Chapter 3

The Curtains Are Moving

I'm jolted awake by an odd shuffling sound. 

Blankets clutched in a death grip, I snuggle deep into the pillows, hiding most of my face. I get a little brave and peer at the boy. He's sound asleep on the floor with a smile on his face. At least it looks like a smile. I look at the clock on the night table to my left. 

3:27 A.M. 

Yikes. 

Why would there be a shuffling noise so early in the morning? 

Threatening thoughts of all that could be lurking here are haunting me. I really wish I knew the boy's name right now; calling out to him would be easier. But since I don't, all I can do is lean forward and shake him violently. "Hey! Hey you! Wake up! Do you hear that?"

There is a series of incoherent grumblings before he flashes onto his left side and mutters, "Hmmm? Hear what?" 

"I heard scuffling."

Instantly the boy snaps out of sleepy mode and sits up, indicating me to be quiet as he listens. "You sure?" He asks in a normal octave, after apparently hearing nothing. I nod, clutching the blankets close and feeling chills run up my spine. I can see the curtains through the corner of my eye, and they're wiggling. They weren't like that earlier, when we were awake and had the lights on. Warily, I point to them. 

"The curtains are moving."

He looks. "Mhm, I see that. Whaddayou suppose it is? Want me to get up and check?"

For some reason I feel like I'll be left extremely vulnerable to whatever attack is looming if he gets up. I don't want him to go. But it's only across the room. So I curl deep beneath my blankets and nod. "Go ahead."

"I see feet," he whispers harshly, getting up slowly. "Someone is definitely in here."

"So I noticed. Is that your cologne I'm smelling?"

"No. Mine doesn't smell like that. And I don't have it on me, actually." He rises to his full height, stares off toward the curtains. I snuggle deeper into the sheets, covering my head and muffling every noise. I can hardly hear the boy's strong, accusative words that he hurls at the intruder. Shivers seize my body, so I hug my legs close and curl into a tight little ball. After a sudden uproar something strikes my side and I panic, choking for air, battling through the blankets before surfacing and finding the boy lying on his back on top of me, gasping for breath and clutching his side. I bet he's been shot. I struggle from beneath him and slip out just enough to see a shadowy figure open the door and disappear. With my heart whacking into my ribs, I turn to the boy and switch on a lamp. 

"Are you okay?"

He coughs, whimpering slightly. "I'll be fine," is his breathless reply as he attempts to sit up. I tug myself all the way out of the blankets and help him, looking on as he rolls up his shirt to inspect the wound. "It's not bad," he mutters, covering it back up. "More like a bruise than anything. That guy's not such a sharpshooter when he's got obstacles." Grunting, he gets to his feet and makes toward the bathroom. "We may as well stay awake. Or I will, at least. You can sleep if you want."

Sharpshooter.

Suddenly feeling sick and dizzy, I rub my own bullet wound and nearly cry out at how badly it aches. I fall back against the pillows, filled with terror from the discovery of a sharpshooter in our room; wondering how he got in and if he'll be back. It has to be the man who killed Dugan. My mind is telling me that it is. My gut agrees.

Sleeping is not possible. Not even after the boy comes back out and gets comfortable on the floor again. So he starts some coffee in the room's coffeemaker and turns on the TV. He switches the channel, no doubt guessing how much the news disturbs me, and settles on the cooking channel. He pours some coffee for both of us and sits on the bed beside me; passing a steaming mug into my hands. I hold it, breathing in the steam, smelling the wonderful scent of hot coffee. We settle in, backs against the headboard and pillows in our laps, to watch some super-enthusiastic young man make his own candy bars.

We don't fall asleep. We stay up well into the morning, and as there were no attacks other than the one, the boy decides we're safe enough to ring up room service for the free breakfast.

After the delicious pancakes, the boy heads into the bathroom to shower. Despite the injury in his side, he's moving around just fine.

I have already gotten ready for the day and packed my things into my backpack. Now I'm just waiting for him so we can leave. I don't know where we'll go after this.

My wounded arm has been aching very badly. I haven't complained, but the boy says I might need to see a doctor. So maybe that's where we're headed first thing today; our first mission of sorts.

I like to think of us as a team, though our lives only collided yesterday. We still have not made proper acquaintance, but we're in such a situation that it almost doesn't even matter.

The boy comes out of the bathroom, dressed in fresh clothes and his hair is nicely combed beneath his trilby hat. He smiles, briefcase in hand, nodding to me. "You ready to go?"

I nod, swinging on my backpack and slipping my shoes on. We leave the room and check out at the front desk, then emerge into the brightly sunlit city.

"So what's our objective?" I ask, observing the boy as he pops a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. He smirks a little as though my words contain some sort of humor, then replies casually, "We'll go for a walk. That'll determine what happens to us the rest of the day. Come on." He offers me his left arm in the manner of a courteous gentleman. I cautiously link my right arm through it as we cross the streets. It's just acting. We both know this. I can feel deep in my soul that we share such an understanding.

The boy glances over his shoulder before hailing a taxicab; we get in and he asks the cabbie to bring us to the nearest park. The ride is long and somewhat exciting; I've never ridden in a cab before. The boy, sitting to my left, watches me with an amused smile as I eagerly look out the windows and babble about the scenery. Part of it is acting; I'm making us look like tourists. But the other part is pure amazement; I've been away from luxury for so long. Soon I grow somewhat tired and sink back from the window, holding my backpack tight in my arms and leaning against the cushy cab seat. It smells kind of funny in here, but that's to be expected from a city cab I guess. It's nothing compared to that posh train we were on; the one that brought us here: the train of fortune and adventure. It's a frightening adventure, and after my seven months on the street and dwelling in the woods, just lying in wait, the adventure has just begun. But I know it will be over soon. And what then? I can't see beyond the end; even the end I cannot see. I'm not sure if the boy will leave either through free will or death. I'm not sure if I will even live. Already we have both been shot. Dugan has been dead for over a year. I'm not sure what's going to happen. How could I be? I only know that at some point it will all cease. Everything will be okay. For somebody. Maybe one of us, if not both. Maybe for neither of us.

   It all remains a mystery.

We arrive at a beautiful green park; very lustrous with plant life and smooth concrete paths. Something about it feels homey and familiar, and I want to thank the boy for bringing me. But as I look up with the intent of thanking him, he just brushes it off casually. 

"That's alright. Are you hungry? It's about a quarter to noon." He pulls back his left sleeve to look at his watch. I shake my head; this morning's breakfast is stuck fast inside me; to my surprise I'm not really hungry. But he might be. After all, I reckon he's never known starvation as I.

"You can get lunch, but I'm fine. Not hungry, I mean."

"Ya' sure?" He appears surprised yet puzzled. 

Nodding, I notice some people pointing at us as we walk and I lean close to him, whispering, "Act like we're a...a couple. On a morning stroll. Those people seem suspicious."

He nods, smiling and offering me his hand. I clasp it in mine, swinging our entwined hands, giggling as we pass the people. It's all an act, but I hope it's convincing. The people still watch us; through the corner of my eye I watch them, too. 

There are three of them. One is a gruff-looking man, probably in his mid-twenties; with a scruffy, set jaw and a shock of indistinguishably-colored hair. His eyes are gray and steely.

The second person, on the right of the gruff man, is a woman. Older-looking than the others, she is thin and placid with large droopy eyes and oversized, floppy lips. The contours of her face seem stretched out; perhaps from a stroke or an acid incident.

Finally, a young man to the left of the gruff one. He is the most normal in regards to appearance, with freshly trimmed brown-blond hair and a clean-shaven face, an average mouth and again, steely gray eyes.

They all share the same steely gray eyes. They hold their heads the same way. Their ears, though differentiating in size, are similarly shaped. 

They must be siblings.

The boy's hand slips out of mine in a backward pull, and I slip mine into the pocket of my jeans. It must be okay to stop acting. I smell something. 

It's that cologne again.

I glance toward the weird trio but they aren't there anymore. Feels like someone is behind me, but when I look back there is nobody but the boy. And he's just standing on the path, checking his phone and writing on his pad of paper. I've walked past him without meaning to. So I turn back to him, a questioning look on my face. He glances up with a quick, reassuring smile, but he can't fool me because I know acting too well. I know he's trying to hide that something is wrong. He doesn't want me to know what it is. And while it's nice to have somebody watching out for me, it would be better if he'd tell me. I don't want the truth hidden, because that's deception. Deception destroys trust, shows a person's lack of integrity. And I know this boy has some integrity. It's not something I can explain, nor is it the misleading of a teenage heart. The heart lies. I am not listening to my heart. I am listening to my gut. To my soul. They speak truth. And the truth is that the boy has some integrity and does not want to lie to me. He only wants us to be safe. For whatever reason.

"I want to know what's wrong," I demand, setting a foot down with passion. He watches me with adoring eyes, then shakes his head. 

"I really don't want to tell you," he admits. "At least, not here. It isn't safe. How about we find a café and maybe talk about it then?"

There is no other choice. If I want him to tell me, I must comply. I also do not want to hide my true feelings from him, so I do not act gracefully. I act normal, which feels weird quite honestly. I've spent many months—years, even—under a guise of some sort.

   "On our way over here I thought I saw one. Nicoll's, it was called. Let's head there. Like an arm?" He offers me his right arm and I refuse to put my hand around it. He shrugs and leads me back into the town square. It's busy here with so many people walking around. When we come to Nicoll's I can't see much else through the windows but people. I'm about to go inside, but the boy has other plans. He shakes his head at my move and makes a beeline for the less-busy café across the street. I fake like I knew what he was planning all along and follow him. As I do, I look back. Somebody not too far behind us turns and heads into Nicoll's. I stare so long and hard that I'm startled by the boy's voice in my left ear, "Prepare for a mass shooting in that place."

"What!"

How would he know what to prepare for? And why should he know, for that matter? Why would he lead me there if he knew?

"Come on, we need to get outta here." He grabs me by the arm and pulls me around the building. Hidden in an alleyway, he opens his briefcase and pulls something out. Suddenly he's nudging a pistol into my hand, and I can see he has another for himself. 

   "Take this," he hisses. "For self-defense. I found the guy who killed your boyfriend."

How does he know about that?

"But—" I protest, watching him quickly snapping the briefcase shut, transforming it into a backpack. 

   He slings this over his shoulders, pushing his hat down on his head. "But what?"

"I don't know your name." The words rush from my mouth.

He smiles, urgency leaving his face for a moment. "How about we code name ourselves. You be Sugar. I'll be Spice. Call me that. Okay?"

Why won't he tell me what his name really is? 

"Uh...okay. But I meant your real name."

"Too dangerous to give it to you right now. I'm sure you feel the same."

Not really, since it's his fault I don't know what's going on, but I'm not going to tell him that. "Well, if we went inside somewhere would you be okay with it?"

"Um, no. We aren't safe in this city. You just have to be okay with the code names for now, alright? Trust me, we'll make proper introductions another time. But that time is not now. Come on." He waves me down another alley. I sigh and follow him, clutching the pistol tightly in my hand.

"Oh, hang on. I forgot something." He digs in his briefcase-turned-backpack and produces a holster. This he hands to me. Under his verbal instruction, I slide it down around my hips, checking to make sure it fits snugly. Then I slip my gun in, keeping my hand on the weapon's hilt; I wanna be quick on the draw. The boy nods approvingly and continues walking, motioning with a hand for me to stay back. I press myself against the wall of a building and breathe deeply, shutting my eyes as my head fills with memories from the self-defense classes my parents made me take all my life. Odd for a wealthy girl who should have nothing to fear. I could never understand why they put me through that. Unless...

Unless they knew something I didn't?

My ears fill with gunshots and screaming. Oddly enough, while it does bear some resemblance to the day Dugan was killed, it really reminds me of when Mom died. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and scream too; digging my fingers into cracks between the bricks of the wall. I feel somebody smash their back against mine. It takes a moment before I realize it's the boy.

"Don't touch her!" He yells, pushing me flatter against the bricks. I take a deep breath and hold it, then draw my pistol. Aiming behind me, and blindly, I fire two shots—both of which are miraculously successful. I know they are because suddenly the boy has released me and is onto the marauder, fighting hand-to-hand. "Leave!" The boy screams at me as the offender overturns him on the concrete. I look on, not wanting to leave; what if he gets killed? Then what?

"Go!" It is a scream of pain that follows. I have no choice but to obey him. 

Or do I?

* * *

It's a good thing I stayed.

After warding off our attacker and running him into some local policemen, the boy and I made a break for it. Though injured even worse now, he says he'll be okay. I really hope he is; neither of us can afford to be severely wounded. It is not conventional. 

"There's a train station." The boy's warm breath softly settles over the left side on my face as he limps alongside me, steadying himself on my shoulder. I glance down at his leg, bandaged hastily with a bandana, leaking blood. He was injured in the brawl, so he's trying not to walk on it. Thankfully, he wasn't shot.

What is it with trains? It's only been a few days, but already I'm sensing a pattern. Something caused the boy to flee; he chose a train to take him someplace better. I got on the train in hopes to find a better life. To change my future. I have a hope of surviving, scary as my life is, and prior to meeting the boy my life was at a dead end. Since getting on the train, I have opened up more opportunity. I just wonder what the boy needed so badly that he had to take a train. 

"Think it's a freighter?" He and I slowly ascend the steps and stand on the platform. I look at a time chart posted on a wall.

"No, it's a passenger. And there's one more train. It'll be here soon."

"How soon?" He staggers onto a bench, much like the one I sat on before meeting him, and his breath comes out in a whoosh. I can tell he's exhausted. I wonder if he's hungry as well.

"According to the timetable...fifteen minutes." I turn to him. "Can we wait that long? Or isn't it safe."

His face betrays his thoughts. 

He doesn't want to wait fifteen minutes. Since meeting him I've noticed he has a hit-and-run approach to things, and whoever is following us uses the same technique. But that just makes me wonder. Why? Why should someone kill my boyfriend, then move on to attempt murdering me, almost an two years later? Was Dugan's murder actually a failed attempt of my own? Was I the target all along, but he just got in the way, unintentionally saving me? Am I still the target? Why did the killer wait so long to track me down? Or has he always been at my heels? It doesn't make sense. I am nobody special. I never was famous nor nationally known. I was never even known locally. So why am I such a target?

Wham.

"Alyssa!"

I've just realized that I have hit the wooden platform and my head is pounding. I've impaired my ability to stand by thinking too hard. But now I'm forced to think some more because I don't know how the boy knows my name. I never told him, nothing I own has my name on it, and I never once wrote it. So how does he know?

I shakily push myself up and face him, heavy demand in my purple eyes. The bitter wind whips in my long, straggly brown hair and bites at all exposed skin. The boy, now standing before the bench, stares back at me. His fists are clenched; his jaw is set firmly. In his eyes, which I've found to be a fiery hazel, there is an inkling of fear. He is afraid of someone.

And that someone is me.