Anarchy of the Mice

Chapter Fifty-Five

I don't like gravel, or sand—any fine ground cover that's going to hitch a ride home in my shoes.

Have you ever tossed stuff in a canvas bag on your way out the door, then discovered later that your fleece or bare apple is now coated with grit from your two-weeks-ago beach trip?

It was a two-mile hike from the quarry parking lot to the rendezvous point, and seemed longer over the dusty, yielding terrain. I walked beside Piper over the undulating dunes, one gray rise after another.

I had dressed even younger than my usual Mice attire, going for a wide contrast with the CIO persona I'd used at Roche Rivard. Under these paper-thin sleeves, I felt my arms goose-pimpling.

Finally we reached the spot, designated by a fifteen-foot pike sticking out of the rocks.

Josiah leaned his rawboned arm against the pike. "We early?"

Piper checked her phone. "Not by much."

We swiveled around to scan the barren horizon. Hatch winced at the effort, his wrist splinted and ribs heavily taped. I noted the gentle slope to the north, which contained a tiny dugout for Durwood's microcamera.

The mood was dour, whether because of the walk or circumstances or the day's grayness—which matched the rocks underfoot. Piper kicked at one. Garrison skulked about with awful posture, though possibly his doldrums had to do with the time I'd been spending with Quaid lately.

We waited.

The prearranged time came and went.

After ten minutes, I heard a crackle in my ear. Then Durwood's voice.

"How they holding up?"

I checked. Josiah was performing tai-chi in the pike's direction, pushing and chopping at it.

"Eh, I've seen them better," I said in the direction of my hood's drawstring. "Do you have Rivard on radar?"

"Not yet."

I twisted toward the parking lot, which was one of several and not the closest—chosen to be inconspicuous. "You're sure they can't see the Vanagon?"

"I'm confident."

"Confident?"

"We're tucked in under this shed," Durwood said. "Their birds can't see."

We weren't supposed to linger on this frequency, so I gulped back my anxieties and signed off.

Garrison had seen me talking into my jacket. "What's up? They want us to do anything?"

I shook my head. "I think we just sit tight and wait."

He shifted weight between feet, digging in his pockets, studying the rocks below.

I asked, "Did you have something you wanted to say?"

He brushed his hair aside, sharply. "Your friends, honestly? Are kinda scary. What Durwood did to Hatch? And Quaid—was he really governor of Massachusetts?"

I nodded.

"Now he's like a freelance...operative dude?"

I was pretty sure we'd covered this ground; Shop-All had been weeks ago. "At times, I barely believe they're real myself."

As our wait stretched on, the other Mice looked to me for direction. Josiah slung rocks into the distance with an eye on me. Hatch's bandages felt like an indictment, as though I were guilty by association of beating him. Although I didn't miss the stress of being an impostor, I felt a little wistful for their lost exuberance. They had believed it was them against the world order—against millennia of societal convention. Now they were acting like high schoolers chafing under a strict sub.