IMPACT!
And before she could add the “k” to her final eek, Lightning Merriemouse-Jones stood before the graceful white gates billowing with mist and listened to the exquisite soprano chorus…
… when suddenly, the purplish-green taxi pulled up beside her, and the passenger door opened. [7]
REVOLUTION: NUMBER 9 by Judi Rohrig
Not far from where Rose crouched in the dark, the leafy limbs of the thick bushes and low trees of the woods surrendered to harried chopping and hacking. The Bachyrita posse was in a fevered frenzy now, closing in fast.
Rose tried not to breathe, but her chest swelled and sank in ways she couldn’t control after all the running. And even if she were able to stop her desperate gasping, surely the rataplanning of her heart would betray her. Not that her pursuers would “hear” the palpitations. The Bachyritas’ BrainPods® would “see” her, though. That’s why their posses were known as “pit vipers,” because they could pick up her body heat through their sensors. Neither the dark nor the thick growth of the woods would offer Rose much in the way of cover from these snakes.
Here in the darkness, they would hold the advantage even if they hadn’t dragged a Franklin along.
Rose lifted her head, squinting, begging the dim light to make meaning of the shadows. She’d been through this area before, and if she could just get to the river, she could connect with those still fighting for something that mattered.
But the knots in her deltoids and calves were screaming their exhaustion. She’d be lucky if she could even make it to the river. Forget getting across the damned thing.
How much time did she have left? A few minutes? Then she’d have to face them, face the death she’d been running from since just before dawn.
A single fiery torch glowed brighter between the trees. Yes, they had a Franklin with them. That could be good. Those “real eyes” might actually slow them down. The flame from the torch in all this jumble of trees and thick bushes might confuse the Franklin.
Rose scrambled under the brush. Perhaps a few rabbits and squirrels could be startled from their havens, providing a muddled set of prickles for the vipers’ super-functioning BrainPorts®.
Sharp thorns and ragged branches ripped at what was left of her already tattered jacket. She clasped her hands over her chest, not to still her ka-thumping heart but to secure the small case she’d tucked under her shirt. Inside the case was the real object of the Bachyritas’ pursuit, and it was more than just a part of Exhibit Number 9.
“This way!” The words bellowed through the shadows of the trees.
Huddling as close as she could to the scabrous trunk of the large oak where a shaft of moonlight slithered down over her hands, Rose made out the stains of dried blood in the cracks and lines of her fingers: Roddy’s blood.
A twinge of guilt wedged itself in there somewhere. And grief. But she had to make it to the outlaw camp of the Ungatosonrisas on the other side of the river. Her feelings could wait.
Another voice howled from the far end of the woods: “Over here!”
The snapping of twigs and limbs ceased for a second. If Rose remembered correctly, protocol for the vipers dictated confirmation of verbal instructions before they shifted directions. The Ungatosonrisas were said to employ annoying tricks to draw a posse from its prey.
Rose waited a moment, trembling against the craggy wood, wondering if the distant voice could indeed have been help. Was she close?
Not that the Bachyritas would ever give up. “Stop” wasn’t an option for them, except to stop the masses from supposedly harming themselves. “For the protection of all” were the first words flashed through the pleasure goggles. That was their mantra, and it was the biggest lie ever. Bondage was not freedom.
Rose bit her bottom lip, cradled the case closer, and tried to see through the bushes ahead. She didn’t know how to stop either. Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could, Rose shoved her way through the stands of prickly brambles and bristly scrub while legions of dark trees, limbs swaying low, clawed at her clothes and skin. She hadn’t gone far when she reached a sharp drop. Below, in the moonlight, the waters of the river roiled on innocently enough. And for a moment, Rose wasn’t a thief on the run. She was little Rosie MacGregor, big sister to Ellie Bug, and the river below was their secret fishing spot. There would be a “huge-mongus” tree whose long branch would stretch out over the water. And dangling from that branch would be the coarse rope she and Ellie Bug latched on to swing themselves out over the calm, plunging into the cool, deep murk amid unrestrained laughter.
Rose swatted a mosquito away from her ear. But those times were long gone, and the children of the Bachyritas might never know such innocent, carefree delights.
Swimming, like nearly every other endeavor, had to employ some element of pleasure. “All we are saying is give piece a chance!” was off-used expression. Nothing quite official, but certainly accepted. There was no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed about something so natural as sexual satisfaction. To “Make Love Not War”-which was one of the official slogans-was a beautiful thing.
The windows of the downtown department stores, which once had featured elaborate displays of animated skaters and Santas at Christmas time, had been redesigned to mimic the peaceful love-ins of still-revered writers and peace advocates John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Most people didn’t really know a lot about the couple. The yellowed and peeling posters of what they did over a hundred years ago that lay plastered on abandoned storefronts or in alleyways all around the city did offer their images, but that was about all. What they had begun was far more important.
But people engaging in public pleasure was simply old hat, boring even, except for the few who engaged in the bagism ritual where the couple would enter either a black bag or a white one (if one of the parties was a true virgin). One by one, articles of clothing would be shed through the closing, dangled aloft almost theatrically before being dropped as the hand disappeared back inside. Unlike the couples who made love in the store windows, those employing bagism did offer the added feature of sound.
Self-reflection, self-actualization, self-satisfaction: Those were more watchwords of the renaissance. Watchwords. It always came down to the words. And choices.
Rose threw her hands to her face and felt her tears mixing with the scratches and grime. Maybe she had made the wrong choices and for the worst of reasons: selfishness. But she had told herself she wouldn’t indulge her feelings just now. There would be time later. Later. There had to be a later.
Then Rose spotted the yellow glow of the torch.
“She’s at the river!” someone shouted, unexpectedly and surprisingly close.
If her body heat had betrayed her before, the burning sensation she felt from the glasses case under her shirt was no doubt delivering her presence to the pit vipers this time. Their sounds could have all been a ruse to flush her out.
But as she glanced out at the waters below, Rose gripped more strongly the warm booty to her chest. A few hours ago, she’d determined this treasure was worth saving. And more. It was worth her life and Roddy’s to get this to the Ungatosonrisas. They would know how best to use the treasure.
“She’s ahead on the right. Less than a thousand feet.”
“Get her!”
“I see her!” the Franklin shouted. “There!”
“We’ve got her now.”
Taking only a few steps backward, Rose turned and broke into a run. Pulling the case close to her body, she sailed off the cliff, diving toward the dark water below.