My escort took me down to the subway station and made sure I got on the first train that arrived. Hopefully I’d get a better reception when I returned for my orientation appointment.
The subway wall finally told me exactly where I was: Davisville. I always wondered what the giant inscrutable building above this station was all about. Last night we got off the train about six blocks away and snuck up on the place, again creeping through dimly lit alleys and side streets. I don’t know why. It’s not like the bad guys don’t know where the fed’s secret headquarters is. But we did, and things look very different when you’re in the dark fixated on who’s going to sneak up on you and blast you with a ray-gun.
The good news was I was only about a half-hour subway ride and a short walk from home.
But after the happy homecoming there was going to be lots of explaining about why I didn’t come home last night, and why I wasn’t behind my desk at work today. It was going to be a tough night.
The evening commuter rush was just starting. The big subway car that pulled in was only maybe half-full and I had my choice of seats. I took one facing a cluster of ads with lots of words. I didn’t have anything to read on me, so the ads would have to do to help try to distract me and put a lid on my racing thoughts. That would fill about two minutes.
There’s a lot more ads inside the subway cars than in the streetcars. As well as the ones strung above the windows, there’s several on the walls beside the doors. And since they’re closer to the passengers, they’re closer to the graffiti artists.
The graffiti is often more entertaining and gives off a better vibe than the ad it’s scrawled over.
An ad one seating unit down was giving me a very strong vibe.
A bad vibe.
No. My mistake. It wasn’t the ad. It was the person sitting under the ad.
It was the bicyclist.
It was completely illogical. I had no proof. The hang of the clothes. The shape. The shadows on the face. The body stance. It added up to a feeling of total recognition. I couldn’t shake it. It made no logical sense.
I didn’t see his or her face last night. Or even clearly identify if it was either a him or a her. That person under the ad was definitely a her.
I needed to calm down. Maybe I’m having a stress reaction. Some sort of post-traumatic ray-gun thing.
We pulled into Ellesmere station. The brakes squealed. The doors whooshed open. She got up. I watched her face. She got out. I watched her face through the door. She got queued among the people heading for the escalator. I watched her face in the crowd. I think I could identify her again. Bicyclist or not.
She gets off just one stop from the fed’s world domination headquarters back at Davisville. That’s interesting.
I hope I’m wrong about her. I sat back.
The conductor blew his whistle.
O hell. I ran for the door and squeezed through just before it closed on my foot.
Here's the link to part 8.
Here's the link to part 8.