There was a storm. Six was dreamy. Distant. Drifting close to the edge of unconsciousness. But the fury of the storm held him, like a thin thread tethering him to reality. He lay listening. Thunder rolled and angry rain slapped at the window. There was darkness beyond the glass. A darkness filled with wild rage. Suddenly lighting flashed, showing him a strange world. A world of wind whipped trees etched on a brilliant sky. Then it was gone and the window was like the black face of a mirror from which his own reflection looked back. He was in the hospital.

The meaning of the storm came to him through a fog. The fight was not yet finished. Casey had escaped them. His eyes closed as sleep took him.

Morosely Number Two looked out of the mouth of his chair at the still dark screen, wondering why he hesitated to turn it on. His fingers moved to the control, then hung there, frozen by a dread that shamed him. He could not turn on the screen. Could not bear to meet Number Six's unseeing eyes. He withdrew his hand. Number Six had cheated death but nothing would stop it from finding him. He had failed his masters.

The red phone caught his interest. Soon they would call. He was to give an account of himself. It would be rejected of course. His masters only wished to see him grovel. Angrily he rose out of the chair and went round the desk. Nothing he could say would placate them. And yet, for their amusement, he was expected to try. And he would, dutifully. Long ago when he might have resisted, he instead chose to concede. The pattern was now established like a grove etched deep into his psyche. Doing otherwise was almost unthinkable. In that moment when he was trapped in the fury of their rage, would he even consider it? Without thought his fist came down on the desk. His conditioning made him a slave to obedience.

His gaze went back to the blank screen. Number Six was once again in his room. Once again consigned to his imprisonment. A man without hope. For all his bravery, his honor, his self imposed morality, Number Six had achieved nothing. He risked his life just to end back where he began.

Number Two glowered down at the control. The fear that held him back annoyed him. What was a prisoner's mocking glance to a condemned man? He turned on the screen.

Number Six did not disappoint. He gave the camera a sweeping salute with his good arm. The other hung useless in a sling. It was clean wound. The bullet had passed through causing little damage. But the trauma had left Six weakened. It was apparent in the slowness of his actions and the unsteadiness of his gait. A long walk could prove a challenge. Yet, he did not doubt the man's resolve. Number Six would do what must be done, without hesitation.

The red phone buzzed. The time had come. Number Two looked over at it and felt nothing. Even as he reached for it he was detached, wondering how he might respond, as if he were watching an actor in a film. He held it to his ear saying nothing. Just waiting with a calm that startled him. Was he so resigned to his fate he could not even be afraid?

The tirade he anticipated descended upon him. Those who held the power over his life berated him for his incompetence, recklessness and arrogance. The boldness of what he said in return surprised him. The familiar acquiescence did not manifest. There was no submission in his tone.

Then it was finished. Their contempt vented, they were prepared to pass judgment. His responses had not been, he could guess, to their liking. It gave him some pleasure to deny them. He watched Number Six on the screen. He understood the man now. Or perhaps it was himself he finally understood.

The damning sentence was delivered and he answered in a voice devoid of emotion.

"I understand, sir. I will do so without fail the moment my replacement arrives."

He set the phone down and considered it. It no longer held any dread for him. It was just a phone.

He returned to his chair and dropped himself into it comfortably. On the screen Number Six was restless. Thinking of the girl no doubt. Planning his next move. A man of action can not abide idleness. He leaned forward and touched a control, opening the intercom to Six's room. He spoke only two words.

"Get her."

Number Two watched as Six retraced that now familiar path along the shore. Even before the man crossed the invisible barrier he was reaching for the yellow phone. It buzzed as his fingers closed round it.

The Supervisor's voice was there. "Number Six now approaching outer zone. Should I sound the alarm?"

"He is not to be interfered with."

Near emotion boiled up in the man's voice. "By who's authority?"

"By mine."

"Mind if I check?"

"Feel free." Number Two said, the edge returning to his voice. "But in the meantime my orders are to followed. Is that understood?"

There was a hesitation then the Supervisor's cool response. "Of course."

He set the phone down carefully and turned back to the screen.

Six climbed the rock and fumbled clumsily with the little flowered compact. The fingers of his left hand were stiff and the arm ached to the shoulder. The shoulder itself burned dully. He worked enough flex into his fingers to grasp the compact so he could open it.

The mountains rose above him. Vast and steep. A hard climb from any approach. Casey, a half feral girl, would be impossible to find with a well organized search party. In that wilderness he could pass within a few feet of her and never be the wiser. Or more likely not come within 30 miles.

The little mirror found a sunbeam and flashed it at the stoic peeks.

In Morris Code he spelled. "I'm coming."

She wouldn't answer nor would she trust. But if she saw, she would be watching.

He looked back at the Village, his eyes resting on the Green Dome. There was no alarm. Perhaps another of Number Two's games. Or perhaps the act of a desperate man. There was only one way to know. He jumped down from the rock and crossed the sand, heading boldly for the trees.

The forest closed in around him and he began to climb. In the dark coolness of the tall trees he listened to the sounds of this new isolated world. His presents was known at once by the many unseen eyes of the wild creatures and they fell silent at his approach. He could only hope Casey was also aware and would allow curiosity to draw her to him.

The torrent tore down from somewhere high above him. A violent rush of water born in the peaks now racing madly to the ocean far below. What lay beyond those peaks? Another ocean? A wilderness as vast as this? Or the passage home?

A game trail made for easier travel. It wound through the trees following the path of least resistance. He followed it. Resting often. The exertion and thin air punished his already exhausted body. He felt the tell tale shake in his muscles. He would not make much distance. The trail steepened, forcing him to scramble over and around rock. He used his wounded arm sparingly but he knew the wound had begun to bleed a bit. Blood lose here could spell the end.

The trees became sparse and grew smaller. Until they were shrub like and twisted by cruel winds. It was quite cold. He was in the open now, on a rocky spine, with the entire world spilling away below his feet. The air was too thin, making him gasp. He settled himself on a rock and waited for his lungs to fill and his heart to settle.

The Village was far away, almost lost in the distance. Sunlight reflected off the Dome catching his eye. He was free. No one watched him. No one waited to assault him. To pry into his mind. Here his thoughts could remain his own. He could live as he will. But not for very long. The misery of his shoulder assured him of that. Freedom of this kind came with a heavy price. A price Casey would pay if she did not find him soon.

He rose and climbed on. After a short time the trail led him down off the ridge into heavier trees until it intersected with the river once again. In the open the thin air made the sun intense. He followed along the river's edge, feeling thirsty. But the steep rocky bank offered no safe place to drink. A slip into the rapids would end in an unpleasant death.

He'd felt for sometime. A latent sense like a prickling along his spine. He was being stalked. By what, he had know way to tell. He hoped for Casey but feared something else. These mountains could be home to anything. A human alone is easy prey.

The game trail slipped back into the trees but he stuck to the bank, hoping for an opportunity to drink. As he walked on, his pace was slowed by the steady climb and a deep weariness. He kept a wary eye on the tree line. If whatever pursued him was not friendly he would be at a disadvantage in a fight.

After a long hot hour he came to a place where the river jutted out into a quiet eddy. Icy water splashed over stone as he knelt and drank. The cold burned his throat making it hard to get his fill. But he felt better. He rested for a moment and scanned his surroundings. The river bank was littered with rock and upturned trees, long dead, worn smooth and bleached white by water and sun. Beyond this tangle the forest had become a thicket, difficult to traverse without a trail.

The rush of water made it impossible to hear. Anything could come up on him and he would not be aware until it was too late. But yet he had no desire to leave the river. If Casey were tracking him the sound of the river was an advantage she would gladly exploit. Knowing he was deaf she would be embolden to come closer. Perhaps close enough to recognize him. If she were contrite over shooting him or desperate for a friend she might approach. He could count on neither. She was as dangerous as any wild animal. Perhaps more so.

Now he felt the eyes of his stalker less intensely. A practiced hunter, human or animal, may avert their attention, so as not to alert the prey just before an attack.

With the river before him and the heavy tangle of brush and trees behind, he was exposed and vulnerable. It was a fine place for an ambush. He remained where he was, crouched by the water a bit longer. There was a thick branch, worn smooth by flood waters, within easy reach.

The shoulder was throbbing in protest. His efforts to protect it had been in vein. Rough terrain and weariness forced him to aggravate it. He could feel the warm stickiness under his shirt. It may well get worse.

He bent again to scoop cold water into his hand and splash his face and neck. When he rose and spun round, the branch was in his hands and he was no longer alone.