A Thousand Miles Down I-80

My eyes dart back and forth, one look in the rearview, one glance at the road, and over and over again. There's a ringing in my ears, a slight buzzing in my brain.

It's the goddamn implant again. It gets worse at night. I touch the back of my neck and wince. My fingers can't detect it, but I can feel the pressure of it against my spine. It makes me nauseas, and I focus back on the road.

I-80 stretches from New York to San Francisco, a long blood vessel running through this dying country. The left side of my hip feels like someone is electrocuting it every time I hit a bump in the road. The signals run down my leg into my ankle. I don't know if its the implant, or if I've just been driving too long.

The signs say Reno, and I start to search for a motel. A hotel won't do, too many cameras there. Too many WIFI connections. Too many eyes.

I gently guide Jen's Jeep to the off-ramp, making sure the headlights behind me don't follow. They don't, they keep on moving. I don't think anyone's been following me today, not since the black Escalade last night. Had to drive down some weird roads, make some U-turns through the median, but I lost the sons of bitches. And they haven't caught up.

I spot a yellow sign with blue neon letters. Motel Reno. Rooms by the day or hour.

The 'M' blinks on and off, tempting a cloud of zombie moths that flit around it like every other brainwashed idiot in this godforsaken country. Oh, shiny things. Oh, blue lights and phone screens. Zap, zap, zap.

They get what they deserve.

I pull into the back of the motel, where the dumpsters sit full of trash and a raccoon scurries away from the Jeep's headlights. I turn the car off and scan the area, making sure no one has seen me. There's no one around. It's quiet.

Thank God.

I travel light, just the backpack Jen bought me last year with the million pockets and the vacuum seal section that I never use. It's heavy on my shoulders and I sweat a little even though the desert night is chilly. There is no sidewalk to the front of the motel, and my shoes kick up little dust clouds.

The woman at the desk is older, with flaming red hair that should be white, judging by the roots. She looks up at me over black-rimmed glasses and doesn't smile. I don't trust her immediately, but I don't peg her as the enemy.

"By the hour or for the night?" she asks.

"Two nights," I say.

"Credit card."

"Cash."

"We need a credit card for the deposit, hun," she clicks and clacks on her computer. "It'll be returned when you check out."

I reach into my pocket and pull out a wad of money, delicately extracting two hundreds and placing them in front of her. "No card. Cash only."

She almost protests, but decides to take the tip instead. The room is only forty bucks a night, but mama needs a new pair of glasses.

"A22," she says and hands me a magnetic key card. I hand it back to her.

"I want a room with a key, please."

Her old face scrunches up and the wrinkles around her eyes deepen. "Key? We don't use keys anymore. It's all digital now, babes."

The nausea hits me again and I don't mind grimacing in front of this woman. "I need a key."

"And I'd love to give you one. But that's not how it works here at the Motel Reno."

I feel like snapping. Screaming in her tired old face. The last motel didn't have keys either. Just those goddamned electronic cards that can be programmed, and re-programmed anytime. This world was going to hell in a handbasket...

Sick to my stomach and leg on fire, I snatch the card off the desk and make my way around the side of the building to A22.

The room is small, horribly decorated, and smells faintly of cigarettes. No motels allow smoking these days, but they all smell like cigarettes anyway. I throw my bag onto a chair in the corner and lock the deadbolt immediately. I look through the peephole at the parking lot, and feel relief. No one is there. Another victory for good ol' Parker West.

From the backpack, I pull out my scanner, black and cold with it's little antennae sticking out the top. I turn it on and scan the room- vents, under the bed, around the windows. The light stays green, letting me know there are no recording devices here.

No one is listening. I can relax.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the black corded phone on the night stand for a moment. Then I pick it up and dial the numbers. I don't put it to my head, the implant reacts to the signal and I can't stand the buzzing. Instead, I hold it an inch from my ear, just enough to hear the dial tone.

"Hello?" Her voice is questioning, soft, sweet. She doesn't know the number, but she's still kind to the potential stranger on the other end.

"Hi, Jen," I say.

"Parker?" her voice changes. "Parker, where are you?"

"Safe."

"Safe where?"

"I can't. You know that."

There's a pause as she tries to find her words. She's never understood what was happening. Didn't believe me when I'd told her what had been done to me. Called the hospitals, the therapists, the looney bins.

I forgave her. She knows not what she does.

"Please come home, Parker." It's almost a whisper, like her voice breaking into tiny shards.

"It's not safe. Not yet. But I'm getting close, Jen. I'm getting real close."

"I don't understand."

"I know. But I need you to do me a favor. Grab a piece of paper and jot down something for me."

I hear her rustling in the background, and I can imagine her perpetually cluttered desk in the study. I can see the little silver desk lamp and the big chair I'd bought her when she'd finished her first novel. The old one hurt her back.

"I'm ready," she sighs.

"Great. Write down these words exactly. Halibut. Trespasser. Nimrod. Merchant. Fifty-two. Sugar."

"Parker, what does this mean?"

"It's too much to explain. Put it in the top drawer, and lock it with the key. Has anyone showed up at the house looking for me?"

Now she starts to sob. "Parker, please! I can't do this anymore. Every three days you call me and give me some words to write down. And that's it? I'm your wife, I am your wife! Let me help you."

"Has anyone come looking for me!" I don't mean to raise my voice. But it's hard not to.

The sound of Jen crying makes my implant buzz. Any emotion I feel gets sent straight to them. I shudder at the thought of those motherfuckers in their black suits, pouring over my thoughts and feelings, maybe even listening to Jen cry.

"It has to end," I say into the phone. "They're not going to get away with this."

Jen sniffles on the other end, "Please come home. Please."

There's a million things I can say. But I don't. I'm tired of trying to explain it to her. My head is killing me, and all I want to do it flop down and fall asleep.

I've told her about the experiments, the implant, the government. She didn't believe me then, and I don't expect her to now.

But she'll find out soon enough.

The whole world will find out soon enough.

"If anyone comes looking for me, don't tell them anything." I say softly. And before Jen can say anything else, I hang up the phone.