I'm dying. Well, the old me is, anyway.
I'm being tied now with a rope around my waist so I can follow easily. We've been instructed not to speak. Then, there's a tug at the rope. The sign to start walking. As I shuffle along, my senses are keyed up and I can hear what sounds like maybe three people walking. It's possible there are others going across, another spy, or someone going for another reason. I'm not sure why I can't know who the other North Sacto residents are who are living over there, but I suppose they don't want us to cling to each other like lost puppies. It would make us vulnerable and open to suspicion. I've been told if I see someone familiar on the other side, I am not to speak to them.
I'm good with the silence as we walk in the damp tunnel. This is the only chance I have to feel what my parents felt. I'm emotional, but I make sure to soak it all in. My mother and father probably ran along this exact ground that my feet are now touching as they made their way to the river. What did it feel like for them? I can only assumed they had that adrenaline I know so well, that can only come from running. Maybe they experienced it even stronger down here since they were doing something so dangerous and so noble. I feel a moment of deep utter sadness that I'll never know what that feeling is like.
I walk along slowly on my tether and am annoyed with the other thought that keeps interrupting my experience. I keep wondering who the guard is that’s leading us through. Is it Zane? I think he would have figured out a way to let me know if that was the case. Or maybe after my letter, he wouldn't. What would I say to him if I could see him one more time? I hate the thought of it, so instead I decide to turn my brain off entirely and just walk.
Zane
The days drag on in one continuous and repetitive routine. My work as a tunnel guard is a night shift. All of them are, actually. Which seems strange because it’s dark down there at all times of the day, but for some reason, the operation occurs at night, like it’s less likely for the enemies to suspect us then.
After my shift is done each morning, I find myself heading back to my apartment alone, checking under the mat outside of my door for a slip of paper with info about the next meeting of the Resistance. Then, even though the sun is usually just starting to peek from the one lonely window in my small space, I make some dinner for myself and throw a heavy blanket over the window to block the sun and go to bed.
I usually sleep for about six or seven hours, wake up and tidy things up around the apartment, maybe make another small meal, and then I have a handful of hours with nothing to do but file my reports or do some chores. It's a miserable existence, the time between the meetings. I've been trying to get back to my journal and have started jotting down some thoughts about each meeting, attempting to come up with ideas to contribute to the group.
So far, I haven't said much the handful of times I've attended meetings. I'm only able to go if I'm not on shift that night. It's not always the same people there either. There seems to be a decent number in the group, from what I've gathered, but most are from the South. I haven't figured out why yet. Maybe their conditions are worse over there, or maybe their government is less organized, making it less dangerous to have an opposing viewpoint.
I'm still feeling my way around the group, figuring out the dynamics. I have gathered that they try to run them in an egalitarian manner, but there are clearly a few amongst them who take on leadership roles. Pete has a very energetic personality which tends to get the groups attention. He seems to informally lead each meeting, but in my opinion he doesn't seem to be great at coming up with plans for action. I get the feeling he likes to talk about stuff more than he wants to
I'm being tied now with a rope around my waist so I can follow easily. We've been instructed not to speak. Then, there's a tug at the rope. The sign to start walking. As I shuffle along, my senses are keyed up and I can hear what sounds like maybe three people walking. It's possible there are others going across, another spy, or someone going for another reason. I'm not sure why I can't know who the other North Sacto residents are who are living over there, but I suppose they don't want us to cling to each other like lost puppies. It would make us vulnerable and open to suspicion. I've been told if I see someone familiar on the other side, I am not to speak to them.
I'm good with the silence as we walk in the damp tunnel. This is the only chance I have to feel what my parents felt. I'm emotional, but I make sure to soak it all in. My mother and father probably ran along this exact ground that my feet are now touching as they made their way to the river. What did it feel like for them? I can only assumed they had that adrenaline I know so well, that can only come from running. Maybe they experienced it even stronger down here since they were doing something so dangerous and so noble. I feel a moment of deep utter sadness that I'll never know what that feeling is like.
I walk along slowly on my tether and am annoyed with the other thought that keeps interrupting my experience. I keep wondering who the guard is that’s leading us through. Is it Zane? I think he would have figured out a way to let me know if that was the case. Or maybe after my letter, he wouldn't. What would I say to him if I could see him one more time? I hate the thought of it, so instead I decide to turn my brain off entirely and just walk.
Zane
The days drag on in one continuous and repetitive routine. My work as a tunnel guard is a night shift. All of them are, actually. Which seems strange because it’s dark down there at all times of the day, but for some reason, the operation occurs at night, like it’s less likely for the enemies to suspect us then.
After my shift is done each morning, I find myself heading back to my apartment alone, checking under the mat outside of my door for a slip of paper with info about the next meeting of the Resistance. Then, even though the sun is usually just starting to peek from the one lonely window in my small space, I make some dinner for myself and throw a heavy blanket over the window to block the sun and go to bed.
I usually sleep for about six or seven hours, wake up and tidy things up around the apartment, maybe make another small meal, and then I have a handful of hours with nothing to do but file my reports or do some chores. It's a miserable existence, the time between the meetings. I've been trying to get back to my journal and have started jotting down some thoughts about each meeting, attempting to come up with ideas to contribute to the group.
So far, I haven't said much the handful of times I've attended meetings. I'm only able to go if I'm not on shift that night. It's not always the same people there either. There seems to be a decent number in the group, from what I've gathered, but most are from the South. I haven't figured out why yet. Maybe their conditions are worse over there, or maybe their government is less organized, making it less dangerous to have an opposing viewpoint.
I'm still feeling my way around the group, figuring out the dynamics. I have gathered that they try to run them in an egalitarian manner, but there are clearly a few amongst them who take on leadership roles. Pete has a very energetic personality which tends to get the groups attention. He seems to informally lead each meeting, but in my opinion he doesn't seem to be great at coming up with plans for action. I get the feeling he likes to talk about stuff more than he wants to
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