Guerilla -- a true story

It was eleven thirty, I think.
Eleven thirty, and two hours too late for us.
I saw them first, from my superior vantage upon the log: a small light dancing through the woods, cast by a flashlight.

A flashlight. They never had flashlights; sometimes they had cell phones, whose azure eyes stared ahead and averted obstacles from the wielder�s step. A flashlight was authority, and authority was terror.

Ice shot through my veins as I shook Tom, who had nodded into deeper thoughts than I. The strangers were coming, and they came for us.

We jolted ourselves into reality as they approached. They greeted us strangely. �You guys doing anything you shouldn�t be tonight?�

We were, but neither of us trusted them. We smiled, and hated them.

They sat behind us. Two of them, a man and a woman, too beautiful for their own good. One wore a backpack. He was the liberal, she the conservative. The socialist and the realist, the poor actor and the perfect mole.

Their questions probed; I was polite, friendly, and stupid. Tom was silent. They know where we live now, but only just. There are too many of us, anyway, for them to have any hope of stopping us all.

As we left, they shined their lights upon Tom�s face, and committed it to memory; as they turned to me, I looked away. They moved, and I held up my hand in front of my face. They would not find me again.

They asked why I hid myself, and I told them.

They were very poor actors.

We left, and no further word was said. Their car sat at the top of the hill, not even disguised.

They give us so little credit. It is strange that in this war, the side that is defined by its self-debilitation is clearly emerging as victor.