Days Since...: Xavier: Day 853

Chapter Six

Xavier swiped at his face, expelling the rainwater from his eyes. He blinked several times and refocused on his surroundings—his chest pumping. Although he knew his partners were just behind him, he shook, partly from his damp clothes and the cool air, but mostly it was his nerves. There was no telling who or what was with him in this improvised dump. There were too many places to hide.

Moving quickly to his right, he concealed himself behind a large box truck that had ignored the clearance warning and sat wedged between the ground and a series of pipes protruding from the wall.

The truck’s momentum had carried it far enough under the bridge that it ripped the plumbing apart. Rainwater spewed from the damaged pipes, flowing past Xavier’s feet and out along a line of garbage bags piled up across the road. Where are they? He circled around to the passenger side and stood on the steps to its cab, doing his best to visually clear the area through the windshield. He could only hope that no one was lying in wait.

He flinched at his surroundings. This place is filthy. An abundance of smells wrapped themselves around the deserted vehicles and piles of trash. On the far side, it appeared someone had attempted to barricade the road. Several wooden pallets were linked together with chains and bungee cords. They were still in good shape, but it was clear the idea had been abandoned.

His worry began to subside. If anyone was going to end him, it would’ve happened by now. He was barely hidden and exhausted—an easy target.

He leaned over after stepping down from the truck and rested his hands on his knees, taking quick, painful breaths to stop the biting in his lungs. As he looked up, he noticed that along the box truck someone had covered it entirely with Sharpie marker. “With my kitty at home, I never have to roam,” Xavier said aloud. Who writes nonsense like that over and over?

He stood there shivering—the breeze being forced underneath the bridge—a puddle gradually collected below him. He began wringing his clothing. This isn’t working. He dropped his bag and searched for a change of clothes. Within that moment, Grant and Simon burst through the onslaught of the storm.

“Holy!” Grant howled. The words were barely audible. The two of them leaned against the walls opposite one another, trying to catch their breath. “We’re gonna need to warm up!”

“What!” Simon’s face twisted with pain as he shouted the word. His breaths seemed labored, uncomfortable. Xavier was nearest to Simon, squatting over his bag, still searching. Simon snapped his fingers at him, but there was no response. “Hey! What did the old man say?”

“We need to warm up.”

Simon motioned for everyone to take cover as he walked toward Xavier and set his pack down. His attention was clearly drawn away from Grant’s trivial concern and to the significant amount of unknowns surrounding them. He took to his rifle, shifted it into position, bracing it tightly against his shoulder and activated the light. Slowly down the wall of the overpass, he cleared each section, his trigger finger riding the frame of the firearm as he moved the muzzle from object to object.

Xavier watched as best he could from beside the box truck, speechless, absolutely mesmerized by Simon’s precision. Even though he was out of breath and limping, it didn’t seem to affect him. His footwork. Light. His attention. Pinpoint. This is what I want to do. Simon slipped in and out of cover. It was clear now that he knew what he was doing. He moved from within Xavier’s sight, taking with him any doubt that Xavier may have felt about his abilities and discarded those doubts with the rest of the trash.

Grant crept over to Xavier. “Seems he knows what he’s doin’. Still a prick, but at least he won’t get us killed.”

Xavier looked on, his eyes filled with eagerness, waiting for Simon to return. Partially ignoring Grant, not on purpose, but simply because the idea of what Simon did was so intriguing, and he didn’t want to miss even the smallest detail. Grant spoke again, but Xavier didn’t hear it, his mind collecting as much as it could as Simon worked his way back toward them.

Grant’s words faded in. “…don’t ya get no ideas. You know I still need ya back in the shop. You ain’t leavin’ me yet, boy.”

“At some point I’m going to have—”

“We’re alone,” Simon said, as he moved toward Xavier. He reached into his pack and pulled a plastic baggie from within. A matchbox inside. He shook it, and the sticks rattled. “This’ll get us started.” He pointed to the vehicles parked along the shoulder, directing Xavier toward them. “Look through some of those cars and try to find some paper.”

Xavier tried the handle to an oversized pickup. Locked. He cupped his hands around his eyes in an attempt to look through the tinted glass. Without lighting it would be impossible to see its contents. Here we go. A portion of the damaged pipes lay in the gutter at his feet. He bent down and gripped it within his palm. One simple strike and the window popped, crumbling to pieces.

“Boy!”

“Sorry!” Probably should’ve warned them.

With the vehicle now unlocked, he entered, cleared the glass from the seat, and began rooting for scraps of paper. He could hear Grant speaking loudly, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Xavier looked to see the conversation, but the view through the back window was completely blocked. The bed was weighted down with a stack of wooden skids, tools, wheelbarrow, and several car batteries. The owner must’ve had something big planned.

Owner… The first time the word had really struck him as odd. In this world, the more appropriate word may have been possessor. Could you really own anything anymore? Or do you just have it until someone else takes it?

He riffled through the glove box, saving any paper he found. Where’s he want this stuff? Xavier took his stack from the vehicle.

“Where do you—“

“Help me with this!” Simon’s words fought against the noise of the rain.

Grant walked toward him, pointing to his ear. “What?”

“Help me with this.” Simon dropped the tailgate and pulled the wheelbarrow to the edge. He carefully guided it to the ground. “We’ll build a fire in this,” Simon said, as he wheeled it to the double yellow line.

“You want me to put this stack in there?” Xavier asked.

“Not yet. Try and get some more.”

“Alright.” Xavier placed the stack of papers on the floorboard of the pickup and climbed back inside. He felt the bed of the truck lower, followed by a banging of indecision—sporadic movements against the pickup’s cab. What are they up to now?

Simon shifted several of the wooden skids into a position to be lowered. “Four of these should be enough.”

Grant obliged him, taking them one by one and leaning all four of them against the wheel well.

“Go ahead and start breaking those down,” Simon said. “I’m going to try and find something to hang our clothes on.”

“Yep, you do that.” Grant took one of the skids and propped it against the wall of the overpass. He started stomping at it, eventually getting his foot caught between the slats.

“Whoa, Whoa, Whoa! Hey! What the hell are you doing? Just grab the sledgehammer. We can’t have you slowin’ us down if you get hurt.”

“I ain’t gonna hurt myself.” Grant wriggled his foot free. “Didn’t know there was a sledge. Where’s it at?”

Simon took it from the truck and handed it to him while shaking his head. “Be careful with it.”

“I got this,” he responded sharply, snatching the sledgehammer from Simon’s grip. Grant heaved each strike into the skids, splintering the wood into workable kindling. The sharp cracks of metal splitting wood continued, and Simon began rummaging through the junk that had been dumped there long ago. Old tires, metal rods, trash cans, all things in his way were being lifted and thrown about.

The clanging of metal caught Xavier’s attention. He looked across the truck’s cab and through the driver’s side window. No tint? The window was down. Guess I didn’t need to break this one. Oh, well. It appeared that Simon was clearing a path through the clutter. There seemed to be a method to it, although at that moment he couldn’t tell for what. Xavier’s view was blocked by Simon’s tall wiry figure.

Simon took an awkward stance and then, from his side, came a large metal barrel tilted on its bottom. He rolled it along its edge toward the wheelbarrow. It was slowly let down, wobbled for a moment, and then settled.

“This’ll work better for the fire.” He lifted the handles to the wheelbarrow and moved it to Grant. “Use this to set the kindling in.”

Grant scooped a good portion of the wood within his arms and dumped it into the wheelbarrow. “Decent amount.”

“We’ll need more.” Simon stared Grant down and then looked toward the truck. “Hey kid, how’s it coming?”

Xavier backed out of the passenger side of the pickup. “Not too bad. I’ll check that black car next.” He tilted the bench seat forward and poked through the empty beer cans and snack wrappers. A small pile of trash spilled over the top of the seat as he dug deeper into the mess. The light crunching and rustling paused for a moment. Something was out of place. His fingers gripped a much thicker metal. He lifted it up through the clutter. His eyes grew wide—the power…

“Here Xavier, straighten it up. Up a little more.”

“It’s heavy. My arms are getting tired.”

“Just up a bit more. Hang in there this is the last one.”

“How many more screws? Please hurry.”

“This is good for you.”

“This is too many.”

“There we go. You okay?”

“Yes. Those are just really heavy, and we did so many of them.”

“Hopefully this works out with the whole house boarded up. If it doesn’t… we’ll have to figure something else out. Not quite sure what, but we may just have to live in the woods or something.”

“I’m not doing that. How will Mom know where to find us?”

“We’ll leave her a note or something. This whole thing’s going to pass. It’s already dying out, and the gangs haven’t come through in awhile. That’s a good sign we might not have to leave.”

“We should have Matt and his mom stay with us.”

“Yeah, we’ll ask again. We just need to do something else first. Come with me.”

“What?”

“I wanted to wait until you were older, but— Xavier?

“Yeah?”

“You’re not a kid anymore.”

“Huh?”

“You can’t be one anymore. That world’s over. You’re going to need this.”

“Really? I can have it?”

“You have to learn to defend yourself. Just in case I hav—”

“To leave like Mom?”

“In case something happens. I’m not leaving. She’s still out there, she’ll be back eventually.”

“Let me hold it.”

“Not yet, you need to know the rules.”

A gun—a small, .25 caliber Raven pistol sat in the fifteen-year-old’s hand. Xavier whispered through his dad’s instructions, “Keep your finger off the trigger and along the frame… Don’t point it at anything you aren’t ready to shoot… Eject the magazine… Lock the slide… Make it safe.” He counted down the side of the magazine, “One, two, three, four. And, where’d that other one go?” He carefully sorted through the trash on the seat. The expelled round rolled into the stitching of the cushion. Xavier pinched it and pushed it into the follower. The magazine returned to the grip and the slide went back then rocketed forward.

It would be his secret. Grant would surely take it from him if he knew. Simon would argue he couldn’t trust him with it. There’s no way I can tell them. He checked the eyes of his companions. No one was looking. The gun went muzzle first into his pants pocket. The pile of scrap paper was gathered up, and Xavier moved on to the black sedan.

This already looked far more promising than the scraps that Xavier had folded into his back pocket. An assortment of books was piled up in the rear window area behind the backseat. Jackpot! The rear passenger window sat halfway down, and he peeked inside. Immediately, his head jerked back. A strong odor of ammonia made him reconsider whether or not it was worth it. “What in the world is that?” The smell may as well have knocked him over as he shuffled his feet away from the car.

He stood there staring at the car, shaking his head, he could still smell it. A strong huff of air from his lungs. This better be worth it. Xavier pulled his shirt over his nose, reached in, and popped the lock. The door was tight. He tugged hard at the handle, and the door shot open. And, there it is. A urine-soaked blanket lay on the floor behind the driver’s seat. The dark stains had set. Small black hairs were spread all over it. Definitely a cat living in here.

He continued holding his nose and as swiftly as he could, took his arm and pushed it across the back, bulldozing the books onto the pavement. He stacked them just neatly enough to carry them to the burn barrel.

“Take these.” Simon set the box of matches on the books as Xavier walked past. “You know how to get this going?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can handle it.” Xavier said, stopping just short of the barrel. He began to peruse the collection, sliding each one from the stack and onto the ground. “Never heard of these,” he said to himself, “1984, Lord of the Flies.” Each title a different sounding thud against the street. “Brave New World, Fahrenhei—.”

“These are the Classics, boy!” Grant interrupted, picking a few of them from the pile that lay at Xavier’s feet. “Couldn’t have picked somethin’ else?”

“I don’t know the difference.” Xavier shrugged. “I’m just trying to get the fire started.”

“Let’s hold off on these ones here.” He took a few more from Xavier’s hands. “What else they got back there?”

“This is mostly it. Maybe a few more over there on the ground, but pretty much the same sort of stuff.”

“Well, here’s the wood. Let’s not burn these yet. We’ll see if we can make do.”

The two of them started picking the larger pieces of wood from the wheelbarrow, setting them off to the side. Xavier pulled the scrap pieces of paper from his pocket, balled them up, and tossed each one into the metal drum.

“Need to get some air in there,” Grant said.

“Why?”

“Fire’s gotta breathe.” Grant clasped the rim of the barrel. “These walls are pretty thin. Maybe I ca—”

“I got this.” Simon reached into his pack and dug through it. He lifted a shiny, steel carpenter’s hammer and twirled it in his hand. He looked at Grant. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

The overpass echoed with a sharp ringing as the claw punctured the metal. Simon’s arm flailed about, lacking precision, but it didn’t matter—holes are holes. His face turned red, and he switched hands to start again, fresh. He worked his way around, grunting while he did. The bottom of the barrel became a ruffled skirt—shredded metal bending every which way. “Let’s get this fire started,” Simon said between strained breaths, leaning over onto his knees, his butt resting on the truck’s bumper.

Simon watched as Grant meticulously placed the larger fragments of the broken skids inside, forming a cone within the burn barrel. “Let’s do it,” Grant said, taking the copyright page from 1984 along with a few pages from its foreword and rolled them into a makeshift torch. He patted Xavier on the back. “Light it up.”

Xavier struck a match and lit the end, forcing Grant to work it through the slits in the bottom of the barrel. Eventually, the fire took, and the wood began to crackle.

Outside, the roar of the storm was dying. The intensity of the wind settled along with it, but it still managed to chill the three as they huddled around the fire. Their shoes encircled the base of the barrel, and three pairs of socks hung from the rim. The wheelbarrow pulled closely to the fire held the weight of Simon’s rifle against it and several pieces of clothing from its rear frame.

“Keep feeding it. If we need to break down more skids, we will,” Simon said.

Or you’ll just make us do it. Xavier threw in a few more scraps of wood. Swirls of hot air and smoke carried flickering sparks from within the metal drum. It was beautiful. The smell of wood burning. The heat against his palms. No wall preventing him from the real world. A spontaneous campsite. All I need is an excuse to make this my way of life.

Simon casually worked the blade of a pocketknife over his fingernails. It never seemed as though he could stop fidgeting. Xavier watched him, wondering who Simon was—what he was thinking. How much of what he said was true? And how much was the act?

Some of it was certainly an act. He seemed to try too hard to convince them that he was in charge—that he was running the show. Xavier and Grant didn’t question that. He was in charge. Haverty had made that clear. What makes him tick? Simon’s eyes seemed lost within the task of trimming his fingernails.

“How long have you been with the S.A.?” Xavier’s words momentarily broke Simon’s gaze.

“Four months. I don’t know.” Back to task. His left index finger must have been tricky. He had been digging at the nail for quite some time now.

“And before that?”

“On my own.”

The look of disbelief on Xavier’s face went unseen by Simon. On my own? A simple response, but the words sank deep into Xavier’s conscience. Surviving this world alone? It couldn’t be. There wasn’t any way that someone could do it. One person for shelter, water, and food. That would be impossible. “How?”

Simon folded his knife and put it away. “What do you mean? You just do it. Otherwise, you die.”

“It takes a whole town for us to survive. By yourself… that just seems impossible.”

“Of course you think that way, you’ve been sheltered this whole time. To rely on yourself, well especially you, now that would be impossible.”

Xavier hesitated. He knew that was true, but it wasn’t his fault. He had simply done what his father told him to. No real chance to explore on his own thus far. He was still learning and would continue to do so. So what if he hadn’t been cast into the fire? He was still much further along than many. His skillset was important—a true learned trade. Simon knew how to point a gun. Anyone could do that. “You’re not so unique.”

“Compared to all the people you know, I am.”

Grant butted in, “You’re like us, city dweller. You ain’t no lone wolf. You gave it up.”

“That wasn’t the plan,” Simon snapped back. “I enjoyed being alone. Something you two could never do.”

“And, what? What changed for ya?” Grant said it from a pedestal, trying to rub in that Simon couldn’t handle it. Just a slight insinuation—an attempt to make Simon feel foolish.

“They took me…” Simon’s words faded with any expression on his face.

“Huh?” Xavier didn’t expect an answer. Simon, for the most part, had kept to himself—all business. When he said those words—‘They took me’—Simon seemed to be begging for an outlet. His proud demeanor had fallen, along with his guard, and at first, there was nothing from Simon, only silence as his stoic face faded in and out of the light. Is he okay? “Simon?”

“They took me… I didn’t have a choice.”

Grant turned toward Xavier, his eyes clearly asking what he had done.

“A choice in what?” Xavier asked.

“The S.A… They took me for trials. It was that or death. They don’t like loners out there doing for themselves. They don’t let you know this, but they wanna eliminate that. They want everyone to be S.A.”

Xavier nodded, believing every word. I know it.

“They test your loyalty. They made me kill. I—I didn’t want to.” He rubbed vigorously at his forehead trying to erase the memory. Simon shuddered and began pacing. “The first was horrible,” he continued, “simply horrible, an innocent… a woman minding some goats. She was smiling.” His eyes welled. It seemed the words had come from behind him. His lips barely moved. He was someplace else far removed from the overpass. “My sights on her, and theirs on me.”

“Lynn…” Grant’s head fell to the side. His painful countenance. There was no question about it. He whispered again, “Lynn.” Grant’s jaw tensed. His teeth pushed against one another, causing his jaw to flare. “Murderer!” Grant shoved Simon hard to the ground. “I’m tired of buryin’ my friends! My wife!” He rushed to Simon, but he just lay there on the ground where he was thrown. He didn’t even look up.

“They want your town.” Simon’s words died into the ground.

“What you say?” Grant stood over him, his fists balled tightly at his side, rising and falling with his breaths. “Get up!”

Again, nothing came from Simon. He just lay there dejected, seemingly disgusted with his own self.

“Get up! I need this.” Grant stomped at his ribs. The gasp was abrupt. The air escaped Simon as he covered himself from the next blow. “You deserve every bit of this!” He stayed covered as Grant continued. The strikes slowed. Grant stopped. “Coward.” He turned sharply from his victory and marched back to the fire.

Xavier stood still in the awkward silence that followed. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? He just watched as Grant began pulling the clothes from his duffel bag.

“Where is it, boy!” Grant’s voice filled with desperate anger. “Where is it!”

“Where’s what?”

“You thought I didn’t notice the weight to your bag?” Simon said, rising slowly from his personal darkness, debris falling from his body as if he had stepped out of a grave. All that remained was a demon, possessed, his soul was corroded by the guilt of his unwanted taking of lives. “What were you going to do with it?”

“Give you what you deserve.”

“I deserve nothing from you!” Simon said, “You— You know nothing of me!” Simon squared up, taking a fighting stance—his lips curling into an evil sneer.

Grant swung at Simon, but he ducked it, moving past Grant’s arm and wrapping his neck tightly from behind. Grant dangled from Simon’s arms—trapped. He tried to strike back but couldn’t. “Go to sleep, old man. Go to sleep.”

“Stop it!” Xavier cried out. “You’re killing him!”

“Oh?” Simon looked over his shoulder to Xavier as he inched Grant closer to the barrel. “See if we can’t melt those tremors away.”

The respect Xavier felt for Simon dissolved as quickly as it came. He dug into his pocket. There it was. He pointed it forward. With his hand trembling, the muzzle crept toward Simon. A waver. A dip. No choice. Do it! A flash and it was done.

Xavier’s ears rang as he stood, watching the two bodies tumble into the barrel, spilling fire and ash against the pavement. The red embers glinted and then died. His silver gun fell to the ground, slipping from his loose grip. He gradually started working his way down the front of his clothing. Time unraveled in front of him as the weight of what he had done crushed him. He was numb—everything.

Grant skittered across the ground on his hands and feet—away from Simon’s lifeless body resting in the charred wood and ashes. Splotches of redness replaced the compression from Simon’s chokehold. The arms were gone from Grant’s neck, but the sensation was not. Grant stood and massaged his collarbone, then brushed the filth that belonged to the overpass from his body.

Grant approached Simon cautiously, taking the body and rolling it onto its side. Two fingers to Simon’s neck, and it was confirmed. He went to Xavier, picking the small pistol from the ground on his way.

The persistent ringing in Xavier’s ears began to give way to other sounds. “Xavier! Xavier!” Grant embraced him, squeezed him tightly into his chest. “Here, take it.” Grant slid the pistol into Xavier’s pocket.

“Jesus, boy! Hey!” Grant took him by the shoulder, narrowing his eyes into Xavier’s. “Hey, you did right.” Grant took the glasses from Xavier’s nose and waved his hand in front of Xavier’s face. “Hey!” He shook him lightly, then harder, “Snap out of it!” He replaced the glasses, helped him to the ground, and then joined him. “We can’t just sit here.” But Xavier did just that. “You’re not dead.” Pointing to the corpse, he continued, “He is. Just him.”

Simon still appeared to be very much alive. He stared back with unblinking eyes. The side of his face lay firmly against the street—his body never to move again. Only the brief memory of their journey would live on. No funeral. No real acknowledgment. He would rot under that overpass alone.

Xavier’s lips began, but the words faded before they made it any further than the tip of his nose. Grant leaned in to hear the muted words. It was repetitive. Over and over, it ran from his mouth, but continued to expire before it reached Grant. He couldn’t get any closer. Gradually it grew, and the words were audible, but unrecognizable. Over and over. Pieces started to come together, “I can’t… then… all of it is…” The repetition wavered in and out and then stopped. Xavier’s throat trembled. An abrupt spasm, then vomit. He groaned and pressed firmly on his stomach.

“Damn, boy!” Grant said, rising to his feet, ensuring he kept his shoes from the bile.

“What have I done?” He looked down at his hands, the vomit between his legs. What have I done? I had to, right? I had to do it. His breathing elevated. Calm down. Calm down. Get a hold of yourself. You’re not going anywhere. Stay right here. No fainting again. He stood, unsteadily, but Grant took hold of his shoulder.

“You saved me,” Grant said, every last one of his teeth showing. “Didn’t know ya had it in ya, boy.”

“I don’t want to do it again. Never again.”

“You ain’t done nothin’ wrong. I can’t have ya second guessin’ what ya did.” Grant rustled Xavier’s hair. “You did what was right. He would’ve killed me. I owe ya.”

He nodded to Grant with a feeble smile.

“I’d like to lay some more praise on ya, but we’re gonna have to get goin’. That shot might bring some undesirables around.” Grant slid Simon’s bag toward the rest of their belongings and began sorting through the contents. He tossed aside the clothing and personal keepsakes. A black handgun found its way into Grant’s waistband. He continued sifting through the pack. “Where’d he put that thing?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A sawed-off. I brought a shotgun. He must— He had to have nabbed it up when I wasn’t lookin’. We’ll find it.”

“What do we do about him?”

“No doubt they’ll question us. We’ll need a good story.” Grant took no pause from the bag. His response seemed automatic, “We’ll get through the woods, go back to town, tell them we been attacked, and ran.” He punctuated every point with an emphatic nod, continuing his shuffle through the dead man’s belongings. “We’ll work out the details on the way back.”

Grant patted along Simon’s body. It was possible Simon stowed the sawed-off shotgun somewhere on his person. No such luck. Grant checked the pockets—only a pocketknife worth taking. He tossed it, along with the binoculars, into Simon’s pack. “That’s gonna work. One last thing.” Simon’s leather boots tumbled toward Xavier. “You should really take these.”

“You think?” Xavier hesitated. The suggestion of taking the boots from a person he just killed seemed wrong. It wasn’t the point for taking his life—to profit from such an unfortunate act. A robbery. Something switched in Simon, and he deserved it. It was justified. But to take the boots? Someone would surely come along. Someone else would take them. Xavier had taken before. He just hadn’t killed in order to do it. I need these more than anyone else. Really would be a shame to let them go.

Xavier discarded his sneakers into the piles of trash and slipped the boots over his feet. They were certainly his size, but the left was tight, uncomfortably tight. He examined the interior, noticing a raised portion of the insole. There was something beneath it. Xavier removed a plastic baggie folded several times over. A typed letter, one sealed with black wax, was inside.

SITREP

Sir:

It pleases me to share that the plan is running smoothly. River’s Edge has proven to be a fine addition. As you know, upon initial contact, the town was unreceptive to vassalage. That decision has obviously been rescinded. We instituted a typical Stage Two against the town. We recruited a loner for trials, and he proved to be quite accurate. A bit apprehensive at first, but typically, the deal convinces them to cooperate. The staged attacks, utilizing the loner and percussion grenades, produced masterfully. It took a period of two weeks of measured attacks resulting in minimal casualties for them to request our protection.

Citizens of River’s Edge are enamored with the agreement and are often heard boasting of the three month period without attacks. A typical Stage Three process, as drawn up for LPH Fortress, should strengthen our grasp upon the town.

“Found it! Got it now. What you got there, boy?”

Stage Three has only recently begun with the introduction of a two-meal day and standard JCN procedures. We are still friendly with the natives, but occasionally they have to be put back in their place. The buildup of Second Alliance Guards has largely gone unquestioned. It should not be long until we have enough people in place to turn it over to ourselves without resistance. We do, after all, have a lot to offer.

Your request for Xavier has been received, and as you hold this letter, you will know that he is with you. It is important that you allow him to assist the Maintenance Supervisor, Marshall Grant, with the solar panels. I understand that Xavier may not be returning,

“What’s he mean by that?” Xavier whispered to himself.

but I do reiterate the importance of this project. River’s Edge needs substantial upgrades to their power situation. They have limited gasoline, which in all honesty, is impressive it still remains here. They are extremely frugal with their resources and have amassed a substantial holding of goods. The library of the school has held intact, and we will begin transporting books back Home. Their supplies are essentially being withheld from them at this point.

Do what you will with the loner. After this trip, he is of no real use to me. I would prefer him dead or moved to an eastern outpost to avoid him informing the town of the proceedings against it.

Professionally,

Haverty

Speechless, he stood holding the validation for his skepticism, everything that Xavier thought was true… was. Not the minor details, but the overall tenacity of the Second Alliance—the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing—a false prophet. He could believe their objective was needed. It was. The notion of reuniting people to rebuild the world had its merits. Biologists, pathologists, epidemiologists all put forth studies, scenarios, but then it actually happened, and no one ever laid out the blueprints for putting it all back together. Someone had to right the ship for humanity’s sake. Our species had certainly stumbled, fallen squarely on its face, but it had to get back up. For Xavier, there was no doubting that.

But the means, the tricky part of actually getting to the good. The path taken to the ends was just as important. The Second Alliance understood this. It was demonstrated in their carefulness for gaining submission from those who stood in their way. They would scoff in your face at the accusation of being the bad guy as they killed your loves ones behind you. And then weep and hold you the next day at the funeral.

Their killing of innocents in a manner done to shield the aggressor’s identity forced people to submit or make decisions from deceit. The veil had been drawn over River’s Edge. Most of its inhabitants were ready to live as normal lives as possible, but the Second Alliance wasn’t this pure savior of the region. They were bullies with a vision, and the people deserved to know.

Xavier creased the paper in half and started it toward his pocket, but he felt a pressure on his wrist. “Lemme see it.” Grant picked it from his fingertips and began to pore over the details. As the curtain was gradually pulled, Grant’s face sank with each stunning word.

Xavier’s mind grinded along—bogged down with the enormity of the letter. It was difficult. It seemed any decision was charged with great consequence. Should they tell? Share their newfound truth? It would certainly be met with harsh rebuke if they were found out. Treason and murder. A sentence of death upon the discovery of them distributing the truth about the Second Alliance

The consequences would be difficult to bear. All forms of stability would be shattered. Any semblance of normalcy didn’t stand a chance if they took it out on the school. River’s Edge would be made an example of. But that was only if they were caught.

The possibility of a revolution against the first government since the fall seemed likely. A revolution to strike the giant before it grew beyond the ability to control it. Xavier knew it had to be done—that it was the right thing to do. He patiently waited for Grant to finish the letter.

“Gotta get rid of this.” Grant said, his voice torn apart, dulled from the prospect of what lay in his hands.

“What!” Xavier scowled at him with disbelief. “You can’t mean that.”

“This will end it all,” he muttered lowly to himself, his eyes darting across the print. “I can’t let—”

Xavier snatched the letter from his hand and backpedaled away from Grant and his poor decision. “You can’t be serious.”

“Boy! I can’t…” His expression said it all—a conscience torn in two. Xavier knew that Grant was done fighting, done rebuilding after all the violence. He wanted a routine without those things. It was time for him to be taken care of. The Second Alliance created that sense of life before the virus. Still, it was disgusting the lengths they would go to obtain it. “I can’t go back to fending for ourselves. I need this.”

“Lynn! What about that, huh?”

Grant’s buried his chin into his chest. He knew the hypocrisy of his choice. The anger surrounding Lynn’s murder had caused a man’s death. That point alone would have to be enough to sway him to do right, to stand with Xavier against the Second Alliance, but only silence from his thoughts.

“Don’t do this,” Grant begged. “I know it’s hard, but I’m tellin’ you— Stay with me. We can figure this out.”

“To think, Dad left me with you. You to teach me right from wrong. You just want it easy.” Xavier lifted Simon’s pack onto his shoulders, snatched the rifle from the wheel barrow, and ran into the trickling of rain. “Tell them we got separated,” he yelled over his shoulder.

“Xavier! Don’t do this!”