Shivering and naked on the thin, beer-stained rug, snowflakes blowing in through the opened window and melting on his concave stomach like parachuters into a lava-filled volcano, he comes to, slowly opening his blood-shot eyes. The smoke-stained suspended ceiling seems to spin, and he closes his eyes, moans, and rolls his head to the right; his stomach erupts and his vomit begins to spread out, to inch toward him. He opens his eyes again, staggers to his feet and urinates in an empty beer bottle.
Manuel hears music playing from upstairs and he stands on his tiptoes to shut the window, surprised to see that the sun has not yet begun to rise. Closing the window he sees first his own distorted reflection – an unshaven and balding man in his mid-twenties – then, movement behind him. He jerks his head round; a woman lie on her back in his bed. She has a thin cotton sheet wrapped around her tiny buttocks. It does not cover her completely.
Uncomfortably she turns her unclothed body from side to side. Manuel turns his head horizontally, parallel to hers, waiting at five-second intervals as she turns, revealing herself more each time. He does not remember how they ended up alone in his basement, but is reminded when he sees a used Trojan Condom, limp and used, hanging on the rim of the packed garbage can. He looks up at her face.
She appears peaceful despite jostling about. She wears a faint but loving smile as she stretches, opens her blue eyes and takes in the setting. Still light-headed and now groggy from the nap, she sits up, smiles at Manuel.
The motion detector is triggered and Manuel must go.
“Julie,” he says, recognizing who it is, “It’s time. I have to leave. They’ve found me. Somebody talked. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again? Won’t you come with me now? They’ll be here in a few minutes.
Manuel doused the light bulbs with the rest of his beer, the glass exploding and leaving them in darkness. She stumbled forward and into Manuel’s arms, hugging him tightly and pushing the air from him. He returned some pressure and they stepped back, held hands for a moment. Manuel pointed her finger up the peri-window, and she felt the signal.
Manuel lead the way and they shimmied up the peri-window. He had done this before, and he bypassed each imperfection, each convection of metal for fear the FBL would hear their escape. Julie was still in great shape and her rock-climbing experience from last summer was paying off. Manuel communicated the way to Crystal, turning on the light in his watch and signaling with his hands. They make it to the top and begin to run.
Running through yards, jumping over fences, Manuel and Julie take the shortcut he had taken to Crystal’s house as a child, his untied shoes clicking on the pavement and his stubby legs a blur to the onlookers. Unlike in his childhood, he does not hear the neighbors’ yells of protest, only sees their opened mouths and hands on hips. One woman throws her hands up in the air, yells something. A retired firefighter, whose belly sags to his knees, breaks away from his scanner, waddles to his backyard, and sees a flash of movement that is Manuel.
In jeopardy of being caught at any moment, Manuel finds comfort reminiscing of his past. The heart of his childhood lies in Chestnut Ridge Park – a spacious park with an endless number of routes to run. “Running is good for the heart,” says Mr. Allen Caputo, Manuel’s high school cross-country coach since seventh grade. Decades ago he had been given the nickname Cap because it is unfitting to address a friend with so formal a title.
Manuel is reminded of the time when he was a cross-country runner for Frontier High School. He and his teammates set their watches for forty-five minutes, and they are off to a rarely ran route. Growing bored of the pre-made paths set out before them, they chose their own. Pushing away brittle branches, trudging through puddles, caked with mud, they moved forward, made progress.
It was the beginning of autumn, the start of a new cross-country season. The trees had already begun to change colors – yellow, maroon, lime and orange gather together to form an inspiring setting. The air is pure and unpolluted. Manuel’s good friend Brian is alive and well, is at his side wearing white nylon shorts. Their new neon sneakers glow as they grip the ground; they begin to sprint, stride for stride, gasping for breath, pounding their feet upon the moist soil.
Manuel recalls the previous summer. The relaxation and expectations Brian and he shared. They remained friends when the school year was out – Manuel walking on his hands, Brian throwing rocks at trees, not always hitting, but trying until he did, and the two of them sauntering through a short cut on the way to their shanty.
Their shanty, built from the dead logs Mother Nature so generously passed on, stood in the woods equidistant between their homes. They based the design of their summer hang out on the method of Lincoln logs, cutting little grooves in each log so the top logs fit securely into the ones on the bottom. Inside their wooden walls, protected from the scorching sun, they quenched cold beers, amused one another with their feeble impressions of Coach Cap, and talked about the upcoming cross-country season. Sensing to come back from his revere, his mind, Manuel turned round, saw an obese, retired firefighter fidgeting with his watch. He heard the faint barking of bloodhounds and he knew the man contacted the Bureau, had told them where he is. Manuel gasped for breath, sprinted across the street and to Crystal’s back door, shaking the doorknob in a frantic furry. It was locked, but in front of her door he wrote a single letter in the dirt: X
The barking of the dogs had gotten louder and Manuel was once again taken back to his childhood: climbing through the sewers behind Crystal’s house. He ran toward them, throwing himself down the small ravine, and limping to the opening of the sewer. It was not like he remembered it; someone had attached a gate.
Manuel pulled on it. Nothing. Then he looked at the other side, at the rusted bolts. Pulling at them, using his legs like an Olympic rower, the gate gave way and he fell backward and landed on his tailbone, hitting his head on an algae-covered rock. He laid there, unconscious. Julie shook him and when he came to, he heard voices.
“The neighbor said he went around back.” The agents could not see their suspect from the ravine and Manuel and Julie crouched down, walked toward the sewer, and picked up the gate. Then they climbed into the sewer, placed the cover back into place – bent and merely propped, but inconspicuous from a distance.
On all fours, they crawled through the metal tunnels. It had been snowing for weeks now and they wade through the three-foot metal tunnel, their sneakers soaked with water, with sewage. He saw a light ahead, and when they reached it, an overhead gate, he looked up, saw two men in FBL uniforms standing directly above him. Breathing heavily from the chase, Manuel closed his eyes, tried to relax, tried to avoid discovery. He signaled to Julie and they inched past the agents who were distracted in conversation. Breathing a sigh of relief, he focused on the next obstacle.
The pipes were getting smaller now, and donning a large backpack, Manuel would not fit through. Not wanting to irritate the already forming lump on his head, he crawled with his head close to the water. His knees were sore and he wished there were room to crawl on all fours. Instead, tailbone in the air, he trudged onward.
Exhaustion gave way to logic and he tried to walk on all fours, extending his legs and smacking his tailbone on the rigid ceiling of the pipe. His aching knees had made him forget his tailbone was hurt. Now he was reminded and fell back to his knees, his head submerged in the water and his lungs breathing in, taking in some of the water. He coughed some back up and grimaced at his mistake.
Manuel knew exactly where this pipes would let him out, had explored it with Crystal as a child. It was the summer then and the water level minimal.
He saw another light ahead and heard the passing of a train as he waded to the opening and waited for the train to pass.
The snow had turned to rain and Manuel walked on the slippery railroad tracks, bobbing up and down with each stride – one foot on the track, the other on the loose gravel – feeling his way through the fog and ensuring a quick escape. He had been walking for two hours before a train had passed, had surprised him by passing only seconds after it had first been heard. They jumped into the ravine, Manuel scrapping his unprotected arms on the rocks, the two of them stretching their bodies along a set of boulders and out of the camera’s range.
Now he looked at his arms, a reminder that he needed to remain alert. The bleeding stopped and the rain had washed out the dirt and pebbles. He looked at the warped, weathered wood of the tracks, soggy from a fortnight of rain, its grains split throughout. It reminded him of an old man’s face. He knelt down, seemed to be praying and hoping he should be so lucky to age, to become like the railroad tracks. He felt the rails for vibrations.
Nothing.
Soaked from the unrelenting rain, Manuel and Julie, hand-in-hand, trekked onward for miles. They were enclosed in a maze of trees, the highway just off to the side and the cars disappearing and reappearing from behind the leaved branches, their horns and engines making Manuel apprehensive, their sounds louder than an approaching train.
Manuel thought he must know how Amelia felt. So vulnerable. There wasn’t enough time to feel the track every few minutes. Manuel looked down the rocky ravine and to his earlier escape from the speedy train.
He had to find a way to avoid the cameras. They were slowing them down and the Bureau would be closing in if they didn’t make better time. He knew the cameras monitored the area ahead, behind, and beneath. Manuel looked through the fog and saw an overhanging tree. From above, he thought, he could steal a ride.
The sweat and rain dripped from his head and he was getting thirsty. He threw his arms back, and his backpack, the contents of all his possessions, of the water, dropped to the ground. Hands shaking from exhaustion and dehydration, Manuel once again felt the track for vibrations, unsure whether it was the shaking of his feeble hands or the vibration of an approaching train.
Unable to risk it, he grabbed his backpack, sprinted toward the tree, his feet heavy with moisture. The water bottle bounced forward and he kicked it farther. It came to a rest in front of the bent tree and he scooped it up with his left hand jumped up, grasped a branch with his right hand. He heard the sound of the train and dropped the water, pulled himself up. A few feet higher and he perched himself over the track and out of the train’s camera range. He hoped for a slow-moving train, and although the odds were against him, he was in luck.
He positioned himself just right, dangling above the train, his muscles shaking from supporting his weight, the result of his indecision. He had to be sure, had to land between trains. This meant he must lead a few feet. By the time he was sure of his timing, the train was nearing an end. With only a dozen trains remaining, Manuel released his tense grip from the branches, landed on the roof with a thump.
There was nothing to hold onto, but he managed to balance himself with one hand and get a bottle of water. He took a much-needed drink. The water supply was inadequate and he worried that the bottle, left at the foot of the tree, would be discovered, would tell where he had gone.
The train had picked up speed, and Manuel slid back and forth on the roof, slick from the rain. He rolled to the edge of the roof, the opened bottle rolling off. He sprawled himself out, made an “X” with his body for support and managed to remain on the train. For several hours he did not waver in his position, fearing that at any time he would fall to his death.
He heard the beating of a helicopter and he knew this ride must end. Manuel looked up at the sky, dark with a tinge of blue, the sun recently having set in the west. He looked right, saw the Big Dipper. He looked just off its handle and to the brightest star in the sky. The North Star. Once again Manuel’s feet were set in motion, moving in a straight line northward. His eyes focused on Polaris and his mind thought of his destination: Through Canada and to Alaska.
Manuel looks out the window of the 747 and sees, for the first time in his life, mountains – a seemingly endless range fused together with an equal amount of evergreen trees. He feels moisture from his eyes and forces himself to look away. Eyes closed and landscape frozen in mind, the tears come more freely, escaping through the corners of his eyes.
Alone in the woods, Manuel played the CD which now contained the complete text and, thanks to him, an oral reading which followed an automatic page turn feature. He stretched his uncomfortable back against the bark of the tree, gazed across the ravine for a more comfortable location. Striding to the edge of the ravine, he climbed down the steep and rocky walls, sliding with the shale in a mock avalanche. He reached the bottom with a thump. Here, at the foot of the riverbed, he gauged the current, trying to locate the best place to cross. Tempted at first to cross where he was, the shortest distance from shore to shore, he remembered learning in Boy Scouts that this would be where the rapids were strongest.
Manuel looked further upstream where the flowing water sliced around a narrow piece of land midway out in the crisp water. This strip of land, a miniature island thick with brush and carpeted with tundra, could be useful. Always on the move, Manuel was exhausted and thought this strip of land would be a safe place to spend the night.
First he had to get to it. He knew to go further upstream to where the river was widest, where there would be time to float diagonally downstream with the mighty rapids. He walked on, twenty paces in all, to where the river stretched at its sides like a knot in a piece of wood. This would be the best place to cross.
Manuel untied the double knots in his sneakers, took off his socks, balled them up and stuffed them into one sneaker. Reaching into his back pocket for the computer book, he realized he ought to protect it from the crash, and he doubled up the socks, placed the book securely inside. Then he crammed them into a sneaker, tying the laces with sailor’s knots and hurling it across the river.
The rain had subsided and the sun warmed his damp clothes. Manuel took off his shirt, felt the sun on his back and looked up at it to see if any clouds were on the way. Only a few: puffy and white. Manuel saw an eagle glide by. He watched it soar, wishing he could fly. Picking up a rock and tying his shirt around, Manuel threw them on the tiny island.
With a few deep and calming breaths Manuel dipped his toes into the water, retracted them immediately and grunted at the idea of being completely emerged in the autumn water. He encouraged himself, “At least I can wash this shit off me.” Manuel stepped into the river and the current was greater than he had perceived. Flexing his muscles at the water, Manuel told himself he was a strong swimmer. Knee deep and unstable in the rapids, he heard the screeching of the eagle.
Manuel looked up at the source of the sound, saw dozens of the birds flying nearer. One separated from the bunch, swooping down at him. He dove back onto the land, feeling the wind of the animal as its pointed beak grazed against his face. Manuel pressed his hand on his face and pulled it away red. There were more eagles now and they were circling him, taking turns plummeting down at him. He dove left and then right. He was under attack.
He screamed and shouted at them, speaking not in English but the few Spanish words he had thus far retained. They backed away at first, but slowly returned, gaining even more territory. He dove again – a near miss. Back on his feet, he grabbed a rock and threw it at the gang. They dispersed but quickly reformed. He picked up more rocks, frantically whipping them one after another. It was working.
Half the flock retreated, and then more until only ten remained. But the few were not afraid and their quick reflexes outmatched his poor aim. One by one the other birds returned. He clanked two rocks together above his head. Undaunted, the creatures came at him from all angles and now he became the one who was retreating. On the tips of his bare toes he sprinted toward the safety of the woods and its dense rows of trees.
He collapsed against a maple tree, dabbed his hand against his face and inspected his feet. The jagged rocks had cut them when he was racing away from the eagles. He realized his predicament and shouted into the wilderness: “Fuck!” The blood was dripping from his face and feet, splattering on the lush green carpet of the forest. Although the wound was not very serious, Manuel was without shoes, socks, or a shirt. He had to retrieve them lest they become discovered and he be found – if not by the very nature of the book then from his fingerprints and DNA.
His stomach was growling but he called forth all the strength left within him and walked back to where he was – the image of the opened beak and outstretched claws so close and so fresh in his mind. In a moment of mental clarity he realized they were more alike than he had realized. The hawks had acted this way because they were protecting their food source. There must be an abundance of fish in the stream.
Beginning to stand up, Manuel moved his hand and it found a thick branch. His mind drifted to his friend Brian and the baseball bat. Tears escaped his eyes and he clenched the branch tightly, put several large rocks in his pockets.
From the edge of the woods Manuel threw rocks wildly in the air. He made a run for it, dashing along the rocky coastline, but twisting his ankle and skidding on the ground. The hawks were attacking now and he stood up, waiting for the next. Stick in hand, he spotted the hawk as it plummeted toward him. Manuel leaned back and swung violently at the winged creature. He felt a thud, saw the feathers fluttering down, and was amazed to realize he had hit it. He continued his pursuit to reclaim the evidence. Manuel splashed into the rapids, his hands and feet fighting the forces of nature. It quickly forced Manuel downstream, but his forward progress was greater than the length he had before passing the plot of land. He landed exhausted at its coast, relieved to see the birds had gone elsewhere.
Fighting with his body, which begged him to sleep, his rational mind knew there was work to do, and it forced his body to obey. He stood on his feet, scouring the ground for his sneakers.
Manuel reflected on the many nights he had spent with Julie – the passionate, high, and drunken moments that she had revealed top-secret security information. He had listened, but thought, “What do I care, I’m never gonna be an agent.” This he no longer denied. Nevertheless, he had hung on every word she should not have spoken. There was a curiosity and a sense of pride in being one of the few privies to this classified information. And now he realized this knowledge was invaluable. If only he could apply it. “The system has a flaw,” he remembered, Julie’s words echoing in his head, the details of which had become deeply embedded. He needed only to recall them. But this would prove more difficult than he had expected.
Manuel tried to recall the information. He was not an expert at computers. Quite the opposite; It was Greek to him. Still, he remembered specific words. He had related them to words more familiar to him, altering the original phonics but triggering his memory. It was a sort of mnemonic device, and this was how he processed new information.
Manuel looked at the foreign books scattered throughout the forest floor. Including the volumes saved on his hard drive, he had accumulated a small library. Manuel knew it would have been more practical to have scanned the paper books into the computer’s memory and thrown away the originals. It would have been safer and it would have lightened his load by about forty pounds. But there was something magical in having the originals. It was a piece of history. He thumbed the pages, tried to make sense of the characters before him. Why this, the reading of printed text, so adamantly enforced.
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