Epilogue - Kelly Mahan Jaramillo Explains

Well, it is only me here now. The cabin is empty, the WME has been empty for years - I occasionally come by and sweep, dust, clear out a few cobwebs, shred the occasional old file I might find, yelllowed and curling at the corners.

I was in charge of Peter's attempt at keeping this journal of the future, and he did an okay job, I think - but in going through some of his writings here, I read that he let his emotions concerning certain subjects get the better of him. Considering that many of his best friends had undergone changes that rendered them unrecognizable, others disappeared, some died, and some showed up briefly, I can hardly blame him.

However, he wrote one entry that I feel was not necessary - he did not stop and think about what he was doing - he got pushed too far by certain parties, and he lashed out. I am responsible for him, and I should have stopped it. In publishing certain details, he let loose some very personal information about myself and others, and frankly, I am embarrassed. To let old grievances air out in public after so many years constitutes a loss of ones dignity - it does not matter how much one feels justified. To anyone whom that now deleted post caused hurt, I am terribly sorry. We all pretended everything was okay for much too long, and I can only speak for myself/Peter - we never fully addressed the depth of the pain that was caused so long ago.

However, at this point in time, those issues need to be taken up with a professional in private. Peter and Jordan are dead, and I am the only one left to pick up the pieces of who they might have been.

It is time for me to stop coming by here, stop sweeping the pain and dusting the resentment, stop reading the files and stop wondering what the children would have been like. My life was not meant to go that way, and I believe it is time to do one last scrubbing of the place, then lock it up and toss the key. I would get rid of the whole building, but sometimes people like to come by and read about the UCLA study or Julianne, so why not leave it up for them? Besides, it represents a time that I would like to preserve, but not so much for myself anymore. There is still so much life ahead! Yes, a lot has burned to the ground, and I have to be careful picking around the smoldering landscape, but here and there I see shoots of green out of the blackened tree trunks, and I have hope.

To the folks who have enjoyed this bizarre story, thank you for reading. To the people for whom it got personal, please accept my apologies for the lashing out. It was never premeditated, and if I could roll the clock back three years and never have written it, I would do so.

There is only one road these days, and it only goes forward. I wish you all a safe journey.

Kelly Mahan Jaramillo

Goodbye

"It is over, isn't it?" I asked Jordan.

"Yes, Peter, it is over."

"So, what now?"

"We can do it fast, and run through the rigged fence, or slow. No water for three days. Your call."

"Happy Spring, Jordy."

He smiled and nodded.

"Happy Spring to you, Peter."


We walked out to the fence.


Thank you and love always to you,

William Allen Mahan, a.k.a.,

"Wild Bill."

Jordan Does it Again

While I have been so moody that, had I still been at work, the WME would have shoved me full of every medication known to man for bi-polar disorder, Jordan has been incredibly focused, and has figured out a way to rig up enough power in this cabin to get an old laptop up and running, and now he is the one furiously typing away.

I asked him what he was doing, although I was a bit listless. We both fired up a cigarette from an old carton we found in the woods. They were not even stale. Jordan is convinced that Scott Grusin is leaving things for us to find - the carton of cigarettes was amazing, but we have found bottled water, beef jerky, all kinds of odds and ends, all pushing our survival rate up a few more days at a time.

I do not want to admit that it might be him, but there is no other explanation, and Jordan is usually right.

"I am getting into different areas of the Internet, writing about different topics, hoping that someone will find us before the government does," he answered, not looking up.

"Oh," I pondered this for a minute.

"But the government is already everywhere, Jordy. Won't this lead them straight to us?"

"Might. Could. Probably. But from what I am reading, if we can hang tough for another year, something might change. Maybe for the better. I am researching. Besides, I have rigged the place and we have a safe-house. We also have some help."

"What? Who?" I was stunned. Jordan and I did not keep secrets from each other.

"I'll tell you soon, Peter," he answered, leaning back in the chair.

For the first time since my funk, I noticed Jordan had dark, dark circles under his eyes.

"Soon," he repeated, rubbing his temples.

"Um," I looked at his links. "Who was that Tomas Hrádcky guy, that music that had you so upset when you went into the WME basement, I don't know, a year or so ago?"

Jordan stared into nothingness for a few minutes. He looked like he was about to cry, but was just out of water.

"Me." he answered, still staring.

Jordan and I Finally Talk

It has been a couple of weeks since the Scott incident, and I have been surly and moody, worse than usual. Jordan was keeping his distance, wary, waiting for me to grapple with whatever had possessed me concerning the twenty five year old Scott and Carson drama.

Today we were both in our own worlds, it was pretty quiet.

"Peter," Jordan asked, "I am going to make some tea. Want some?"

"Sure," I answered, even though I really did not. But we needed to talk, and a beverage offering is always a good neutral start.

I followed Jordan into the cabin's 'kitchen', a small wooden lean-to with a mini fridge, sink, and hot plate. It was not the Ritz, but it was not the basement of the WME. We still could not believe that we weren't slaves to the government anymore. Talk about a "What Next" feeling - the United States had become a continent where you either worked for the government or you were in the civilian service industry, working at a Starbucks, Jamba Juice, or Pottery Barn. Any silly chain that kept people neck deep in shiny objects. Anyone that wanted to be an actor or writer or musician was screwed. They were getting tagged as terrorists, anarchists, or insane and locked up in psych wards. I felt the sigh before it even came out.

"You sigh a lot, Peter," Jordan remarked.

"I know," I accepted my cup of tea and leaned against the wall. "Jordan, listen. I am feeling so shitty about going off on Scott - it would have been nice to have him stick around, fill us in on how he is getting around under the radar, and managing to play music without getting caught - pretty amazing, really....." I trailed off.

"Yes, it would have been nice," Jordan turned and faced me head on. "He seemed like a decent guy who made a mistake about fifty lifetimes ago, and I just do not understand why you blew your stack at him."

"I think....I don't know, I think seeing him made me want to start over, fix all of my own mistakes, something. He was like a giant neon sign from the past, and all I could grab onto was anger. I want my old life back, I want to see Callie, I want to see a lot of people, I just want to start over, and I sound like a fucking five year old." I sighed again, not noticing that this time tears were running unchecked down my face.

"I know." Jordan answered quietly.

"I would even take going back to the WME! I want Julianne, Luka, Allen, all of them! Our friends! We do not know what has happened to our friends! I just do not know how much longer I can go on. It seems pretty hopeless, and I went on a tirade at Scott. I should have been happy to see him, there was an old friend from the very past I have been mourning, and I kicked him around like a bad dog. I feel like such an asshole." I rubbed my temples, the beginnings of a headache tickling the inner lining of my forehead.

"I am sick of hearing myself say what are we going to do?! What are we going to do?! I need to do something, I cannot sit here with you and wait and wonder and jump in fear every time I hear a noise. I am going insane."

Jordan nodded.

"Did you know that Juli was Julianne Phillips?" I made a sound that I think was a laugh. I don't know, it has been too long.

"I had an idea," Jordan answered, "I think you did, too."

"Yeah....I think I did," I smiled, tired. "Did you know that we kissed?"

Jordan nodded, a little grin on his face. "I was pretty sure. How was it?"

I put my arms around him.

"Nothing like you," I whispered into his neck.

Our tea sat there, getting cold.

The Articles From Scott

Jordan and I looked down at what Scott had handed us.

You had to give the guy points for optimism.

Scott Grusin explains

At the discretion of the author, this post has been removed, Sept 5, 2010.

A scare in the woods

Jordan and I were sitting, staring, saying nothing. Jeffery never showed up with the new place, and it was just the two of us. I guess one really does wind up where they started.

I feared I was losing my mind, because in the distance I could hear music. I didn't want to say anything to Jordan, if he did not hear it, well....

It got closer, though, and finally it was practically at the door. We were frozen. Had the WME finally found us? Jordan peeked through the bottom of a low window to the right of the door.

"He is small, with a backpack, tangled hair, playing some kind of strange guitar. If this is a disguise from the WME, they did it very well, and we know they don't have that kind of imagination, " he commented, unconsciously twisting his thumb ring.

The person knocked on the door and I nearly lost all bodily functions.

"Hello? Is anybody in there? I just need a glass of water, if it would be no bother, sorry, sorry. My name is Scott Grusin, I hope I am not interrupting anything, sorry, if I am sorry, I'll leave."

We looked at each other. Unless he had a weapon, we could take this guy down easily. Even if he did, we probably could.

Besides, that name sounded familiar.

She is gone, gone, gone

Juli left us. When she told us she was Julianne Phillips, THE Julianne Phillips, dads name Bill, Mom's name Anne, grew up in Lake Oswego, she broke down and cried.

""Listen guys, there is the press, there are a million flashbulbs in your face, but compared to what we are dealing with, that is like a tse-tse fly. Do you get it?" I am now a liability, and I have a place to hide. You do not."

But Juli, we need you - -" I tried to speak.


"Peter!" she was practically spitting.

"When the two of you are really ready to go underground.....welll..here." she passed me a piece of paper.

"Oh FUCK I am tired of notes" Jordan yelled.

Jordan never yelled.


He turned in circles around the room. Around and around and around and around,

"I AM TIRED" he screamed.

It never occured to us that Jordan, the self assured calm one, would need help.

I am confused

"Wait!" - "Frannie's note says that Luka, Renee , Jeffery and RayMan ran into HER! They didn't find Frannie, did they?"

Sometimes I feel so stupid that I still have hope.

Julianne spoke.

"Peter, you know you have always wondered about my name. It is Julianne Phillips. I used to be married to a rock and roll guy named Bruce Springsteen. You, despite your questions, have always known that, right?"

I nodded.

"So you know they did not run into Frannie G. right?"

I nodded again, feeling foolish that I had doubted my friends, even for a moment.

"Then you know that who they ran into was....."Julianne tok a deep breathe, "Mrs. - - -



"Yes," I shouted, "yes yes I know who they ran into, and you know she does not kill anyone mercifully - I just couldn't think about it, I just can't - - "

"Peter, don't worry - we are not going to get out of this alive, but that son-of-a-nother is not going to be the one. Okay?"

Juli took a deep breath.

"And to think when I was young, I thought things could not get any worse," she sighed.

And she had been hurt harder than either Jordan or myself had.

We quietly started packing.

The waiting is over

Luka, RayMan, Jeffery and Renee never came back. It has been three months and two days, and not a word. Jordan, Julianne and I are just staring at each other, each day filled with hope. I clean the cabin with an obsession that no diagnosis can claim, Julianne watches every news channel she can find, and Jordan writes in his notebook. Writes and writes and writes.

At night we curl up on the little futon bed, synchronizing our breathing.

On August 17th, I flipped out, screaming, sad, furious.

"I want to go back" I was half laughing, half crying. "I know I hated it, but it was familiar, even if it was eroding any sense of what I was, who I am, whatever. I want to go back!'

"Peter" Jordan said in that calm voice that was sometimes so infuriating that I wondered how many Oxy he had stolen from the WME before we had left.

That was mean. Jordan has always been calm.

"I have a note from Frannie G., before she left," he said, holding out a tired scrap of paper.

"You talked to Frannie!" I yelled, "You talked to Frannie and did not tell me!"

"You still had hope, I did not want you to lose it."

He held it out.

It read,

"Beware the woman who cannot tie her own shoelaces, cannot find water as she stands in front of the river, has only tissues in her pockets. Beware."

"They ran into her", Jordan's eyes, Julianne turning away from the news, nodding slowly.

"Then we have to pack up and leave, right?"

"Yes." They spoke in tandem, and reluctantly I reached for my black pen.

End of Days

It is strange to be out of the WME. We all thought we would be crazy-happy, delirious with joy, drunk on freedom. But everyone is subdued, even the woodsy beauty of our hideout can only occasionally pull out a smile, and even then the mood is tinged with melancholy. We have electricity, and RayMan managed to get us a television, so we are getting to see the news for the first time in years. But the news isn't telling the real story, it is as if we are not in a war at all - honestly, we had more of what was really going on when we were working. I think we are stunned that the public seems rabid for poor dead Anna Nicole Smith, or that silly Paris Hilton, the news is just like a tabloid MTV video.

Luka went with Jeffery and Renee today to meet with RayMan - he has some government documents that, if they are found in his possession, he will vanish like a rabbit in a hat. A lot of it is information about what the government has already done and what we have been told about it - Paul Wellstone and his wife dying in the tragic plane crash, for example. RayMan has the documents of how the plane was tampered with and by whom. Peter Jennings dying of lung cancer.....you get the picture. But RayMan also has current documents, specifically about Barack Obama and Dr. Ron Paul, and the plans they have for them.

Remember, we did not all go voluntarily to work for the WME - our group had simply participated in one of the many double-blind studies that are advertised in employment wanted ads everywhere, and we all woke up in new apartments, working in the bowels of the WME. When Jordan and I went to the double-blind study, it was 1997, we lived together in a house in Los Angeles, and Clinton was president. The first few years down in the WME basement, Jordan and I were alone, trying to figure out how to escape, then when we slowly found the others who had been kidnapped in this way - Luka, Julianne, Anna and Sam, Renee - then later RayMan, then Allen, well - we really did not realize we had been gone almost ten years. We are shell-shocked by what has happened to the United States, we really thought the free people would know what was going on, there would be non-stop serious news and fighting in the streets. The apathy of so many people, the blatent disregard the government has for the law, and the handful of people who are screaming at the top of their lungs that this administration is killing America, well, the only people that listen are the people who already know. But Rayman pointed out that people are starting to wake up, he gave many examples, but it still feels like we are hurtling towards a massive explosion both literally and figuratively.

I am so aware of my heart beating, I can hear it in my ears, I can hear the little twitter of the birds harmonizing with the low note of tension that is in the air we breathe. I feel like a crystal wineglass, ready to be lifted in a joyous toast or shattered in a million pieces from the tap of a fork.

And I wait for another day to go by.