Chapter 1 #12
Something strange was happening. The twin staircases appeared to draw close with unnatural speed.
The man was walking at a moderate pace, yet the marble porch seemed to hurtle toward him.
It wasn’t moving on its own, for that was impossible, but somehow every step the man took seemed to cover the distance of twenty.
Time tripped over itself. His heart raced.
Sweat soaked his forehead. It’s a trap, he told himself, wiping a slippery trigger finger on his shirt.
It’s bait and I’m the fish. He spit a leafy brown loogie onto the steps and began to climb them.
Has to be. I’m the frog and he’s the fish. Why else?
Yet the man walked on anyway. His mind recoiled at the stark logic of it all; this risk wouldn’t help him fulfill his ultimate goal, whatever he eventually decided that was, and might only get him killed.
Or worse. His mind screamed at him, protesting every step, but his legs dragged the rest of his body forward.
It was his thighs that sprinted for his life, his calves carrying him all these long miles, and his soles that trampled what was left.
It was his legs that had fed him and suffered for it; they would not be denied now.
Denied what? But no answer came.
He neither raised nor lowered his shotgun as he scaled the stairs. He didn’t make his presence known or attempt to hide it. When the man finally stepped onto the grand porch that spread before the opulent doors, he appeared only as he was: ragged, exhausted, covered in scars and bandages.
A minute passed. Nothing happened. This isn’t smart.
Not worth it. What was the best-case scenario?
He and this doomsday John Doe join hands and sing “Kumbaya” all the way to Greenland, just like in the movies?
Realistically, what the hell was there to gain by being here?
Only made it this far because I’m alone.
Because I stayed sane and everyone else didn’t.
Another minute. He considered turning and fleeing.
He could be gone, out of sight, like he was never even here.
It would only take a minute. Even if L.B.
was trustworthy, what if someone who wasn’t heard the same message?
And they were already here? Waiting for him?
For anyone to wander into their web? This is nuts.
I got rocks in my brain, just like the damn Scorpions. There’s nothing here. Not for me.
Another several moments went by. If his arms possessed the same spirit as his legs, he might’ve reached out and knocked on the great door. But that wasn’t the case, and so he never did.
The man turned away from the tall windows, their curtains fast closed, and spat some tobacco residue out over the railing before descending the staircase. Something welled in his eyes as he trotted down the slick steps, something old and forgotten and embarrass—
“Wait.”
He stopped cold in his tracks. The voice was familiar.
The man took another step forward. If he kept going, perhaps the voice would go away.
“Please. Don’t leave.”
Holding his breath, the man peered over his shoulder.
Standing in the open mouth of one of the glass doors was another, much older man.
He carried no weapon in his open palms, though his broad shoulders and muscular build suggested he might not need one.
Despite the stranger’s senior age, he was clearly a physical force.
A kerosene lantern rested between his feet.
Work pants and military boots adorned his lower half, while a dark olive jacket clothed the upper.
His nose was jagged but short, broken once or twice in his younger years.
Bagged and hollowed eyes, sunken with strain but bristling with a bronzed fire.
Those pupils, wide and warm amid their burning irises, defied the tired face they were set upon. Defied the tired world.
“I’m not…” The stranger’s voice was the same voice from the radio. “I’m not armed. Swear it. I left all that inside.” It was really him. L.B.
The man at the foot of the stairs was in rough shape.
His arms were covered in bandages and bruises, clothes filthy and torn as if he’d just crawled out of a dumpster.
A Browning shotgun rested by his hip, but both hands were clasped tight around it, ready to strike.
The knuckles on his right hand were fading white because of how hard he squeezed.
Only half of his swollen, unshaven face could be seen in the flickering lantern light as he gazed over his shoulder.
My God, Lane Buxton thought from the White House doorway. How far have you come?
Lane stepped away from the door, hands reaching for the sky. He shrugged his shoulders, lifting his shirt above his waistline, and rotated in a slow circle.
“See?” he said as he let his shirt drop and gestured to the pistol clearly concealed in the ragged wanderer’s rear waistband. “Like I said, I’m not armed.”
The stranger, doused in dirt and loneliness, turned to face Lane, a blank, listless expression staring up at him. Without a word, the man reached down and pulled up his pant leg to reveal a concealed pocketknife. His eyes never broke from Lane’s.
Lane did the same with his own trousers, showing off nothing more than saggy socks and pale, hairy legs. He took another step forward, away from his lantern.
The voiceless man raised his shotgun.
“Easy,” Lane said, coming no closer. “Or did you journey all this way just to kill me?”
At first, it seemed that the visitor would remain silent, holding his own ground, but then he growled from beneath the dark tangle of hair. A feral voice, tone so guttural and armored that it gave both men momentary pause. The words were simple: “What do you want?”
Lane groped for a response and found none.
The man began to back down the staircase, his barrel still trained on the old man’s torso.
“Stop?” Lane said as if it were a question.
“Tell me.”
“I… I…”
The man pumped the shotgun and took another backward step.
Lane once again lifted his hands above his head. “It’s me… L.B. I don’t want to hurt you. I promise.”
“Then what?” the man asked.
Lane looked away into the horizon, far beyond Washington’s pillar. “I… I d-don’t know,” he stammered. “I really… don’t.” He wasn’t searching for the words because he needed to fabricate them; he was searching for the words because he was truly lost.
They stood there, both quiet and still, until the man from the wasteland asked in that same elemental voice, “Why did you call?”
Lane cleared his throat but didn’t speak.
He’s seen this before. Matted drifts of hair, scum seeped into his clothes, soaked gauze, gnarled fingers threatening the trigger, and that disastrous look in his bloodied eyes.
It was the madness of someone who’d scraped and scrapped beyond the limit of human grit.
Someone from whom everything had been taken, save for their own sorry life.
Someone like the man Lane himself once was.
Lane took another step forward, keeping an eye on the man’s impending trigger finger. “Why would you turn back now? Why come all this way just to leave?”
“How do you know how far I came?”
“I don’t, but…” He took another tentative step. “Look at you. You… you need rest. Worse. You need help.”
The stranger stared at him.
“You’ve fought them, haven’t you? You’ve fought them and won. I can tell.”
“How?”
Lane laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Let’s just say it takes one to know one, okay? Besides, there’s no one else to fight now, certainly not each other.” He offered an earnest sigh. “I was hoping we could help one another out, but I’d settle for just being heard out.”
For the first time, the visitor took a breath and seemed to try and compose himself. “I changed my mind. We’re better off on our own.”
“You can’t believe that.”
Starting to back away again. “I’m bad luck, and you seem like a decent person.”
“You’d be surprised.”
The younger man continued down the stairs.
Lane followed, still reaching for the sky. His hands were starting to get heavy. “What makes you think you’re such bad luck?”
“It’s nothing to you.”
“It’s nothing to everyone now, pal. Everything and everywhere.” Lane took several stairs at once, catching up with the broken man. “Nothing’s all that we have left. Nothing’s all that matters to me anymore. Hell, I’d die for it.”
The wanderer shifted the shotgun from one hand to the other, his haggard face draped in shadow as the men moved farther from the lantern.
“Then why are you still here? Why haven’t you given up like the rest of them?
” There was something softer in his voice now.
Something so heretically curious that it could no longer be spat out by the creature he’d tried to become.
“Because…” Lane said, lowering his hands and taking hold of the man’s shoulders. Up close, he could see the man for the child he really was. Beneath the maelstrom of violent paranoia, the man was afraid. “Because I’m not ready either. I’m not ready to give in…”
Lane trailed off, his voice brittle as he searched for a way to translate his soul into the proper vibrations. “I have words that I need someone… that I need you to hear. That’s all I want. That’s all I’ve ever…”
Tears streamed down the wrinkled canyons on L.B.
’s cheeks, and the man found himself hugging the stranger.
Not just a comforting, performative hug, but actually holding this knot of scarred muscles.
It was almost as if the man had blacked out for a second.
He saw the old guy start to break down and… his body just… moved.
What am I doing? he wondered. He’d set the shotgun on the ground, out of reach, but the pistol was still tucked in his waistband, where the stranger could easily grab it.
But L.B. wasn’t reaching for the pistol. He was reciprocating. Holding the man too.
And Jesus, it was nice. Like hugging your grandfather. The man hadn’t done that in maybe twenty years.