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

“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.