The voyage is long, languid, and mostly monotonous.
Mike drives throughout the day, pulling into truck stops only to relieve himself and to buy food for the road. Dominic is the lead on any Section B day excursions which are brief and regimented, focusing mainly on washroom visits, disposal of garbage, and a cigarette or two.
At night the truck’s trailer door is unlocked. As Mike retires to the sleeper cab, Section B are free to roam the grounds. Aside from grimy toilets, fast food, and tiny variety stores, there’s usually little to see. The constant roar of highway traffic is the only thing to listen to. If it wasn’t for some engrossing reading, courtesy of Dominic, waiting for their equipment to recharge at the station’s outdoor outlets would be insufferable.
Section B soon refer to the trailer as the “jail” and their outdoor excursions as visits to the “yard”.
Inside the “jail” they’ve hung some of the supplied blankets to make dividers, used others to line the floor, then created cushioning using the contents of their bags. The pod is set up at one side, the computer equipment nearby, and a makeshift toilet is at the far end for inter-stop emergencies.
During the journey the Section continue to train and give each other advice. Hours are spent in the pod and the agents’ outputs are recorded on paper, sealed in a plastic pouch, and placed inside Rebekah’s leather messenger bag. The results are casually discussed but no definitive conclusions are drawn.
Sometimes the group plays cards. Sometimes they nap. Sometimes they read or listen to downloaded music. For some variety they try different combinations of their donated foods, washing them down with truck stop tap water.
On the second day they find a ten dollar bill on the pavement and decide to splurge for a bottle of instant coffee, whitener, and sugar. Taking the first sip of the concoction from a vigorously shaken plastic bottle Dominic provides a single descriptor: “Atrocious.”
On the third night Brock discovers Mirabelle standing outside the truck stop’s tiny variety store, peering intently at the front door.
“What’cha doin’?” he asks playfully as he approaches her from behind.
Without a pause in her concentration she replies, “Making ze plan.”
“To do what?” he asks again.
“To get some cigarette. I ‘ave no more,” she explains, still staring.
Looking around the vicinity to see if anyone else is within earshot, Brock continues, “And how’re you going to do that?”
“I will take zem,” she replies flatly.
“You mean, like, steal them?” asks Brock cautiously.
“Yes, like zis,” she confirms.
“Okay,” he accepts with an acquiescing nod. “Well, do you need a lookout or something?”
“No, I am okay,” she says, tucking her shirt into her pants with one hand while breaking into a rhythmic stride towards the entrance. It’s only then that Brock notices the chunk of brick that she’s holding behind her back with her other hand.
“Uh oh,” he intones ominously.
He watches her bob into the variety store and calmly ask the attendant something. With a smile he spins around and grabs the keychain at his waist to unlock a sliding metal panel behind him. Opening it reveals tight stacks of cigarette boxes. Brock barely registers the simultaneous flight of the brick leaving Mirabelle’s hand and heading into the far corner of the store.
The glass display in the corner shatters beneath the brick, sending the case’s fragile items plummeting to the floor in a crash. The attendant’s head swings towards the cacophony just as Mirabelle reaches around him. The timing is so precise it’s as if she ‘s working a clockwork mechanism in the man’s neck. By the time he’s returned his distracted gaze to the shelf of cigarettes she’s grabbed handfuls of packs and stuffed them under her shirt.
Seemingly failing to notice the missing cigarettes the attendant re-locks the metal panel, looks at Mirabelle with consternation, holds up a pausing finger, and makes his way toward the damage.
Raising her hands to indicate that she’s no longer interested, Mirabelle quickly exits the premises.
Smiling casually and extracting a pack from her shirt, she peels open the plastic wrap on the small package and walks past Brock into the deep shadows of parking lot. Shortly, all that can be seen is the spark of a small flame followed by the receding dance of an incandescently red point.
The following evening brings another memorable event.
It’s nearly midnight and Section B are sleeping when the latch on their trailer door produces a slight squeak. A few moments after that the hinges produce a similar sound as the door is opened. A tall shadow slips silently into the container, pauses a moment, then turns on a small flashlight.
Rebekah is the first to stir as the beam of light hits the cloth of her tiny partition. Bleary-eyed and disheveled, she rises and stumbles to confront the intruder.
The intruder lets out a hushed, “Whoa”, as Rebekah approaches him.
“I didn’t know there were people crashing in here,” says the shadow in a placid voice. “It’s cool, it’s cool. I’ll just see myself out.”
“You can’t leave yet,” responds Rebekah, smiling sweetly. “I don’t even know who … I mean … it’s just … I’ve been stuck in this trailer all by myself for days.”
“All by yourself?” he asks, shining his flashlight behind her into the container. She moves to block it and draw his attention back to her with a demure slink. “Yeah,” she replies softly while biting her lower lip. “Just me.”
“Weird way to travel,” he states.
“Roomier than a bus and cheaper than a train,” she explains with a coy grin as she makes her way toward him.
“Okay,” notes the man with an incredulous tone. “So where’re you headed?”
“Big city,” responds Rebekah as she moves in close to him, her illuminated face fully consuming the beam of light.
By now the members of Section B, except Mirabelle, have groggily but silently made their way to a few concealed spots behind the cloth partitions. There they crouch and kneel, observing Rebekah’s exchange, ready to jump in if needed.
“And why,” he continues, his youthful features now visible in the light reflecting off her face, “are you going to the big city?”
A torn blue jean jacket covers a black t-shirt out of which emerges a lean and clean face topped with a shock of blond hair. A pair of emerald green eyes examine Rebekah with interest.
“More exciting there,” she replies playfully, now almost pressed up against him.
“That so?” he asks with an amorous smirk, his head tilting. She tilts her head to match his, looking intently into his eyes.
“Yeah, you know, hijinks … hinx, minx, as the old witch” — she winks, craning her head forward a little — “and the fat begins to fry. But someone’s home with Jumping Joan, father mother and I.”
The man lets out a breathy, “Wha…”, before being swiftly overtaken by Rebekah.
“Lock, stock, stone dead,” she continues, placing emphasis on certain syllables. “Blind men go deep. Every knave will have a slave, you or I” — she slows her pace — “must … be … a … sleep.”
As she trails off the man stands unmoving, his smile slightly faded, eyes vacant and unfocused.
“But I like to relax too. Don’t you like to relax?” she asks him tentatively.
“Yeah,” he responds with loose detachment.
“We can relax now. Together. Don’t you want to relax with me?” she asks again.
The man responds in the same way.
Rebekah begins describing her own feelings of ever-deepening relaxation, then inviting him to join in. Her words guide his focus slowly from the top of his head down to his feet, the man’s slouch increasing as he complies. Eventually he’s standing limp and bent over, like a rag doll being held up by its neck.
Completing the hypnotic induction she instructs, “Staying nice and relaxed, why don’t we stand up straight, open our eyes, and look around?”
With a lazy smile he does as she suggests.
“You never told me your name,” she states gently.
“Harry,” he replies blissfully.
“Do you have some ID to back that up?”
“Sure. Here.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet that’s connected to a loose chain terminating at his belt. She pulls out a few plastic cards and examines them in the ambient light of the flashlight. After a few moments she puts them back and returns the wallet to Harry.
“Now that I’ve given it back, now that’s it’s safe, you can forget that you gave it to me and told me your name, right?” she inquires.
“Right,” he acknowledges with an unquestioning nod.
“Will you forget?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So why don’t we try waking up for a few moments, like fully waking up. But when I put my hand on your shoulder” — she reaches upward with her hand and rests it on the denim — “like this, we’ll go right back to this amazingly relaxed place, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So now when I count to zero we’ll wake up …”
She commences the countdown and in moments Harry is wide awake and seemingly unaware that the interaction has taken place.
“How do you feel?” asks Rebekah.
“Great,” he replies, the aroused smirk returning to his face. “Especially since you’re here.”
“Hang on a second,” she says as she takes a step back, “you don’t even know my name.”
“So why don’t you tell me?” he prompts with an increasing slyness.
“Now why would I do something like that, Harry?” she responds, slowly shaking her head and pursing her smiling lips in disapproval.
“Wait,” says Harry, his face becoming pensive and troubled, “how do you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you Harry,” she explains, grinning broadly and stepping forward. “You’re twenty-one, for example. And you live at number two Hollow Oak Lane, right?”
His eyes narrow to slits. “Have we met before?” he asks.
“No, Harry, we haven’t,” responds Rebekah confidently as she places her hand on his shoulder, “and you’ll wish we never had.”
His body instantly goes limp.
“Open your eyes,” she demands. “There’s something you need to see.”
He opens his eyes and stares blankly at her.
“Look at my face,” she instructs. “Isn’t it strange? Look at how it’s shifting and changing. Should a face do that?”
He blinks a few times and furrows his brows as he tries to understand what he’s looking at.
“Do you see?” continues Rebekah. “My eyes don’t look human. And what’s wrong with my mouth?”
Harry’s eyes widen with apprehension as he processes her suggestions.
“Are you looking, Harry? Do you see?”
“W-what the f-fuck?” he stammers fearfully as he steps away.
“And now you can’t even move because your feet are stuck to the floor,” she commands. “Do you see what I can do? Do you under … stand.”
With a look of shock, Harry tries unsuccessfully to lift his legs and nearly falls backward with the effort.
“And now,” says Rebekah resolutely as she closes the distance between them, “I need you to really look. Over there” — she points into the darkness of the trailer behind her — “are the others. Do you see Them? Do you see their eyes and their teeth? Can you smell something awful? What is that? Do you hear those strange sounds? What’s wrong, Harry? What’s wrong?”
It only takes a few moments for Harry’s eyes to bulge in horror. Dropping the flashlight he attempts futilely to scramble away from Rebekah, letting out a choked whine as malevolence appears out of the shadows behind her.
Picking up the flashlight she watches him grow increasingly frenetic as his face contorts into a grotesque mask.
“They’re gone,” she says after a few moments, dispelling the apparitions with a wave of her hands. “But I can always call them back. You won’t forget that will you?”
He shakes his head vigorously, spittle foaming on his clenched teeth.
Bending down to once again make direct eye contact with him Rebekah says, “Okay, calm down, calm down. You’re safe for now. Just listen closely because here’s what’s going to happen.”
Before releasing him she instructs him to run as hard and fast as he can away from their trailer. If he should look behind him then he will see the darkness and its inhabitants chasing after him. And if he tells anyone about what he experienced here tonight then those same entities will find him because, after all, if she can know where he lives then so can they.
Harry does as instructed and sprints madly away from the trailer, hops over a fence into a farm field, then runs into the darkness beyond.
The rest of Section B, with the exception of Mirabelle, emerge from their hiding spots to thank and congratulate Rebekah for getting them out of yet another tight spot. “Still not calling you The Handler,” notes Dmitri to her afterwards, “and couldn’t you have just told him to forget us?”
“And when he remembers?” she explains. “Because, to remind you, eventually he will. So when he remembers it’s better for us that everyone else thinks he’s nuts or messed up on drugs.”
“What about that awful smell you were talking about?” he says with a wry smile.
She pauses for a moment and with a flattened expression concludes, “Let’s just say we can all use a good wash after this.”
Other than having to lug their stuff along rural roads to bypass a couple of weigh stations, the rest of the trip is relatively uneventful.
Eventually, after driving late one night the truck comes to a stop near their destination just outside the city limits.
As usual, after a few loud bangs on the door Dominic hops out of the trailer to have a hushed conversation with Mike. From inside, only the venting air-brakes can be heard.
At length, Dominic returns and says, “Mike wants to talk to us all. Wants to ask us a question.”
“I thought we agreed to a protocol,” notes Brock. “We don’t see him and he doesn’t see us.”
“He’s already seen us,” explains Dominic. “He thinks it’s only fair if we see him.”
Dmitri shrugs noncommittally and Mirabelle is similarly indifferent. Elvis, and Brock acquiesce with uncertain nods. Rebekah expresses an uneasy, “Oookaay.”
With no other objections, Section B make their way out of the trailer. On the thin strip of gravel between the parked vehicle and the ditch a large silhouette stands and waits, blotting out the city skyline behind it.
Mike is bulky and burly, a short but thick man with a thick beard and thick eyebrows. The sleeves on his red lumberjack shirt are rolled up revealing a detailed tattoo of a truck on one forearm and a tattoo that looks like a map on the other. He’s wearing sturdy black boots, spacious denim coveralls, and on his head sits a red-and-white baseball cap with the words “Freedom Convoy” stitched into it in a generic font. Later on Mike would be described as being like a disillusioned Santa Claus who’d gone rogue, lost a few pounds, and assumed a new identity.
“Am I gonna regret this?” he asks in a husky voice, looking from person to person.
“We’re not here to screw someone over or blow something up if that’s what you’re implying,” replies Rebekah, bending slightly as if pushing the claim forward with her body.
“That’s good,” remarks Mike, “but what I mean is, will this trip come back to bite me in the ass?”
“I don’t see why,” assures Rebekah with a mild shake of her head as she pulls back into a casual stance. “Unless our colleague here” — she motions to Dominic — “told you something he shouldn’t have. Or maybe you saw something you shouldn’t have?”
“Not something I was plannin’ to do,” explains Mike. “Just happened to be up and stretching my legs when I saw this young lady” — he points to Mirabelle — “help herself to some smokes. Slick shit. Second time I hear a commotion in the trailer. I stand outside listening to some woman talk, I’m assuming one of you, and then this guy comes bolting out the back. So now I’m like, who the fuck are these people?”
He pauses for a moment as he pans from face to face. Then, with a grin Mike mike finishes, “Because they’re fuckin’ awesome!”
Pulling out a wad of cash he says, “Here. To get you into the city at least. I’d take you all the way but everyone’s watching everything down there. Maybe I’m just being paranoid but I’d rather not take the risk.”
“We completely understand,” says Rebekah, promptly snatching the bills from Mike’s hand and stuffing them into her pants pocket.
“Okay, well,” responds the burly man, slapping his hands against his thighs, “I guess that’s that. There’s a gas station back down the road there, should have a phone if you need to call a cab or something. Hope you guys find what you’re looking for, just remember to keep me out of it when you do!”
Laughing out loud Mike turns around to leave but suddenly spins back around, reaches into the pocket of his coveralls, and exclaims, “Almost forgot!”
He pulls out a business card and holds it out between his middle and index fingers for Rebekah to take. “In case there’s something else I might be able to help with.”
Brock watches the exchange and notes with mild amusement that the card only has a generic email address on it.
With this Mike makes his way toward the driver’s seat of the truck and Section B gather up their bags. Soon they’re on their way to the gas station as Mike’s truck recedes into the early morning mist.
At the gas station they search for a pay phone but, finding none, Rebekah decides to “persuade” the sleepy clerk to call them a couple of taxis. One of the bills Mike has given them is broken on packaged foods and caffeinated drinks which are consumed over a discussion of what story to give the taxi drivers, should they ask. Not long after that the “film crew whose vehicle broke down” cram into the waiting taxis and ride off in the same direction as the truck. The twinkling lights of the city are now set against the peachy haze of the eastern horizon.
They arrive a couple of blocks away from their destination, pay their fares, pile their baggage onto their shoulders and solemnly march the short distance to the destination provided to them by Rebekah’s parents.
The rays of the eastern sun are punctuating the concrete and glass angles of the city around them as they round the final corner.
“We made it,” notes Dmitri with an exhausted sigh.
Like Dmitri, Brock has been walking with his gaze down, his focus on simply putting one foot in front of the other. Settling his bags at his sides he finally lifts his head up to see where they’ve arrived.
“Holy … fucking … shit,” he stammers in a tired whisper, shocked eyes bulging out from beneath a deeply furrowed brow.