Inside

by Kyra Anderson

  Mark finally decided to take a big gamble. Taking my hand, he led me into the town. There was one main road that we could see close to the train yard that lead likely lead out of town. However, not sure about who could be looking at that main street, Mark and I stuck to the side streets. There was garbage littered everywhere and stray cats continued to cross our path, making us both jump as their sudden movements caught us off guard. Some people were awake early, heading to work with a dazed look on their faces, still exhausted from the night before. There was not much in the town and there were no distinguishable smells other than the smell of trash and pollution in the air.

  That was a stark difference from America.

  We moved quickly, trying not to pay attention to the details of the town, more focused on getting into the field beyond, which we had seen on Jack’s phone when planning the new route. Once we got into farmland, it would be easier for us to avoid the sight of people. It was also less likely we would be spotted since we would be moving at night to avoid the intense heat of the day.

  We wove in and out of buildings, taking alleyways while keeping an eye on the main street, being sure that we were heading in the right direction to get out of town.

  Cars began to fill the streets and the sound of people talking to one another became a dull roar on around us. As more people woke, I did not know whether to feel safe or threatened. More people ment more possible spies for the Commission. However, more people also offered more camouflage among the diverse faces.

  We crossed the train tracks one more time near the edge of town, when the main street turned into a freeway, making it impossible to walk on. We had to take more back streets, weaving carefully around people and cars as the city began buzzing with daily activities. Mark was sure to keep his glasses on, and I kept my head down, making sure we were not spotted, even if it was easier to blend in among the diverse faces.

  Walking along the outer neighborhoods of the town took far longer than both of us wanted, but we finally found our way into the farmlands. We traversed the dirt roads, stepping out of the way as vehicles rumbled down the rural paths and laborers went to work in the fields. We slowed our pace once we were sure we were far enough away from the prying eyes of the city, being sure not to over-exert ourselves in the heat. I knew that Mark was still not at his fullest health, and I, too, was struggling with pain management as the scabs on my legs were aggravated through sweat and rubbing against the fabric of my pants.

  When it was finally too hot to continue, we sought refuge under in the shade of a tree. We ate a little more, being sure to drink enough water, and waited for the heat of the day to pass. I watched trains go by on the distant tracks and studied the workers in the fields, starting to feel as though I had finally escaped America. Even though I knew I was still on the run, and likely always would be, the urgency was not as overwhelming.

  Of course an entirely different feeling took over once the sun went down. It was much darker in the rural countryside and I jumped at every out of place sound.

  I knew that, from where we were, there were no safe houses other than the very last one where we would hopefully be able to get our fake citizenship. That meant that we had approximately two days of hiking in a foreign country before we would see anyone who could provide us with aid. I knew that, to Mark, that meant that everyone else was a threat. He always kept a dutiful eye on his surroundings, being sure that no one was drawing closer without his knowledge.

  We walked through the night, able to make better headway in the cooler hours of the evening then in the heat of the day. However, it was harder to pick our path in the dark, as the moon did not provide as much illumination as we had hoped. We only used their flashlights occasionally, worried about being seen from any farm houses. We made our way along back roads, looking over a printed map to be sure we were going the right way while checking the time and a compass.

  We had to cross a surprising amount of rivers that were used to irrigate the fields. We were forced onto main roads to cross the rivers, hoping we did not look suspicious but figuring it would be more suspicious for anyone to see us crossing rivers in the dead of night.

  I had not expect Mexico to be so green and filled with water considering the trail that we had passed in the southern part of America, but it was a nice change of pace. The humidity, however, made it also more difficult, as every step became heavier and heavier, sweat dripping over my skin in the most uncomfortable way possible.

  By the time the sun began to rise we had made it to the base of a small mountain range. There were fewer farms in that area, as the terrain had turned rocky. We found a few tall boulders and hit ourselves, keeping out of sight of the main road.

  Once hidden, we tended to our wounds and blisters. I wrapped the blisters on my feet in small bandages while Mark tended to the closing bullet wounds in his chest. The wounds had mostly healed, no longer bleeding, but I was sure that they would still add another scar. It would just be another scar given to him by the Commission of the People—and hopefully his last one from them.

  Drinking water heartily, Mark and I debated about continuing to walk, tired, but also wanting to get to the safe house in Monterey as quickly as possible. In the end, after we had given the sun a few hours to rise in illuminate the land, we decided to get as far as we physically could. We continue to walk, mostly asleep, and try not to trip as our feet dragged over the ground. We rounded the base of the mountain range, always keeping our eye on the highway to one side and what was in front of us to be sure that we were heading the right direction. We discovered another small town as we walked, but we were not alarmed. It was nothing unusual.

  Around eleven in the morning, it was way too hot to move. Even though a lot of the terrain was green, there were not many trees to provide shade. We found some rocks, and tried to hide in the shade of them even as the sun continued to move. I tried to sleep, completely exhausted from the stressful few days. But the heat and humidity made it too uncomfortable, and my worried thoughts about getting to the safe house in Monterey began to weigh heavily on my mind.

  Mark did not sleep either, I was certain of that. I did not know if he was haunted by the same worries of the safe house being discovered by the Commission of the People before we could get there, but I knew that he would not be able to rest easily until we made it to the safe house.

  Exhausted, hot, and wanting desperately to see the end of the arduous trek, we hauled ourselves to our feet as soon as the sun began to go down. We did not get very far that night, too tired to push ourselves very hard. We ended up stopping once we caught sight of yet another small town. Beyond that small town was what appeared to be a large, sprawling city.

  In a moment of fear, I realize that I had no idea how to find the safe house in a big city with people who spoke a language I did not.

  Too overwhelmed by that reality, I forced Mark to stop. We spent almost the entire morning trying to find the general area of the safe house on the map that Jack had printed for us back in America. Mark was clearly nervous about walking around the big city, as he pulled out his phone and turned on for the first time. Once it was on he tried to use the navigational app to map a way to the safe house. However, he was unable to get reception and ended up giving up on that plan.

  We had to resort to the riddle-like directions that had been given by other members of the Coalition safe house network about the location of the last safe house.

  The instructions were math puzzles that would tell us the address and the street of the safe house if we could solve them. Even though we had figured the instructions out while still at Fort Daniels, being in the city and trying to find the exact same place would be a different story. I would be unable to ask for directions, not knowing Spanish, leaving us to wander the city streets until we found the correct street.

  Out of habit, we lingered in the mountains around the city, try not to be seen even though it would be much easier for us to blend in in the large crowds of people. We both watched f
rom a distance as the street became bustling, cars whizzing back-and-forth as people went about their normal day, completely unaware of the refugees trying to seek asylum in their city.

  Mark was hesitant for a very long time, not sure that he was ready to go wandering in the city among people.

  I had not thought about how strange the experience must have been for Mark. He had always been told to be discreet about how much interaction he had in America, considering that it was easy to spot him as a foreigner and a Commission criminal. He had also been raised in the hidden society, meaning that the only people he had had contact with were his family and close friends, like Josh. Being in a foreign city, where he did not have to hide was likely a jarring and unsettling experience. I did not realize how much so until we finally to send it out of the foothills and begin to make our way into town. Mark walked constantly looking over his shoulder and averting his eyes from anyone we passed.

  It was late in the day, and when we had already explored a few streets, Mark decided that we would return to the shelter of the hills and continue the search the following morning. Since I did not want to be roaming about on the street unable to navigate our way in the dark, I quickly agreed.

  I meant to catch a few hours of sleep but I was still paranoid and excited at the same time. The fact that we had reached the large city meant that we had been able to keep Dana at bay long enough to get us safe. That understanding allowed my brain to calm down just long enough to get a few hours of shut-eye.

  However, when I woke, my head was filled with worried, anxious thoughts about being unable to find the house, about Dana having already found the house and destroyed it, and of learning just how many of my friends did not make it across the border. It was impossible to drift back to sleep after the invasive thoughts took root.

  But the continuous lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with me. As we moved into the city and started to discern where to go and where the riddle is eventually pointed, I could feel my head swimming in the fog of exhaustion. Mark was also struggling. Perhaps it is was because we were so close to the end that the fatigue caught up with us that much quicker.

  The city was bustling with activity, the streets flooded with people going to and from work and home. There was garbage littering the street, and graffiti tags on nearly every building. The city was completely different from every city I had ever seen in America. There was hardly any graffiti in America, and each city was kept much cleaner than the one that we were trying to navigate. It was also quieter in America, as there were not as many people running around yelling at one another, even in the busy capital city of Central.

  After spending so long jumping at every out of place sound, the stimulus was absolutely draining. Mark walked almost the entire time with his hand resting close to his gun, which show just how on-edge he was. I also jumped every time a door opened or a person yelled to another person they had recognized on the street.

  Because we were so distracted and nervous, it took us even longer to find a safe house. We walked up and down blocks of homes, taking it one street at a time, trying to spot the exact address numbers that we had devised from the riddle. Some houses did not display their addresses on them, leading us to question if we were even in the right area. It was looking to be a hopeless venture when we finally found a promising house.

  The street had houses that all looked at exactly the same, though in varying degrees of disrepair and painted different colors. The Houses had simple lines and gates in front of most of them, with a smaller gate that allowed people to walk up to the front door. The street was narrow and the cars parked on the curb gave the neighborhood a claustrophobic feeling.

  Mark suddenly stopped on the sidewalk and I almost ran into him, having been distracted by some kids playing in the yard on the other side of the street. I turn to see what Mark was looking at, and saw a house painted a pale pink with small numbers near the front gate that read 4141.

  Mark and I glanced at one another, both filled with a worry that we had devised the wrong numbers, or that we were not at the right house, or that there was a trap waiting for us inside the safe house if Dana had already found it…

  However, with nowhere else to go, we both walked slowly up to the front door, opening the squeaking gate with shaking hands.

  My heart was racing. I was terrified by the scenarios playing in my head. I was certain that we still had so much more of the journey to make, which made me believe that, as we approached the safe house, we still had another horrifying fight for our lives behind the door.

  When we reach the front door, Mark looked at me, putting his hand against his gun and lifting his fist to knock on the door. He knocked three times rapidly, then held his fist up for five long seconds before hitting the side of his fist against the door twice. He then waited another ten seconds and hit the side of his fist against the door one more time.

  Almost instantly, the door opened.

  I was surprised to see an older woman greeting us. She had long, mostly-gray hair that had been pulled into a long braid. Even though she was older, her face showed the evident beauty she had had at her youth. She was about my height and slender, her brown eyes shining with wisdom.

  It was clear she knew immediately who we were. Mark kept his glasses on out of habit, and I could tell by the way she looked at him that she had seen many members of the Central Angels and the Eight Group.

  She said something in Spanish. I stared at her and confusion, before opening my mouth to speak.

  “I’m sorry…w-we’re looking for Mary.”

  A smile broke out over the woman’s face and she nodded, stepping back to allow us into the house.

  “I figured,” she said in perfect English—she did not even have an accent, “but one can never be too careful.”

  Mark and I walked into the house, keeping our eyes on the door until it was fully closed. Even then, it was impossible for us to let our guard down.

  The woman motion us further into the house, leading us from the main entry to the living room, where there were several couches set up around a large television. There was no one else in the house that we could see, which was both disconcerting and reassuring. It was a relief that we did not have an ambush immediately waiting for us, but I was still worried that, at any moment, someone would jump out of a door with a gun telling us to get on the ground and I would hear Dana’s calm voice boys once more.

  “You can go ahead and sit in there,” the older woman offered. “Let me get you some water.”

  She left us in the room while she disappeared into the kitchen, where we could hear her fumbling through the cabinets and pouring water. We both walked further into the living room, but did not sit, still on-edge. Mark walked around the room slowly, glancing out the drape-covered windows and even opening the only other door in the room, finding a bathroom. He continue to look around the room, searching for microphones or cameras methodically. When he was finally content to sit down, I sat next to them, removing my backpack and setting it by my feet.

  “If my math is correct…” the woman started, walking into the living room and having us both a glass of water. Once I felt the cold water in my hand, my thirst became very evident and I eagerly gulped down most of the glass. “You two should be among some of the last ones.”

  Mark nodded, finally taking off his sunglasses and reaching into his pocket to pull out his notebook.

  “My name is Mark. This is Lily. We are the last ones.”

  The woman sat down across from us, leaning forward to read the words on the paper, though she had to remove her glasses from the front of her shirt and put them on before she could read what it said.

  “My goodness,” she said, looking between us. “You two are the famous Lily and Mark. We’ve heard much about you.”

  I could feel my nerves swell from the statement. I had convinced myself that everyone was angry with me for abandoning the revolution. I was sure that everyone had said that I was one of the leaders, and I wa
s the one responsible for invading the safe route and putting everyone in danger.

  “My name is Amelia,” she introduced, “and I have been running safe house operations and the rehoming of fugitives for over thirty years. You’ll be staying with me for at least a week until we can be sure that we have everything in order for you.”

  “How do we pay you?” I asked.

  “We don’t ask for money,” Amelia said. “If you do have money, we accept it for repairs to the house, but the way you pay us is actually in your story.”

  “Our story? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been part of the Coalition since I was seventeen years old,” Amelia said. The information stunned me, not realizing that the Coalition had been around for so long. “As you can imagine, I’ve heard a lot of different stories from people who have been trying to escape the Commission of the People. And yet, no matter how many stories I hear, they’re always different while still being the same. The way I see it, telling your story, and understanding the reason why you left America, is a way of cleansing yourself of what occurred and that allows you to start a new life. It allows you to move on.”

  “We just…sit down and…talk to you? That’s how we pay you?”

  “We do record the stories, but we don’t use any names in the recording. We also obscure your face. We’re trying to build up an impressive record of all the people who have fled America without being true criminals. The Commission has defined a criminal as something it just simply is not, and that is someone who is different. We’re trying to gather enough evidence to show that a lot of the criminals the Commission takes do not harm anyone. They’re just people who love differently or think differently. That’s why we ask you to tell your story.”

  Mark wrote something down and turned it to her.

  “Who is we?”

  “My wife,” Amelia answered. “My wife Val and I have been doing this since we also fled America about thirty years ago.”

  The understanding that Amelia was also considered a Commission criminal and had also fled America, relaxed both of us so much that we leaned back into the couch for the first time since sitting down. Amelia smiled.