Chapter 20

This chapter is dedicated to The Tattered Cover, Denver's legendary in-dependent bookstore. I happened upon The Tattered Cover quite by acci-dent: Alice and I had just landed in Denver, coming in from London,and it was early and cold and we needed coffee. We drove in aimlessrental-car circles, and that's when I spotted it, the Tattered Cover'ssign. Something about it tingled in my hindbrain — I knew I'd heard ofthis place. We pulled in (got a coffee) and stepped into the store — awonderland of dark wood, homey reading nooks, and miles and miles ofbookshelves.
The Tattered Cover 1628 16th St., Denver, CO USA 80202 +1 303 4361070None of the three guys were around at the moment, so I took off. Myhead hurt so much I thought I must be bleeding, but my hands cameaway dry. My twisted ankle had frozen up in the truck so that I ran like abroken marionette, and I stopped only once, to cancel the photo-deletionon Masha's phone. I turned off its radio — both to save battery and tokeep it from being used to track me — and set the sleep timer to twohours, the longest setting available. I tried to set it to not require a pass-word to wake from sleep, but that required a password itself. I was justgoing to have to tap the keypad at least once every two hours until Icould figure out how to get the photo off of the phone. I would need acharger, then.
I didn't have a plan. I needed one. I needed to sit down, to get online— to figure out what I was going to do next. I was sick of letting otherpeople do my planning for me. I didn't want to be acting because of whatMasha did, or because of the DHS, or because of my dad. Or because ofAnge? Well, maybe I'd act because of Ange. That would be just fine, infact.
267I'd just been slipping downhill, taking alleys when I could, mergingwith the Tenderloin crowds. I didn't have any destination in mind. Everyfew minutes, I put my hand in my pocket and nudged one of the keys onMasha's phone to keep it from going asleep. It made an awkward bulge,unfolded there in my jacket.
I stopped and leaned against a building. My ankle was killing me.
Where was I, anyway?
O'Farrell, at Hyde Street. In front of a dodgy "Asian Massage Parlor."My traitorous feet had taken me right back to the beginning — taken meback to where the photo on Masha's phone had been taken, seconds be-fore the Bay Bridge blew, before my life changed forever.
I wanted to sit down on the sidewalk and bawl, but that wouldn'tsolve my problems. I had to call Barbara Stratford, tell her what hadhappened. Show her the photo of Darryl.
What was I thinking? I had to show her the video, the one that Mashahad sent me — the one where the President's Chief of Staff gloated at theattacks on San Francisco and admitted that he knew when and where thenext attacks would happen and that he wouldn't stop them becausethey'd help his man get re-elected.
That was a plan, then: get in touch with Barbara, give her the docu-ments, and get them into print. The VampMob had to have reallyfreaked people out, made them think that we really were a bunch of ter-rorists. Of course, when I'd been planning it, I had been thinking of howgood a distraction it would be, not how it would look to some NASCARDad in Nebraska.
I'd call Barbara, and I'd do it smart, from a payphone, putting myhood up so that the inevitable CCTV wouldn't get a photo of me. I dug aquarter out of my pocket and polished it on my shirt-tail, getting the fin-gerprints off it.
I headed downhill, down and down to the BART station and thepayphones there. I made it to the trolley-car stop when I spotted the cov-er of the week's Bay Guardian, stacked in a high pile next to a homelessblack guy who smiled at me. "Go ahead and read the cover, it's free —it'll cost you fifty cents to look inside, though."The headline was set in the biggest type I'd seen since 9/11:
INSIDE GITMO-BY-THE-BAYBeneath it, in slightly smaller type:
268"How the DHS has kept our children and friends in secret prisons onour doorstep.
"By Barbara Stratford, Special to the Bay Guardian"The newspaper seller shook his head. "Can you believe that?" he said.
"Right here in San Francisco. Man, the government sucks."Theoretically, the Guardian was free, but this guy appeared to havecornered the local market for copies of it. I had a quarter in my hand. Idropped it into his cup and fished for another one. I didn't bother polish-ing the fingerprints off of it this time.
"We're told that the world changed forever when the Bay Bridge wasblown up by parties unknown. Thousands of our friends and neighborsdied on that day. Almost none of them have been recovered; their re-mains are presumed to be resting in the city's harbor.
"But an extraordinary story told to this reporter by a young man whowas arrested by the DHS minutes after the explosion suggests that ourown government has illegally held many of those thought dead onTreasure Island, which had been evacuated and declared off-limits to ci-vilians shortly after the bombing… "I sat down on a bench — the same bench, I noted with a prickly hair-up-the-neck feeling, where we'd rested Darryl after escaping from theBART station — and read the article all the way through. It took a hugeeffort not to burst into tears right there. Barbara had found some photosof me and Darryl goofing around together and they ran alongside thetext. The photos were maybe a year old, but I looked so much younger inthem, like I was 10 or 11. I'd done a lot of growing up in the past couplemonths.
The piece was beautifully written. I kept feeling outraged on behalf ofthe poor kids she was writing about, then remembering that she waswriting about me. Zeb's note was there, his crabbed handwriting repro-duced in large, a half-sheet of the newspaper. Barbara had dug up moreinfo on other kids who were missing and presumed dead, a long list, andasked how many had been stuck there on the island, just a few milesfrom their parents' doorsteps.
I dug another quarter out of my pocket, then changed my mind. Whatwas the chance that Barbara's phone wasn't tapped? There was no way Iwas going to be able to call her now, not directly. I needed some interme-diary to get in touch with her and get her to meet me somewhere south.
So much for plans.
269What I really, really needed was the Xnet.
How the hell was I going to get online? My phone's wifinder wasblinking like crazy — there was wireless all around me, but I didn't havean Xbox and a TV and a ParanoidXbox DVD to boot from. WiFi, WiFieverywhere…That's when I spotted them. Two kids, about my age, moving amongthe crowd at the top of the stairs down into the BART.
What caught my eye was the way they were moving, kind of clumsy,nudging up against the commuters and the tourists. Each had a hand inhis pocket, and whenever they met one another's eye, they snickered.
They couldn't have been more obvious jammers, but the crowd was obli-vious to them. Being down in that neighborhood, you expect to bedodging homeless people and crazies, so you don't make eye contact,don't look around at all if you can help it.
I sidled up to one. He seemed really young, but he couldn't have beenany younger than me.
"Hey," I said. "Hey, can you guys come over here for a second?"He pretended not to hear me. He looked right through me, the wayyou would a homeless person.
"Come on," I said. "I don't have a lot of time." I grabbed his shoulderand hissed in his ear. "The cops are after me. I'm from Xnet."He looked scared now, like he wanted to run away, and his friend wasmoving toward us. "I'm serious," I said. "Just hear me out."His friend came over. He was taller, and beefy — like Darryl. "Hey,"he said. "Something wrong?"His friend whispered in his ear. The two of them looked like they weregoing to bolt.
I grabbed my copy of the Bay Guardian from under my arm and rattledit in front of them. "Just turn to page 5, OK?"They did. They looked at the headline. The photo. Me.
"Oh, dude," the first one said. "We are so not worthy." He grinned atme like crazy, and the beefier one slapped me on the back.
"No way —" he said. "You're M —"I put a hand over his mouth. "Come over here, OK?"270I brought them back to my bench. I noticed that there was somethingold and brown staining the sidewalk underneath it. Darryl's blood? Itmade my skin pucker up. We sat down.
"I'm Marcus," I said, swallowing hard as I gave my real name to thesetwo who already knew me as M1k3y. I was blowing my cover, but theBay Guardian had already made the connection for me.
"Nate," the small one said. "Liam," the bigger one said. "Dude, it is suchan honor to meet you. You're like our all-time hero —""Don't say that," I said. "Don't say that. You two are like a flashing ad-vertisement that says, 'I am jamming, please put my ass in Gitmo-by-the-Bay. You couldn't be more obvious."Liam looked like he might cry.
"Don't worry, you didn't get busted. I'll give you some tips, later." Hebrightened up again. What was becoming weirdly clear was that thesetwo really did idolize M1k3y, and that they'd do anything I said. Theywere grinning like idiots. It made me uncomfortable, sick to my stomach.
"Listen, I need to get on Xnet, now, without going home or anywherenear home. Do you two live near here?""I do," Nate said. "Up at the top of California Street. It's a bit of a walk— steep hills." I'd just walked all the way down them. Masha was some-where up there. But still, it was better than I had any right to expect.
"Let's go," I said.
Nate loaned me his baseball hat and traded jackets with me. I didn'thave to worry about gait-recognition, not with my ankle throbbing theway it was — I limped like an extra in a cowboy movie.
Nate lived in a huge four-bedroom apartment at the top of Nob Hill.
The building had a doorman, in a red overcoat with gold brocade, andhe touched his cap and called Nate, "Mr Nate" and welcomed us allthere. The place was spotless and smelled of furniture polish. I tried notto gawp at what must have been a couple million bucks' worth of condo.
"My dad," he explained. "He was an investment banker. Lots of life in-surance. He died when I was 14 and we got it all. They'd been divorcedfor years, but he left my mom as beneficiary."From the floor-to-ceiling window, you could see a stunning view ofthe other side of Nob Hill, all the way down to Fisherman's Wharf, to theugly stub of the Bay Bridge, the crowd of cranes and trucks. Through the271mist, I could just make out Treasure Island. Looking down all that way,it gave me a crazy urge to jump.
I got online with his Xbox and a huge plasma screen in the livingroom. He showed me how many open WiFi networks were visible fromhis high vantage point — twenty, thirty of them. This was a good spot tobe an Xnetter.
There was a lot of email in my M1k3y account. 20,000 new messagessince Ange and I had left her place that morning. Lots of it was from thepress, asking for followup interviews, but most of it was from the Xnet-ters, people who'd seen the Guardian story and wanted to tell me thatthey'd do anything to help me, anything I needed.
That did it. Tears started to roll down my cheeks.
Nate and Liam exchanged glances. I tried to stop, but it was no good. Iwas sobbing now. Nate went to an oak book-case on one wall and swunga bar out of one of its shelves, revealing gleaming rows of bottles. Hepoured me a shot of something golden brown and brought it to me.
"Rare Irish whiskey," he said. "Mom's favorite."It tasted like fire, like gold. I sipped at it, trying not to choke. I didn'treally like hard liquor, but this was different. I took several deep breaths.
"Thanks, Nate," I said. He looked like I'd just pinned a medal on him.
He was a good kid.
"All right," I said, and picked up the keyboard. The two boys watchedin fascination as I paged through my mail on the gigantic screen.
What I was looking for, first and foremost, was email from Ange.
There was a chance that she'd just gotten away. There was always thatchance.
I was an idiot to even hope. There was nothing from her. I started go-ing through the mail as fast as I could, picking apart the press requests,the fan mail, the hate mail, the spam…And that's when I found it: a letter from Zeb.
"It wasn't nice to wake up this morning and find the letter that Ithought you would destroy in the pages of the newspaper. Not nice atall. Made me feel — hunted.
"But I've come to understand why you did it. I don't know if I can ap-prove of your tactics, but it's easy to see that your motives were sound.
272"If you're reading this, that means that there's a good chance you'vegone underground. It's not easy. I've been learning that. I've been learn-ing a lot more.
"I can help you. I should do that for you. You're doing what you canfor me. (Even if you're not doing it with my permission.)"Reply if you get this, if you're on the run and alone. Or reply if you'rein custody, being run by our friends on Gitmo, looking for a way tomake the pain stop. If they've got you, you'll do what they tell you. Iknow that. I'll take that risk.
"For you, M1k3y.""Wooooah," Liam breathed. "Duuuuude." I wanted to smack him. Iturned to say something awful and cutting to him, but he was staring atme with eyes as big as saucers, looking like he wanted to drop to hisknees and worship me.
"Can I just say," Nate said, "can I just say that it is the biggest honor ofmy entire life to help you? Can I just say that?"I was blushing now. There was nothing for it. These two were totallystar-struck, even though I wasn't any kind of star, not in my own mind atleast.
"Can you guys —" I swallowed. "Can I have some privacy here?"They slunk out of the room like bad puppies and I felt like a tool. Ityped fast.
"I got away, Zeb. And I'm on the run. I need all the help I can get. Iwant to end this now." I remembered to take Masha's phone out of mypocket and tickle it to keep it from going to sleep.
They let me use the shower, gave me a change of clothes, a new back-pack with half their earthquake kit in it — energy bars, medicine, hotand cold packs, and an old sleeping-bag. They even slipped a spare XboxUniversal already loaded with ParanoidXbox on it into there. That was anice touch. I had to draw the line at a flaregun.
I kept on checking my email to see if Zeb had replied. I answered thefan mail. I answered the mail from the press. I deleted the hate mail. Iwas half-expecting to see something from Masha, but chances were shewas halfway to LA by now, her fingers hurt, and in no position to type. Itickled her phone again.
They encouraged me to take a nap and for a brief, shameful moment, Igot all paranoid like maybe these guys were thinking of turning me in273once I was asleep. Which was idiotic — they could have turned me injust as easily when I was awake. I just couldn't compute the fact that theythought so much of me. I had known, intellectually, that there werepeople who would follow M1k3y. I'd met some of those people thatmorning, shouting BITE BITE BITE and vamping it up at Civic Center.
But these two were more personal. They were just nice, goofy guys, theycoulda been any of my friends back in the days before the Xnet, just twopals who palled around having teenage adventures. They'd volunteeredto join an army, my army. I had a responsibility to them. Left to them-selves, they'd get caught, it was only a matter of time. They were tootrusting.
"Guys, listen to me for a second. I have something serious I need totalk to you about."They almost stood at attention. It would have been funny if it wasn'tso scary.
"Here's the thing. Now that you've helped me, it's really dangerous. Ifyou get caught, I'll get caught. They'll get anything you know out of you—" I held up my hand to forestall their protests. "No, stop. You haven'tbeen through it. Everyone talks. Everyone breaks. If you're ever caught,you tell them everything, right away, as fast as you can, as much as youcan. They'll get it all eventually anyway. That's how they work.
"But you won't get caught, and here's why: you're not jammers any-more. You are retired from active duty. You're a —" I fished in mymemory for vocabulary words culled from spy thrillers — "you're asleeper cell. Stand down. Go back to being normal kids. One way or an-other, I'm going to break this thing, break it wide open, end it. Or it willget me, finally, do me in. If you don't hear from me within 72 hours, as-sume that they got me. Do whatever you want then. But for the nextthree days — and forever, if I do what I'm trying to do — stand down.
Will you promise me that?"They promised with all solemnity. I let them talk me into napping, butmade them swear to rouse me once an hour. I'd have to tickle Masha'sphone and I wanted to know as soon as Zeb got back in touch with me.
The rendezvous was on a BART car, which made me nervous. They'refull of cameras. But Zeb knew what he was doing. He had me meet himin the last car of a certain train departing from Powell Street Station, at atime when that car was filled with the press of bodies. He sidled up to274me in the crowd, and the good commuters of San Francisco cleared aspace for him, the hollow that always surrounds homeless people.
"Nice to see you again," he muttered, facing into the doorway. Lookinginto the dark glass, I could see that there was no one close enough toeavesdrop — not without some kind of high-efficiency mic rig, and ifthey knew enough to show up here with one of those, we were deadanyway.
"You too, brother," I said. "I'm — I'm sorry, you know?""Shut up. Don't be sorry. You were braver than I am. Are you ready togo underground now? Ready to disappear?""About that.""Yes?""That's not the plan.""Oh," he said.
"Listen, OK? I have — I have pictures, video. Stuff that really provessomething." I reached into my pocket and tickled Masha's phone. I'dbought a charger for it in union Square on the way down, and hadstopped and plugged it in at a cafe for long enough to get the battery upto four out of five bars. "I need to get it to Barbara Stratford, the womanfrom the Guardian. But they're going to be watching her — watching tosee if I show up.""You don't think that they'll be watching for me, too? If your plan in-volves me going within a mile of that woman's home or office —""I want you to get Van to come and meet me. Did Darryl ever tell youabout Van? The girl —""He told me. Yes, he told me. You don't think they'll be watching her?
All of you who were arrested?""I think they will. I don't think they'll be watching her as hard. AndVan has totally clean hands. She never cooperated with any of my —" Iswallowed. "With my projects. So they might be a little more relaxedabout her. If she calls the Bay Guardian to make an appointment to ex-plain why I'm just full of crap, maybe they'll let her keep it."He stared at the door for a long time.
"You know what happens when they catch us again." It wasn't aquestion.
I nodded.
275"Are you sure? Some of the people that were on Treasure Island withus got taken away in helicopters. They got taken offshore. There are coun-tries where America can outsource its torture. Countries where you willrot forever. Countries where you wish they would just get it over with,have you dig a trench and then shoot you in the back of the head as youstand over it."I swallowed and nodded.
"Is it worth the risk? We can go underground for a long, long timehere. Someday we might get our country back. We can wait it out."I shook my head. "You can't get anything done by doing nothing. It'sour country. They've taken it from us. The terrorists who attack us arestill free — but we're not. I can't go underground for a year, ten years, mywhole life, waiting for freedom to be handed to me. Freedom issomething you have to take for yourself."That afternoon, Van left school as usual, sitting in the back of the buswith a tight knot of her friends, laughing and joking the way she alwaysdid. The other riders on the bus took special note of her, she was so loud,and besides, she was wearing that stupid, giant floppy hat, somethingthat looked like a piece out of a school play about Renaissance swordfighters. At one point they all huddled together, then turned away tolook out the back of the bus, pointing and giggling. The girl who worethe hat now was the same height as Van, and from behind, it could beher.
No one paid any attention to the mousy little Asian girl who got off afew stops before the BART. She was dressed in a plain old school uni-form, and looking down shyly as she stepped off. Besides, at that mo-ment, the loud Korean girl let out a whoop and her friends followedalong, laughing so loudly that even the bus driver slowed down, twistedin his seat and gave them a dirty look.
Van hurried away down the street with her head down, her hair tiedback and dropped down the collar of her out-of-style bubble jacket. Shehad slipped lifts into her shoes that made her two wobbly, awkwardinches taller, and had taken her contacts out and put on her least-favoredglasses, with huge lenses that took up half her face. Although I'd beenwaiting in the bus-shelter for her and knew when to expect her, I hardlyrecognized her. I got up and walked along behind her, across the street,trailing by half a block.
276The people who passed me looked away as quickly as possible. Ilooked like a homeless kid, with a grubby cardboard sign, street-grimyovercoat, huge, overstuffed knapsack with duct-tape over its rips. Noone wants to look at a street-kid, because if you meet his eye, he mightask you for some spare change. I'd walked around Oakland all afternoonand the only person who'd spoken to me was a Jehovah's Witness and aScientologist, both trying to convert me. It felt gross, like being hit on bya pervert.
Van followed the directions I'd written down carefully. Zeb hadpassed them to her the same way he'd given me the note outside school— bumping into her as she waited for the bus, apologizing profusely. I'dwritten the note plainly and simply, just laying it out for her: I know youdon't approve. I understand. But this is it, this is the most important fa-vor I've ever asked of you. Please. Please.
She'd come. I knew she would. We had a lot of history, Van and I. Shedidn't like what had happened to the world, either. Besides, an evil,chuckling voice in my head had pointed out, she was under suspicionnow that Barbara's article was out.
We walked like that for six or seven blocks, looking at who was nearus, what cars went past. Zeb told me about five-person trails, where fivedifferent undercovers traded off duties following you, making it nearlyimpossible to spot them. You had to go somewhere totally desolate,where anyone at all would stand out like a sore thumb.
The overpass for the 880 was just a few blocks from the ColiseumBART station, and even with all the circling Van did, it didn't take longto reach it. The noise from overhead was nearly deafening. No one elsewas around, not that I could tell. I'd visited the site before I suggested itto Van in the note, taking care to check for places where someone couldhide. There weren't any.
Once she stopped at the appointed place, I moved quickly to catch upto her. She blinked owlishly at me from behind her glasses.
"Marcus," she breathed, and tears swam in her eyes. I found that I wascrying too. I'd make a really rotten fugitive. Too sentimental.
She hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe. I hugged her back evenharder.
Then she kissed me.
Not on the cheek, not like a sister. Full on the lips, a hot, wet, steamykiss that seemed to go on forever. I was so overcome with emotion —277No, that's bull. I knew exactly what I was doing. I kissed her back.
Then I stopped and pulled away, nearly shoved her away. "Van," Igasped.
"Oops," she said.
"Van," I said again.
"Sorry," she said. "I —"Something occurred to me just then, something I guess I should haveseen a long, long time before.
"You like me, don't you?"She nodded miserably. "For years," she said.
Oh, God. Darryl, all these years, so in love with her, and the wholetime she was looking at me, secretly wanting me. And then I ended upwith Ange. Ange said that she'd always fought with Van. And I was run-ning around, getting into so much trouble.
"Van," I said. "Van, I'm so sorry.""Forget it," she said, looking away. "I know it can't be. I just wanted todo that once, just in case I never —" She bit down on the words.
"Van, I need you to do something for me. Something important. I needyou to meet with the journalist from the Bay Guardian, Barbara Strat-ford, the one who wrote the article. I need you to give her something." Iexplained about Masha's phone, told her about the video that Masha hadsent me.
"What good will this do, Marcus? What's the point?""Van, you were right, at least partly. We can't fix the world by puttingother people at risk. I need to solve the problem by telling what I know. Ishould have done that from the start. Should have walked straight out oftheir custody and to Darryl's father's house and told him what I knew.
Now, though, I have evidence. This stuff — it could change the world.
This is my last hope. The only hope for getting Darryl out, for getting alife that I don't spend underground, hiding from the cops. And you'rethe only person I can trust to do this.""Why me?""You're kidding, right? Look at how well you handled getting here.
You're a pro. You're the best at this of any of us. You're the only one I cantrust. That's why you."278"Why not your friend Angie?" She said the name without any inflec-tion at all, like it was a block of cement.
I looked down. "I thought you knew. They arrested her. She's in Gitmo— on Treasure Island. She's been there for days now." I had been tryingnot to think about this, not to think about what might be happening toher. Now I couldn't stop myself and I started to sob. I felt a pain in mystomach, like I'd been kicked, and I pushed my hands into my middle tohold myself in. I folded there, and the next thing I knew, I was on myside in the rubble under the freeway, holding myself and crying.
Van knelt down by my side. "Give me the phone," she said, her voicean angry hiss. I fished it out of my pocket and passed it to her.
Embarrassed, I stopped crying and sat up. I knew that snot was run-ning down my face. Van was giving me a look of pure revulsion. "Youneed to keep it from going to sleep," I said. "I have a charger here." Irummaged in my pack. I hadn't slept all the way through the night sinceI acquired it. I set the phone's alarm to go off every 90 minutes and wakeme up so that I could keep it from going to sleep. "Don't fold it shut,either.""And the video?""That's harder," I said. "I emailed a copy to myself, but I can't get ontothe Xnet anymore." In a pinch, I could have gone back to Nate and Liamand used their Xbox again, but I didn't want to risk it. "Look, I'm goingto give you my login and password for the Pirate Party's mail-server.
You'll have to use Tor to access it — Homeland Security is bound to bescanning for people logging into p-party mail.""Your login and password," she said, looking a little surprised.
"I trust you, Van. I know I can trust you."She shook her head. "You never give out your passwords, Marcus.""I don't think it matters anymore. Either you succeed or I — or it's theend of Marcus Yallow. Maybe I'll get a new identity, but I don't think so.
I think they'll catch me. I guess I've known all along that they'd catch me,some day."She looked at me, furious now. "What a waste. What was it all for,anyway?"Of all the things she could have said, nothing could have hurt memore. It was like another kick in the stomach. What a waste, all of it, fu-tile. Darryl and Ange, gone. I might never see my family again. And still,Homeland Security had my city and my country caught in a massive,279irrational shrieking freak-out where anything could be done in the nameof stopping terrorism.
Van looked like she was waiting for me to say something, but I hadnothing to say to that. She left me there.
Zeb had a pizza for me when I got back "home" — to the tent under afreeway overpass in the Mission that he'd staked out for the night. Hehad a pup tent, military surplus, stenciled with SAN FRANCISCOLOCAL HOMELESS COORDINATING BOARD.
The pizza was a Dominos, cold and clabbered, but delicious for allthat. "You like pineapple on your pizza?"Zeb smiled condescendingly at me. "Freegans can't be choosy," he said.
"Freegans?""Like vegans, but we only eat free food.""Free food?"He grinned again. "You know — free food. From the free food store?""You stole this?""No, dummy. It's from the other store. The little one out behind thestore? Made of blue steel? Kind of funky smelling?""You got this out of the garbage?"He flung his head back and cackled. "Yes indeedy. You should seeyour face. Dude, it's OK. It's not like it was rotten. It was fresh — just ascrewed up order. They threw it out in the box. They sprinkle rat poisonover everything at closing-time, but if you get there quick, you're OK.
You should see what grocery stores throw out! Wait until breakfast. I'mgoing to make you a fruit salad you won't believe. As soon as one straw-berry in the box goes a little green and fuzzy, the whole thing is out —"I tuned him out. The pizza was fine. It wasn't as if sitting in the dump-ster would infect it or something. If it was gross, that was only because itcame from Domino's — the worst pizza in town. I'd never liked theirfood, and I'd given it up altogether when I found out that they bank-rolled a bunch of ultra-crazy politicians who thought that global warm-ing and evolution were satanic plots.
It was hard to shake the feeling of grossness, though.
280But there was another way to look at it. Zeb had showed me a secret,something I hadn't anticipated: there was a whole hidden world outthere, a way of getting by without participating in the system.
"Freegans, huh?""Yogurt, too," he said, nodding vigorously. "For the fruit salad. Theythrow it out the day after the best-before date, but it's not as if it goesgreen at midnight. It's yogurt, I mean, it's basically just rotten milk to be-gin with."I swallowed. The pizza tasted funny. Rat poison. Spoiled yogurt. Furrystrawberries. This would take some getting used to.
I ate another bite. Actually, Domino's pizza sucked a little less whenyou got it for free.
Liam's sleeping bag was warm and welcoming after a long, emotion-ally exhausting day. Van would have made contact with Barbara bynow. She'd have the video and the picture. I'd call her in the morningand find out what she thought I should do next. I'd have to come in onceshe published, to back it all up.
I thought about that as I closed my eyes, thought about what it wouldbe like to turn myself in, the cameras all rolling, following the infamousM1k3y into one of those big, columnated buildings in Civic Center.
The sound of the cars screaming by overhead turned into a kind ofocean sound as I drifted away. There were other tents nearby, homelesspeople. I'd met a few of them that afternoon, before it got dark and we allretreated to huddle near our own tents. They were all all older than me,rough looking and gruff. None of them looked crazy or violent, though.
Just like people who'd had bad luck, or made bad decisions, or both.
I must have fallen asleep, because I don't remember anything else untila bright light was shined into my face, so bright it was blinding.
"That's him," said a voice behind the light.
"Bag him," said another voice, one I'd heard before, one I'd heard overand over again in my dreams, lecturing to me, demanding mypasswords. Severe-haircut-woman.
The bag went over my head quickly and was cinched so tight at thethroat that I choked and threw up my freegan pizza. As I spasmed andchoked, hard hands bound my wrists, then my ankles. I was rolled ontoa stretcher and hoisted, then carried into a vehicle, up a couple ofclanging metal steps. They dropped me into a padded floor. There was281no sound at all in the back of the vehicle once they closed the doors. Thepadding deadened everything except my own choking.
"Well, hello again," she said. I felt the van rock as she crawled in withme. I was still choking, trying to gasp in a breath. Vomit filled my mouthand trickled down my windpipe.
"We won't let you die," she said. "If you stop breathing, we'll makesure you start again. So don't worry about it."I choked harder. I sipped at air. Some was getting through. Deep,wracking coughs shook my chest and back, dislodging some more of thepuke. More breath.
"See?" she said. "Not so bad. Welcome home, M1k3y. We've got some-where very special to take you."I relaxed onto my back, feeling the van rock. The smell of used pizzawas overwhelming at first, but as with all strong stimuli, my braingradually grew accustomed to it, filtered it out until it was just a faintaroma. The rocking of the van was almost comforting.
That's when it happened. An incredible, deep calm that swept over melike I was lying on the beach and the ocean had swept in and lifted me asgently as a parent, held me aloft and swept me out onto a warm sea un-der a warm sun. After everything that had happened, I was caught, but itdidn't matter. I had gotten the information to Barbara. I had organizedthe Xnet. I had won. And if I hadn't won, I had done everything I couldhave done. More than I ever thought I could do. I took a mental invent-ory as I rode, thinking of everything that I had accomplished, that we hadaccomplished. The city, the country, the world was full of people whowouldn't live the way DHS wanted us to live. We'd fight forever. Theycouldn't jail us all.
I sighed and smiled.
She'd been talking all along, I realized. I'd been so far into my happyplace that she'd just gone away.
"— smart kid like you. You'd think that you'd know better than tomess with us. We've had an eye on you since the day you walked out.
We would have caught you even if you hadn't gone crying to your lesbojournalist traitor. I just don't get it — we had an understanding, you andme… "We rumbled over a metal plate, the van's shocks rocking, and then therocking changed. We were on water. Heading to Treasure Island. Hey,Ange was there. Darryl, too. Maybe.
282The hood didn't come off until I was in my cell. They didn't botherwith the cuffs at my wrists and ankles, just rolled me off the stretcherand onto the floor. It was dark, but by the moonlight from the single,tiny, high window, I could see that the mattress had been taken off thecot. The room contained me, a toilet, a bed-frame, and a sink, and noth-ing else.
I closed my eyes and let the ocean lift me. I floated away. Somewhere,far below me, was my body. I could tell what would happen next. I wasbeing left to piss myself. Again. I knew what that was like. I'd pissed my-self before. It smelled bad. It itched. It was humiliating, like being a baby.
But I'd survived it.
I laughed. The sound was weird, and it drew me back into my body,back to the present. I laughed and laughed. I'd had the worst that theycould throw at me, and I'd survived it, and I'd beaten them, beaten themfor months, showed them up as chumps and despots. I'd won.
I let my bladder cut loose. It was sore and full anyway, and no timelike the present.
The ocean swept me away.
When morning came, two efficient, impersonal guards cut the bind-ings off of my wrists and ankles. I still couldn't walk — when I stood, mylegs gave way like a stringless marionette's. Too much time in one posi-tion. The guards pulled my arms over their shoulders and half-dragged/half-carried me down the familiar corridor. The bar codes on the doorswere curling up and dangling now, attacked by the salt air.
I got an idea. "Ange!" I yelled. "Darryl!" I yelled. My guards yankedme along faster, clearly disturbed but not sure what to do about it.
"Guys, it's me, Marcus! Stay free!"Behind one of the doors, someone sobbed. Someone else cried out inwhat sounded like Arabic. Then it was cacophony, a thousand differentshouting voices.
They brought me to a new room. It was an old shower-room, with theshower-heads still present in the mould tiles.
"Hello, M1k3y," Severe Haircut said. "You seem to have had an event-ful morning." She wrinkled her nose pointedly.
"I pissed myself," I said, cheerfully. "You should try it."283"Maybe we should give you a bath, then," she said. She nodded, andmy guards carried me to another stretcher. This one had restrainingstraps running its length. They dropped me onto it and it was ice-coldand soaked through. Before I knew it, they had the straps across myshoulders, hips and ankles. A minute later, three more straps were tieddown. A man's hands grabbed the railings by my head and releasedsome catches, and a moment later I was tilted down, my head below myfeet.
"Let's start with something simple," she said. I craned my head to seeher. She had turned to a desk with an Xbox on it, connected to anexpensive-looking flat-panel TV. "I'd like you to tell me your login andpassword for your Pirate Party email, please?"I closed my eyes and let the ocean carry me off the beach.
"Do you know what waterboarding is, M1k3y?" Her voice reeled mein. "You get strapped down like this, and we pour water over your head,up your nose and down your mouth. You can't suppress the gag reflex.
They call it a simulated execution, and from what I can tell from this sideof the room, that's a fair assessment. You won't be able to fight the feel-ing that you're dying."I tried to go away. I'd heard of waterboarding. This was it, real torture.
And this was just the beginning.
I couldn't go away. The ocean didn't sweep in and lift me. There was atightness in my chest, my eyelids fluttered. I could feel clammy piss onmy legs and clammy sweat in my hair. My skin itched from the driedpuke.
She swam into view above me. "Let's start with the login," she said.
I closed my eyes, squeezed them shut.
"Give him a drink," she said.
I heard people moving. I took a deep breath and held it.
The water started as a trickle, a ladleful of water gently poured overmy chin, my lips. Up my upturned nostrils. It went back into my throat,starting to choke me, but I wouldn't cough, wouldn't gasp and suck it in-to my lungs. I held onto my breath and squeezed my eyes harder.
There was a commotion from outside the room, a sound of chaoticboots stamping, angry, outraged shouts. The dipper was emptied intomy face.
284I heard her mutter something to someone in the room, then to me shesaid, "Just the login, Marcus. It's a simple request. What could I do withyour login, anyway?"This time, it was a bucket of water, all at once, a flood that didn't stop,it must have been gigantic. I couldn't help it. I gasped and aspirated thewater into my lungs, coughed and took more water in. I knew theywouldn't kill me, but I couldn't convince my body of that. In every fiberof my being, I knew I was going to die. I couldn't even cry — the waterwas still pouring over me.
Then it stopped. I coughed and coughed and coughed, but at the angleI was at, the water I coughed up dribbled back into my nose and burneddown my sinuses.
The coughs were so deep they hurt, hurt my ribs and my hips as Itwisted against them. I hated how my body was betraying me, how mymind couldn't control my body, but there was nothing for it.
Finally, the coughing subsided enough for me to take in what was go-ing on around me. People were shouting and it sounded like someonewas scuffling, wrestling. I opened my eyes and blinked into the brightlight, then craned my neck, still coughing a little.
The room had a lot more people in it than it had had when we started.
Most of them seemed to be wearing body armor, helmets, and smoked-plastic visors. They were shouting at the Treasure Island guards, whowere shouting back, necks corded with veins.
"Stand down!" one of the body-armors said. "Stand down and put yourhands in the air. You are under arrest!"Severe haircut woman was talking on her phone. One of the body ar-mors noticed her and he moved swiftly to her and batted her phoneaway with a gloved hand. Everyone fell silent as it sailed through the airin an arc that spanned the small room, clattering to the ground in ashower of parts.
The silence broke and the body-armors moved into the room. Twograbbed each of my torturers. I almost managed a smile at the look onSevere Haircut's face when two men grabbed her by the shoulders,turned her around, and yanked a set of plastic handcuffs around herwrists.
One of the body-armors moved forward from the doorway. He had avideo camera on his shoulder, a serious rig with blinding white light. He285got the whole room, circling me twice while he got me. I found myselfstaying perfectly still, as though I was sitting for a portrait.
It was ridiculous.
"Do you think you could get me off of this thing?" I managed to get itall out with only a little choking.
Two more body armors moved up to me, one a woman, and began tounstrap me. They flipped their visors up and smiled at me. They had redcrosses on their shoulders and helmets.
Beneath the red crosses was another insignia: CHP. California High-way Patrol. They were State Troopers.
I started to ask what they were doing there, and that's when I saw Bar-bara Stratford. She'd evidently been held back in the corridor, but nowshe came in pushing and shoving. "There you are," she said, kneeling be-side me and grabbing me in the longest, hardest hug of my life.
That's when I knew it — Guantanamo by the Bay was in the hands ofits enemies. I was saved.