“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!”
Chapter Seven
The creek was filled from the earlier storm that swept through the western hills. A temporary rush of water moved over the rocks and broken branches that lay between the banks. Leaves rustled as Xavier, unable to slow himself on the steepness of the hill, crashed through them, bounding toward the edge. At the last moment before going over, he took hold of a thick wild vine. His feet left the ground briefly, and like a pendulum, swung back, settling on the ridge.
A nervous chuckle. Another soaking was the last thing he needed. That was a close one. Behind him were the skid marks his slipping feet left in the mud. Too close. He set his (Simon’s) pack in the nook of a fallen tree, moss covered and slightly rotted. Pressing down upon it to ensure it could bear his weight—This will work—he sat. The rifle lay across his lap as he stared out into nature.
Along the winding bourn, in the lower portion of the ridge, a large American Sycamore stood with its root bulb partially uncovered from the eroding soil. The thick trunk risen from its seed, grew tall—its brown and gray bark blended toward the naked white limbs toward the top. Its twigs and branches etched their way across the blue sky above him, shedding what bark remained. The sun hung low in the sky and glistened against its exposed skin. Xavier moved just underneath its spiraling magnificence and rested his hand against its base.
It was old, several hundred years at least. It had witnessed triumphs and failures of man—man's wars and humanity. It grew stronger and more resilient as man had grown unknowingly weaker and more susceptible to disease. It was proud and tall, a towering reminder that nature was before man and would be there afterwards.
Xavier breathed in the abundant freshness of air that existed in the woods and sat back down, alone with only his thoughts. He rocked the rifle by its muzzle, the butt swiveled back and forth at his feet while his mind seemingly floated beyond control. A revolution? Really? What the hell am I going to do? Taking out the letter, he let the rifle rest against the downed tree, and he began to glance over the details again. This is i
t. The truth right here.
He could only hope that the letter would be enough to convince the people of River's Edge to realize the mistake that had been made. It would be a completely different thing to get them to act—to push the oppressors away. Agreeable words could only go so far.
They would need a strong voice—a strong leader. A fifteen-year-old boy seemed too unlikely. It would have to be another. But who? No one stood out for the task, his thoughts preoccupied with Grant. The caretaker that had failed him.
Hatred filled Xavier with visions of Grant’s dirty face—his tremors, the frayed nerves of a coward—the disgusting thought process that could tolerate such treachery for an easier life, but one not even that much easier than before.
Grant’s decision made Xavier nervous. The ease with which he could defile the memory of his deceased wife. The vengeance he felt against Simon was misplaced, and upon learning of the circumstances, why wouldn’t he place that vengeance appropriately? He had to see the connection between allowing the Second Alliance to kill her and now letting them get away with it. How could he even imagine destroying the letter? It was the only chance of revealing the truth, the revelation of a monster—the Second Alliance. But there he was, willing to destroy the truth. And for what? Unbelievable! The death of his wife in exchange for his own selfish desires.
Grant could never be forgiven. His loyalties had skewed from morality. A complete betrayal to ignore the simple right from wrong. He couldn’t be trusted anymore. And what's more, how much further was he willing to go in order to get what he wanted? He had already written off Lynn. Am I next? What truth would Grant tell to Haverty? Simon’s death, the letter, or neither.
Almawt Virus Series (Book 2): Days Since...Xavier [Day 853] Page 10
