The Overseer

 

 

 

 

Three executors and an overseer make four thieves.

—
O
LD
E
NGLISH
P
ROVERB 

 

 

The Owl of Minerva takes wing at twilight.

—G. W. F.
H
EGEL

 

 

 

W
OLF
P
OINT,
M
ONTANA
, 1998
The wash of moonlight through the trees shadowed the underbrush and speckled the arms and legs of the three darting figures in an eerie glow. In and out of the slats of light they moved, swiftly, urgently, without a sound. The biting chill of the night air lashed against the few patches of revealed flesh on their faces, but they had no time to think of such things.
The road. Get to the road
. Taut young
bodies
, made fit through hours of training and drills, had learned to shut out the burning strain that now crept through their limbs. Two weeks of subzero temperatures had left the wooded floor a hardened mass of soil and roots, uneasy footing; even so, they were making excellent time. Another ten minutes and they would be through.

None of the three, however, had fully considered the options beyond that. They knew only that they would be alone, outside the compound, far removed from the near-idyllic world they had inhabited for the past eight years—a place where young boys and girls had learned to excel, to challenge themselves, all the while content to be a part of the whole. Insulated and surrounded by others of “equal promise,” reared for a purpose, a destiny. It was what the old man had taught the children, what they themselves believed. Memories of lives before Montana—families, friends, places—had long ago faded. Everything and everyone they needed had always been here. There had been no reason to look elsewhere.

No reason until the three had begun to see beyond the rote commands, beyond the need to please. Perhaps they had simply come of age. Young girls grown to women. Whatever the reason, they had come to understand what the old man expected of them, what he expected of
everyone
. And it had confused and frightened them. No longer willing to accept without question, they had begun to talk among themselves. They had begun to raise questions.

“You are not meant to ask,” he had said. “You are meant to do. Is that clear?”

“We don’t understand,” they had answered.

The punishment had been quick and severe. “A kind reminder,” he had told them. But it had not been the days without food, the days shut away and beaten that had caused them to question the world they had known for so long, nor even the none-too-subtle hint that they might somehow be expendable should their concerns ever arise again. It had been his answer: “
You are not meant to ask.
…
You are meant to do.
” Autonomy stripped away in a single phrase. And still they had wondered. Had that been the message all along? Had that been what he had trained them to believe? No. They knew there was no challenge in that, no inducement to excel—only the brutality of the threat.

And so they had decided to run.

They had left just after midnight. Silent jaunts from separate cabins had brought the three of them to the gate, the youngest, at fourteen, with a genius for things electronic; she had taken care of the trip wires, a simple matter of misdirection to give them just enough time to slip through the fence and into the cover of the trees. Nonetheless, there had been a moment of near panic, a guard appearing not more than twenty yards from them just as the two thin beams of light disengaged. Each girl had frozen, facedown in the brilloed grass; but he had moved on, unaware of the three figures lying within the shadows. Evidently, their jet black leggings, turtlenecks, and hoods kept them well hidden.

Now, the first minutes into the woods were passing with relative ease. A few sudden ruts in the soil ripped at their ankles, branches everywhere tore into the soft flesh of their cheeks, but they were moving—an undulating column of three bodies dipping and slashing its way through the onslaught. The intermittent streaks of light were making the ruts easier to see; they were making
everything
easier to see. One guard on the deep perimeter and they knew they would have little chance of making it through. They had hoped for pitch-black, or perhaps even a heavy cloud cover. No such luck. At least the downhill gradient was helping to propel them along.

Coming into a small clearing, the last of the trio was the first to hear it. Distant at first, then with greater urgency, the sound of pursuit. For a moment, she thought it might be an echo, but the cadence was uneven, the tempo accelerating with each step. There was no need to tell the others. They had heard it as well. As one, they quickened their pace, arms and legs less controlled, knees buckling under the strain. With a sudden burst, beams of light began to crisscross the trees around them, instinct telling them to bend low, lead with their heads as they pushed through the mad swat of limbs that clawed at their faces with even greater intensity.

“Split,” whispered the girl at the front, loudly enough for the others to hear. They had talked about it weeks ago, had understood that one of them had to get through, explain what was going on inside. Their best chance for that would be alone, apart. One by one, they flared out, no time even to glance back at one another, no place for such thoughts.
The road. Get to the road.
A moment later, the first barrage of gunfire erupted overhead.

 

A stooped figure stared out into the night sky, hands clasped to his chest in an attempt to gain a bit of added warmth. The thin cardigan draped over his ancient shoulders had been the only piece of clothing at hand when the message had come through. For some reason, though, he was enjoying the cold, perhaps as penance for his failure. The young ladies had compromised the fence, just as he had predicted. The team was closing in; and yet, he felt only the loss. He had hoped they would have learned. He had never liked these moments, the few occasions when fate forced him to hunt down his own. The three boys in Arizona. The two in Pennsylvania. And now this. Especially at so crucial a moment. There was no time for such distractions. But then, what other choice was there? They had been foolish. They had failed to understand. Or perhaps
h
e had failed to awaken them to the possibilities.

A voice crackled through the radio clutched in his hand.