Chimera

Entangled Spheres

As Nathan dashed through the train car, pushing through passengers and stepping on colossal shards of broken glass that lay on the floor, his mind was fraught with regret. “I am not ready for this. I am a tech analyst in the CIA geek squad…not a field agent”. He thought to himself as he tripped over a jagged plank that protruded through the train’s floor boards. As he lay on the ground, ready to black-out, he looked up slowly and assuredly. He saw the broken window that he had heard being smashed just moments earlier. The window looked like it was smashed open with a fist.

For a second, Nathan allowed the reign of his mind to be taken over by the elements, allowing ominous dreams and visions to cloud his judgement. He wondered whether or not the person who broke the window to get out of the train’s fuselage was another Russian invader or a civilian looking for a clean break. Or perhaps, it was the blonde woman from the photograph he found on the body of the corpse. Despite whoever it was, there was blood on the broken glass from the person that had broken out—he must find them.

An important element of the assignment he had taken on, going undercover for the CIA was that he had to be discreet. He could not leave loose ends or any traceable evidence: “Too late now” he thought. He remembered that his blood was laid across the floor and that almost a hundred passengers had seen his identity. He shrugged off the unfortunate coincidence and followed the unknown specter through their path by the window. He leaped through the broken glass and landed on the iron track outside.

As Nathan looked down where he landed, he saw a trail of blood—not his own—but instead the identity-less person whom he was pursuing. He followed the trail for a while, through the wild fields encircling the train tracks. He continued through crops of barley and goldenrod until he lost sight of the blood trail. From this point forward, his only clue to follow would be his own instinct.

He ineffectually wandered through the field for about twenty minutes until staggering to the ground. Nathan had lost a significant amount of blood, adding to his already dangerously low level of stamina. He laid his head to the flat ground. Surely this was his ‘rock bottom’. He could picture it now, “CIA agent discovered in middle of field, weeping”. It would disgrace his commissioner and would surely lose his job. Maybe he would change his name and move to Arkansas. He went through names he could adopt in his head… Billy Fontaine or Steve LeBoot.

In the silence of his sorrow, came a loud groaning. A yelp of pain and exhaustion—it externalized exactly the emotional defeat within himself. He wondered for a moment if he had just picked up the escapees trail again; he arose hesitantly and followed the grunts and cries.

Suddenly, in the distance: he saw her. He saw a blonde haired woman wearing a black trench coat making her way through the tall grassed fields. Although it was difficult to know for sure due to the long distance between them, he knew it was the woman from the picture he had uncovered.

“Hey, you! Stay where you are!” Nathan called out to her, without expecting her to actually follow his demands.

Strangely enough, the blonde woman complied. She put her hands behind her back and sat down in the middle of the field with her knees on the ground. “Finally someone gives me the respect I deserve as an agent of the law. Maybe, I’m a better agent than I thought…after all, look at home I handled the train situation.” In his mind, he was planning the parade that the CIA would surely throw for him, as he walked ever closer to the blonde woman on the ground.

Her face was covered in dirt and her left hand was wrapped in cloth she had ripped from her clothing, in order to stop the blood flow from her wounded hand. Nathan came up and bent down toward her.

“Who are you? Why were those men looking for y--“he was interrupted by the woman’s swift action. She pulled her arms from behind her back, unveiling a combat knife. She lunged up from her meditative position and tackled Nathan to the ground on his back.

“Why the Hell are you following me?” The blonde woman screamed, unintentionally revealing her thick Russian accent.

“Those men were after you, and I was damn sure not to let them get you”. Nathan responded, trying to act as calmly as he could; given the knife just inches away from his throat. “Those two men—what did they want with you?”

The woman did not take her piercing eyes off Nathan’s face; instead, she scrutinized every movement and word that he delivered.

“Who are you working for?” She demanded. “If you lie to me, I will make you more barren than the Russian badlands”. As she made the threat, she lowered the knife toward his crotch, proving her resolve.

“CIA. They can protect you! Honest to God, I’m on your side here!” Sweat dripped down Nathan’s face, it mixed with the blood and wounds, giving him a burning sensation.

“Get up. We will go together, give me your weapon”. She commanded his attention and spoke as viscously as Stalin himself. There must be something in the water in Russia…that makes all of them assholes and lunatics, he thought. Nevertheless, Nathan obeyed and gave the woman the pistol he had taken from the Russian’s pocket.

“More men like them will surely be coming. We will run now, there is no way you can fight in your pitiful condition”. The woman sheathed her knife, as well as her newly received pistol and walked behind Nathan through the fields onward.

Several hours passed as they finally made it out of the field, into a small village. This Ohio village looked like something out of a horror movie, American flags waved messages of blind patriotism and the people lived their melancholic days in a cultural bubble of farmland and tradition. The long trip to arrive in the town was marched in relative silence, with few breaks received between the mysterious pair. The woman was becoming increasingly weary, slowing down step by step.

“I see a motel. There had better be an open room”. The woman spoke coldly, not revealing the inevitable relief as she looked at the place of rest.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You aren’t exactly the Virgin Mary, after all.”

“Ha. Even when Jesus was inside the womb, I am certain that he was more competent than you: ignorant American.” Her speaking began to trail off as her hatred for the western world presented itself.

The motel had colonial colours adorned on the roof and a large porch scattered with swings. It was about four A.M in the morning, so they were both surprised to see an old woman, hardened by minimum wage labour, awake and ready at the reception desk.

“Why, howdy there! Does the cute couple need a room to stay in?” The receptionist announced, her thick glasses marked her poor vision—which is probably why she didn’t see the blood stains and wounds covering Nathan and the woman. It’s better that way, Nathan thought, the les suspicion, the better.

“Yes, ma’am, we will need one room for one night. We will set off on our… err vacation activities… tomorrow.” The woman responded to the receptionist with obvious unease—a subtle enough emotion that the intentionally blind woman did not pick up on.

The receptionist handed the woman a room key. The receptionist said that we could pay cash upon check out and that all she needed was a name to book the name under. “The Russian woman hesitantly responded:

“You can book the name under Anastasia”. With the long awaited revelation of his companion’s name, they walked side by side to room 21 where they would stay the night.

“Anastasia” He thought to himself. Whether the name was an alias or her actual name, it did not matter. There was a dormant Russian beauty that was released every time that name was pronounced. Every time from that moment, when Nathan looked into Anastasia’s eyes, he no longer felt fear or present danger, but rather: he saw the humanity within her eyes. Even in the hesitance and frigidness behind her expression, she was human.

That night, as Nathan lay on the floor across the room from where Anastasia slept in the queen sized bed, he wondered long and hard of her name. He thought of the legends of Anastasia who died at the hands of the Czar in the Russian revolution. Although her past was unknown: he knew that she also was fleeing from it. Perhaps starting fresh is an impossible dream; a chimera that will forever continue to haunt the persecuted.