponents of the United Nations disappeared. We know a few of them were part of The Event, but several others were out of the Capitol at the time and apparently away from witnesses. We need them. And we need someone to find them."

"Can I think about it?"

"Yes. But not for long."

Lead Thoughts and Lost Horizons, Part 1

[Note: This is the next entry in "Answered Prayer."]

"I will ask one more time. And this time you will tell me the truth."

"That's what you said two times ago."

"No it isn't. I have never asked this question before."

"That's what you said last time."

The frown. When Black Hair frowned it was a good sign. It meant he was losing. He couldn't keep the questioning up forever.

"Did you or did you not consort with enemies of the United States of America after going AWOL from the Armed Services?"

"No."

"You disappoint me, Alexander." Black Hair stood. "Perhaps you'll be more talkative in the morning." He turned and left. When he closed the door he took the light with him.

Morning and night meant nothing in the inky blackness. He had no clock, no watch, but even though nearly two "weeks" had passed, it was probably closer to a day. A day of mind games, drugs, darkness, light. Child's play.

The trick was to keep the mind focused on something, anything. Preferably something that couldn't be used against him. A song.

There ain't no moral to this story at all
And anything I tell you very well may be a lie
I've been away from the living
I don't need to be forgiven
I'm just waiting for this coal black soul of mine
To come alive

Good, remember the words. The next chorus built on them. Remember the new words.

Light.

"Good morning, Alexander." The Hot One. She was good. Almost unfair, really, training a beautiful woman to be an interrogator. Like men had a chance in the first place, especially since she brought the light and one of those skirts that professional women with great calves wear when they want to show off. "Did you sleep well?"

Silence. Women hated that, at least to hear a dozen ex-girlfriends tell it.

Hot One leaned over, nice and close. Cleavage. Perfume. Damn. "I asked how you slept."

"Rob."

"What?"

"My name's Rob, not Alexander." It was his game with her. Keep her off her toes.

"Ah, still on this, are we?" She stepped back. "Sergeant Alexander Simkins, formerly of Delta Force. Well, not officially, of course. I know who you are. And the United States does not take too kindly when members of its special forces just disappear one day. Would you care to guess what the punishment is?"

There ain't no moral to this story at all
And anything I tell you very well may be a lie
I've been away from the living
I don't need to be forgiven
I'm just waiting for this coal black,
Sun-cracked soul of mine
To come alive

"Don't care. My name's Rob."

Hot One leaned forward, her eyes softened. "Look, Alex, you seem like a good guy who did something stupid. I can help you. I can get you out of here. You just have to work with me." She dropped her voice, made it husky. "I might even be able to work with you."

This was a new one. He looked her up and down once, slowly, for the first time. He drew her scent in, let it linger in his nose.

"No." It was a challenge, but he had a weapon. He could beat her.

"Awww, Alex," she purred, "Are you sure?" Hot One leaned in close, her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, "You don't know what you're missing."

"You wish."

"Who is she?"

"Huh?"

"C'mon, you've got to be head over heels to reject an offer like that. Who is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do."

"Nope."

"Maybe it's that girl who you were with when we found you."

"She means nothing." No, not Dawn.

"Dawn, I believe her name was," Hot One's voice dropped, sinister this time. "Maybe I'll just have to ask her a few questions." She walked to the door. "Tomorrow, then, Alexander."

Darkness.

He spent the "night" staring in to the empty blackness.

Light. Big Nose.

He placed a portable DVD player on the floor. "I'm sorry the volume doesn't seem to be working, Sergeant, but I thought you might want to see this." Big Nose pressed play. Dawn appeared on the little screen, across from Black Hair. Her hands were over her eyes. She was sobbing.

He took a deep breath, heart cracking inside like glass.

"We are sorry we had to do this, Sergeant. Had you been more cooperative we might not have had to." Big Nose pressed stop. "This was right after she found out what the penalties are for harboring a fugitive from justice and aiding and abetting a treasonous act."

His glass heart broke.

"She did nothing." He fought back tears.

"Tell me what I want to know."

"Will you let her go?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to know?"

"Have you or have you not ever committed a treasonous act against the United States of America?"

That same damn question. They didn't seem to want the truth, but the truth might cost Dawn her life. He stared at Big Nose.

There ain't no moral to this story at all
And anything I tell you you can bet will be a lie
I've been away from the living
I don't need to be forgiven
I'm just waiting for this coal black
Sun cracked
Numb inside soul of mine
To come alive

"No."

Answered Prayer, Part 9

Sunlight was already streaming through the window when he woke up, filling the space with warm, yellow light. Dawn was lying on his chest. He gave her a squeeze. Her eyes opened slowly.

"Morning, beautiful," he said.

"Morning," she said, then kissed his chest.

"So what's the plan for today?"

"I don't know," she pulled herself up and put her head on the pillow next to him, "Maybe we should just stay right here."

"That sounds like a great idea."

"I thought so." She began drawing lazy circles on his chest with her fingertips.

"So, uh, where were you?" he asked.

"Where was I when? I've been right here."

"I mean when it happened."

She winced.

"It's okay," Rob said. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want."

"No, it's..." she smiled, although it was more of a grimace, "It's just that it was..."

"You don't have to say anything, really."

"I was with him," she said, all trace of hesitation gone from her voice.

"Oh."

"I was trying to break it off with him," she snorted, "Like I'd done so many times."

"I see."

She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at him. "You know those people, right? The ones that you can't stand to be around because they make you feel like shit, but whenever you try to get rid of them you just...don't. Well, Colin was like that. I mean, not always. Just, you know, later. After I'd been with him for a while."

She smiled wistfully. "When I first met him he seemed wonderful. He was one of those people who could find you in a crowd and make you feel like the only other person on the whole planet. I wanted him. I think I fell in love with him." She shrugged. "He was married, of course, but that didn't matter. He told me he wasn't happy with his wife, that he would break it off if it weren't for the effect it would have on his children and his career. Of course I believed him." A tear formed at the corner of her eye. "I was so stupid then."

Rob reached up and stroked her cheek. "No, you weren't."

"I was," she smiled, "And I know what you're trying to do. Thank you."

"What am I trying to do?"

"Make me feel better about being stupid. I was twenty, I'd been pretty sheltered, and I was stupid. I'm a lot smarter now."

"Just so you know."

She kissed him. "I do. Anyway, I think I was telling you a story."

"Yeah."

"Oh, yeah, Colin. All the guys I'd dated before were young and self-centered. I was just kind of an accessory to them or something to do on a Saturday night. I like to think that it's because they were young and stupid, then, too, but I don't know."

"It's a good bet," Rob said. "I can't speak for all guys, but we're pretty stupid when it comes to that stuff."

"Yeah. But Colin wasn't. He was caring and kind. Now, of course, I know that he was being self-centered, too, he was just better at it than the boys I'd been with before."

"Sounds like it."

"Yeah," she nodded. "About a year ago I found out that he'd pulled the same exact routine with another one of the station interns about two years before I got the job. She'd graduated and gone back home, so he just took the next one who came along. That was me.

"Maybe I should be flattered, I don't know, but he didn't drop me when I graduated. We kept right on seeing each other, he kept right on lying to me, and I kept right on believing him.

"Then, of course, I found out that I wasn't his first. I got pissed and started yelling at me. He apologized, said that he was lying to himself and the girl from before, but now he wasn't lying to me. And I believed him. I told him I'd wait for him. And I did, for a while. Then he hurt me again. I yelled at him again. He lied again. I believed him again."

Rob snaked his arm around her and pulled her close. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't know," he kissed her on the forehead, "For what you went through, I guess."

"It's not your fault."

"I know. Still..."

"Thank you." She kissed his cheek. "But it's okay. He's gone now. Literally."

"Yeah."

Her voice dropped low. "I watched it happen."

"What?"

"We were at this cheap motel down in Bolingbrook. I was supposed to be breaking up with him for, like, the fifth time, but instead, well...

"So I got out of bed afterward. I knew that I couldn't break it off. I just wasn't strong enough and whenever I tried he'd talk me back out of it. I turned around and looked at him lying in that bed and I remember I prayed. I said, 'God, I'm not strong enough to do this. Save me from him. Save me from me.'" She paused.

"At that exact moment he disappeared. It was like...he was there...then there was a hole in the sheets and they just collapsed. I...I think there was even a pop."

Rob stared at her for a second. "Wow."

"I know."

"There," he took a deep breath, "There's something I have to tell you. Two somethings, actually."

"What?"

The response was swallowed up when someone began pounding on the apartment door.

"Hold on," Rob said. He slipped out of bed and grabbed his jeans off the floor. He pulled them on, then grabbed his Glock off the dresser and slipped it in to his back pocket.

He went to the front door and cautiously opened it. Two men in black suits were standing in the hallway, flanked by a pair of fully armed Army privates.

One of the suits spoke. "Sergeant Alexander Simkins." It was a statement not a question.

Rob fought off the urge to grab the Glock and start firing. He wouldn't stand a chance. "Yes," he said.

"You'll come with us." Once again it wasn't a request.

Answered Prayer, Part 8

The cop was sloppy. His charge had noticed it almost immediately and prepared to take advantage by being extra docile. It was working.

"Can't believe the Army would go to all the effort to pull jurisdiction for a guy like you," the cop said. "Hell, it was just a drunk and disorderly. And you're neither right now."

"They take this shit seriously," the criminal replied, shrugging and shuffling slightly closer to his captor, "That's the Army for you." The sally port was already open, the cop had been kind enough to cuff his hands in front. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment.

"I wonder if that's them?" the cop said, focusing on a black car a few blocks down.

It was the moment. The prisoner's hands flashed towards the distracted policeman's holster and came up with his service Glock. "Get down, now," the prisoner commanded.

The cop complied. "Don't shoot me," he pleaded. "I've got a wife. I've got kids."

"I'm not gonna kill you. Give me the keys to these cuffs and I won't do a damn thing to hurt you."

Again the officer complied. It would have been a perfect getaway had it not been for one thing. The black car was actually the one with the MPs who were coming to pick him up. And they had definitely noticed that something was amiss.

The prisoner looked up just as the car began accelerating. He abandoned his attempts to remove the handcuffs and instead took off running. There was an alleyway a block down with dumpsters at the entrance, too narrow for a car. He cut down it.

The black car screeched in to a turn and followed him down a parallel street. He turned in to another alleyway and crossed a busy street, narrowly avoiding getting hit.

He cut right, then left. The black car was always there, always a block away, always turning the corner in time to catch sight of him.

Then it was all over.

He came to the mouth of an alleyway at the exact same moment the black car screeched around a corner, nearly clipping a blue Subaru WRX on the fender.

The doors opened. One of the MPs advanced on him, training an M4 at his head. The other stood out in the street, acting as cover.

"Drop the gun," the cop commanded.

The prisoner complied.

"Get on your knees and put your hands on top of your head.

Again the prisoner complied.

"Now don't try anything funny. I am authorized to put a bullet in your head "

He was completely out of options. There was nowhere left to run, nowhere he could hide. The only chance he had was the last resort of the desperate.

"God," he whispered up to the sky, "I know I don't talk to you, I don't do what you want too often, and, hell, I'm not sure I believe in you. But I can't stand to get locked up. Help me out and I'll change my ways."

And with that the MP in front of him vanished in to thin air.

His uniform suddenly emptied itself of its contents and seemed to waver in the air for just a second before gently collapsing to the ground. The gun clattered to the pavement and the sudden shock worked the mechanism once, firing a round that narrowly missed the confused prisoner's right ear.

Somewhere off in the distance someone shrieked. Tires squealed. There was a crunch of metal.

Silence fell over the scene.

The other MP looked down at the empty uniform, then up at the man crouching in the alley. His jaw worked once, twice. No words came out.

"Wha..." he finally managed to get out. He stepped backwards, eyes locked on the mysterious stranger.

He never noticed that he was stepping in front of a car.

It screamed down the road, empty, driverless, as unaware of the man in the road as the man was of it.

The MP bounced off the front of the car and out of sight. The car swerved to the left and tried to do the same thing to a light post. The car lost.

Silence again reigned. "That...that wasn't quite what I had in mind," the former prisoner said after a long moment. He pulled the handcuff keys out of his pocket and fumbled with them for a moment. Freed, he let them clatter to the pavement and stood up.

A sound from the unoccupied car startled him. He grabbed the Glock and started to swing it in line. The passenger door opened and a young woman fell out. She tried to push herself up, but then collapsed. She pushed herself up one more time, then began puking.

He decided she was no threat and put the pistol in his pocket, then grabbed the M4 and cautiously poked his head out in to the street. No one was there but him and the puking woman.

The Subaru was still sitting exactly where it had been when the black car cut it off. It was idling quietly, driverless.

He walked over and looked in through the windshield. A puddle of clothes sat on the driver's seat, the only indication anyone had ever been in the vehicle.

Not one to overlook a true gift, he opened the door of the car and pulled the clothes out, then switched wallets with the disappeared. "Sorry, man," he told the jeans as he dropped them on the pavement. "Looks like I need your identity more than you do right now."

He dropped his two newly acquired guns in the trunk, then got in the Subaru and pulled around the empty Army car. As he did the woman rolled over and looked at him.

"Help me," she said through her puke stained face, clutching her side, obviously in pain.

He drove past her. It was her problem. Something pricked him in the back of his mind. He'd made a promise. He stopped the car and backed it up, then helped the woman in.

"I don't understand," she said. "One minute he was there, then he wasn't."

"I don't, either."

He took the woman to the closest hospital, but didn't stick around. As soon as an Emergency Room orderly arrived to help, he took off as fast as he possibly could. Something strange had happened and he had to take advantage of it. He tuned in to a news station to see if anyone had noted the disappearance, only to discover that it wasn't an isolated case. People were gone all over the city.

On the outskirts of Phoenix he stopped at a storage locker to get some things he knew he was going to need. Years of practice had taught him exactly how to run.

He filled the Subaru's tank at a nearby gas station and pointed the car in the general direction of New Mexico. As he headed east in to the desert, he pulled out his newly acquired wallet and looked at the driver's license.

"Hey," he said to the rear view mirror, deciding to practice using his new identity. "I'm Robert. What's up. Robert. Nice to meet you."

He decided he really didn't like the sound of Robert.

"Hey," he said to the mirror, "I'm Rob."

The irony of his new name suddenly hit him. He laughed for the first time in days.

The car soon felt lonely, though. Quiet. He plugged a Dead Hot Workshop CD in to the car's CD player. There was nothing better for a long drive through the desert. Well, them or the Peacemakers.

I'm too tired for sleeping
Fast asleep but I'm not dreaming
Look for truth in aberration
Sinned to much to be forgiven.

I walked from Hell to here today
The world is young as it is wild
For every step you plan to take
Plan to walk another mile
Don't confuse yourself
If it don't mean anything