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

“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.