Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Thomas - Day 758

But of course it didn’t appear that way to them. Thomas and James were well armed, unlike others they may have encountered before. The deceased husband was simply trying to protect his wife, thinking of her first and the horrors that James may have wished to inflict upon her. In his mind, it must have been better to take a shot than to wait and see the intentions of this stranger. Was it a last ditch effort or a false sense of confidence in their abilities? Either way it was an underestimation of their adversaries that left them both dead in the yard—two lives lost that didn’t have to be.

The two of them weighed no more heavily on his mind than James’s actions, perhaps even less so, at least they were dead and would no longer contribute to his stress. It was James, this child in a man’s body—selfish and inconsiderate—that would continue on with him. As if there weren’t already enough pressures in Thomas’s own trial, but now to babysit James, to hold his hand through his process.

From the start, Thomas knew that James would be trouble. How he traipsed into the room, tossing his shit about and crashing into his favorite chair. How he walked around the apartment as if he owned the place. No respect for anything, and then to step way past the line and suggest that he give up Joseph. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. His only cares in the world seemed to be for himself. Of course, contradicting that was his lack of regard for his own life. His stupidity in the yard, not listening to Thomas to wait it out, deciding he knew best, that rushing in was the answer. James knew better—patience had worked well in numerous instances for them in Syria.

Then it hit him. Maybe James was part of this. Maybe attaching him to this mission itself may have been another test involved in the trial. It wasn’t a complete secret that Thomas held disdain for James and his antics. Some of those in the Second Alliance had also served with them in Syria. If Thomas could prove that James could be kept in line, effective and loyal to what needed to be done, then—

His thoughts were interrupted as James’s foot slipped from one of the chairs where he slept. Thomas flashed him with his light. James grumbled something before propping his leg back on the chair and dozing off again. He’s still asleep, lucky bastard. Thomas tiptoed around James and cracked the door to the supply closet. Thomas flashed the prisoner with the light. The mask puffed in and out from the angle of his nose. Of course, this guy’s sleeping like a baby too. Better than him trying something else… I wonder what his story is. This reckless… teenager?

Thomas couldn’t pinpoint the age, and to be honest, it didn’t truly matter. Age was mostly trivial. It was experience, courage, and survival instinct that mattered. It was the actions of an individual that made them a man. And the actions of this infiltrator showed every indication of one—clever in his decision to lure them in with the lantern, but a novice in his execution of the opportunity he had made for himself. Although he was not of any significant size, had he prepared his ambush rather than acting brazenly, he may have gotten the better of the two. The fact that he didn’t have a gun was astonishing. Luck.

Thomas sighed, his interest in this personal inquisition began to wane. He secured the door to the supply closet and crept back past James. He leaned back in his chair and flicked his flashlight on and off as he had been most the night. James’s face was still free from expression, eyes closed, enjoying the rest that Thomas deserved. I’m driving myself crazy with this shit. He marched out into the library to grab a book.

He hadn’t noticed that night was now morning. The windows were beginning to allow a trickle of sunlight into the library, but it wouldn’t be enough for reading. He decided on the sure thing and went to grab the lantern. He took it and meandered through the stacks, his fingers walking across the tops of the books. Occasionally, he would pull one slightly from the shelf, glance over the cover then nudge it back into its place.

Eventually, Thomas recognized a book his father used to share with him when he was younger. He held it within his grip while a sense of childhood nostalgia swept over him. Aesop’s Fables. Dad, you always liked to crack this open when I did something stupid. He sat at one of the round tables in the middle of the room. The wooden chair let out a deep groan and crackled a bit more as he scooted himself in. He laid the thick book in front of him and parted the pages. How appropriate. A picture of a hare and tortoise racing—he couldn’t help but think of James. He dimmed the lantern to a comfortable glow and began reading softly to himself.

It was a quick read, and once finished, he gazed across the room to James—to the hare. He was the hare—cocky and unable to see that his confidence would be his undoing. Nothing was a given. The rules were simple. All they had to do was cross the finish line. It didn’t matter how they did it. What mattered was that it was completed. Slow and steady, methodical, and that would get them there. It didn’t have to be at a break-neck pace—a pace that would eventually get one of their own killed. Thomas hoped that James was finally seeing that.

He started the next story, but his eyes were finally becoming heavy enough for sleep. Reading typically had this effect on him. Should’ve done this earlier, damn it. He could already tell it was going to be a long day, periodically checking the minute hand’s crawl toward 10:00 between long blinks and paragraphs.

His head snapped back from a quick doze—the sound of James’s boots crunching the bits of glass broke the silence.

“Must have been nice,” Thomas said.

“Huh?” James groaned as he stretched, taking a look around the office, trying to locate Thomas. “What do—” He peered under the conference table. “Where the hell are you?” He finally located him through the broken window in front of him. “What’d you say?”

“Must’ve been nice sleeping all night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Thomas closed his book. “Too much on my mind after that dipshit decided to come at us.”

James gave a light chuckle. “Who? Your boy in there?” He thumbed over his shoulder to the supply closet. “That guy’s nothing.”

Thomas carried the lantern into the office then shut it off before setting it on the table. “I’ll go ahead and get him out of there.”

“Need some help or do you have it?” Without an answer, James took to rooting through his rucksack as Thomas rounded the corner.

“Get off me!” Thomas dragged the prisoner from the supply closet. “Just stay here and shut it!” He propped him against the wall, taking a quick check over the man’s bindings to ensure nothing had changed from last night. “Make sure he doesn’t do— James!”

He looked up from his rucksack.

“Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Got ya.”

Thomas began sorting through his own belongings in between glances toward James and the prisoner. James pulled the remaining moonshine the medic had given him from his bag. He stripped the old bandage off, sucked in air at the sting of the alcohol, and then covered the wound with the cleanest piece of t-shirt he could manage.

James’s lips began to move.

“If you’re talking to me, I can’t hear you.” Thomas spoke up.

“No…” James stood quickly, the makeshift bandage hanging freely, his face registered guilty. “I was only talking shit to the guy.”

“Is he you’re buddy now?” He glared at James. “He doesn’t get shit from us, not even conversation.”