Rebels on the Run (Ch. 01)

Chapter 1

You can't remember the first time you saw me; by now I had simply become part of the background of life in camp. Part of the set of characters your life revolved around. We stood next to each other at the cafeteria, serving food as part of our work assignment, silently scooping and serving until it was time to clean everything and return to our cells.

It was important to remain submissive everywhere at the camp. The officers and guards were served before the other prisoners and when, on your first day on that work assignment, you looked up while serving a ladle of soup, an officer beat you to the ground with his baton so badly you had to spend three days in the infirmary, an unexpected blessing as you were fed and cared for much better than you had been as an ordinary prisoner. Being a prisoner of the state was an environment that required learning rapidly, adapting quickly to the new normal so that it was not too shocking.

At least, that's what you had told yourself the first time you heard your cell door open in the night, a hand holding your head down against the cot, another ripping down your pants... In retrospect, you think back in amazement on your temerity-the instinctual response to flip onto your back, pull your knees in, and slam both feet into the man's groin while covering up his mouth to muffle his scream. His limp body falling to the ground, then writhing, then crawling out. You consider yourself lucky to have attracted such a weak assailant, likely too embarrassed to admit his defeat to the other guards, as you attracted no more beatings than usual.

These experiences taught you to prepare yourself. Now, you never went anywhere without a small improvised knife, useless against the guards but vital to protect yourself against the other prisoners. While everyone in the camp had all been fighting on the same side before being captured, once imprisoned the rifts in the ranks began to appear. The officers of the rebel core and the ordinary fighters were constantly at odds, the old power relationship suddenly dissolved materially but not existentially, and a seemingly infinite set of ideological grievances tamped down by the urgency or revolution began to reemerge. By far, the mercenaries were the worst. Outcast from the rebel prisoners, they were generally ignored by the loyalist guards, who enjoyed torturing the rebels who had ideological principles but found little satisfaction in hurting rebels motivated by money. Therefore they were free to roam wild in the camp, bands of bullies allowed to operate with impunity by the guards.

You were an anomaly, you didn't belong in any of the three groups. While you agreed with the principles of the rebels, you had become drafted into the conflict by nature of your town being invaded by the rebels. Once they had decided to make it one of the centers of their operation, you had become guilty by proxy. While they offered everyone the opportunity to relocate without being harmed, you had lived in Mantus all your life and felt that you had no good reason to leave. Pretty soon you found yourself helping out-your knowledge of several languages used in the region, and status as a local, made you a valuable interlocutor with recruits from the region-and found yourself as part of a group, a team. You belonged to something that extended beyond your family and immediate community.

It was the loss of that sense of belonging that made it so painful when most of the rebels in the camp deserted as soon as the government's troops appeared on the horizon. Rather than the firefight you had been dreading and anticipating, most of the rebels simply packed up their equipment and moved, telling you that they didn't have the manpower or resources to mount a defense of the town. It was easier to run away, and regroup in some other town. They offered you the opportunity to leave but... you had lived in Mantus all your life. It quickly became one of the great regrets of your life.

You were able to play dumb, so when the entire town was arrested and sent to reeducation camps, you were not singled out as a supporter of the rebels and shot. But the travel was still brutal and cold, the food was terrible, and the isolation maddening. It was not how you imagined your first time leaving your hometown. And you certainly hadn't expected your first home away from home to be a six by nine foot concrete cell with a small window meant to encourage your reeducation into the socio-political life of the state.

The work assignment had been a relief. It had become canon among the camp that work assignments indicated that the government did not see you as a threat. You received more food, guards were less likely to harass you, and it provided a break from the boredom. Other than an hour of outdoor recreation, the remainder of your time was spent in a small cell with nothing to read but propaganda pamphlets and nothing to think about the never-ending drone of nationalistic speeches by various historical figures played over the loudspeakers at night. It was enough to drive a person mad. Working provided some semblance of order and normalcy to what was otherwise an intolerable situation, and the kitchen shift was one of the best. As one of your kitchen colleagues told you early on, "It definitely beat digging ditches or burning corpses, that's for sure."

Perhaps, then, it was natural that you would start to fantasize about me. It was often the funniest details. The way my wrist would turn to spoon beans onto a tray. The slightly-over-the top officiousness I displayed towards the officers, always with a slightest glimmer of a sarcastic smile on my lips. The first time you heard my voice it was almost shocking: "Hand me that bucket," our fingers grazing against each other as I handed it to you, the sudden rush of arousal (arousal! that unfamiliar friend) at my praise, whispered as to avoid arousing the guards, after you successfully mirrored my sarcastic tone while serving a particularly dimwitted guard.

There was a sweet spot, after the guards had conducted their final count for the evening, before the propaganda speeches would start, where you could lose yourself, and thus leave yourself and your cell for a moment, imagining me caressing and gently kissing you, the fantasies more about comfort and affection than sex, given the context, although there was that one time where I brushed against you while sliding behind you in a particularly narrow part of the kitchen, my arms temporarily on your hips, almost effortlessly moving you aside, before releasing you to rush back painfully into reality.

That made it a particularly bad day when you turned up to your work detail to find that I was not there, replaced by a squat and harmless looking teenage girl. Your breath suddenly rose up into your throat, fantasies replaced by nightmares of hanging, torture... you couldn't resist and sidled up to her, risking punishment, as you were in open view of anyone in the cafeteria, and asked in a panicked voice what happened to the man who was working here with me.

She gave you an odd sideways glance. "He asked to trade with me-I used to work evenings and he wanted that, for some reason," she whispered. "And fine with me, dinners are terrible, especially given how drunk everyone gets..."

Flushed and embarrassed at your reaction, you quickly moved away and tried to focus completely on the tasks in front of you while emotions flew through your head-relief, confusion, despair. Of course, he wouldn't have told you anything, but why did it feel like a betrayal? Like somehow something that wasn't yours had been ripped away from you? "Silly silly girl. How could you have let yourself get so invested," you said to yourself.

Such was the status quo for the next few weeks. Work resumed its boredom-reducing function, albeit with less anticipation, and your fantasies increased and became hazier, my face losing focus with each day since you'd seen me last. It was a pleasurable shock when, as you were finishing cleaning up after lunch, an officer came into the kitchen, looked at the two of you, then pointed at you and said, "You're working the dinner shift too." Then, tilting his head after looking at you for a beat, "Are you smiling?" before you quickly shook your head, and got back to scrubbing the floor.

Feeling almost foolish, you spent almost all the time between the end of your shift and the beginning of dinner preparing yourself, brushing your hair with your fingers compulsively, trying desperately to scrub your face with the water delivered that morning, smoothing your prison uniform and dreading the layers of food stains all over your apron. Finally, after what felt like ages, the guard appeared at your door to escort you to your work shift.

Walking into the kitchen, you affect a breezy disinterest, trying to hide your quick glances into the various sections. After arriving at your station, you lay down your equipment and look up to see me moving with urgency toward you. Time slows down, only to accelerate beyond control when I open my mouth: "Where the fuck is Ellen? Who the fuck are you?"

You're momentarily stunned, eyes quickly rising to meet mine before looking away at the seeming hatred they contain. "I, I, I don't know, they just told me I was working the dinner shift as well, sorry, I, I-" You shiver as I put my hand on your arm.

"Sorry, sorry...I, ignore me." I quickly turn away from you and walk with unnatural calmness to my station. You can't help glancing up at me and see me stone-faced, seemingly inexpressive, silently preparing the trays of food for dinner.

The dinner goes uneventfully, your mind spinning, but your body held in suspension, submissive and functional, simply serving food, eyes down, with an attempt to focus on the mechanical task in front of you. As the final meals are served, you sense the rise in volume from voices throughout the room, but the cacophony seems to fade out as you think back to our last shifts working together: "Did I say something that offended him? Does he hate me? Who is ELLEN and what does she mean to him?" You feel tears coming on, or the phantom feeling of tears if that function had not been worn down by the everyday brutality of the prison, and resolve yourself not to fantasize about me any more.

You're almost done cleaning, moving with zeal now, eager to leave the kitchen, leave me, and leave behind this part of your fantasy life, when you feel my hand place itself firmly on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry for earlier. There's no excuse for snapping at you like that, especially when you have no idea what is going on." I am speaking in what feels like an unnaturally loud voice in comparison with the whispering you are accustomed to amongst the prisoners. You can't help but shush me, eyes wide, looking around for guards. I smile and grab your arm, my grip unexpectedly firm, "Look around. No guards." You do, and are momentarily stunned. What the fuck is going on?

"Before I tell you anything, I have to ask you a very simple yes or no question. Think about it before answering, but just know that there is no going back. Once I get your answer I am going to proceed." You gulp and nod quickly. "Do you want to escape, with me, right now?"

"Yes," you blurt out, loudly and abruptly, before you've even had a moment to think about it. You take a breath. "Yes, please, I want to escape."

I take a deep breath and nod, becoming suddenly serious. I grab your hand, a jolt making its way up your arm, "Do you trust me?" It's formulated like a question, but somehow doesn't feel that way, my tone insisting itself upon you, my grip on you making you suddenly melt, eager to be told what to do, to be spirited out of this world without thought, without fear, without concern. You are not an impulsive person, and this seems too good to be true, but you cannot resist me or the opportunity. You nod, quickly.

"Good," I say, and retreat to the storage closet and return with a canvas bag from which I take black clothes, maps, backpacks, and a small gun with a holster, which I strap onto myself. Your eyes go wide. "No time to explain. Put these on, you're about Ellen's size so this should be fine." I hand you some clothes and start to strip myself, in clear view of you, first my shirt then pants, before putting on the dark black clothes from the bag. Shyly, you do the same, trying to hide your body from me but for seemingly no reason, as I seem almost indifferent to you.

You finish changing and stand silently as I organize the remaining items into a bag and spend a minute looking carefully at the map. Given the opportunity, you stare at me, now far more apprehensive than curious. Outside of our prison garb, I look like a different person, the black cloth clinging to my arms and sides, emphasizing the wideness of my chest. You look down at yourself, quickly smoothing out your own shirt, before finding yourself thinking of Ellen: "What was her role in the escape? Does she have skills or abilities that I will have to replicate? What if I can't? What if I fail? What if..." You feel your mind spiraling, and you close your eyes, your breathing increasing almost imperceptibly until you feel my hand place itself on the back of your neck. You sigh, suddenly feeling yourself pulled back into reality.

Opening your eyes, you see me looking right at you. "This is going to be fine," I reassure you. I strap on the backpack and start leading toward the storage area of the kitchen.

Usually manned by two guards to ensure the prisoners on commissary duty wouldn't steal extra food for themselves, you're surprised again to see the area empty. I lead you to a loading dock, where we find an unlocked door and slip through, suddenly outside of the prison, on the rough dirt road used by trucks to bring supplies into the prison. You suddenly feel disoriented, partially by the hugeness of the sky above you after the narrow ceilings and hallways of the prison and partially by the fantasy of the night. "I am free. I just walked out of prison," you think to yourself, almost laughing at the simplicity of it.

You turn to me as we walk towards the gate encircling the prison complex, giddy from the adrenaline rush of the outside air, "Who are yo-" my hand roughly slaps itself across your mouth and I pull you close with my other arm. Our eyes meet and you see me questioning you before slowly taking my hand off your mouth and holding one finger to my mouth to gesture to you to be quiet. Embarrassed, you look down and nod, internally lashing out for your stupidity. "This is not a field trip," you say to yourself.

Once again, as you come to the gate leading outside the prison, you notice a remarkable lack of guards. Relaxing, you start to rise slightly, letting your eyes drift around, admiring the trees and mountains on the horizon, and starting to feel your spirit lift. That was the world out there! Regardless of what happened after this moment, you knew this was good. You knew that it was right to get out of that prison.

"Halt." The command was sharp but not loud, whispered harshly from within the guard tower. Through a door you saw an officer standing with his pistol aimed at me. "Come here, quietly and slowly." A dread suddenly passes through you, giving you a full body shiver you can only partially conceal.

I do and you follow, quickly, my eyes rising up and meeting the officer's. "What do you want?" I say, exasperation barely hidden in my tone. "You received your payment. Let us go."

"You know, I suddenly find myself in quite the position to renegotiate," the officer let out a sharp laugh. "Seems like you find yourself in a bit of a sunk-cost conundrum comrade," he said sarcastically. "I want the girl."

Your breath catches, and you see me turn and appraise you. After what feels like much too long of a wait, I say, "No, I need her. What else do you want?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," the officer moves towards you, pistol continuing to be aimed at me, but his hand drifting towards your face. "I should have made it clear that this is not a negotiation. I'll take the girl and you can go. Maybe, if she's good, I'll let her go as well. We'll see, I generally hate fucking these rebel bitches," he spits on the ground near your feet.

You see the officer's arm start to reach for your hair and you instinctively duck, then slowly back away from both of us toward the back of the tower. "Hey," he says angrily, suddenly swinging the pistol towards you, "where you do you think you're-"

It takes a second for the sound of a gunshot to register and another for you to see me, already holstering my pistol as the officer fell to the ground with a heavy thud. "Great distraction. Grab the gun and let's go-now we might be fucked." You stand paralyzed for a second before you hear two sharp claps: "Hey, wake up, we gotta go." You shake yourself to attention and start to run behind me, forgetting the gun, but getting out the gate quickly, birthed into a much more precarious freedom than you were expecting. You run for almost thirty minutes, powered by adrenaline, before you hear the dull siren of the prison start, wailing its warning over your heads to people and lands you have yet to experience. You glance at me, but I seem undisturbed.

Noticing your glance I turn, "that's a good delay. We got lucky. Let's keep going." And we do, eventually falling into an intense power-walk for hours until the sun starts peeking above the horizon, bathing the forest in an encroaching orangish light that carries with it the threat of detection. Finding a small gorge, we both collapse, and I start to create a small, isolated shelter in a pile of leaves under a large fallen tree. Making a small cavity for a body, I gesture for you to curl up in the hidden little alcove. You do, and then feel my body pressing itself against you from behind. I reach around and pull a bunch of sticks and leaves over us, creating a small organic tent, the smell of our bodies mixing with leaves, dirt, rot.

You can't help yourself, fantasies now flooding back, and you start to push yourself into my chest. You're not sure, but you feel me pause for a second, and then drape my arms around you and pull you in. With gentle force, my hand covers up your mouth and you hear me whisper in your ear: "Time to sleep. No noise." As if at my will, you close your eyes, and drift off, suddenly exhausted from the stress and exertion of the day, feeling somehow at home in my unfamiliar arms.

The rustling of leaves wakes you up, and it's as if you have awoken into a dream. Again, the smell of the outdoors is alien, the darkness disorienting, the sounds, and lack of sound, confusing. You take three deep breaths and find yourself able to stand and eat. Eat! Suddenly starving, you devour what I place in your hand, a mix of nuts and jellies, your stomach too starved to consider judging the food you ingest. We each finish, drink water, and start moving. Now at a steady pace, we hike through the night, find a spot to fall asleep, and wake up and repeat. Three nights of marching, with occasional stops to sit as I look at a series of mysterious maps and orient ourselves, the experience feeling somehow like a guided hike, as if you are simply vacationing, following a clear but hidden series of directions that, at least you tell yourself, are planned and vetted by someone who knows.

The fourth night you awake and something immediately feels wrong. Your ears, now fine tuned to the sounds of the forest at night, hear nothing but the forest. No rustling, no movement. There is no sound or sign of me. You work to resist panicking, and try to close your eyes. "Maybe this is the dream," you tell yourself, "and I'm going to wake up at any moment." Minutes pass, and they feel like almost like hours, your body also confused, used to intense marching immediately upon waking, and buzzes with kinetic energy. You will yourself to not think of the worst.