THE ENFORCER

She had to leave the house today. Gwen stared at the alarm clock with a dissipated glare of resignation and turned over, pulling the covers back over her head. The body next to her didn't move. Her husband didn't have to wake for another half hour and he was the type to wait until the last minute to get up. She hated that about him, the frantic running around at last minute, the hurried rush of his breakfast or the beeping of his metro card as he filled it with money before placing it into his pocket.

They had to stretch their funds every week just to fill the card for his commute, but without his under the table job, they wouldn't survive. Even if they ate ramen once a day for a week, he had to go. Not that she wasn't thankful for the daily respite. Not today, though. Today, she had to leave the house, and she wasn't ready to face it.

His voice was a sleepy hush when he rolled over and spoke. "You're not up yet?"

She swallowed back anxiety. "Not yet."

He leaned in and gave her a perfunctory good morning kiss upon her cheek. She hated that, too. It was meaningless, just as they were meaningless, but for both of them it was safer that they stayed married. Her, because she wasn't considered mentally capable under Roster's regime, and for her husband Scott because he preferred men, and his rights had been abolished under the Marriage Act of 2022.

Nothing mattered anymore, not the kiss, not the perplexing grit of her conscience as she weighed the farce of their arrangement, not the dingy grunge of cement walls and low, drop ceilings. Nothing. Gwen tucked the blanket around her and kept staring, the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom tap echoing in her mind.

"You're going to be late," Scott said. He rolled up from the mattress, staring at her a long, deliberating second.

"Yeah. I don't care." She didn't bother looking at him. He'd always read her too well.

He stayed silent a moment longer, then sighing, he tucked a piece of her lank mink-brown hair behind her ear. "I know. You have to, though. If you don't show..."

She knew. The requirement was clear: all residents with C-2 clearance must attend a mandatory meeting once a month, then let one of the nurses from the Republic's wellness faction validate their mental health status. Someone she mistrusted completely. They had the undisputed power to give her freedom or to make her wait behind the walls of the Institute. Only one option was viable. Only one, though day by day it proved more impossible. Her health was tenuous-just as she was. Gwen lifted up from the bed, naked and too thin.

She hadn't eaten last night nor the night before, leaving their meager meal for Scott. He needed it more than her anyway.

She was empty, and what did it matter if she rotted away inside? Scott lifted an auburn brow, handsomely fit and still strong, a worried look upon his face. "You have to try to get yourself together, Gwennie," he said, imploring. "This time they won't ignore the signs. You managed--"

"Yeah, I know," she interrupted. "Paul isn't there to fudge the paperwork."

Another quiet silence ensued. "I know," her husband said. His hand swept over her brow, smoothing away the wick of dampness, the cold sweat. He was too good for her, but again, what did it matter? They were hiding, their own sacred lies the bind that kept them from releasing the other into the scold of the Republic's mercenary reconditioning programs.

The city was alive all around them them. Baltimore, a dark and dirty cavity of disgust, their home. Decayed buildings and streets. Hives of dejected poverty-stricken individuals. The filthy lair of the new Republic's quarantine facilities, shining bright among the darkness.

Then there were them: the well-dressed Enforcers. If she and Scott were among those hated from the Republic's point of view, from the citizen's viewpoint the military enforcers were men rising from the bowels of hell. Crews of trained killers, self-righteous demons of progress, and no one from the east side trusted them>. She doubted anyone who had an ounce of preservation in them dared trust those black-clad men, for they lived by incendiary methods and used their guns to persuade. Men of decided ancestry and wealth, they controlled the nation by whim and by force.

The enforcers were everywhere, locusts. Beasts.

Scott gave her another wary stare, the false complacency ending. "You need to snap out of it. You'll never convince anyone that way."

He tugged on a pair of worn jeans and an old tee shirt, the uniform of a man who worked in labor and the deprecation of a man who once used his mind to sway the courts and to convince judges. No more. No more. No fucking more.

As for her? How had her life changed? It mostly hadn't, and that was the sad part. True, she was bound to a man she didn't love, but that would doubtless have happened anyway. Gwen didn't think she had the capacity to love, not when she didn't even love herself. Her home was nicer than the one she came from. As for her mind...

Bequeathed the heredity illness by birth, driven worse by circumstance and doubt, nothing could change who and what she was. Gwen was considered certifiable. Mad, a woman gone crazy, her bipolar induced by the stress all around her. She almost snorted out loud, yanking one of Scott's nicer shirts over her head. It hung loose to her thighs. If only time reverted and on that fateful election five years ago, Elgin won instead of bowing out. What might have happened to her and her husband then?

The joint that served as her lifeline to sanity lay snuffed on the edge of a chipped plate, used to an inch of its life. Maybe in times past she could have gotten away with smoking it; now it would mean her execution. She needed more. She'd never gain it, though. Not if those from the Institute had anything to do with it. And not if they caught her and Scott in their terrible lie.

Thrum, thrum.

Through the streets, the dirt bikes paraded. The Enforcers were aware of everything, swarming into the dank little byways, heading to the streets, scouting around for their daily quota. Disgusting.

Children shrieked good morning to each other, casting voluble anger at the invading Enforcers. The little ones would chase the dirt bikes until they were gone, throwing stones and shouting weak curses, clouds of debris left churning behind the treaded wheels.

The Enforcer's scent lingered in the air, wafting with the tang of money and wasted riches. She loathed the smell of Irish Spring soap, Old Spice, or the expensive colognes that permeated after them.

Bastards. Rich, entitled pricks.

No one in the country had the extra funds to expend on luxuries anymore, none except the Enforcers and those that served in the Physical Wellness, Gender Law, and Mental Health Conservation division. The nurses and their staff that made her rue her existence and fear waking everyday were the very ones that helped mandate the nation. Damn that election.

For three years now she and Scott had lived above a men's fine linens and tailoring shop that catered to the few individuals of Roster's regime who dared monitor her part of the city. The east end was notorious for its depravity, the nightly shootings and drug deals gone wrong, a stealthy underbelly that thrived when the sun went down. Better to hide where they wouldn't be discovered or cared about. Better to save the deplorably scanty funds that they lived upon as unwanted residents of President Daniel Roster's new Republic.

Yes, better.

She was a fool, her and Scott both. Gwen and he lived dangerously close to those who might entrap them, waiting, always waiting for their sad story to reach its dramatic climax. Waiting for the Enforcers to find them. To escort them to a mock jury created by the men and women they feared the most. Imprisonment wouldn't end. Worse, the entrapment they shared now would eventually lead to their death. They both knew it. Why try?

She jolted as Scott flipped the bathroom door open and walked out, zipping himself up as he went. Ready to scathe him on how he never washed up afterwards, her comment tamped out as his dire expression turned stormy.

Pushy as always, he said, "Jump into the shower, Gwen. You can't go to that meeting looking like you crawled straight out of a sewer. For a woman that cleans up so well, you really look like shit."

"Nice," she said, clicking her tongue with irritation. "Now the compliments begin. I wondered when you'd decide how much you loved me."

Scott ignored her complaints. He raised one eyebrow in disapproval. "Stalling won't help. Come on." Reaching into the bathroom sideways, he pulled the tap so that the shower-head's measly stream sputtered out.

"It'll be cold."

"You'll be cold in the ground if you don't hurry up," he said with no remorse.

He was right. She had better hurry, and going without bathing was a sure sign of neglect and her mental downfall. The Wellness division would surely send someone out to investigate, and she and Scott's tenuous marital situation would finally be discovered. Discovery meant death. Death meant the electric chair. They wouldn't be given any second chances.

Though she shot him a dark look, she listened. The shower was icy and barely trickled. But she was able to clean her shoulder length hair and overly thin body, and she did it in record time. Being late wasn't acceptable. Neither was letting her husband be late for his job just because he decided to monitor her.

Kissing him goodbye out of habit, she closed and bolted the front door after him and stared sightlessly out the large front windows. She had money on her metro card; she could leave. She could run and hide and never look back.

But where in this forsaken world was even safe anymore? Since the election, it wasn't just her nation's exodus from the norm. Countries all over the world, affected by pivotal changes in finance, life sources, climate changes and other maladies that perplexed even the greatest scientists and researchers, went to an authoritarian way of life. The old United States led the way in that revolution.

The election changed everything. President Daniel Roster made headlines for his radical means for saving them all. His methods were often cruel, many times objectionable-but they worked. Their nation survived.

He was hailed a hero. A savior. But to people like her, the underlings, the forgotten, he was filth and disgust. A dark lord. A man with no conscience who would do anything to rise to the heavens and kiss the stars. He played god. He was a god in many people's eyes. Unfortunately, it was only those forgotten ones that realized how dangerous he really was.

No, she couldn't leave. Where would she even go? Where in the world was safe from his dangerous hold?

Nowhere, that's where. The metro card fell from her limp fingers to the scarred hardwood floor, alerting her to the folly of her thoughts and bringing her back to awareness.

Stooping, Gwen wiped the trail of useless tears from her cheeks, grabbed the card, and shakily stood. She turned, reached out her hand to the table behind her and grabbed her C-2 health-status and identification card, placing it in her pocket. Her keys, attached to a cord, went around her neck and under her shirt. With the scant funds on the card, she exited her home and secured the door, breathing harshly. If she hurried, she might get back before dark.

The fumes in the hallway were intense. Dry cleaning chemicals permeated the air, making her eyes mist and her throat tickle. She coughed, covering it quickly with her palm. The best thing to do was to get out of the building without notice. They were late on their rent again. Their landlord, used to degenerates renting from him, only cared that they paid. But with her need for the blunts that kept her mind at ease, the price on the drug risen to an exorbitant black market rate, they had fallen behind on payment. Four days late; a day for the government to process the complaint and a day for them to send out their goons. It would happen soon. Time to pay or to get moving.

Scott tried. He worked so hard. It wasn't enough to pay for the apartment and to take care of her. When she was well, Gwen could contribute, even exceed what he brought in. But she wasn't well, and hadn't been for some time. That was their secret, and he kept it for her. Thank the stars above for Scott, her private savior, the only one she knew anymore with a heart so true. Without him they wouldn't survive. Her auburn-haired man of mercy, handsome and kind, but not her own to keep. He was her husband, the forgery so realistic it fooled even her. Unfortunately, even he couldn't help this time, for she doubted his meager paycheck could help them rise above their neediness. Gwen's fault, all of it, if they had to take their things and run yet again.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd caused them to have to do such a thing. Baltimore was their new chance, their last chance to survive. New York was too big, easy to hide in, but impossible to afford. With their meager funds, they would be out on the streets in no time, no matter where they roamed. From city to city they traveled, always going to the deepest coves and darkest alleys, finding the landlord with nothing to lose. Losing themselves, as a result, in the emptiness they both felt inside.

Living along the East Coast meant being near the epicenter of all Roster's new Republic's jurisdictions, each of them stationed less than a hundred miles apart. The Institute, the largest mental health facility in the country, and the place she was bound to be sent if she kept up her restlessly anxious, manic, and depressive ways, was the closest center out of all of them.

Scott's fear was called the Renewal Sanctuary, a reconditioning station for those of a sexual nature no longer accepted in society, the home for those of Scott's orientation and others like it. He had to journey to the midwest. Thankfully, his recertifications were only every five years.

Both institutions were meant to persuade those to accept the mindset of the greatest nation on earth, but Gwen knew differently. They were places of torture, of assimilation. Of pain.

With her mood so dangerously low, any one of the sites would analyze her and never let her leave. And, like this, she was supposed to go? Damn. She was fucking doomed.

"Hey lady," a grubby blond-haired man with strands of beads in his long hair said as she exited the building. He leaned upon the hood of a beat up old car, leering. She was used to the unwanted attention, for in spite of her raggedness, she was considered attractive. "Wanna ride?"

She knew what he meant, the insinuation aided by the forward lurch of his hips and his dirty palm handling over his crotch. Ignoring him, she kept on walking, faster this time, purpose in her step. In her hand she held wasp spray. The unlikely weapon, which jetted over twenty feet in a steady stream of poison, had saved her life more than once. Plus, carrying that, she looked crazy. People tended to avoid her brand of madness, if only to keep the Enforcers off their backs.

She smelled his stench before he spoke again, the man from previous. Her heart raced and her finger pulsed upon the trigger of the can.

"I asked you a nice question, bitch," he said, yanking her arm and turning her around. "Ignoring Dwayne ain't cool."

"Let go of me," she said, keeping her voice steady. Inside she quaked.

Without trouble, he snatched the can from her hands and tossed it to the side, making a sound of disapproval low in his throat. Then, to her horror, he began stroking her hair and her cheek with dirty fingers, a look of determined lust in his eyes.

"Such a pretty little bitch," he whispered near her ear. "I'm gonna make you my whore. Like that, slut? Wanna be mine?"

With that, he tugged her with him into the side alley. It happened so quickly, Gwen hadn't time to squeal or fight, to alert anyone who might dare help her. His mouth pulled to hers, tasting of cigarettes and those repulsive little snack crackers with cheese, the kind that wrapped in cellophane and went stale within the day. This thought pervaded her mind, not his hand under her shirt grabbing her breast and pinching her nipple until she would bruise. Not his fingers unzipping her jeans and tucking into her panties, the grime of his nails scraping her most intimate inside walls. He undressed her as she squirmed and flinched. Secretly, she had already gone to her safest place, the one where she knew nothing and no one could touch her. She saw, felt, heard nothing. Nothing that would harm her and nothing that would debase.

She felt, heard, saw nothing. Not even when the head of the man's dick moved against her, ready to invade.

A popping sound reverberated, weaving into the maze of her tangled mind, as a spray of blood gushed onto her naked breasts and stunned face. A gun. A shot that blasted, destroying the scum that wanted to destroy her. She blinked and tripped headlong into the arms waiting for her.

They were strong arms, arms that held her safe and didn't let go. Her fog slowly lifted. She blinked. Blinked again until her stunned state slowly dissipated. The man holding her spoke, a gravelly rasp of concern. "I've got you, miss. Don't worry. I've got you."

Gwen focused on him, black-clad man with eyes of steel-blue and hair tawny blond, his worried anger evident in the contours of his face and the strength of his muscled body. His voice was raspy softness, reassuring, as were the hands that gripped her tight to him, holding her secure.

"I've got you, miss. You're safe... You're safe." He crooned to her as if he knew she was ready to break.

She blinked again, unwilling to accept who held her. Black-clad arms. A spray of blood upon his face. Gwen opened her mouth, reluctant tears rolling down her face. She whimpered. The arms tightened, and the man's mouth pursed tighter with worry. She sobbed, a faint outcry escaping her lips.

"Let me go," she said pitifully. Maybe he'd listen, but she doubted it. Men of their sort never did.

He watched her a quiet moment then called over his shoulder to the shadowy mass that hovered there. Gwen let out a small cry. Sobs racked her naked body, and despite herself, she curled into the surprising warmth and welcoming safety of the man's grip. He was the enemy. His reassurance meant her consort with those from the bowels of hell.

"Hey, Bear," her savior said, his voice low and steady, as she lay her cheek against the rumbling wall of his muscled chest. "Got the vehicle ready?"

"Yeah, man. It's out front. You want me to take her?" The mass moved. It was a man, large, imposingly scary and also dressed in black. Enforcers, the both of them. Gwen had gone from one enemy to another.

Her savior spoke. "No. She's mine." His grip held, even as she began to squirm. Her eyes darted up, up to his. His eyes met her own. His brows lowered and he spoke again, this time to her, softer. Reassuringly.

"You're okay, little one. I won't let anything happen to you."

Gwen stammered, her fingers wrapped around the collar of the man's dark shirt. "Please, sir. Let me go. My husband..." She swallowed. For a moment she couldn't answer.

He frowned. A long pause filled the city's dank and dirty air. "You're married?"

She nodded quickly. "Yes. My husband will miss me."

A sigh broke through his lips. A sigh, one that warped with annoyance at her marital predicament. A heavy coat went over her shoulders, stifling her protests. Shielding her from view. She snuggled in, soaking in the scent. Strange. It smelled nice, a foreign, unidentifiable smell intrinsic to the man before her, unlike anything she had ever smelled before. Then she realized. It was him. His scent, coating her throat and her tongue. It was that good. She battled the immediate appreciation of it, and hurried to push his coat from her shoulders.

He scowled, holding the material to her. "Keep it on," he said gruffly. "You're nearly fucking naked." He said it as if her state of undress personally offended him.

Coming back to her senses, she looked down at her trembling body. She was dressed only in the bra half hanging on her. Gwen flushed. The man huffed as if he couldn't understand her timid behavior. His fingers reached out and he lifted her chin.

"Look at me," he said. She did. Refusing him was stupid. He was an Enforcer, able to take whatever he wanted, to correct as he saw fit, to reward at his whim.

"My name is Zane," he said, the calloused pads of his fingers softly stroking her skin. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

Telling her not to fear him was like telling her not to fear death. Her trembling exacerbated.

She whispered. "You are one of them."

He said nothing, his expressive eyes watching her, roaming over her face, leaving nothing to chance, not even the slightest movement on her part. He lifted his fingers. "You've been badly shaken and I am a man. It's natural that you would be scared."

"Yes." She dared not tell him the real reason she quaked with fear. His power over her kept her lips pressed tight.

"Your name, Miss. I need it. And your house number. I'm taking you home to your husband." She didn't move. It was too dangerous to move, to comply.

"I vow that I won't hurt you," he said. His eyes searched her. "I never break a promise made." Silence followed. He spoke again, a low rumble that purposely softened. "What is your name, little one?"

She stammered. "Gwen. Gwendolyn Manchester, sir."

"May I see your identification, please, Gwendolyn?"

He took her proffered card and examined it, saying nothing. Silently he handed it back. His eyelashes lowered over his eyes, revealing absolutely nothing.

An Enforcer was sworn by oath to take her into custody, the job detailing that a woman of her mental status wasn't safe to roam the streets. He had to comply, or be served his own sentence.

"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I'm late, you see."

"I do see," he said. He watched her, and it was as if all she feared came to nothing. "Come with me, Gwendolyn," Zane said. "I want to take you home."

"Yes. My husband will expect me," she said weakly, only a partial lie.

"You were on my watch," he said. "It's my duty to make sure you're safe. And believe me, I will."

A whimper escaped her lips. He lied, too.

The Enforcer frowned at her fear. He spoke again, urging her to look up at him.

"I saw you from the moment you began walking up the street alone," he said. "I was on call this morning. I knew that fucking man would bother you the second he talked to you. I followed him. I planned to kill him." His voice darkened. "And I fucking did."

She began to tremble. If the Enforcers were anywhere outside her building, that meant she and Scott had already been discovered, that their secret was out. It was only a matter of time before they had to run.

She turned her head away from him, her mind warring with the rest of her. She had to go. His words weren't rational, for she was still C-2, capable of being taken prisoner by him, to be placed into the Institute's stronghold.

She didn't wait for him to imprison her. Gwen held his coat to her body, gave him one last longing look and then fled, her legs swiftly carrying her down the alley until she reached the other side.

She ran, partially hoping that she'd hear the bellow of his yells, the quick steps indicating he came swiftly behind her. It never happened. He hadn't followed. He hadn't even tried.

Out of breath, her pride pricked, she slowed until the pain in her side eased. Tears bled along her cheeks, his scent enveloping her along with the heavy weight of the material she gathered to her naked body. She stole his coat. Now what might happen? The Enforcers didn't need a reason to invade.

Time to return home. Scott had to be told of the need for them to change locations once again. Her fault, all of it, that they had to go, and not for the first time either. Damn Zane. She'd never think of the Enforcers in such darkness, ever again.

When Gwen opened the door to her apartment, still faintly out of breath from running, Scott was already home. She paused after she shut the door behind her, already wondering how to hide from him. "You're home early," she said. She waited a moment's pause before speaking again, for his anger permeated through the room. "And packing?"

He turned and scowled. "Yeah. Don't act like you don't know."

She felt a patter begin in her heart, just where she had always thought a lump of coal resided. She turned cold, her voice echoing it. "What's going on?"

"Enforcers," he said, continuing his manic movements. "They're fucking everywhere." He threw another dish into a box, and she winced as she heard it crack and break. "And looking for you, one of them in particular it seems. What the hell did you do this time, Gwen?"

She went to the front window, carefully pulling aside the blackout curtains and peeking out. Indeed, there were a swarm of black-clad men about, but she saw no sight of Zane. She let go the material, unwilling to admit the truth. Scott paused, looking at her, peering into her secrets.

"I-I...missed my appointment," she said finally. Scott dropped another plate into the box, his jaw set in a clench. He wouldn't look at her.

"Just. Fucking. Great," he said. "You have one obligation. One. Get to the damned, fucking appointment. Can you even do that? Fucking no." Another dish into the box. Another one of their meager supply gone. She hissed her displeasure but said nothing. He had every right to be upset. He placed his hands on his lean hips and examined the contents of the box he'd been filling, then sighed, the fight leaving him. "Why did you do it, Gwennie? We could have stayed here so much longer. We were safe."

"We weren't safe," she said, going up behind him and tucking her arms about his waist. "We're never safe. You know that as well as I do."

He didn't respond for a minute, then his fingers wrapped around her wrists, holding her to him. Peace. They were back to friendship, their spat over, a fuse quickly set and just as quickly extinguished--as it always was when they fought. They only had each other, after all, and they both knew it.

"Yeah," he whispered. "But I was starting to..."

He broke off, but she knew all that he meant. Adjust. That's what they were both starting to do, a dangerous thing when they weren't citizens worthy of Roster's new Republic. Adjust; it meant fear left them and acceptance kicked in. For them to stay alive, they could never allow that feeling in their hearts. She was guilty, too. She wanted to stay. She wanted a real home, a real life, a husband that might love her and give her all the affection she craved but never had. Adjust. No, that was something they could never do. Not while Scott and she were repulsive beings, and not while men like the Enforcers hunted them down.

Scott had every right to be mad. But the worst part was, he still didn't know everything. Gwen pulled him down onto the seat of the sofa, sitting beside him and laying her hand upon his thigh. He tensed.

"What's the matter, Gwen? What really happened today when you were out?" he said, stiffly asking the question she wished she could have avoided.

She licked her bottom lip, hating to tell the truth. She remembered each pawing grip of her attacker when she'd done everything she could to have blocked it from her memory before now: the stench, the repulsiveness of that man's want, the intensity of her fears and her useless body as it struggled. She remembered everything, sweat breaking out along her hairline as she swayed slightly with faintness, the purge of bile ready in her throat.

Scott steadied her, concern on his handsome face. "What the hell happened?" he barked. Not from a state of displeasure this time, but fear. "You look like death."

"I feel like death," she whispered.

He rubbed her shoulder consolingly. "Tell me. We can get through this."

"We can't. Not if the Enforcers are already here." Gwen gave him a sad smile. "He's looking for me, I think."

"Who?"

"Zane."

The rubbing stopped mid-stroke. "Who the fuck is Zane?"

She sucked in a light scoff, more at herself than at him. She gave Scott an imploring look. Not that it mattered. Once he found out the truth, he'd be as pissed as ever.

"My savior," she said quietly.

"The hell?"

She gave him a soft smile. "You wouldn't understand."

Scott stood, his short, bulkily muscled frame hovering over her. "I know that if you don't stop speaking in riddles I'm going to open that front window and shout down to those damned fuckers to come and bring you in."

He didn't mean it. His temper flared, but the flame died before long. She knew he'd never hurt her physically. His words, however, punched her in the gut.

"Scott! I said you wouldn't understand."

"Fucking try me." His hands went back on his hips, his face going flush with irritation.

Gwen sucked in a deep inhale, trying to stabilize her erratic heartbeat. She still couldn't rationalize the events herself. "He saved my life."

"A goddamn Enforcer saved your life?" Scott stared at her incredulously.

She blushed, for she also knew how ridiculous that sounded. Enforcers didn't care about the Detestables. They only cared about the quota that they got from bringing people such as her and Scott in for the infractions that they perceived. She nodded.

"Yes." Biting her lower lip, she paused thoughtfully. "He said he was watching me."

"That's fucked up. You know that, right? Why would a damned Enforcer even care?"

"I don't know," she said. "But he saved me. He killed the man that tried to rape and then wanted to butcher me." She hadn't wanted to admit the truth, tears running down her cheeks. Scott stared at her, lost for words a terrible, long moment.

"Oh, Gwennie. I'm fucking sorry. I..." He sat down heavily, cradled his head in his hands and looked at the floor with quiet unease. He shot her a careful glance, one that roamed down her body, examining for damage. "I didn't know. Are you okay?"

His hushed response gave all the apology she needed. Or wanted. Or even expected. She rested her hand back on his leg, consoling him. He lifted his head, and his eyes were bright with unshed tears. As if he had as difficult a time absorbing it as she did, his head shook incredulously. Warily.

"He saved you. Why would an Enforcer do that?" he murmured.

"I don't know. Don't you think I've wondered that the entire time that I walked home?"

He gave her an examining, probing look. "There's more to it than just helping you. Otherwise, why would those men be out there looking for you?"

She bowed her head. Gwen mulled over her unexpected confrontation with the handsome Enforcer who had helped her, just as she mulled at her bottom lip. "I don't understand it either, but he didn't act like someone to hate."

Scott wrapped his arms about her and laying his chin upon her shoulder. The gesture should've felt reassuring, but she knew the danger they were in. This was time wasted.

"We should go," she said. Scott nodded, helping her to stand. Quietly and efficiently she helped him pack. They had to leave, and it was because of her. It was always because of her. She attracted trouble, and once again, trouble had come. This time it was with an Enforcer, the man named Zane.

Both knew this time running wouldn't matter. Only hope made them pack, when it was useless. Gwen looked towards her husband, waiting for him to say the word. He scowled, going to the window again.

"We'll wait just a bit longer," Scott said. He kept going to the window and looking out, each time his frustration mounting. "He'll arrive soon, I know it."

"Who?"

"Our last chance of survival."

A knock sounded at the door, harshly reverberating. Scott gave the door a wary look. Gwen took his hand. They'd come, the Enforcers. The knock sounded, louder and insistent. Dizziness came over her, knowing it wasn't who her husband invited. Their chance was over. She looked at Scott again, then all she saw was blackness, and nothing more.