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

Working the angles and avoiding blind spots became an obsession. He had briefly watched Simon maintain cover while moving through the open streets of Riverside and later through the confined spaces under the highway. It seemed easy enough in these abandoned houses. Practice would make perfect. Most people weren’t holed up in single-family residences anymore. But one could never be sure if they would stumble across another desperate scavenger. It was best to be careful. Perfectly careful.

He found himself framed by a second floor window, watching his street below. It was barren, devoid of life, left to rot by the last residents on the street. Each house was nothing, not resembling the homes he remembered at all.

The windows were empty eyes blackened by flames and stones. Burned out shells of suburbia. Plywood patchwork stripped from them, lazing against their fronts. Some of it burned in stacks on the lawns for no reason at all. Rusted remnants of toys left in the rain for years. The old Jaguar still rested in his driveway—its tires deflated, crumpled by the weight of its frame. Someone had taken the hood ornament for some unknown use.

Xavier remembered the first gangs during the collapse of society. They were more destructive than practical. But they wouldn’t last. They were incapable of understanding that providing order would give them more power than instilling fear. Short-term solutions were their only concern. Rather than bring the people of the quiet street together, they extorted them, gleaning what little they could until it ran out. It was best to just let the gangs take what they wanted and hope they wouldn’t return. All anyone could do was wait it out.

It seemed endless at the time. The nights came and went—huddled with his father in a tent in the woods, waiting out the hordes of torches and obscenities, hoping that the gangs had forgotten them and moved on. The virus gradually thinned the gangs out. The violence would take a few more. Eventually, they would be nothing more than individuals fighting amongst themselves. But the damage had already been done. It was painfully obvious upon Xavier and his dad’s eventual return home—murder, starvation and disease.

“Last one.”

“Do we have to do this, I mean, can’t we just leave them?”

“We’re the last ones. We have to take care of them.”

“Why doesn’t Matt have to help?”

“Do you really think Matt should see this?”

“No.”

“Quit worrying about other people. Let him rest.”

“This doesn’t seem right though.”

“It’s the most honorable way to do this. These people are our neighbors, our friends. We can’t just leave them to be picked over by birds, dogs, whatever comes through here. That wouldn’t be right.”

“Why didn’t we do this with Tara?”

“We can’t bury them all.”

“I don’t know if I can do it. This whole thing is gross.”

“Xavier! Just help me. I know what this is. You don’t have to keep saying it. Please just do this. I know it’s gross. I know this is the last thing anyone wants to do. It’s something we have to do, so we’re doing it.”

“Dad.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“This whole thing. Just seems like we have to deal—”

“Stop. This isn’t anyone’s fault. Nature got us. That’s all. Don’t apologize.”

“I just figured someone needed to say it.”

“It isn’t you that needs to. Do the right thing, and you’ll never need to.”

“To what?”

“Apologize. Even with all this nonsense going on, and when it does finally end— You do the right thing, and you’ll never fail anyone. You stick to your guns, and you’ll always be okay.”

“Okay.”

“Help me get this one on top.”

“Count of three?”

“One… Two… Three…”

“Phew! You want me to do it?”

“You’re not doing this. Step back. It’s going to be big. I don’t want you getting burned.”

“Okay.”

“This is the last time we do something like this. Life isn’t going to be any more of this hiding out and scrounging together what little we can carry. We need something sustainable.”

The asphalt remained scorched where the pile had been. A few scraps of bone left by whatever animals remained in the charred blackness. It still appeared as though it would warm the skin upon a touch of it. This is sick! It turned him from the window and into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and found a box of Band-Aids and some gauze, which he promptly stuffed into his pocket.

He lifted the seat to the toilet. To his surprise, it was clean and filled with water. Why not? He cut the cloth shower curtain into strips with the pocketknife and sat down, relieving himself in comfort. The trenches just didn’t have the same feel. He went to flush, but thought better of it. He retrieved a glass from the kitchen and returned, dipping it into the tank. It tasted stale but clean, possibly the last bit in existence treated by Water Works. The glass took another plunge, he drank it, and then threw it in the bathtub because he could.

Xavier noticed the Johnson’s red brick Cape Cod across the street. It looked relatively untouched, minus a few broken windows and an air conditioner shattered in the yard. Their driveway wrapped around to a garage tucked under the back of the house.

The door was stuck, maybe a foot or two above the ground—just enough for Xavier to slide underneath. He clicked on the light attached to the rifle and immediately caught eye of what he had come for—a box of large trash bags tipped over and unraveled across the floor. He rolled it back together and stuffed them in his pack.

A fractured (but repaired) doorjamb led Xavier into an unfinished basement—muzzle at the ready. Storage bins had been picked over, spilled, toppled—children’s toys and books strewn about in frustration. A furnace. Exposed ductwork. Cans of food stacked underneath a staircase. Blood streaked across the floor toward the utility sink. A mixture of foggy liquids pooled in the bottom. It smelled faintly of bleach. Something prevented it from draining. Xavier didn’t dare look. A couple of rooms off the main portion of the basement yielded more of the same—nondescript boxes and children’s toys.

The wooden stairs groaned as he made his way from the basement and into the kitchen. He extended the rifle forward—a cone of light leading the way. The beating of his heart couldn’t be slowed despite Xavier’s pleas for it to do so. He felt alone. An eerie silence existed in the house. It shouldn’t be this quiet—that hum only heard in absolute silence. He kept his eyes keen, anxious to the situation. No couches were turned. No cabinets spilled upon the floor. Unlit candles everywhere. The house was clean, not sterile, but lived in. This doesn’t seem right.

The entire street had faced the wrath of the gangs. This one was spared? Only this one? Seemed impossible, really. No one had lived here during the raids. It would have been easy pickings. Mrs. Johnson was admitted to the hospital early on, and she never came back. There was no one to put up a fight. Then it hit him. Someone had made this their home. Quite recently by the looks of it. Xavier turned to leave, but something prevented it. You’re not walking away. You wanted this, so do it. If someone was living here, then it meant there would be supplies, something.

With the rifle tight, not a space between the butt and his shoulder, he let it do the work pieing off the corners through the house. Slow. Breathe. Scan. Move! Breathe. Slow. Scan. Move! Breathe. Scan. Aim—it’s nothing. Scan. Breathe. Move! The cramped Cape Cod was stuffed with heat. A broad sweat glazed Xavier’s brow, but he couldn’t wipe.