Conflict

Part 1, Chapter 7

The Appalachians were the most welcome sight as it grew dark that evening. Strip landed on a desolate stretch of road near the top of one of the peaks and drove, hoping that would be the last time he'd ever have to use his own wings. He pondered how much it would cost to get them removed.

The mountain air was as refreshing as ever, and the extended drive gave him time to think. What was he to do now? He had no job, no home of his own. Sure, Wayne would probably let him use that guest room in his house, but that wouldn't last forever. He wouldn't want it to. And Lynda, what was he supposed to tell her? He hated keeping her in the dark.

He reached the outskirts of the only town he was familiar with right at dusk. As he rounded the last corner on the only highway that led in and out of the town, a familiar pair of headlights passed him. His tires squealed against the pavement as he braked and slung himself into the opposing lane to follow her.

Alarmed, Lynda slowed down and pulled over onto a gravel patch on the side of the road.

"What are you doing out here on a Wednesday?" she asked as she turned to look at him. Her eyes widened as she noticed his primer-covered fenders and patchwork paint job. "Strip, what happened? Are you okay?"

He couldn't say 'yes', and he didn't want to admit 'no'. His gaze flickered around like he was looking for something, but he didn't know what.

"I really need to talk to you," he said, audibly nervous. "You're not busy, are you?"

"No, no." She shook herself. "Just goin' out for a little drive before settlin' in for the night. Tell me, what's wrong?"

"Is there some place private we can go?" he looked around again, paranoid.

Lynda thought for a moment. "Yeah, come on, follow me."

Up the road a little ways, they exited the road on an overgrown path that led through a thick patch of forest. A couple hundred yards later, it opened up into a nice grassy area. It looked like there had once been a house there, as the foundation blocks were still laid in the ground. There was no way anyone from the town or the nearby road would ever see them there.

Lynda flipped her lights off and turned toward him. He snapped his shut as well and observed the area.

"Talk to me, what's goin' on?" she prompted. "You're scarin' me."

"Lynda, I haven't been straight with you this whole time," he jumped straight to the point, taking a deep breath. He couldn't contain it anymore.

She looked hurt, but didn't move. He saw the look in her eyes and knew he'd never forgive himself if what he was about to tell her upset her. He prayed this wouldn't be the end – he needed her. He needed someone he could trust, someone that would understand.

"What do you mean?" she asked, watching him rile himself up.

"That job at the factory I told you I had," he blurted. "It wasn't voluntary. I didn't want to be there, but I didn't have a choice. I had to do what they told me to survive."

She frowned. "I'm not followin' you."

He tried to collect his thoughts in a way that made sense, but they were too jumbled. "Did you watch the news today?"

"Yeah, I saw the attack," she said. "It looked terrible. You weren't in that buildin', were you? Is that what happened?"

"No," he shook himself. "I was one of the guys that took out the tanks. I'm a fighter, Lyn. I didn't wanna be, but that's what they made me. Look."

He closed his eyes and forced himself to convert into his aerial mode. Lynda watched with shock and astonishment as he turned into one of those flying machines she'd seen earlier that day. In the dying light, his matte black paint almost made him disappear.