Black Balloon

Chapter 22

The sun set and with it vanished any shred of warmth that was left in my body. I spent the night nestled between two boulders trying to fetal-position myself into a singularity, keeping my arms and legs pulled tight against my body in a futile attempt to trap the heat. I wrung out my socks the best I could, but they were nowhere approaching dry. I wore them anyway. My shoes were soggy and freezing. Thank Christ it was unseasonably warm or I would have become a human popsicle on the side of that mountain. It was bitterly cold and I passed the night in a fugue state somewhere between awake and asleep, dead and alive, the borderland where delirium meets lucidity and madness meets unconsciousness.

By the first sign of daylight, I had finally slipped into true sleep. All of my nerve endings were numb, leaving me oddly cozy, warm even. There exists a phenomenon in which people on the brink of freezing to death, curl up in the snow and fall asleep...never to awaken. The ones who have lived to tell the tale describe a feeling of profound comfort and peace, lulling them into a peaceful death. They feel warm and cozy, and then they are gone. I snapped to and forced myself to stand up and shake the sensation away. As I did, the cold flooded back into my arms and legs. My fingers and toes throbbed with pain. My chest was heavy and tight. I could practically feel my body drawing blood from the extremities and pumping it to the vital organs in a desperate attempt to save itself, like a lizard shedding its tail into the mouth of the snake. In that moment, if the devil had appeared holding a blanket and a cup of hot coffee, I would have happily sold my eternal soul in exchange for it.

The dry California climate meant that by morning my shoes were no longer wet but merely damp. Despite being moist, they helped to hold in what little warmth remained in my feet. As blood rushed back into my head and I gradually revived, the sensors in my brain responsible for hunger detection began firing: alert, alert, food desperately needed. A stabbing pain tore through my abdomen. I remembered the bag of groceries I had abandoned in the woods. There was a box of dry spaghetti in there that I would have killed for, but it was food for the squirrels now.

There was nothing for me to do except to start walking, so that's what I did. The return of daylight would find the Feds resuming their hunt. My ears were constantly on high alert for the sound of barking dogs. I put one foot in front of the other in a lazy shuffle and ambled slowly along. I plodded my way down the valley through densely packed pine trees, dragging myself over jagged rocks until mid-day. The afternoon sun rose over the hills and felt like a divine gift from the heavens.

At the bottom I was greeted by the most beautiful sight: asphalt. A two-lane highway wound its way through the valley, wandering lazily out of sight in both directions. I stepped from the forest and onto the shoulder, trying to decide which way to go. Both options seemed equally shitty so I fell backwards onto my butt in despair, resting against the embankment and weighing my options. It was an arbitrary decision and yet a surprisingly difficult one to make.

Fifteen minutes went by without a single passing car. I reasoned this meant I was quite isolated, not yet near civilization. Even if a car had passed, I couldn't exactly stick my thumb out and hitch a ride. It was just as likely to be an FBI vehicle as it was some Good-Samaritan willing to stop and pick up a hitchhiker, or a Samaritan that had already been tipped off that a fugitive was hiding in their midst. The road was curvy, so by the time I could see what an oncoming car looked like, it'd be too late. They'd see me. With either direction just as shitty as the other, I randomly chose to go right and started down the road.

The hours ticked by and a few cars did eventually drive past. Each time, I scurried into the woods at the first sounds of an approaching engine. None of them were black sedans. Most were old farm pick-ups, rusted pieces of shit driven by backwoods yokels. My thighs ached. My stomach burned. My head was pounding. I wanted so badly to take my chances and catch a ride. As I sat entertaining this thought and had almost convinced myself it was a good idea, a jet-black Chevy whizzed past driven by a man in a suit. He wore dark glasses and had short crew-cut hair. He drove slowly. As I stooped peeking through the trees, I could see him scanning with his eyes, looking for something or someone. I don't know for sure that he was a G-Man, but he definitely fit the bill. That settled it. I'd walk as far as I had to, until my legs gave out or I died of starvation, and if a car passed, assuming I had the energy left to do so, I'd hide.