CHAPTER II - Evasion

The crowd at The Salad Bowl restaurant was pretty light for a lunch on a Saturday, though all the stores nearby were struggling to remain open and the area as a whole was dying. Tom loved this place, though. Great soups, nice and ample salad bar. Normally, he'd spend an hour here and then ride on to a couple of bookstores, maybe a movie. Today, he wanted to hit one of the larger bookstores after he ate, but he also wanted to look over those pictures he took. He barely slept, his mind going back to this strange little... spacecraft. 

It was obviously a spacecraft. 

How did it get here?

It certainly wasn't from here.

For now, he had his bowl of black bean soup and his salad, he needed to eat. 

Yet he kept looking at his phone. 

A family of three came and sat behind him. A man, about his age, with long silver hair pulled into a ponytail, a beard, and a moustache. The woman had black hair with silver streaks throughout, also very long, almost to her waist. The young woman, who appeared to be their daughter, sat immediately behind Tom. 

They began talking to one another. Tom turned his head a little to listen. It was a bad habit he had developed as a teen, he was always wondering when someone was talking about him. 

These people weren't talking about him, at least in a language he could understand. What ever language they were speaking was melodic. 

In fact, he was reminded of the movie "Dances With Wolves".

Maybe they were down from North Carolina, Cherokee. 

For a moment, his mind tried to latch onto something, but... no. It was nothing. 

The young woman turned around and asked "are we disturbing you?" in a perfectly good American accent. 

"No, you're okay."

"Well, we don't want to bother you. My folks can get loud sometimes," she said. 

"No, it's fine. Are you native American?"

"Yeah," she said, "from way up north."

"North Carolina?" Tom asked.

"Uhm, no. Canada."

"Oh, okay. Well, enjoy your lunch," he replied.

"You too," she said, and they went back to their food. 

The Canadian family finished eating before Tom did and left a few minutes before he went to pay for his meal. After he paid, he walked out to his motorcycle. On the windshield he saw a business card. 

Well, it looked like a business card.

He picked it up to read it. Probably an insurance offer. 

What it said, in a lovely handwriting, was "You are being watched. Be careful."

He stood upright and looked around the parking lot. There were no vehicles that looked out of place, just family cars and crossovers, a couple of vans, but nothing about them looked out of place. 

But somehow, he always wondered. Perhaps it was the paranoia from what he had gone through. Now with the little spaceship, his concern was kindled anew. 

Oddly, it didn't surprise that he was probably being followed. The note, on the other hand, did.

He got on his bike, started it up, and exited onto Atlantic Boulevard and headed towards downtown. 

At the first light, he looked into his mirrors. Nothing behind him seemed out of place, just normal Saturday traffic. 

How he wished someone hadn't left that note. Was it a joke? How could it be? Why?

The light changed, and as he pulled through the intersection, a car suddenly turned behind him from the crossing road. This time, it was obviously a government vehicle, a black Impala. There was a blaring horn from the other car. The car pulled up closer. Now, he was certain he was being followed. So much for subtlety, Tom thought. 

Instinctively, he turned the throttle and shifted gears, and pulled ahead of the black Impala. Chuckling to himself, all he could think was that they always used black cars, must be the FBI.
Tom's Yamaha was able to gain distance for a mile, all the while he was looking for some way to lose them.

The Impala was trying to keep up, when out of nowhere an old car cut them off, a huge 1970's era Grand Prix. 

This was his opportunity. He rocketed down Atlantic Boulevard, and at the first crossroad, he turned right, and then another right, did a u-turn, and waited.

Carefully looking around the corner, Tom watched as the Impala tried to get around that old piece of Detroit heavy metal.
He was thankful for bad drivers.