Lewis worked his way out along the rocky outcrop until he found a place where he could sit and maybe dangle his legs over the edge. He spent a few minutes slowly clambering down a slope, half sliding on his ass with his legs out in front of him, his left hand hopping along the ground behind him, and his right arm clutched protectively to his middle. Part of him wanted to be careful, thinking that it would be an incredibly stupid way to die, after what he had been through during the past four days, to slip and roll off the edge of the Grand Canyon. Another part of him really didn’t care.

He reached the spot and sat down, taking in a deep breath and looking out into the canyon. It was more beautiful, even in fading light, than he imagined it would be. It was a hard three days of hitchhiking, sitting in the back of old pickup trucks in the rain, walking along the highway through the night to keep from freezing when he couldn’t find a lift. He itched for a cigarette, not because he smoked regularly, but because he thought one would taste particularly good right now. If he could lounge by the Grand Canyon, admire the scenery, smoke a cigarette and generally take it easy, he might be able to forget the events of the past week for a little while. He could forget that he was wanted by the authorities, that he had no home, that he had terminal cancer. Yeah, a cigarette would be good.

It felt nice to dangle his feet. Ever since he left LA four days earlier he felt like all his waking hours had been spent on his feet. Whether he was sitting in someone’s cab or walking or curled up in a ditch for a rest, he felt like the heavy burden on his mind and soul was putting an extra load on his feet. Letting them hang free in the air, touching nothing, was like cool water on a hot day. The blood rushing to repair the damage from constant pressure made his feet feel like they were inflating, but it still felt good. It felt good to stop.

After a while Lewis began rifling through the inside pocket of his jacket with his left hand. A few moments later he pulled out a small plastic vial.

His hands were shaking, partially from nerves, partially from exhaustion. He held the vial up to his face and bit down on the lid, turning the vial as he did so. A few full rotations and the lid was off. He spit it out, watching it bounce and roll down the steep grade, eventually disappearing over the edge.

"Sorry, officer," he said out loud to nobody, "didn't realize I was littering." He tried to laugh, but it didn't work. Wasn't all that funny, anyway.

He looked into the open vial. The small purple pill was in there, his last hit of LSD, the last of the good stuff Mako gave him at the club. Mako had always treated him right. Mako was probably the only person in the world that Lewis would miss.

For a short time, anyway.

He sighed, wishing he had some water. It would be slow work getting that pill down, but he would manage. He collected as much saliva as he could in his dry mouth and popped the pill into his mouth, directly from the vial. He swallowed.

Looking back, Lewis realized there were a few other things he could have done, one of which was to just chew the damn pill up instead of swallowing it. But, like so many situations in life, the easier path is most obvious after you've stepped onto the harder one, and chewing the LSD up didn't occur to him until the pill had adhered solidly to the side of his almost completely dry throat.

He gagged, grabbing at his neck as if he could dislodge the pill from the outside. He swallowed convulsively, feeling it stick momentarily to other parts of his throat before peeling away with a maddening, tickling sensation. He inhaled slowly and exhaled explosively, trying to free the pill without shooting it into his lung. Finally the tickling caused him to cough, a rumbling racking cough which hinted at the onset of pneumonia, and the pill was suddenly free. He felt it ricochet off of the back of his teeth.

For some reason he was able to see the small pill as it flew through the air and hit the ground, following a very similar path to the lid of the plastic vial. After a moment it was gone.

Lewis sat quietly for a minute, swallowing frequently to soothe the spot in his throat where the pill had been stuck. It still tickled, like a ghost limb, as if his throat wasn't quite convinced it was gone. But it was. It was gone, along with any other possible escape from reality at his disposal. He sighed, and suddenly burst into tears.

He wept for a while, holding his forehead with his left hand, keeping his right cradled next to him. Gradually his weeping ebbed, and he wiped his face dry. The prospect of sitting through the cold night, nowhere to go, completely sober and free of narcotics, hung like a load on his heart. If there was ever a time he needed delusion, it was now.

He threw the empty plastic vial down the grade, over the edge to join the lid and pill. A complete set. He suddenly had the urge to stand, run down the slope and throw himself over the edge. He could see himself now, arms outstretched, slowly turning end over end, his last moments spent in mock flight, quietly soaring through the still air to the unyielding ground below. In time the urge passed. He had been quelling many such urges over the past few days.

A sharp pain suddenly ran from his elbow to his right hand, and he sucked air through his teeth. He wrapped his left hand around his clenched right and allowed the fingers of right hand to relax for a moment. When the pain subsided he let go.

He looked at his right hand, the hand that would most likely betray him in the night and instigate his demise. His fingers were wrapped tightly around a short plastic rod with a series of four buttons, all of which he was holding down with his grip. The bar was crusted with layers of old adhesive from multiple applications of duct tape, which had been used in the past to hold the buttons down. But he hadn't been able to get his hands on anything for the past day of travel, and occasional rains had rendered the tape unusable.

Out from one end of the plastic rod ran a sheaf of wires about the diameter of a pencil, which ran into the right sleeve of his jacket, shirt, and undershirt. Ever since he had begun holding down the buttons, he had been unable to get his fist through the sleeve of his shirt. He had been wearing the same clothes for five days.

He began to unbutton his jacket, though it was getting chilly. He pulled the jacket open and looked down at the thing covering his chest, the prison he had been carrying around, locked to his torso. The steel carapace was like a vest, wrapping around his back and over his shoulders, with the exception that the attachments that held it closed could only be opened by a key, a key that was now buried in the wreckage of his apartment building.

The carapace seemed no worse for wear from the grueling rain and heat he had been traveling through for the past few days as he hitched his way to Colorado from California. The small, innocuous blinking light set next to the lock over his heart was still blinking. It meant that everything still had power, and that the carapace was still locked to his body. He had hoped that the rain would short out the inner workings of the carapace so that he wouldn't have to worry about the buttons, but no such luck. It was still armed, and if he released his grip on the buttons or tried to somehow cut his way out of the carapace, the fifteen pounds of C-4 and RDX explosive uncased inside would detonate, bringing the rest of his short life to a loud, fiery halt. Apparently Styles knew what he was doing when he built it.

James Styles. Lewis had never thought of himself as a malicious or unfeeling person, but the knowledge that Styles was dead filled him with a sense of happiness that bordered on joy.

Styles had been the explosives specialist of the small terrorist group that had kidnapped Lewis more than a week ago, slowly brainwashing him into their bomb-delivery man. Their plan was to have him walk into a specific federal building wearing the metal carapace bomb and condition him to get as far inside as he could before setting it off. Supposedly he could take out the whole building if he did it right.

They wanted someone completely unassociated with their cause to carry the bomb. Lewis, who in the past decade had slowly dissociated himself from the entire human race, fit their bill to a T. A widowed, cancer-ridden unemployed ex-con with no surviving family; no one would miss him, no one would suspect him, no one would care. Perfect. When the Feds finally identified his remains and found no possible connection between him and the terrorists, they would know that there was no way a potential bomber could be identified until it was too late. It would show them that any random person could be walking destruction, and that more than anything would put fear into their hearts. Which was the whole point of terrorism in the first place.

The other people on the team were Helen White, who worked out the logistics of the plan, and Frank Nash, who performed the three-day psychochemical conditioning on him and was the overall mastermind of the group. Nash was dead as well, probably buried right next to the carapace key in the wreckage of Lewis’ apartment building. He hadn’t gotten out in time before Styles blew the place up in a last-ditch attempt to kill Lewis after the plan went bad. By that point all bets were off, and they wanted to cut their losses, never mind bombing the Feds into submission.

Both Nash and Helen had wanted Lewis alive, if only to retrieve the bomb. Nash was focussed on his mission, and felt it imperative that the bomb didn’t go off anywhere but the federal building. Styles just wanted Lewis gone so that he could start over.

Lewis had been lucky. He hadn’t been able to slip past the Feds, who were gunning for him after Styles, who at that point was resorting to any means possible to make Lewis dead, tipped them off that he was a bomber. Thanks to that, he never made it to his apartment for the key, and was still alive because of it.

Lewis smiled to himself. At the end getting to see the Feds unload about twelve pounds of state-of-the-art ammunition into the gun-toting Styles at point-blank range almost made the whole ordeal worthwhile.

Poor, poor Styles. God rot his soul.

God. There was a name he hadn't thought of in a while, certainly not since the whole ordeal started. The last time he had thought about God was when he saw his wife, Maria, on the mortician’s table.

He had been diagnosed with cancer several months before the accident that had taken her life. But she had had such a devout faith, such a love of life that she carried him high over all the emotional obstacles he encountered during the limited treatment his health care could provide. With Maria by his side, he believed he could beat it.

He pushed the thought away. Maria was gone, had been for almost a year. She had been the last important thing in his life, the only thing keeping his head above the depression of the cancer. When she was gone he had turned to drugs for comfort, using psychedelics to ease his pain and make what little time he had left seem longer.

As if on cue a sharp pain racked through his midsection and he let out a whimper, doubling over and holding himself until the pain passed. After several agonizing seconds it waned, and eventually faded into the background his exhaustion.

Fuck cigarettes, he thought, I need a joint.

As a patient he had not qualified for medicinal marijuana or any new cutting-edge treatments, and he eventually resorted to frequenting clandestine drug clubs where dealers and Med students looking to make some extra cash selling medicinal narcotics were more than happy to help him out. Sitting alone in the room full of strangers, staring at cracks in the ceiling , feeling the passage of seconds slowing to a crawl, it was only a matter of time before someone took advantage of his vulnerability. He just never expected it to be terrorists.

Nash had had him in the palm of his hand from the first time he met Lewis, seeming to care about his plight and helping him get better quality of what he needed. The three terrorists had taken him under their wing and nurtured his trust over the course of several weeks. Then one night after getting him a dose of crystal meth derivative he realized that something was wrong, a growing disconnection between his mind and his will that lasted for three days, during which Nash ripped apart his psyche and Styles turned him into a bomb.

Even now he couldn’t say why it hadn’t worked. But for some reason his mind had snapped back to a natural working state with an intense shock that was almost physical, just ten feet away from the metal detector in the lobby of the federal building. Three days of brainwashing slid from his consciousness, and he had suddenly been aware of everything; everything that had been done to him, and what he was about to do. The object in his clenched right hand was as sure an indication of the reality of his situation as anything could be. So he had begun to run, to work his way across the city to his apartment where he knew they had left the carapace key.

And now, after four days of running, he had finally made it here. To the Grand Canyon

He heard footsteps behind him, saw scree roll past him from above. He sighed. Here he was, about to be chased off by a park ranger. He wouldn’t even be able to watch the sunset. He’d probably end up getting picked up for vagrancy and die in jail, taking several prisoners and outback deputies with him in the night.

"Hello, Lewis."

That voice. It took him a moment to register. He wanted to turn around, but he didn’t think he could bear it.

After a moment the footsteps resumed, and he saw a figure enter his peripheral vision a few feet to his left. The figure stood for a moment, staring off into the distance, then kneeled and sat down. Long brown hair in a ponytail. Leather jacket. Jeans. Ass-kicking boots. The figure sat, arms folded on knees, chin resting on forearms.

Finally Lewis turned and looked straight at the figure. It was Helen. She turned her head and looked back. "Hello, Lewis." She said again.

He stared at her for a few moments, not quite believing his eyes. For an instant he wanted to bolt, run as fast as he could to get away, but he knew he didn’t have the energy left. Then he realized that he really didn’t care. Eventually he just held up his right hand. "I could kill us both, right now."

Helen met his eyes and nodded. "I know, Lewis." She said quietly. She pulled a handgun out of her jacket pocket and held it up. "I could have picked you off from a quarter mile."

"Why didn’t you?"

She smiled wryly and unloaded the magazine, showing him the top. It was empty. "Forgot to buy bullets."

Lewis snorted and looked away, shaking his head. "So, how did you find me?"

"You told me once that you had always wanted to go to the Grand Canyon, just to see it, how it was something you never got to do. It was one of the nights that we all helped you get home. You told me with such regret in your voice, and I guess it just stuck in my mind. When the feds and the police didn’t find you, I figured you had left LA. I had a feeling that this was the only place you would go. I made a few assumptions about highways and roads and stuff, where you would show up. I’ve been wandering around here for about two and a half days." She kicked some gravel with the toe of her boot. "I’m glad I found you."

Lewis digested all this. It had never occurred to him that anyone would think of looking for him outside of LA. Least of all Helen, whom he had assumed was dead. "I guess my real question is, Why?" He looked into her eyes.

She looked back, and he could see that there was true remorse in her eyes.

"I…" She swallowed, waited, as if sorting her thoughts, "I guess I wanted to give you a chance to… to…"

"…to blow you to kingdom-come?" Lewis finished for her.

"Yeah. To cut right to the chase that’s pretty much it."

Lewis thought about this, shrugging his mouth. "Well… thanks."

They were both silent for a while. Abruptly Helen spoke, saying, "What we did was… inexcusable.." she suddenly laughed despite herself, "God, I can’t even think of a word to describe it. I don’t think there is one. And I couldn’t… I can’t think of any way to right it." She looked at him. "Nash and Styles are dead-"

"I know," Lewis said, nodding, "I saw Styles when it happened. The Feds made good and sure."

"I escaped." Helen continued. "I ran, like you. I saw the fear in your eyes and the helplessness in your face when Nash worked on you…" she stopped to swallow a lump, "… and I knew that no cause of ours could possibly justify our actions… those actions. But at that point it was too late. There was nowhere to go but forward. When you escaped, I looked for you, hoping I’d find you, in case you wanted to take me out." She paused, sighed, and finished with a voice on the verge of cracking, "I’m not sure I can live with myself anymore. I don’t think I can spend the rest my life knowing what I’ve done to you."

"I’m not going to take us out, Helen," Lewis said after a moment. "And as much as I’d like to help, having a lifetime ahead of me to deal with something is a problem I haven’t had to worry about recently, so I’m afraid I can’t give you much advice."

Helen nodded, biting her lip. A solitary tear ran down her cheek.

"How long do you have?" she asked finally.

"The last time I saw my doctor, she told me I had about six months to live."

"When was that?"

"Ummm… about half a year ago." He glanced at Helen and gave her a half-smile. "You know those people that are told they have a year to live, and they end up living five years or seven years or something crazy like that?"

Helen nodded.

"Well," he continued, wincing from another sharp pain in his midsection, "I’m pretty sure I’m not one of those people."

"It’s bad, huh?" Helen asked,

Lewis bit his lip and nodded. "I think tonight or tomorrow. If I don’t blow myself up first, that is." He laughed, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t happen to have any tape on you, would you Helen? Because I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. I’m thinking about things, the things I’ve done with my life, the things I’ll never get to do, and it keeps occurring to me that it might be the last time they pass through my head…" He looked down at the dead-man switch in his hand, "and frankly, the last thing I want to be thinking about is keeping these fucking buttons pushed." He laughed his resigned laugh and shook his head again.

Helen was quiet for a moment, then spoke. "No, Lewis, I don’t have any tape…" she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small metal ring with a key dangling from it. Lewis blinked, and he was pretty sure his heart stopped for an instant when he realized that it was the carapace key. "Maybe this will make the end a little easier." She finished.

"Where… how…" he stammered, the gestured to the key, both hands held out, "Please…"

"Here, hold still, your hands are shaking," Helen said, kneeling close to him. He was breathing hard as she inserted the key into the keyhole over his heart. She turned it clockwise, counted to three, and turned it back counterclockwise. There was a barely audible click of a tiny relay flipping, and the eternal blinking light stopped blinking. "There, Lewis, you’re safe." She said softly, as if speaking in a church. "You’re free."

Every muscle in his body was tense. He had imagined that, if this moment ever came, he would cry and yell and jump and cavort. But hearing that click and seeing the blinking light turn off, he was suddenly terrified that it was he who had been turned off by the key, as if the carapace had slowly become part of him over the past five days.

He touched his face, running his fingers past his eyes, over his growth of beard. Hind hands were shaking uncontrollably. "Helen!" He rasped, imploring her with his eyes, "Helen, am I alive? Am I alive?!"

She grabbed his shoulders. "Lewis!" She said, shaking him once, "You’re free!"

He stared at her, then down at himself. Breathing. Yes. Free.

"Here, Lewis," she said, taking his right hand and slowly prying his stiff fingers off of the dead-man switch, "you don’t need to worry about that anymore."

He watched as the four buttons became unpressed, one by one, until she took the entire unit out of his hand. He opened and closed his hand, feeling the raw, overused tendons in his fingers and arm finally relaxed. She undid the fasteners on the front of the carapace, and began tugging at the straps that held it closed. He had a fleeting instant of fear that when she pulled it open he wouldn’t see his clothes, but instead he would see his own visceral innards, as if by removing the carapace he was being dissected. But it was only for an instant.

She helped him out of the metal vest, setting it down nearby. She watched him carefully, making sure he was all right. He was just sitting there, breathing. Living. A huge weight gone.

"Lewis, I want you to know, I did that for you, not for me. There’s no deal or anything, you don’t owe me." She sighed. "I didn’t come here for forgiveness, Lewis, I just…"

Lewis reached out with his left hand and touch her shoulder. "Helen, I forgive you."

She looked at him with a look of disbelief and gratitude, as tears trickled down her face. Before she could ask the unspoken question in her eyes, he answered it, staring out at the setting sun.

"I’ve had a long, hard life. These past few days have been a waking nightmare, but I’m finally looking Death in the face. It’s something I’ve been waiting to happen for a long time, and it would have happened even if I had never run in with you and Nash and Styles. In a few hours everything I ever was will be a memory, I don’t have much time left to do a whole lot about anything." He turned his head to Helen. " But I have time enough to forgive."

There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, and couldn’t say a word. He sensed this, and continued. "It isn’t important to me anymore that Nash and Styles are dead. It isn’t important whether or not you get arrested." He laughed, "It isn’t important that all my personal insurance records were probably blown to smithereens in my apartment, including my I.D." He laughed a bit more, then sobered. "The only important thing left to me is not to die alone."

Lewis was quiet. After a few moments Helen realized he was crying silently. She put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the sobs rack his body. After a while he calmed himself, and wiping his eyes he turned to her. "Will you watch over me? Just… just for a little while?"

"I’ll watch over you Lewis. I’ll stay with you until the end. You won’t be alone, I promise."

Lewis sniffed as more tears fell from his face, "Ah, the terrorist’s promise." Helen reached out and held his hand. "Sound’s good to me." He finished, his voice breaking.

"Thank you, Lewis."

They sat in silence, watching the sun slowly creep behind the earth, taking its warmth with it, letting the desert cool as the day ended under an umbrella of a million stars.

* * * * *

Dawn. Helen opened her eyes, felt over for Lewis’ hand, and found it cold. She sat up, looking at his still face. It was patently expressionless, but she could convince herself that he looked content. That was all she could hope for.

She stood up, brushing off the seat of her jeans. The sun was rising behind her, and the canyon looked glorious. She had no idea if anyone was looking for her, but for now it didn’t matter.

She picked up the carapace, not wanting to leave it out for someone to find. She would dispose of it later. Slowly, carefully, she climbed up the steep grade, leaving Lewis behind her without looking back.

At the top she shielded her eyes as the sun came out from behind a momentary cloud and bathed her in brilliance. She stood for a minute, eyes closed, letting the sun pour into her. She couldn’t remember the last time the sun felt so good.

A new start, she thought, That’s what I needed, and that’s what I’ve been given. It’s time to make the most of it.

She found her car where she left it. Tossing the carapace into the back seat she got in, started the car, fastened her seat belt, and drove off into her future.