Ring...

Andrew was typing on his Smith Corona Galaxie Deluxe. The sound of a phone ringing first registered only in his lower consciousness before it was dismissed as part of a TV program Natalie was watching.

Ring...

More persistent now, the sound penetrated his upper consciousness, and Andrew began to process the disparity between the setting of Brigadoon and the anachronistic quality of an electronic ring tone.

He jumped to his feet, then stood still as a dead man with rigor mortis.

Ring...

It's outside!

He ran.

Andrew made it to the door in a beat, but had the sense to grab the shotgun on his way. Mimicking TV cops, he held it ready and swept the darkness as he left through the front door.

He would've made an easy target in spite of his intensive TV cop gun carrying research. He spotted the phone on the rail and grabbed it, swiping the screen as it...

Ri...

"Who the fuck...?"

"Mr. Price. I have a few questions about your book."

The fucking Suit.

Andrew levelled the shotgun at the darkness, attempting to channel Mark Wahlberg. He heard the Suit jabbering from the phone so he pressed speaker and set it back on the rail.

"What?!"

Oakes rolled his eyes.

"I said if I meant to kill you, a stationary target backlit by your cabin lights coupled with my rifle would be expeditious but is in this case as yet unnecessary."

"Why did you follow us here?"

"To kill you, obviously," the Suit said. "But after careful observation it seems we may still be on track despite this minor detour."

There was a bit of a pause.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Because you're not dead."

"OK, fair point." Andrew was clearly out of his lane. He lowered the shotgun, took the cell phone off of speaker, and went back inside. "What do you mean questions?"

"My superiors would like to know if you are resolved to meet your commitments."

"Are you talking about the book?"

"Indeed."

Andrew shrugged. "I'm working on it right now actually but here's the thing. I have plans for a series."

The Suit asked him several more questions, the sort that any devotee of Price's would call spoilers. Andrew answered them, knowing the Suit would never read the book for pleasure anyways, the aliterate prick.

"And of course Ms. Green will require sanitization. That is after your research project bears fruit. At least I assume that's..."

Andrew coughed.

"What the fuck are you saying?" He looked towards the shotgun.

"Mr. Price?"

"Mr. Shithead?"

"Mr. Price, let me be blunt."

Andrew cut in, "You can't have her. She's not some goddamn animal. She still thinks and feels like a person..."

"Mr. Price!" the asshole snapped, as Andrew grabbed the shotgun, stepped inside, closed the door, began drawing curtains. "Mr. Price, don't complicate this. You have a first class ticket to a safe haven when we reach our Deadline. You wouldn't want to jeopardize that, now would you?"

Pause...

Long pause...

Bordering on awkward dead air space...

Actually fully embracing awkward silence...

"I'll write your books. But I'm keeping my girlfriend."

The Suit pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming behind his eyes that threatened to dig a happy little Bob Ross crater inside his control of this situation.

"Perhaps this isn't the time to discuss such logistical matters. Although there is one minor snag..."

"Which is...?"

"Your agent, Mr. Carver."

The Suit could hear sounds like furniture being moved on the other end. It made no difference. He was already driving away.

"What about him?"

"He was removed from the equation. You now send manuscripts directly to me. I'll text the address when the first draft is ready. I'll be in touch."

Slight awkward silence...

"Mr. Price...?" the Suit asked, grinning like a wolf with a big fat bloody deer hobbling in front of it. "Enjoy yourself. All work and no play, am I right?"

He hung up and began giggling as the car bounced along the old dirt road.

Andrew stared at the phone, unable to breathe. He looked over at Natalie. She wasn't watching Gene Kelly, rather she had her eyes on him, her expression a mixture of concern and protective rage. Andrew had no doubt she understood what was going on.

"It's okay babe. I won't let him hurt you."

Natalie smiled, ferociously feminine.

"Even if I have to kill him."

Natalie licked her lips.

Through the night, Andrew worked. He hammered the keys like he used to hammer back whiskey, and he found that anger was as much a lubricant for the writing process as alcohol. The chapter pages flew off the typewriter in an autumnal descent, a tree of knowledge shedding its leaves.

It was rough, to be sure, but no rougher than his unshaven face after the last few weeks. Actually, that wasn't saying much. This draft would need serious revision and editing. Spelling errors sprang forth like dandelions, and some of the syntax was sloppy, but he knew the characters were compelling, and that's what keeps readers turning pages. A ridiculous genre like zombies can always be reanimated with good relatable character-driven plot.

It would need revision, but not by him. He'd send this along and carry on firing out the next one. It was a pulp series at its finest - grocery stores and gas stations, and of course online ebooks. Textnovel was defunct, but Wattpad was going strong and had a solid base of readers. Maybe Inkitt.

It was about meeting the Deadline now. The longer Andrew could stretch the series, the longer he could protect Natalie. And he had watched enough movies with Keanu Reeves to know better than to trust those in positions of authority to keep you around when they're done with you.

Extensive Keanu research aside, the Suit was just not trustworthy.

He hasn't killed us, so he still expects I can deliver these books. But he hasn't killed us, so he can't've reported this to his superiors. If he did, they'd cut us loose. So he has to contain this. His ass is on the line too.

Andrew processed this.

If I kill him first, nobody will come for us. Nobody knows we're here.

This was encouraging, and Andrew smiled. But then...

"He's also a trained agent of some sort. The kind of guy you can't beat in a fair fight."

Andrew looked up, puzzled for a moment. It was the sound of somebody's voice.

"That was me," he said. "Shit, I must be cracking up. I'm talking out loud to myself."

So figure this out. If you were a character in one of your stories, what would his next move be? "How the hell should I know?" Well, you're the writer. So write an ending. How do you see this all playing out? "Just shut up for a minute and let me think." As soon as you give him what he needs so he doesn't catch shit from his superiors, there's your sunset clause. It may not be the last book in the series, just enough that your little fictional training manual will help them help the general population. "So control the narrative?" Exactly.

"So what do they need to teach people in order to survive?"

Rules.

"Like...?"

1. Increase your carbon footprint - burn your dead.
2. Decrease your carbon footprint - bikes don't run out of gas.
3. Stay sharp - machetes don't run out of ammunition.
4. Eat seasonal ingredients - like you have a choice.
5. Shake what your momma gave ya - If you keep moving, they can't catch you.
6. The Sinead look is so in - short hair can't be grabbed or attract lice.
7. Be a lifelong learner - today it may be stitching up clothing, tomorrow it's stitching up flesh wounds.
8. Fill your prescription - superbugs are no reason to avoid antibiotics.
9. To hear, one must be silent. - Ursula K. Le Guin - so shut up and stay alive.
10. The government solution to a problem is usually as bad as the problem. – Milton Friedman - they're not coming to save you, there is no safe haven, only an idiot would expect elected officials to help the people in a time of crisis, or ever, basically.

"Ain't that the truth."

Andrew didn't answer himself. He knew he was speaking rhetorically.

"So share the rules with the Suit, control the pace of the story, buy time to organize."

It'll be like Home Alone meets the Matrix. Or you could hand Natalie over and hope for the best.

"Yeah, well, that sounds like a pretty good deal. But I think I may have a better one. How about, I give you the finger." Andrew raised his middle finger. "And you give me my phone call."

He loved Keanu. He pictured him with white eyes and blood dripping through his goatee.