Chapter 1 #13
Then he felt a tickle on his nose and realized he was crying too. Perhaps he had been for quite some time.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too,” Lane said. “Me too.”
The men held each other at the foot of the White House porch for a wide, stretching moment that felt as nebulous to them as their half decades of isolation.
Their visions and phobias poured out of them, dribbling down onto the grimy sandstone path.
They sobbed. They wobbled. They muttered questions the other didn’t understand.
They met each other’s reddened eyes and began to laugh, cackling like two witches of a coven long since lost. They grasped each other by the shoulders, touched their foreheads together, and began to scream out all the maddening joy and terrible hope writhing within.
They expelled their anxieties in the form of spittle and insane tears, two fallen gods lauding their ruined kingdom.
Two fading scars. Two boxers who’d done no more than go the distance, but they’d gone it alone. They’d gone so very far, so very alone.
But no longer.
When those amorphous minutes passed, the two found themselves once again at arm’s length.
Dry tears stained on their cheeks. The hostility had been blown away by the breeze, along with the laughter and sadness.
Neither knew what to say, and both felt quite embarrassed, despite the total dissolution of any society or culture or any sort of pressures that could have induced such a sensation.
On the surface, they appeared as dismal as the world, slick with a ragged film of scabs and dirt.
Yet their eyes, two olive and two bronze, seemed to shine just a bit clearer.
L.B. broke the silence, reaching out his calloused hand. “I’m Lane. Lane Buxton.”
The man took it. “It’s good to meet you… Lane. I’m sorry again for before. For, well…”
“A little gunslinger diplomacy?” the old man named Lane asked, sounding almost chuffed about it. “Don’t be. I would’ve done the same in your shoes.”
“You didn’t.”
“No, but I’m not in your shoes…” Lane trailed off. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
His new ally raised an eyebrow, waiting for the man to continue. When he didn’t, Lane changed the subject. “Okay, well… what’d’ya say we head inside to catch our breath? Get a bit to eat. That little, er… emotional catharsis winded me. No offense.”
“None taken,” the man said, following him up the porch steps. He’d picked up the shotgun, and made sure to keep it pointed at the ground. “Has anyone else come?”
Lane shook his head. “Nah. You’re the only one. Whoever you are.”
“That’s what I used to think.”
“What’s that?”
“I used to think it was just me. That I was the last one. The only one. Then I saw… well, then I heard you on the radio, and I guess I knew better, y’know?”
L.B. bent over to pick up the gas lantern and adjusted a knob at the base of the handle, empowering the flame. “I think I always knew better.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m not sure, to be quite frank… I just… knew someone else was out there. Maybe I’ve gone crazy, probably we both have, but I felt it. It gave me a reason to keep goin’.”
The interior of the White House had been ransacked.
Lane’s shimmering flame revealed golden embroidered curtains dancing through shattered panes of glass.
Tables toppled and used as cover from gunfire.
Portraits of Benjamin Franklin and John Quincy Adams were sprawled on the ground, stomped and torn, riddled with bullet holes.
The lone survivor remaining on the wall was a painting of Independence Hall, Philadelphia.
The beam of the man’s flashlight lingered on it for a moment.
“It’s a sad sight, I know,” Lane said, “but who can blame them? We were supposed to protect them, and we didn’t.”
“I saw tire tracks outside. Fences rammed down. It was us… people?”
“Sure was,” Lane said with a nod. “Not sure how much you saw on television or online, but after the central government announced its move to Denver, the East Coast just… collapsed. Total anarchy. Survival of the fittest and all that jazz, but the goddamn fittest were thirty feet tall and bulletproof. People were scared at first, and then they got angry. Real fucking angry. Turned on the few folks that did remain behind to protect them. The Scorpions came ’round eventually, of course, and tore through whoever was left.
Sons-a-bitches didn’t stick around once the fighting was done, though.
Seems like they prefer undeveloped land, if they can find it. ”
The man thought back to his days in the bunker. The bunker he’d stolen. “I remember. Denver, yeah. That was the last big news before my internet went down. Did they make it to the Rockies? The president? Do we even still have a… a government?”
Lane grunted. “Oh, they made it to Denver, all right. Didn’t last very long, is all. Nobody did.”
“What about the evacuations?”
A grimace. “Ugly. Infrastructure wasn’t built to handle that degree of traffic. The Scorps had a field day picking apart the rubberneckers. I wager most folks eventually gave up and ran for it all on their own. Didn’t you see all the abandoned cars on your way here?”
The man nodded. “Yeah. I did.” He leaned over and examined a spray of bullet holes in the wall. “What about the ones who did get away?”
“There was no away. Not unless you counted space stations, though I’m sure that experience was a nightmare in its own right. People fled, sure… but the monsters always followed. There’s… I’m sorry to tell you this… there’s nothing left.”
“Anywhere?” the man asked, already knowing the answer.
Matter of fact. Not even a sigh. “Anywhere.”
“Right. I didn’t think so.”
Lane cleared his voice, as if to change the subject. “It would help to know your name, friend.”
“ ‘Friend’ is good, if it’s all the same to you. Nothing personal.” Now he wanted the subject changed. He looked around the ransacked hallway. “So, where are you sleeping?”
“Uh, downstairs, there’s a few safe rooms,” Lane said, brow furrowed. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. I’ll show you the way whenever you’re ready—but hey, come on, you got to tell me your name.”
“I don’t remember it,” the man said, his face still as a statue’s. “Call me whatever you want.”
Lane looked like he was going to keep pushing, but only said, “Okay. Fair enough. Friend.” Lantern in hand, the old man continued into the next room, which was cluttered with folding tables, office chairs, and paper shredders scattered all about.
“What is this place?”
“Temporary burn center. Too much dirty laundry to leave behind. Not that it matters now.”
“And before?”
“Reception room.”
Lane walked with confident intent, as if he’d been in this room and traveled these halls a hundred times before. The man followed closely behind, wondering just how long his new friend had been holed up in one of the world’s most famous buildings.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“Last night,” Lane said, stopping in front of a closet door. It was one of the few doors they’d run across that was closed. “The journey was… pretty darn peaceful, believe it or not. Only ran into one Scorp.”
The man looked at him in alarm. “What’d you do?” L.B. looked like he was in great shape, but he still had to be in his sixties, maybe even seventies. The idea of him going up against something like the Nightwalker was brutal.
“I hit it in the eyes… just like I said to do on the radio.”
“You killed it?”
A laugh that wasn’t joyful. “Killed lots… once upon a time. Anyway…” He opened the door. “Here’s our stop.”
The closet on the other side of the door wasn’t a closet at all. Instead of moldy buckets and dusty mops, there was a narrow descending staircase.
Stunned, the man glanced at Lane, then back at the staircase. “This is some serious Men in Black shit.”
The old man grinned, staring into the pitch-black descent. “The sun’s not long off. I’ve got plenty of rations if you’re hungry. Figure we’ll save the wine and turkey for tomorrow, though, huh?”
“Turkey?” the man asked, cringing at his own excitement. “You’ve got canned turkey? And it hasn’t gone bad?”
“Try again. Shot it myself on the way here. That’s how the Scorp found me.
Gunshot woke the damn thing up.” They came to the bottom of the hidden stairs and were met by a long hallway lined on both sides by heavy metal doors.
No windows. “Safe rooms. They built them back in ’21, but anyone who knew about them skedaddled west when New York got the bombs. They’ve stayed untouched ever since.”
“How do you know about them?”
“That’s another story… one I’m happy to share, if you’d like.”
“Tomorrow. I need to sleep.”
Lane glanced at his bulky wristwatch and raised an eyebrow. “Listen, if you’re planning on slippin’ out, just say so. Won’t hurt my feelings none.”
“I’m not, promise. Just need a good night’s rest. I… I’m not myself right now.”
Lane gave him a wary nod and pushed open the nearest door, revealing a sparse room. “These are my quarters. Take any of the other safe rooms. They’re all identical and lock tight from the inside… just in case you still have trust issues.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Do you need a lantern? What about your injuries?”
“I’m all good,” the man said, brandishing his own flashlight. “Cleaned the wounds myself.”
“You sure? There’s plenty of fresh bandages if you want to redress them. Should be a first aid kit in your room.”
“After sunset. First thing.” The man knew Lane was stalling, but why? Loneliness? He could understand that. Whatever it was, the old man was building up to something.
A patient, almost patronizing smile spread across Lane’s face. “All right, if you say so. Let’s just get some sleep, okay? Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Thanks again… for everything.” Not knowing what else to say, the man turned around and walked down the hall. After such an emotional introduction, it felt lacking, but his tongue was as weary as the rest of him.