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

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.