1984 v2.0.26

The gnarled, half-packed carcass of my backpack lay sprawled open on my apartment floor. It contained all I dared to take with me, for fear of bringing too much with me would endanger my chance to escape. My eyes, raw and bloodshot, still scanned the shadows for my missing solar charger.

Three screens—my TV, cellphone, and laptop—three synthetic voices, three synchronized death signals: Citizen, your confidence score has dropped below twenty-five percent. A priority marking now marks your fugitive status, and they have dispatched agents. Remain stationary. Assume a non-threatening posture to prevent escalation.

A ragged laugh tore from throat. I mocked the disembodied voices by flipping each device the bird, making sure each embedded camera got a view. Then my solar charger appeared. Next to my tattered copy of Orwell and a dog-eared Zinn, the trio of items screamed its defiance. I snatched them all, because leaving them behind would leave proof of my thoughtcrime.

Into the bag they went; I checked its meager contents for the fifth time. All that remained of my life was a threadbare change of clothes, tasteless nutrient paste, water, and my ancient iPod Touch. The addition of an unregulated, untaxed power source and two dangerous books explains my plummeting score, warranting arrest and deportation. It didn’t matter that I was a citizen, only that I didn’t fall in line.

With a grunt, I heaved my bag out of the small emergency escape window onto a rusted metal fire ladder adjoining the building. I squeezed my considerable frame through after it and took a deep breath of recycled air as I looked at the city below.

An unnatural silence seized the area early Saturday afternoon, stifling the city's typical rhythm. More than the absence of sound was the absence of color; there was a suffocating gray veil that blanketed the city.

I descended the narrow stairwell when a distorted voice from the other side of the brickwork snaked its way to me: Agents will handle… shortly… please… inside… for your safety.

Each metal rung shuddered under my now frantic descent, and the final landing met my feet with a hollow, echoing damnation. When I reached the final landing before the ground, sirens and rotor blades pierced the skyline, growing louder in the distance. My grip tightened on the rusted railing. Deep, ragged breaths clawed their way into my lungs. The railing began to break from its brackets. The world went silent for a moment. Then I made a final, desperate leap.

I hit the ground and my knees gave out. Some primal instinct saved me, and I rolled out of the fall and fought to find my footing once more. I didn’t wait to find my balance, and I took off running towards the northern sky.

The sounds of the unyielding agents neither grew louder nor receded, and that minor consolation pushed my body to continue running. My legs screamed, and my lungs protested with each inhale. I had no choice but to reach the border. The agents did worse things than kill you if they ever caught you.

As the sun painted the evening sky in hues of dying embers, the war cries of sirens finally faded away. The forest's edge, separating America from the world, replaced the slap of rubber on concrete with a muffled patter as I arrived. I let my body finally surrender to exhaustion as a sat against a tree on the edge of a clearing that offered a breath of fragile peace. My trial was not over. Still, I thanked a god, a god I wasn’t sure existed, for the mild weather.

Darkness triumphed over the setting sun, and I had to use the solar charger’s lantern feature to see anything more than a foot away. My gut's gnawing finally subsided, as it reached a temporary truce with the chalky, nutrient-dense paste I had choked down. The tepid water that I gulped soothed my parched and raw throat. I closed my eyes and tried to forget the dreadful symphony of the city and instead focused on the new orchestra that teased my ears. A melody that was formed by the soft screeching of the Katydids along with the chirping of crickets, punctuated by the hum of mosquitoes darting about. Rustling through limbs and leaves, the wind offered a solid, base rhythm. So free and unobserved was the resulting chorus, I had almost forgotten what the word freedom had meant before nature reminded me. Craving just one more minute of normalcy; I pulled out the Orwellian prophecy. Then leaned against a tree and read, pretending I was back in my apartment with the curtains drawn and blankets over every camera that had a line of sight.

A rush of adrenaline flooded my body with heat, but I froze. Boots crunched foliage, and disturbed leaves rustled. Each thud caused my heart to beat faster. My eyes strained against the darkness to locate the source, but it stopped. The mournful chirping of crickets replaced the rhythmic thumping in my head, and I smiled. A god might exist, I considered, settling back into my book.

The metallic click echoed, sharp and alien, against the symphony of the night. My blood ran cold; the fragile peace shattered. Before I could even react, a booming voice cut through the rustling leaves. "Canadian Border Patrol." A figure emerged from the shadows, a broad-shouldered man silhouetted against the faint moonlight. As he entered the vicinity of my light, he lowered the rifle. My muscles failed, even the ones that would help me form words, and the silence overtook me.

"You're a long way from anywhere, friend. Looks like you've had a tough go of it." He offered a tight smile. "Don't worry, I can help you cross. Get you somewhere safe."

The offer hung in the air, a strange counterpoint to the menacing presence of his weapon. My eyes darted between the man, his rifle, and the sliver of moonlight that illuminated his face, etched with a weariness that mirrored my own, yet devoid of the desperate fear that gnawed at my gut. His smile widened. He saw the wildness in my eyes, the tremor in my hands that I tried to suppress. He understood the language of the hunted, even if he was the one wielding the hunter's tools.

"Safe," he repeated, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate with the rustling leaves. "Safest place to be right now is across the line. Come on. They're not going to stop looking for you just because the sun went down." He gestured with his rifle towards the thicket of trees and walked away.

The moon was at its highest when we finally reached a dirt road with a truck parked off to the side. The roof featured floodlights, and its off-road tires appeared worn. A faded decal of a Canadian flag adorned the tailgate, and my steps quickened.

The air in the truck cab was thick with the scent of stale tobacco and copper. The border patrolman whistled while he drove, his gaze sweeping the dark, winding road ahead. I watched his hands gripping the wheel, causing my stomach to churn and my hand to find the door handle. Still, each mile north allowed the numbness I had felt in my body ebb away, and soon I was nodding my head to the patrolman's whistling melody.

Just as the faint glow of what the patrolman called the "last checkpoint" became visible through the dense pines, a distinct silence fell. The patrolman's posture stiffened, and the low rumble of the engine faltered. Then, with a swiftness that contradicted his earlier weariness, his hand plunged beneath his jacket. He aimed the cold, unforgiving steel at my temple.

"Sorry, friend," he rasped, his voice devoid now, portraying a chilling pragmatism. "It’s just business," the patrolman shrugged his shoulders. Tires squealed as he slammed on the brakes, veering off the road and into a dense patch of woods.

He came to a complete stop, and agents converged on the truck, their movements precise and silent. The patrolman opened my door and gave me a brutal shove. I stumbled out into the scent of pine needles and body odor, sharp and overwhelming.

Before I could even process the betrayal, the metallic click I'd heard in the woods echoed again, amplified by the night. Another, larger and more menacing weapon pressed against my back. The masked figures spoke in hushed tones. I couldn't hear their words, but their bright white teeth provided a chilling confirmation. My Orwell, Zinn, and solar charger felt like lead weights in my bag as the masked figures rushed me towards a darkened, unmarked vehicle. The promise of "somewhere safe" dissolved into the cold, unforgiving grip of my government.