Notes from the Future: Forest, Night

Forest. 

Night. 

There are sounds all around me and none of them are forest sounds. Gunfire, screams, shouts, whoever is shooting at us is approaching rapidly. I don't think Mother Henrietta is breathing. The person on top of me is either breathing heavily or sobbing quietly. It's an Ezekiel, I know that much. He smells of Bay Rum. Tad would approve. 

It's quiet, now, except for the groans of people around us. I feel the Ezekiel shift his weight, and I realize he's looking at something. I turn my head. Boots. Combat boots. The Ezekiel gets to his knees, silent. The boots have stopped near us, and two more pair arrive. All I can do is stare at them. Combat boots. Military, or more fake military? Either way, I'm dead. 

This means nothing next to the silent stillness of Mother Henrietta beneath me. She was kind and strong and if I could be one tenth as wonderful as she was when I am her age, I would be very happy about that. The boots are just standing there, three pair, and nobody has dragged me to my feet. Kind of old-looking boots. Not like they've been used long, but old-fashioned. It's only been a couple seconds since they got here, but it feels like minutes. Or maybe the other way around.

I push myself up to my knees and two things are not the way I expected them. First: the soldiers facing me are clean, formal and polite; the one in the lead gives a slight bow of the head and says, "Miss Torres. We have been asked to find you. There is an important message that has been waiting a long time to be delivered. And it can only be delivered to you." He is British. That is the second unexpected thing. He has a little moustache. All three of them do; the fellow on the left of their little triangle -- my left, their right -- has a curly moustache. Tidy, small moustaches. British accent. 

I look at their uniforms as I get to my feet, give a little laugh; before I know it, I'm saying:

"Have I wandered onto the set of Downton Abbey?"

His eyes widen, the soldier in the lead. The two flanking him glance at one another, questions in their eyes.

"Oh, God, don't tell me Downton Abbey is a real place? I watched a special on PBS with Tad about how it's based on another place ... has everything gone crazy? Is Hercule Poirot with you? Or Sherlock Holmes?! Because if they are, we fucking need their help!"

I'm angry, and to my surprise, all three men laugh. Even the Ezekiel to my right, the one who shielded me. I glance at him. His beard is white. I never saw a Bearded Ezekiel older than about thirty. Then I remember and I look down. The soldiers' eyes follow mine. Everything changes in an instant.

"No! NO!" the lead soldier falls to his knees, immediately checking Mother Henrietta's vital signs. The other two are on either side of her. He's shouting orders, and now there are people running and I look around to see multiple soldiers in similar uniforms kneeling among the dead and wounded. There are nurses. 

Nurses in crisp white uniforms. 

Downton Abbey style.

What the fuck is going on?

The old Bearded E. is saying things as well, but a blanket of unreality has settled over me. It's like I'm at a Renaissance Faire, only everyone is dressed for World War I. A group of soldiers is here, now, with a stretcher, lifting Mother Henrietta and carrying her off into the night. Where are they going? I have no idea. The old Bearded E. seems to have disappeared.

"Miss Torres," the polite lead officer -- I know nothing about their rank -- is gesturing for me to come with him. "This way."

"What's your rank?" I ask, again before thinking. Is that a rude question to ask? I don't know many soldiers. Actual soldiers.

He snaps to attention in a crisp salute, right hand to the forehead, palm facing out.

"Second Lieutenant Petherbridge, First Royal Fusiliers, at your service, Miss," his eyes are doing that soldier salute thing. I think he might be real.

"Are you real?" I ask. He blinks, his eyes glancing at me, a slight frown in his eyebrows.

"I hope so, Miss," he's still saluting me.

"At ... ease?" I don't even know if I'm supposed to say that. Am I allowed to say that?

"Of course, Miss," he relaxes, lowering his hand, relaxing slightly. "Sorry about the shoddy introduction, Miss. We are all a little out of sorts, it will be in my report. Now, if you would please accompany me, we have an uncertain window of time, and this message must be delivered before anything goes off-track."

"Yes, of course," I say, then feel stupid. Did I just speak in a British accent? Oh, God, that's embarrassing. I hope I didn't. I'm going to have to say as little as possible.

Speaking isn't really going to be a concern, though: he leads me off down the trail in the direction we were headed, and we're half-jogging, almost running. Breathing is what I'm focused on. Wow. These guys are fit. We're running in the dark and he knows exactly where to go, what to avoid, we're passing other soldiers and an occasional nurse along the way and they all know him. They must be impressed with him, because their eyes widen when they see us. For a second I think I hear one of the nurses say, "It's her." But that's just ... not as important as breathing. Fuck. Once again, Tad was right: weed may not cause lung cancer, but smoke inhalation is smoke inhalation. 

That thought makes me angry. We're running now, actually running. And now I just want to stop. Tad is such an asshole. Always lecturing. Always promising to keep me safe, always making me promise that in the event of a Zompocalypse, I will do exactly as he says. Right. Zombies. Fucking bullshit. There are no Zombies, Tad! I'm shouting at him in my mind, struggling to keep up with Second Lieutenant Petherbridge of the Dashing Little Moustache. There are no Zombies, there's just a volcano right where you always thought there would be. Right again! You're right, you're right, you're always right -- even when you disappear in an escape act Houdini couldn't have pulled off, you're right! You fucking arrogant, pompous, self-important, vainglorious actor! That's all you are! An actor! An unemployed, painfully talented, unmotivated, lazy, pudgy, charming, charismatic, too-clever-for-your-own-good actor! My Mom was right. And now, I realize, he's done exactly what she warned me he would do: "He'll leave you, honey. He'll just disappear. Right when you need him the most. Trust me. He'll be there one second and gone the next. He will probably even tell you that he'll be right back. But he won't. He's the kind that will just be -- poof -- gone. And you won't be able to find him. Anywhere. I know the type. I can see it in his eyes."

I haven't thought of that conversation in years. My eyes blur. I realize that there's been no earthquake in San Diego. We could have gone South. We could have gone to my family. My mother, my aunts and uncles, my thousands-of-cousins, as Tad would never fail to observe. My eyes are blurred with tears, but I just keep running. The trail is relatively clear, and if I stick to the Second Lieutenant I should be okay. I try to wipe some tears away, but it interferes with my rhythm. I am still so angry with Tad right now that I'd like to deck him. As usual, though, the angrier I get the more I love and miss him.

Second Lieutenant Petherbridge veers off the trail to our right, into a stand of Oak and Bay. There are tables here, and lanterns. It's very organized, but looks a little empty. Second Lieutenant Petherbridge stops short, hardly breathing heavily at all, addressing a nurse gathering bandages into a messenger bag.

"Is she here?"

"You've just missed her. She's off. The gunfire alerted their sentries. It's begun," and there is something in her words, a significance or knowledge, that scares me. I wish I knew what these polite, well dressed mystery people were talking about. She looks at me, and her gaze changes. "It's an honor, Miss. We've all heard so much about you."

"Oh ... okay ..." I say, smiling. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but, okay ... it's a pleasure. Miss ... ?" 

"Nurse Elfie Jones, Miss," she gives a little curtsey, eyes downcast. She's a redhead, I realize.

It's a good thing Tad isn't here after all.

I'm beginning to hate her just a little bit when she steps forward and puts the messenger bag over my head and right shoulder, kissing me on the cheek. "Godspeed," she says, looking at Second Lieutenant Petherbridge. Again, significance.

"Right. We're off," Petherbridge turns and runs and I'm following him and whatever we did earlier was just a warmup because now we are running through the trees like crazy people. Crazy Olympic athletes in the forest. Playing fancy dress. Except I feel like I forgot my costume.

This feels good, I realize. Things are clear: Mother H. is dead, but I'm doing something. I'm taking action. Against whom, with exactly what -- unclear. But it feels good. Thoughts blossom one after another: I am running with the people who shot Mother H.; okay, noted: ask why they shot her. I still don't know where Max is; okay, noted: is there anyone to ask? Probably not. There is no way we are ever going to find Tad's family now; this is a surprise. I stumble. Petherbridge reaches back, still running somehow, and steadies me. I keep running. Running into a future so wildly different from what we had planned, from the little craftsman cottage with hardwood floors and a fireplace we'd always planned on, a future that now seems as distant and unlikely as running through the night in Northern California with a British soldier toward ...

Fighting. 

I can hear it. Gunfire. Shouting. Screams. Something whining, screaming, getting louder.

Second Lieutenant Petherbridge pivots and tackles me to the right. We hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of me, as the tree ten feet behind me explodes. I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm making some horrid noise, he won't get off me. He's just laying there.

He's just laying on me. Is he dead? Something wet on my face. Warm. Blood. He's bleeding from his head, I know this without looking or seeing, it's just something I know as deeply as the pain in my lungs.

This hurts so much, this hurts so much, I'm saying things I can't even hear over the fighting. I'm crying and for once I don't even care. Oh God, oh God, oh God I need to get up, I'm trying to push him off me but I can't seem to move my arms.

I feel his body move. He takes a breath. Shakes his head. He's alive!

Getting to his knees, he pulls me up and it hurts so much, then he turns me and I'm kneeling and I lean forward and ... I can get some breath in. Hurts, but ... okay, another breath. I sob a little. That hurts more. Wow, I'm being a girl right now. Jesus. Okay. Breathe, slow, take a deep breath ... yes. My lungs are sore, but I've got my wind back. I turn to the Second Lieutenant.

I see that he is bleeding from his head. I was right. Take that, Tad, I think. Before I can fully feel bad for thinking that way, there is a creaking, rending crash and we've jumped up and away from the burning tree without a word, running for darkness as the branch above where we were drops, flaming, into the dry grass where we have just been. Bullets whizzing past us as we run, crouching, I realize we're completely visible because of the firelight.

Now we're on the ground behind a fallen tree and someone lands next to us, having thrown himself the last six feet or so. Brushing the dirt off his face, he says, "Petherbridge? This her?"

"Indeed it is, Boggs. Where is Her Ladyship just now?" Petherbridge is unholstering his gun and peeking up over the trunk of the tree toward the source of the bullets slamming into its other side and the ground several feet behind us.

"Leading the charge, of course. Couldn't wait. Said to bring her. You, Miss, that is. Meanin' no disrespect," he smiles and he reminds me a little of Samwise.

"None taken," I smile. He blushes, his bright blue eyes hidden for a moment under long dark lashes. Wow, these British soldier boys are cute. Tad can have the redhead. I might have to give these boys some Tequila. Boggs turns his head slightly and I see a cut on his face.

All I want to do is bandage it. Instantly. I get to my knees, opening the messenger bag -- and a volley of bullets hits the tree, a splinter of wood cutting my face as Boggs and Petherbridge yank me back down where I can't be seen. 

"Fucking idiot," I mutter to myself. Both men turn to me, shocked, but maybe amused. "What?" I ask.

"American girls sure are different," Boggs says, smiling. As he says this, my hand closes on something unexpected in the messenger bag.

"Yeah, well, Mexican American girls are the best you can find," I say, and, pulling the gun from the bag, I check it for ammunition and turn, taking aim over the log just as Tad's uncle Edward taught us. Inhale, bullets zinging past to thump behind me, wood chips and splinters flying from where they hit the tree. Exhale, squinting, looking both inward and outward. Gentle pressure, gentle pressure, and ...

There's a cry from about two hundred yards away where my bullet hits home. The gunfire momentarily ceases. All of that in about three seconds, and we're up and running back the way Boggs came, into darkness and trees and both men are whooping and congratulating me. We're passing other soldiers here and there, making a beeline for someplace, Boggs in the lead.

On the left, I see lights. I glance in that direction and there's a ... ranch. Or a ranch house, at least. Some kind of a structure with lights on inside. And people on the roof, shooting. A barn nearby, people shooting from inside and on top of that as well. A word of warning from Petherbridge and I turn front in time to jump.

We land in a deep ravine, a fresh crack in the ground that has clearly opened since the earthquake. It's been widened here and there, and we're running through it, angling toward trees on the other side of the field in front of the house and barn. We pass other soldiers. They stare at us, if they see us. 

As the ravine narrows to a crack we reach a ladder and climb up and out into the cover of more Oak and Bay. There's a trail and Boggs leads with me in the middle and Petherbridge at the rear. We're running up a hillside and into a dugout screened on the left with fallen branches and coyote bush. We stop. I am panting like a fat lady at a male strip club. Boggs and Petherbridge are not. Jeez, way to make a girl feel special. Maybe no Tequila after all.

One lantern hanging from a broken branch jammed into the left wall of the dugout lights a map spread out on a log, pored over by the figure kneeling next to it. Both men salute. Should I? Who is this?

"Second Lieutenant Petherbridge, Your Ladyship. We've brought her," he says. 

She turns, standing, faces me.

I can't believe my eyes.