SLEEPER SERIES Part One can be found here.
I was almost arrested last night. I actually thought that was the night this would all come to an end. But for some reason, I chose to crawl out the window and hop down to the sidewalk and make my way to some 24 hour diner where I could gather my thoughts and drink some coffee. As luck would have it, there was a deputy waiting for me just six feet away from where I stood. He went for his gun and I threw my pen at his head and hit him in the cheek and I almost broke out laughing because it made this ridiculous thwack noise, the same noise of smacking a bare ass. Instead I turned and ran, ran like a fucking Olympian, hurdling over bums and dodging weary pedestrians. I could hear a woman screaming from behind me and chanced a look over my shoulder to see the cop pulling out his taser which sent me forward with greater haste, barely evading the electrified tendrils that shot forth.
I ducked into a gay bar that I frequent for their nacho’s grande and nodded towards the bartender for the night, Cindy, who gave wicked hand jobs and sold me amphetamines. I was not here for the nacho’s, nor for hand jobs or uppers, although I would be needing them soon. Instead, I trudged forward, brushing past wet bodies that rubbed against my leg and shoulder, taking in the sweet scent of sweat and the smell of sour mixes and alcohol. The electronic music pounded against my head and rattled my bones. I was almost there, almost to the back door that lead to the edge of downtown, to the railroad tracks that carried passengers and cargo back and forth between two unnamed cities.
I carefully shouldered open the door and took a look at my surroundings to make sure none of the spooks bested me. The railroad was basked in circles of golden light cast down by dirty bulbs screwed into poles that wore stickers and graffiti. I took a step out onto the gravel and closed the door behind me. No spooks. I crossed the tracks and walked fourteen miles to the next town and found an all-night diner that sold black coffee and newspapers. I requested the pot be left at my table and I pored over the classifieds section, searching for the message. I nearly burned my mouth on my drink as I finally found it:
“Plastic chair set for sale. No trades, no sweet talk, cash only.”
Fourteen days of waiting, two weeks of evading capture and sleeping on the streets and there it was, my salvation. It was time to make contact with my new superior. But first, I had to go four blocks south of the plastics factory to the ATM machine where there would be a message hidden inside the toilet paper dispenser of the Honey Bucket that sat next to it.
It’s called a dead drop. It’s how I usually get my directions from my superior. However, he was killed two weeks ago in a raid at his apartment, and now it was time for the network to reconnect. The hardest part of reconnecting was replacing lost nodes, such as my superior. Because first you had to establish a meeting place, which is what I would find in the message at the dead drop. Then, my superior takes a great risk by exposing himself to meet me face-to-face since I could be compromised. Of course, I haven’t been, but you can never be too careful.
After finishing the pot of coffee I went to the dead drop and recovered the message. In two days I was to meet him at [undisclosed] and chance that I would be shot by federal agents or my superior’s own security detail, which no doubt would include at least fourteen men with guns and countless passive security agents conducting surveillance in the surrounding area. I have nothing to lose, and I have run out of money. My opsec is slipping along with my sanity. I need some direction if I am to serve in any meaningful way to the regime.