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.
Almost finished—another flight of steps and a thin corridor of living space leading to the back room. The door knob turned but wouldn’t budge. A deadbolt. He listened for silence and received it. He reared back and stepped swiftly through the door, breaking it inward. His back slid firmly against the wall—pressed outside the room. Still nothing, not a word. With the rifle up, he entered. No one.
The last spot was a closet with a slight opening in the sliding door. The butt of the rifle smacked it wide, crashing it into the wall. All clear.
Rummaging through the room, the old pine floors creaked as he moved about. Quick and quiet. It was always possible that someone had seen him, heard him, was waiting to get a hold of him. He had to stay aware as he searched. There’s got to be something good in here. It was secured for a reason.
Under the bed there were only folded blankets and a pillow. A revolver and some ammunition tucked behind a squatty cabinet in the closet. He ran his hand along the top of a large chestnut wardrobe that overpowered the entire room. A handful of dust from the top and some random clothing inside. The nightstand—he slid the drawer open and inside was a thick book, leather-bound and beautiful, lightly flaking from use. Xavier parted the pages and read.