by Jim Stark
At one point, her mind departed from the forced repetitions of plans and analyses. It occurred to her that the WDA didn't know about the hideout! They must have just told Lars to debrief me and kill me and bury my body anywhere that it wouldn't be found, she realized. He took quite a risk preparing this place, and Control wasn't as thorough as he imagined in questioning Lars. She scolded herself silently, inside. There was so much to think upon and understand, but this really was not the time.
An hour or so after the blessed silence had begun, Lilly had carefully removed one boot and a sock, and placed the sock over the bulb end of a flashlight, to muffle the light, and just as cautiously turned it on, trying to prevent the switch from clicking. The fit on the trap door was perfect, but she wanted to take no chances, and even this muted light had shocked her. She wasn't surprised to find Lars in la-la land. She knew the strength of the morphine pills from the crushing experience of her father's death, back in 2018.
Lars had turned slightly and groaned through his mask when she shone the shrouded light on his face. She'd thought of giving him another pill, but hadn't dared. She knew early on that the plan that would likely win the day was to run for it, at about 9:00 p.m., as night fell, and for that, she would need a wide-awake Lars, whatever the pain he would have to contend with. The WDA was nothing if not thorough, and when they realized that they were not going to find their quarry, the bad guys—her and Lars—in the bush, they'd start over from the beginning, here at the shack. They'd pull it apart, board-by-board, and fast.
She had checked her watch—it was 1:38 p.m. when she doused the flashlight, leaving Lars to his drug-induced reveries, and reviewed her priorities yet again.
First, don't cough, no matter how intolerable the stench. Second, be ready to pounce on Lars’ mouth in half a second should he choke, snore or talk in his sleep. Third, keep running the plans through the wetware over and over and over, looking for weaknesses, calculating odds, anticipating problems, constructing fallback positions. The rest was ... well, the rest was waiting—that and the occasional visceral nod at the possibility that she and Lars might not make it out of this alive. The WDA absolutely abhorred losing; in fact Lilly couldn't remember when they ever had.
* * * *
It's surely time now, Lilly estimated. She turned on the hooded flashlight and checked her watch. It was 8:47 p.m. It would be almost dark outside, and it was time to act.
Lars was still asleep—well, unconscious—and waking him up posed problems. The first thing he would experience would be the terrible pain in his wrist—she'd deemed it far too chancy to put on a splint—even on morphine, he might wake up and scream. The second thing he'd experience was the stench of skunk in his nose ... and total blackness in his eyes. There was no alternative. Even if she could provide a bit of light for him to see, she would still have to silence him in order to wake him up.
The hole that Lars had dug under the shack was quite large—maybe twice the size of a refrigerator, eight feet long by five feet wide by four feet deep—but it still felt cramped, like a tomb. Lilly's head was just under the trap door and Lars’ feet were beside her right shoulder. She made a quick pass with the dimmed flashlight, making careful mental notes of anything that could clang or bang. Then she silently turned herself, not without some difficulty, until she was lying beside him, listening to his breathing. She put the flashlight onto a shelf, leaving it on, with the sock still killing most of the light, and positioned her hands directly over his face. Then, as quickly as she could move, she tilted his gas mask upwards with her left hand, and with her right hand, she covered his mouth as forcefully as she could, using most of her upper body weight.
"It's me, Lilly; don't make a sound,” she said lightly into his ear as she used all her strength to hold his mouth.
"Mffff,” said Lars through his nose.
"Shhhhh,” said Lilly as she released the pressure and replaced his mask. She could see him in the dim light of the flashlight, and he didn't look good. “You gotta whisper,” she said.
"Morphine,” whispered Lars. He started to choke from the horrific smell, and then caught himself, forced himself to resist the natural impulse. His right arm was swollen to the elbow, like a bag of molten lava. His fingers felt as if they were melting off. “Please."
"No,” said Lilly into his ear. “It's almost nine p.m. We have to run, now. Sorry about the pain. I've got the morphine—we'll bring it with us."
Lars took off his gas mask and took a deep breath ... and immediately regretted this instinctive move. The odor of skunk had diminished, but it was still otherworldly, and it took all his will power and all his training to not cough. When his body resigned itself to losing the battle of wills, he asked quietly: “We ... have to run?"
"Yeah,” said Lilly, as she removed her mask too ... and paid the same price. “We've got to cover almost fifteen miles through the bush by four a.m."
"Where are we going?” Lars whispered.
"Whiteside's estate,” said Lilly. “Michael's at his cabin, alone, across Wilson Lake from the lodge. We'll follow Dora's Creek—it empties into Wilson Lake right near his cabin. There's a nineteen-sixties-era fallout shelter under the lodge, the one that Randall Whiteside and his family hid in during the Revolution. There's doctors at the lodge ... for Victor ... and I'm sure there's lots of medical supplies in the shelter. Michael will let us hide there for a bit, until your wrist gets better ... or until his next LV session, anyway.” She dearly hoped Michael had been LieDeck-verified recently.
"You think he'll ... do that?” asked Lars as he pushed himself up on his good elbow. “Let us hide out at—"
"He'll do it,” said Lilly. One way or another, she repeated to herself. She had already reviewed the possibility that she might have to kill the man she loved, but the stakes were indeed that high.
Lars sat up ... and winced aloud from the searing pain in his right wrist. “Sorry,” he whispered. Lilly put a hand on his back, slid it up, and squeezed off a mini-massage on his neck to distract the young man from his pain.
"Couple of things before we go,” said Lars.
"Make it quick,” whispered Lilly as she doused the flashlight, took the sock off, and put it back onto her bare foot.
"My parents—they're at Norman-E out in Alberta, west of Moose Jaw—they think I flunked out of college in St. Petersburg, Florida,” he said. “Actually, I was in training with the WDA down there, to be a mole. The flunking bit was a cover for me becoming an apprentice plumber up here in Québec. If I die, tell my folks I didn't flunk, okay?"
"Okay,” said Lilly—it was easier to agree to his strange request than to argue with him about his chances of survival.
"I can't tell you right now how I know that we killed Victor Helliwell,” he continued in a whisper, “but I will tell you soon—before I die anyway, okay?"
"Lars, you're not going to die,” said Lilly, louder than she should have, louder than she meant to.
Lars ignored her prediction, knowing it had no foundation in reality. “And one more thing,” he whispered. “I did such a good job of pretending to be Human Three that I ... well, I am one! That's why I saved your life, Lilly. I've been Human Three for a year now, but I couldn't tell anyone I was a mole or I'd just get arrested and replaced by the WDA. It was best for Victor-E and for Evolution generally for me to keep my secret a secret. Tell all that to Annette, okay? And tell her I always loved her ... even back when Steve was alive."
"Steve?” asked Lilly, just before she remembered.
"Sutherland—her husband who died of a stroke last year,” said Lars. “I ... I think we killed him too, although I certainly had no hand in that one. Okay, let's go. We can't even get to the bush if they left a guard outside here, so don't worry too much about noise. The doorway may be booby-trapped, so we'll go out by the west window-hole. You'll have to go first, and help me through. Are you ready?"
Lilly couldn't really believe what she was hearing, and yet she had to. He said he didn't hav
e a hand in the possible killing of Steve Sutherland ... which means ... what? She reached out until she found his shoulder. Does it mean he did have a hand in the killing of Victor Helliwell? She went higher and rubbed the back of her hand on Lars’ stubbly cheek. Is it even possible that I worked for a criminal organization? She wanted to say a lot of things—how sorry she was that they hadn't made love the first time they'd come here to the shack, for one. She wanted to tell him how she ended up on the road to Human Three Consciousness herself. She wanted to splint his arm, to give him morphine, to kiss him, to rewrite her life, to knock the stuffing out of the WDA, and to—
"Argh,” moaned Lars. He had just begun to turn himself in the confined space, and the pain in his wrist shot off the scale.
"You ... gonna be able to do this?” asked Lilly.
"I think I better have a morphine pill,” he said.
Lilly felt terrible, keeping it from him, but she knew that he wouldn't make it if she did as he asked, and she didn't want to be responsible for his death. It was a certainty that the WDA would kill them both if they were caught. She didn't want to say those things, and she didn't have to—Lars knew. He was breathing evenly, collecting himself, steeling himself for the trek ahead, for the seven or eight hours they faced tramping through dense and mosquito-infested Québec bush, in the dark, in search of sanctuary in the only place where it might be found. He had little doubt that he could not make it, but it was “die for not trying” or “die trying,” and he chose the latter.
"One more thing,” Lars said as he reached with his good left hand to caress Lilly's thin arm. “I don't think you want to know this, but ... the guy who recommended you for this job..."
"Yeah?” asked Lilly.
"Ed—” said Lars, who evidently didn't want to finish what he'd begun.
"My Ed!” said Lilly, in full voice, accidentally. “You mean my ex-boyfriend, Ed ... Edward Tumson?” she whispered. “That Ed? In Miami?"
"He was never your boyfriend, Lilly,” said Lars sadly. “He's—uh—he's still your handler at this time. Even though you only Netfaced with Mark—Mark Drummond—Control—Ed's the guy in charge of your file. He's ... a colonel, like myself,” he added, although he declined to explain how either of them had earned such a high rank.
Lilly felt tears forming—that, and a decision to kill “good old Ed” if she ever got out of this alive. She squelched both feelings. “Let's go,” she said. “We're going to have to move fast if we want to make it to the lodge before sun-up. Let's hope there's no cloud cover and we get a moon."
Chapter 74
DORA BY NIGHT
Wednesday, May 11, 2033—9:05 p.m.
The stink of skunk was still overpowering as Lilly closed the trap door and used her hand to make sure the edges were smooth. Then she took a deep breath ... big mistake ... and prayed that her next move wouldn't be her last. The west window-hole wasn't too high—perhaps three feet off the floor. She put her left leg through first, and her foot touched dirt before she expected. She hunkered her head down to get her torso through, holding onto the side of the frame, and then hauled her right leg out.
Lars followed, with little difficulty but considerable pain. “Listen,” he whispered when it became clear they were not being shot at, “I used to walk that creek in the winter, on the ice. Some kids from Shawville built a clubhouse about a mile downstream. They left their canoe there. We'll never make it before daybreak if we walk through the bush, so we'll have to wade our way down to the canoe ... we'll have to steal it ... borrow it. I just hope it's still there, and they left the paddles with it. We'll sink it at the other end—with rocks. I'm afraid you'll have to do all the paddling, Lilly. I'm just..."
"Shh,” whispered Lilly. “Let's go."
She led the way into the bush, with Lars bent over, keeping his good hand on her back from behind and his injured arm curled near his stomach. There were only a few clouds, and there was a partial moon ... thank God, they both felt, the instinctive words that speak themselves at times of enormous relief. Still, it was hard to see, and as Lilly walked slowly west, she kept her hands out in front of her face to stave off any lurking branches. She set each foot down with care, trying to be quiet, before she realized that the time they had didn't allow for that level of caution, especially if they didn't come across that canoe. She picked up her pace a little—as much as she could without losing Lars—hoping that she'd bump into the creek soon.
It was less than 100 yards from the shack to the creek, but it took them seven minutes to get there—Lilly had checked her digital watch before and after. She did the math in her head, and it became clear that Lars was right—the canoe was their only hope. At the edge of the creek, she put a foot into the water, and it was freezing. She almost slipped on a slime-coated boulder as she put her other foot in. “Be careful,” she whispered.
Dora's Creek was about fifteen yards wide at that point, Lilly remembered from her first visit to Lars’ shack. And it ran slowly. It probably widens to thirty or forty yards at the mouth, at Wilson Lake, so if we manage to get the canoe, it'll get easier and easier as we progress. It dawned on her that she was actually assuming they'd make it ... again ... as she was trained to do ... but also because it seemed they really did have a chance.
Lars stepped into the water, holding Lilly's forearm with his left hand. “Try to stay about knee deep,” he suggested. “Less, and we'll run into branches sticking out from the shore ... more, and we'll be slowed down. The creek goes north and then cuts east and goes across the highway that runs up to Ladysmith—the one they call the Picanoc. Just a bit north of Shawville, there's a truck-sized culvert under the road. It's wide enough to paddle through, but it might not be very high—you know—because the water's high—the spring runoff. That's where we face the biggest danger of being caught, I think. If we get past there, we should be okay unless—"
"Shh,” said Lilly as she turned and guided Lars’ good left hand to her belt, at the back. She began walking downstream. The mosquitoes and blackflies were out in their millions, or so it seemed, and Lilly knew it was pointless to slap at them as they attacked. And besides, Lars can't, she thought. Even if he could, he wouldn't—it would make a sound. And even though she could, she wouldn't. They were horrible little things, and she was being bitten many times at once, but people had survived days in this bush without going mad, she'd heard ... before they went mad, she honed her memory. You just had to stay focused and pretend the insect-assault wasn't happening. In any event, her hands were both needed to fend off branch attacks, and for balance—especially for balance, since Lars’ reaction to any loss of his own balance would result in his pulling on her belt. And if either of them sprained an ankle ... game, set and match to the WDA, she knew.
The going was difficult, and slow. The bugs ate at her face, her neck and her hands—the exposed areas—and even the top of her head, right through her hair. She wanted to step to her left as she followed the right-hand shore, to dunk herself, but the relief would be short-lived, and time was everything now.
"Damn this water is cold,” whispered Lars.
"Shh,” said Lilly.
At least Dora's Creek had a fairly even bed—there was the occasional surprise rock and a few jutting logs, but for the most part they could walk at perhaps one quarter the speed of a normal stroll on a sidewalk—much better than they would manage on land, in the bush, and quieter as well. Some species of trees were filling in with leaves lately, but the moonlight got through, and their eyes had adjusted. Step by step, the former WDA agents walked on, sometimes pulling their lower legs through the water, and other times, when it was shallower, lifting their feet out of the water and trying not to splash as each foot re-entered the frigid creek.
Lilly tried to imagine what it must be like for Lars; he was enduring screaming pain in his broken wrist as well as the bombardment of stings and bites. And as they slogged on, Lilly's feet—and Lars’ too, she knew—became stingingly numb with cold.
All they could hear, aside from their own movements and the buzzing of mozzies that were near their ears, were the frogs, loudly courting each other as if no danger existed for anyone. Every now and then, they would hear a slight hiss as a zephyr would materialize from nowhere and stir things up. It was as if ghosts were warning them to turn back.
Finally, Lilly caught the outline of an overturned canoe on the far bank. It appeared to be made of unpainted aluminum ... reflective ... damn. She checked her digital watch. It was almost 11:00 p.m.—they'd been out in the bush for two hours, in the freezing water. She unhitched Lars’ hand from her belt, gave him the pistol to hold, and told him softly to just wait—she'd go get the canoe. There was no sense in both of them getting soaked. She waded in to her waist, swam a few strokes on her side (taking the occasion to have a long-overdue pee), and felt the floor of the stream rise to touch her fingertips.
She struggled onto the shore on her hands and knees, trying not to make any noise, and pulled her wet hair behind her head as she stood up. Then she carefully turned the canoe up on its side, and the clunk of the paddles inside both frightened and relieved her. If we can just get across the damned Picanoc, we might make it, she thought. She spread her arms and gripped the gunwales near the middle of the canoe, bent back and lifted it gently onto her thighs, then baby-stepped her way back towards the stream. With hardly a sound, she got the canoe settled into the water. Holding on to a short length of rope that was attached to the bow, she swam the thing back across the creek.