Days Since...: Xavier: Day 853

Chapter Seven

The creek was filled from the earlier storm that swept through the western hills. A temporary rush of water moved over the rocks and broken branches that lay between the banks. Leaves rustled as Xavier, unable to slow himself on the steepness of the hill, crashed through them, bounding toward the edge. At the last moment before going over, he took hold of a thick wild vine. His feet left the ground briefly, and like a pendulum, swung back, settling on the ridge.

A nervous chuckle. Another soaking was the last thing he needed. That was a close one. Behind him were the skid marks his slipping feet left in the mud. Too close. He set his (Simon’s) pack in the nook of a fallen tree, moss covered and slightly rotted. Pressing down upon it to ensure it could bear his weight—This will work—he sat. The rifle lay across his lap as he stared out into nature.

Along the winding bourn, in the lower portion of the ridge, a large American Sycamore stood with its root bulb partially uncovered from the eroding soil. The thick trunk risen from its seed, grew tall—its brown and gray bark blended toward the naked white limbs toward the top. Its twigs and branches etched their way across the blue sky above him, shedding what bark remained. The sun hung low in the sky and glistened against its exposed skin. Xavier moved just underneath its spiraling magnificence and rested his hand against its base.

It was old, several hundred years at least. It had witnessed triumphs and failures of man—man’s wars and humanity. It grew stronger and more resilient as man had grown unknowingly weaker and more susceptible to disease. It was proud and tall, a towering reminder that nature was before man and would be there afterwards.

Xavier breathed in the abundant freshness of air that existed in the woods and sat back down, alone with only his thoughts. He rocked the rifle by its muzzle, the butt swiveled back and forth at his feet while his mind seemingly floated beyond control. A revolution? Really? What the hell am I going to do? Taking out the letter, he let the rifle rest against the downed tree, and he began to glance over the details again. This is it. The truth right here.

He could only hope that the letter would be enough to convince the people of River’s Edge to realize the mistake that had been made. It would be a completely different thing to get them to act—to push the oppressors away. Agreeable words could only go so far.

They would need a strong voice—a strong leader. A fifteen-year-old boy seemed too unlikely. It would have to be another. But who? No one stood out for the task, his thoughts preoccupied with Grant. The caretaker that had failed him.

Hatred filled Xavier with visions of Grant’s dirty face—his tremors, the frayed nerves of a coward—the disgusting thought process that could tolerate such treachery for an easier life, but one not even that much easier than before.

Grant’s decision made Xavier nervous. The ease with which he could defile the memory of his deceased wife. The vengeance he felt against Simon was misplaced, and upon learning of the circumstances, why wouldn’t he place that vengeance appropriately? He had to see the connection between allowing the Second Alliance to kill her and now letting them get away with it. How could he even imagine destroying the letter? It was the only chance of revealing the truth, the revelation of a monster—the Second Alliance. But there he was, willing to destroy the truth. And for what? Unbelievable! The death of his wife in exchange for his own selfish desires.

Grant could never be forgiven. His loyalties had skewed from morality. A complete betrayal to ignore the simple right from wrong. He couldn’t be trusted anymore. And what’s more, how much further was he willing to go in order to get what he wanted? He had already written off Lynn. Am I next? What truth would Grant tell to Haverty? Simon’s death, the letter, or neither.

The corpse of Simon could haunt them both. It already weighed heavily upon Xavier’s conscience. The death of another caused by his own doing. He wasn’t wrong—he knew Grant would’ve been killed. His only choice was to act, because despite his appearance, Simon was quite capable—his gear, tactics, whatever training he had received.

Everything had led up to that moment. Simon’s arrogance. Grant’s inability to keep Simon from under his skin. And then there was Lynn… Was Simon truly at fault? What choice did he have if it was his life or hers? Who wouldn’t have made that choice? The circumstances seemed too perfect—fate. Is this revolution my fate? Am I supposed to do this? He knew he did the right thing in saving Grant, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Grant… He exhaled, shaking his head, frustrated with his lack of control over the situation. What’s he going to do?

Xavier couldn’t believe that Grant would go backwards on the story of being attacked. That wouldn’t be an option for him. He had as much to lose as Xavier did. He had attacked Simon, which caused Simon to react, which caused Xavier to react. If anything it was Grant’s fault Simon was dead. That was the unfortunate truth, but it may have been a favor to Haverty. Simon’s death may not have been so bad in his eyes, except that his correspondence was found as a result.

Ultimately, Xavier decided that Grant would have to keep the letter a secret. If Haverty knew that Grant possessed that knowledge, he would have to be eliminated just like Simon. The Second Alliance didn’t seem to like to risk things, especially if the remedy was as easy as making someone disappear.

There was nothing Grant could do. He couldn’t say anything and probably already had the chance. Grant had certainly made his way back to River’s Edge by now. He had the entire way back to figure out what he was going to say. Xavier didn’t even need to know what it was—only that they were attacked and got separated in the madness. They would both be fine. Grant would let Xavier do what he had to, because he didn’t have a choice.

Xavier sighed. He took an unlabeled can from the bag and began to work an opener around its circumference. An aroma of salted fish bled from the slits. Tuna… He groaned. Just eat it. He picked the pink slurry from the can with his fingers and began to eat. The years-old tuna tasted surprisingly fresh considering the source. It wasn’t so bad after all. A meal wasn’t ever so bad.

He continued mulling his options, imagining his way down the halls of the school, cataloguing the people he came across daily—the dormitories, bathroom, food hall, farmers, maintenance. “Sam!” Xavier said aloud—much louder than he intended. It has to be him. Sam’s respected. Abrasive at times, but knowledgeable, and he’s loyal to my dad.

Sam would have to be the one to lead them. In a way, he had already started the movement, his words already resonating with Xavier. Sam was committed, stood openly in front of the Second Alliance, denouncing their orders. The first blood of the movement… Was he still alive? He must be. If he were to simply disappear, it would work against the Second Alliance’s campaign—the illusion of partnership—of choice.

It was decided. Xavier would have to go back to River’s Edge and find him. Push this movement beyond the thought and the letter that he possessed. Put into motion the reclamation of his father’s dream. To restore right and cast aside the wrong. Xavier nodded, confidence flowing through his body. He stood, pitching the empty can of tuna to the ground. It’s time.

On the other side of the creek, he could see it—the old root ladder from his memory—his path back to River’s Edge. But he couldn’t leave yet, not while holding the proof. The Second Alliance would surely destroy it upon his return. The letter and Simon’s gear would have to be retrieved later. I’m going to have to bury this stuff. I can’t risk someone else finding it before I get back.

He unstrapped a folding shovel from the pack and locked it into place. His boots splashed against the submerged rock shelf just below the ridge as he jumped down.

The bank was tall and broad, perfect for what was intended. He moved just opposite the root ladder and plunged the head of the shovel into the dirt, clawing at the wall over and over again. A small den began to take shape as each clump fell into the creek. He kept digging. Toward the back of the hollow a trickle of water began to show itself. That’s going to be a problem.

Out of the creek he climbed, his attention drawn back to the pack. He sorted through it for anything waterproof. Surprisingly, there was nothing.

Xavier sighed, then breathed in deeply, his eyes firmly closed while picturing his neighborhood just up the hill. What choice do I have? At least, I’ll be mostly familiar with it. He lightened his pack, hiding the unnecessary items in a thick growth of honeysuckle. Xavier slipped the rifle’s sling over his head and started the hike toward his old street.

His first two attempts at scavenging yielded nothing tangible. One really couldn’t expect too much nowadays. Xavier searched those two houses cautiously, letting the muzzle of the rifle lead him through the rooms—only to be found completely empty. He flung open the doors to cabinets, closets, anywhere something useful could be held. It was good practice. To be systematically clearing those residences by himself was important. Not just for supplies, but for people—people that may want to take what he had.

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.

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.

Xavier went further into the book.

Still further.

The last entry.

He rotated the book in his hand, impressed with the details of what he held. This is how history would be told. Through these tiny records of individuals, the world could be pieced together. How different of a life the author had lived compared to Xavier. Yet, here in his hand he was linked to the owner. By simply stepping foot in this home, he was part of this person’s web.

He slid his finger along the edges of the cream-colored pages, letting them glide from one cover to the other. The shuffling jumped abruptly in the middle—something stuffed deep into the gutter of the book. Two photographs. One a Polaroid, one not. He took the photos, but stuffed the journal in his pack.

The Polaroid was of a homely, thirty-something-year-old woman seated in a rocking chair holding a small child. Her smile was genuine, honestly beautiful. A tight bun held her brown hair back from her eyes. An unfortunate nose stuck prominently in the middle of her face. The boy didn’t care. He looked up—a gaze of unconditional love for his mother. Xavier closed his eyes hard for a moment and then opened. He turned the photo over and read aloud, “I love you, Teddy. Mom.”

The other photo was… Simon? Sure enough, it was him, a rather risqué photograph of him and another. The girl, more than likely in her teens, maybe high school or just entering college, with her bra falling off, and Simon pulling at it with a sensual bite. Her brown hair flowing over her shoulders, messy and playful. Her finger hung from between her teeth. Who took this? Xavier checked the back.

Xavier dropped the photographs to the floor. Astonished, he sat on the bed, looking around the room. Out of all the people in the world… But who? Teddy or Simon? Anyone can be anything they want. Grant was right. There was no fact checking people anymore. People could change their history—who they were, who they are. Did Teddy take Simon’s identity, assume his persona? Who did I kill? It didn’t really matter if it was a Simon or a Teddy. All that mattered was that Xavier and the man lying under the bridge seemed eternally linked by tragedy.

This may have been where Simon was taken and forced into the Second Alliance. If only he had knocked on the door of River’s Edge. If only he had reached out for help. This whole thing could have probably been avoided. Things happen for a reason though.

Xavier couldn’t keep his mind from wandering. The letter never would have been found had Simon not killed that deer. Had he not been forced into the Second Alliance and killed Lynn. Had he not let Grant know. That letter would never have been found. They would be downtown right now—Xavier and Grant eating, talking about the day, but they weren’t. Simon was dead under a highway. Grant returned to the school. And Xavier was alone on the street where his nightmare began.

His shadow grew long across the blanket, blending with the darkness of the room. As the sun set, a different kind of night snuck onto the street. It seemed darker than most. There were no lights in the room, the house, or any along the street. No wall to keep the night from invading—to keep the twisted shadows that crept across the lawns from him. Being outside would only make it worse. It was decided that he would stay overnight.

The house was secure with the exception of the basement door. He pushed it back into place and hung some two-by-fours across it. It may not hold, but the sound would certainly wake Xavier if someone were to break it down. He checked the windows, doors, fireplace, anywhere the house could be infiltrated—secured, but true peace of mind was impossible. This would do for the night.

Upstairs again.

He placed the revolver he had found in the closet underneath a pillow on the bed, stripped to his underwear, and shuffled his way under the covers. It was comfortable, much more so than the cot he had grown accustomed to. Maybe he would be able to sleep just fine. His head sunk deeply into the plush pillow that lay against the wooden headboard. The chirping of crickets passed loudly through the broken windows. He rolled onto his side and sandwiched his ears in the folded pillow. It didn’t really help. Maybe Xavier could just enjoy the sounds of the night. The sounds from outside the walls of River’s Edge.

Xavier lay there staring at the ceiling fan in the middle of the room. How he wished it would start spinning. It was still stuffy even though the sun was absent from the sky—one of those muggy summer nights that couldn’t be helped. He slid one of his feet out from under the blanket. He could have kicked it to the floor completely, but it was soothing to have, so he didn’t. The fatigue of the day had tired him. He placed his glasses on the nightstand, and it wasn’t long before he was asleep.