Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Xavier - Day 853

Grant started to seem worried. Something didn’t seem right. This stretch of Riverside was taking much longer than the first half, and Simon became increasingly more methodical with his advance. Grant stretched his arm across Xavier’s chest, settling them into a slower pace. “Keep your eyes movin’,” he told him. “Things are gettin’ slower. Remember to breathe.”

“What do you think it is?” The adrenaline began to fill Xavier’s body.

“Not sure. We’ll keep back a bit.”

A light rumble. Xavier snapped his head back. That storm was close now, bringing stronger winds that touched them with the dampness of imminent rain. It was only a matter of time before it would settle over them. Simon seemed to be picking up his speed, but it was hard to tell at first due to his hobbled stride.

“Should we take cover?” Xavier called out to Simon.

“Up this stretch and around the bend, and we’ll get to the overpass!” he yelled. “Hustle up!”

The two didn’t hesitate. The clouds steamrolled across the sky, passing darkness over the sun. The rumbling continued, moving closer, and the breeze grew stronger. You could smell it gaining on them—that unmistakable scent of a storm. Behind them they heard it, still gaining—the rain pinging any metal exposed to the sky. The staggered line between wet and dry pursued them from the far end of the road. It was like trying to outrun a train, but without a track to step off of, you just had to go—no hesitating.

“See! Up ahead!” Simon hadn’t realized that his companions had caught up to him. His hobbling severely limited his speed.

“Yeah, we see it!” Grant yelled over to him.

The wind and rain were deafening and continued to gain.

“We might make it!” Xavier hoped out loud, passing the others as he made his way around the bend.

In that instant, the rain made its decision. They weren’t getting away. It rushed through the remainder of the street. The downpour was thick. Its rain, with droplets so weighted and furious, blurred Xavier’s vision. Potholes filled with water. They were unavoidable in the haste of finding shelter. Every step was a game of chance—twisted ankle, tripping hazard, or a good splashing at the very least.

His entire being weighed down at the very moment the storm caught them. He chugged along, dragging every bit of himself against its will. Despite the added weight, Xavier was now clearly in the lead. Alone around the bend. A place he really didn’t want to be, but the rain convinced him otherwise. He breathed heavily, almost sucking in water from the air. The race was almost over. Grant and Simon were puttering out. Xavier could sense that shelter was within reach.

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.