42. Rock at the bottom

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My mind is the stillness of bomb shattered eardrums. I spend an hour driving aimlessly, turning away from any major highways or residential areas. Thoughts move too fast, ideas jetting past, rebounding, colliding, fracturing into more, a television screen gone all static.

I must find Morgan. Conversely, I must also get the hell away. The two truths battle.

Blink, and chaos descends. How else could it be, when our enemies strike organized and without warning? The anxiety of it drives me mad. No wonder Morgan always seems in control—she knows at any moment she'll be tested, and freedom will be hers to win or lose.

Hope she wins.

Ultimately, fear and reason triumph. The police will be looking for Morgan. If I go near her now, they will find me, and I am the more wanted of the two of us. I can't seriously expect to just scoop her up. And I have the money; if she's in jail and I'm free, I can post bail.

It hurts me to do it—a tearing pain in my chest, like someone slammed a butcher knife on the link between us, severed it cold. But, I do. I abandon her.

Morgan is not the only one in trouble. I have the truck, the guns and the money—but she knows how to use them, and I don't. My best hope is to get clear of the manhunt.

I find a highway and drive west.

When I can, I'll check the news, find out if she's under arrest. If she isn't, I'll try to find her. If she is, then—I don't know. I don't know. That can't happen; Morgan is too smart, too careful.

Fleeing on foot, with a cop not twenty feet behind her. Some geniuses we are. All that rhetoric and posturing, and this is where we end up.

The interstate highway is busy, a steady flow of traffic. I insert the old diesel truck into a stream of newish sedans, feeling like a relic in a modern era. Time flows easy on the highway, and every mile between myself and Ocala makes me feel that much better.

Over an hour into my escape, I notice something. An electric message board blinks at the side of the road, broadcasting some public safety advisory. I watch it idly as I drive past, catching the flash of the blocky orange letters before I read the words.

Chevy Truck. Gray. License Plate DJK-5585. Armed and Dangerous, dial 9-1-1.

It must mean me.

My false sense of security shatters. Escaping Ocala means nothing; the whole state is after me. Maybe the nation. There isn't going to be any 'driving away.'

The world slows; I realize my foot has come off the gas.

This is it, then. There's no escape. Every car in eyesight might be calling the police right now. The roads are a trap and without them, I can't escape. It's checkmate.

I keep my foot off the gas, speed dropping to forty, thirty-five. A car swerves from behind, overtakes in the left lane.

It really was crazy to think this could work. Morgan can't even do it—I don't have a chance on my own. I can't even run, can't really even get out of the damn truck, since I don't have my crutches anymore.

It's time to give up, before I'm shot or something.

Or, maybe that's the answer. Being shot doesn't sound so bad, in the scheme of things. The real tragedy of death is everyone else's loss, and that's already taken care of. All that's left is pain, and who knows if it hurts to die like that. I mean, I bet it does, but for how long?

I'd never need to be Sean again. I might—maybe, I mean—I might rather die than go through it all.

The trial, the imprisonment, the attention. Being put in a cage and called by that name. Everyone lining up to see, to point, to force me to be a part of what they do. To mock me for trying to escape.

I have a gun here, right here in this bag. I could just end it.

I unzip the duffle bag, put my right hand inside and grip the pistol, as though to remind myself it's real.

And suddenly my death seems very close. Like a holiday coming later in the month, like an inevitability that will be here soon. Like I used to look forward to the weekend.

Really, no matter what, death is nearby. Either from suicide, or getting shot by the police, or maybe executed for murder.

But then, that's how it always is, isn't it? Everyone dies, they just don't think about it. It's not so different than the rest of my life, than the rest of everyone's life. Death is always there.

The moment this thought lights up my brain, something snaps within me. The chain breaks. A sort of mental shrug, a psychic sigh, and the depression I felt moments ago falls away.

It doesn't matter. I've already died, it's not that bad. It doesn't matter.

This is the bottom. Instead of the pit of despair I expected, there's some sort of peace. History is long, life is short, everyone dies. Small raft, big ocean, many sharks.

So, there's no problem with my continuing to run—there's nothing to lose. There's never anything to be afraid of, not ever.

It's as though I wore a harness my whole life, up until this moment, and I've just let it fall to the ground. It and everything I expected myself to carry.

Sean Reilly.

I've either broken my own mind, or broken through to something else.

My foot presses down on the accelerator. My speed climbs, elder engine bellowing out. I turn and look at a gray sedan in the lane next to me. A child in the rear seat stares back. 

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