Author's Note: Okay, I didn't think I'd be updating this soon. But, inspiration hit and I was really excited about this chapter. Of course, just 'cause I'm excited about it doesn't make it good, but I'm giving it to you anyway. This isn't one of the two chapters I mentioned in chapter 2 that I had in mind, so those two are still coming up... and they're still not written.
Author's Note II: I forgot to say: Thank you all for the reviews and encouragement. It means a lot to me that you like what I've written.
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Remembrance
Interstate 405 N, West Los Angeles, CA
August 22, 2016
Chuck got on the 10 freeway heading west. He had merged onto the 405 north and he was now making his way to the 101. He kept readjusting his hands on the steering wheel: he was nervous about seeing his family again. Looking at the mountains rising all around him in that corridor, he started feeling nostalgic. He'd seen The Getty Center a few minutes back looking unchanged after all this time, and now the brush and greenery growing on the side of the mountains made him think back to the times he and Ellie would make their way to the beach using this very route. It had been so long since he'd been any place that was familiar to him, and now he was heading back into the San Fernando Valley. The short trip down memory lane and the prospect of happy times ahead made him think back to just how close he came to never having this opportunity.
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Approximately three months after running...
Chuck found himself in the port city of San Lorenzo, Honduras. When he first ran he knew he had to head south. It was his best chance at evading the NSA and the CIA. The instability and corruption running rampant throughout South America meant that records of his presence or activity would be hard to get. Even when dealing with friendly governments, they would be hard pressed for information as long as he stayed in the smaller towns. No cameras, no major security posts; that would suit him well. Plus, any American looking for him would stand out like a sore thumb. The locals would probably think them tourists, but he would be able to tell the difference thanks to the Intersect.
Chuck also knew that they'd have the US/Mexico border locked down heading into Tijuana. Instead he got into the car he had just purchased and made his way to Arizona. He knew that the border towns there had been having trouble with violence courtesy of the Mexican cartels fighting their drug war and if he had a chance to slip into Mexico successfully, it would be through there. His destination was a ten hour drive away but he just had to last the five hours to the California/Arizona border, once he crossed that, the first part of his plan would be complete and a huge weight would be lifted. Hopefully, he had enough lead time over Sarah and Casey that by the time they figured out he wasn't heading immediately south or north, he would be long gone. Only then would he have a fighting chance of evading the bunker, or maybe even a bullet at this point. He didn't want to find out which.
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Nogales, Arizona had been the town with the most trouble and he figured the resident Minutemen would be too busy trying to keep people from coming in, they wouldn't be on the lookout for someone trying to get out. Once he got into town, he ditched the car he had been driving and set off in search of the local group and offered to come with them on patrol, spouting rhetoric about how the government wouldn't act so the people had to. They bought it, and that night he found himself driving one of their trucks along a stretch of border that was undermanned by the US Border Patrol. Stealing one of their trucks would be easier than he had anticipated. There were only two others in the truck he was driving: one in the passenger seat next to him, and another taking video in the flatbed. When they made a stop for the other two to "relieve" themselves Chuck stayed behind in the truck. As soon as they were far enough not to reach him in time, he sped off across the border and didn't look back or stop for the next 12 hours. He was tired and his nerves were eating at him, but he was in Mexico. He had made it. He allowed a smile to cross his face before he realized... he had no clue where he was. Worse yet, he didn't speak the language. He really should've paid more attention in Spanish class. His plan to stay hidden in smaller towns didn't seem as feasible now. The adrenaline he had been feeling for the last day was wearing off, and the seriousness of what he had done started to overwhelm him. It all seemed too much, how the hell was he going to do this? He was alone; he didn't know what he was doing. He was up against professional spies, why did he ever expect to be able to outrun them?
Chuck started to hyperventilate. He was freaking out. He quickly pulled off to the side of the sparsely traveled road and jumped out of the truck clutching his stomach. He started to quickly pace to and fro, hunched over, as thoughts ran wild in his head. He worked himself into such a frenzy he finally fell to his knees and hands and vomited all over the side of the road. If nothing else, that helped him regain control. Wiping his forearm across his mouth, he started to breathe easier and calm down.
Chuck moved into a sitting position with his legs leveraged against the pavement and his arms supporting him on either side. Breathing deeply in and out, he started thinking rationally again. He had run. That was the right choice, if he hadn't he'd be in a bunker. Now, it was time to suck it up and keep moving. If he failed he would have no one to blame but himself. After a few more moments Chuck stood up, got back into the truck and pulled back onto the road. It may turn out to be harder than he originally thought but he would find a way to make it work. He had to; for his sake.
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The first month had been hard. He had kept mostly to himself, and only ventured out of his room in whichever little rundown hostel he happened to find himself in when he needed supplies. Not speaking the local language was a definite hindrance, having cash along with him though, smoothed things a great deal since it meant he didn't have to do much talking. At the end of that first thirty days, he found a surprise waiting for him when he got back to the room he was occupying. It was a pair of dark sunglasses sitting on his bed with a little note that read: I hope this helps. I'm sorry I can't give you more just yet, but I'm proud of you, Charles. Don't give up. Beneath the note was a roll of cash. It was much needed and very welcome. He was fast running out, and he didn't know what he'd do once he did. Not being able to properly communicate made it difficult to know whether he was being overcharged or not, but he needed what he'd bought.
When his emotions got to be too much, Chuck began to cry as he clutched the glasses. He had missed his family so much over the weeks, and he had been so afraid, scanning the crowd and looking over his shoulder all the time, not wanting anyone to get the drop on him. It felt great to be reminded that he had people who cared about him out there; better yet, it felt great to know his dad was still alive, and able to at least move around freely enough to get the sunglasses to him. Had it been anyone else, they would've taken him already. He trusted his dad, so he placed the glasses over his eyes and let the program run its course. As he found out when he checked out the next day, the update contained a language pack. After listening to a few words the manager spoke, the Intersect engaged and loaded Spanish into Chuck's language bank. Thank you dad! This is going to make things so much easier, thought Chuck with a big smile on his face, "Muchas gracias. Hasta luego, senora."*
The woman's eyes went wide; she had thought the American didn't speak a word of Spanish, and yet here he was speaking with no notable accent at all. Chuck walked out paying her no mind.
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In the subsequent weeks and months, Chuck had made his way further south, never staying in one place for long. By the time he strolled into San Lorenzo, he had developed a makeshift security system for the various rooms he would occupy. It was easy to find components for it since it mostly employed anything that could be used to slow pursuers down and warn him if anyone tried to break into his room without his knowing. He couldn't take much with him, so he depended on readily available objects where ever he was. His dad's words had stayed with him the whole time, and they kept motivating him onward.
This time around, he had found some abandoned cinder blocks, some deflated tires, a fishing net, and a bell. He tied one end of a string to the end of the bell and draped it over a screw he screwed into the wall above the door, and then tied the other end of the string onto a screw he had screwed into the door near the top. The tension he put on the string made it so the slightest movement of the door would set off the bell, alerting him to intruders.
Chuck took a room towards the back of the building on the second floor. He had tied a rope near the window so he could escape that way if need be. He had just enough rope to grab on to the end of it and jump out the window, leaving him with a two foot drop. The impact against the wall from the initial jump was something he hoped he wouldn't have to experience, but in an emergency every second he could get counted. He took the tires and stacked them half an inch away from the door, leaving a little room for the bell to work. They were sturdy enough to be able to hold the door should they try to break it down, giving him a chance to escape. As a final precaution, he had secured the net onto the ceiling immediately in front of the door and placed the cinder blocks inside the net. With a pull of a piece of rope, they would come crashing down on anyone unlucky enough to be underneath them at the time.
Being in a port city, he had been able to work out a deal with a retiring shrimp fisherman for a shrimping boat. The older man had even agreed to give him a couple of lessons. It was nothing spectacular but it would do in a pinch. He would be able to make his way out of Honduras and into Nicaragua. The agents after him may have cars, but he doubted they had boats at the ready.
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Chuck stood over his hotplate, in his small room, stirring yet another can's worth of chicken soup. It's not that it tasted bad, he had actually enjoyed the taste the first couple of times he'd had it, but after eating it so constantly, it became a chore to do so. Suddenly, he heard the ringing of the bell right before the sound of the door cracking open reached his ears. The tires gave way about a foot from the impact of the battering ram that had been smashed into the door. Chuck stood frozen for a second, but as soon as he saw the first two agents force their way through the door with guns drawn, followed by a scowling John Casey, he jumped to the first rope, gave it a yank, and didn't wait to see if the blocks did their jobs. "Bartowski!" He quickly turned, grabbed the second rope, and hurled himself out the window. His mind was in a panic and didn't register that he was hurdling through the air until the wind was knocked out of him when he smashed against the side of the building. He fell to the ground on his side and let out a pained groan. Hearing the shouts of Casey coming from above, he pushed himself up off the ground and took off running to his 1970s era VW Beetle parked in front of the building. He jumped into the car and took off towards the docks. Looking in the mirror, he didn't see the agents exist the building yet, with any luck they hadn't seen him get into his car. He would head to Nicaragua; there he would decide his next move. South was an option, but only as far as Panama, he didn't want to wander into Colombia, he thought it too dangerous. The Cayman Islands maybe or he could try for Europe somewhere. Language was no longer a concern, only his ability to hide. But first... he had to get the hell out of Honduras. With his heart trying to pump its way out of his chest, he lifted a hand from the steering wheel to wipe over his face, only to see the wild shaking that had overtaken it.
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US Route 101 N
August 22, 2016
Chuck took his right hand off the steering wheel and looked it over: it was steady as could be. A slight smile shone through at the memories, before he turned his attention back to the road. He was now on the 101, and his exit was coming up. He veered his car to the right-most lane and slowed down to take his exit. He was in Encino, and in a matter of minutes, he would be pulling up to a house that had not been home since he was a teenager.
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Author's Note: I realized as I read over this chapter that there really wasn't any dialogue, I hope you don't mind.
*This is what Chuck said: "Thank you, very much. Goodbye, ma'am." It's not a literal translation because that wouldn't make sense in English.
Next time: Chuck reunites with his family... for real, this time.