《Point of View》 1: Easely Done His brush caressed the canvas, tinged a musty yellow from age, with knowing and well placed strides falling both long and short. Steady, well-trained eyes followed these strokes hypnotically. He watched shades mix into color, canvas turn to image and ideas come to life. A slow, olive-green waning swoop curved from the middle, beginning at the bottom left to the upper right as Adrian began to connect two small images, both of which looked like nothing of much until drawn together. Now you could start to see what was once just paint on paper slowly turn into mundane foliage and low-hanging vines that connected misshapen, wretched trees together. A swamp began to take formation, putrid not only in visual appearance but also in the appearance of his conscious thoughts, something he repressed to a shelf in the back of his mind beside many other such uncherished treasures. Revolting, ideal, alluring... a swamp is described as various things by different people. All that Adrian could call it now was a memory. A painful memory seemingly from another world, one where he maybe still stood in different shoes. In this semi-catatonic state, blinking had become a long ignored and overdue bodily function. He robotically passed it off for a while longer yet, considering the fractions of seconds worth more than the relief his air dried eyes cried for. He didn''t have much of an idea about how long he had been up in the dusty and antique-feeling attic, but the pale stream of light that poured through the dormer window that featured a rock-shaped hole in its pane of glass had shifted more then a foot-and-a-half to the left since he had began. Painting, a new hobby for Adrian since the dawn of these new days, had been something that when he started a particular project he liked to be sure he could dedicate a number of hours to it. It turns out that that amount of time wasn''t so hard to come by nowadays. Without focus, his art was uninspired and he could see it in the finished product. If he ever left this place, he thought, those paintings would be brought along as firewood. He sought these hours of distraction that took him away from the isolation meeting him in the hours of his everyday life and the corners of this house, something that arts and crafts could bring him easier than numerous other hobbies he might of chosen. As seemingly random lines of oil paint, which Adrian had scavenged from the closet of a long abandoned art studio, began to take form... he sensed a heavy shadow of regret looming over him, not unfamiliarly. It was so suddenly that it made his brush¡¯s stride jerk, and a fern in his painting now sprouted one abnormally large leaf. Dark clouds began to spread inside of his head, his thoughts began to race. Distracted now, he set down his crusty paintbrush with the color-stained handle and his palette of paints on top of an old guitar amp that he had been using as a side table. The little amp had "ROBBIE C." written along a off-white paper slip that was held down with a scotch tape border. Eyes now muddled with gray storm clouds, he stared coldly at the easel holding his painting. His heart palpitated into a slightly more frenzied beat as his hands flew up in the air, a subconscious reaction from the momentum required to lift and then deliver the flat of his boot into the leg of the flimsy wooden structure holding today''s detrimental memory. A snap quite like that of a twig passed through Adrian''s ears, just as a few splinters of wood flicked across his jean pant leg, and then chaotically to the ground. His temporary rage settled and he heaved a shaky sigh. Adrian knew that today marked Day #250 since this all began. This eternal dusk built for the damnation of society. Encumbering those unlucky or unskilled, and favoring those born without hearts. A little over eight months, now. When society still stood in its last week, Adrian tried to do what he could in the short amount of time he had available. Fleeting thoughts, last minute decisions and thousands upon thousands of second guesses all occupied the same space in his brain, which was swimming frantically in uneasy water and holding out for something steady to grab onto. He tried reaching out to his family, his friends. Anyone. Of those he connected with, he was unable to convince them to come with him, of the seriousness of the events that were inevitably going to unfold. As desperate as he had tried, his parents hadn''t picked up their phone nor returned any of his calls. Douglas had been the only one to respond, actually. Adrian fled two days before the disaster happened (this he didn''t know at the time, but ultimately found out along the way). Back then Adrian didn''t have all of the things that he wanted, but the solitude he possessed now wore him down like chains. Being alone for every second of the day brought on a new perspective in Adrian''s life, like growing up again at the ripe age of thirty three. He had once been considered the "go-to" person for entertainment and social interaction. He was near the heart of his own social network, and caught a lot of the buzz. People often had him join them at their family dinners, at nights out at the bar (as the sober driver, he wasn''t a drinker), and to parties of all different kinds. The fondest party of which he could still recall without feeling overwhelming discomfort, thoughts of the old world bearing too much pain on him now, would have to be his brother''s bachelor party. Adrian was single and had been for some five and a half years now, but his brother had been over the top with glee while they planned out some of the wedding details. The ones that his fianc¨¦e trusted him with, anyway. They had been together since high school, this year would mark their fifteenth anniversary. It was because of their longevity and the love he shared for the happy couple that Adrian set plenty of free time aside for his brother. Thus, they organized the catering (shellfish from Bake Alaska, some tacky diner that Douglas was sure would be a hit. In the end Felicia was not amused with it), the seating arrangements, and most importantly... the bachelor party. As usual, Adrian had taken the leadership role. A common trend for when they worked together. His brother, though the exact age as him (to the date), had an ocean''s vastness of difference between them. Where Adrian ran forward, Douglas ran back. He was an offense to his brother''s defense, which often made for a good combination when put on the same team. They had connected well, and had an easy time bouncing ideas off of one another to come to a reasonable solution because of a brotherly love and naturally ingrained desires to come to a conclusion. Most of that changed. Now Adrian finds himself cast adrift in a raft between their two souls. Unable to move, unable to live as he once did. During the planning, Douglas would fill the air with the low tone of his voice. He''d speak almost too much about the big day to come, nearly drowning out the metallic clicks and clacks of Adrian''s keyboard as he completed the lion''s share of the work. He would speak of his and her memories, too. How they were assigned seats beside each other in Mr. Higgs'' room, and how that led to their "eventual destiny", all the way up to the current. Their prom night, the night he said he had stared into her eyes and told her the ways of how he knew she was the one for him. Being old enough to go on a road trip, finally, after Douglas bought his first car. An old yellow junker that no one wanted to remember the details of. They had made it to the Grand Canyon and back before the engine overheated. He took it all in stride and smiled though, because that was who his brother was. Normally the one to see the bright side in the worst of scenarios. Douglas''s most recent cherished memory was of their trip to Venice, Italy, not but a year before the wedding was to take place. It was her idea, Felicia''s. Ever since she had been a child it had apparently been her dream to visit the city with the beautiful architecture, the exquisite museums of ancient history, to see the majestic waterways and whatever else she would drone on about before, during and after the vacation. Adrian didn''t care for historical architecture, or travel for that matter. He didn''t see the appeal of staring at monuments and buildings built ages ago in far away places, so old that it now was deteriorating. He liked new. New clothes, new cities, new actors and singers. Adrian was very modern, he lived in the present and appreciated all that came with it, but wasn''t unable to respect how they got to this point, even if he didn''t necessarily know how it got there. It was one of many points that himself and Felicia would differ on. He thought deeply about Douglas and Felicia while he cleaned the wooden fragments and splinters off of the floor. Quick and unstable bursts of anger were beginning to break through his otherwise collected demeanor more and more often. It washed over him instantaneously, like heat waves from a harsh summer sun. He guessed that he could still feel his sanity in tact, and with that he threw the remains of the flimsy oregon easel away in a nearby waste bin. One last look at the unfinished painting lying on the ground caused him to place his callused hands on his hips as he let soft puffs of air escape his nostrils. Finally, he turned around and followed the stairs, the corners of each step noticeably littered with dust, back down to the second floor where he stored most of his belongings. The two story plus an attic home that he now resided in once belonged to an elderly couple known as the Croteau''s. Out of the way, small on the outside but roomy on the inside, and quiet. It was everything that Adrian was looking for while he was "house hunting". Santa Monica wasn''t the city of his choice to relocate to, but then again... he never really had made a choice. Sometimes he wondered about the Croteau''s. Who they were before the apocalypse and why they left this place so well stocked and untouched, almost as if they took nothing when they abandoned it for one reason or another. This quaint, posh home was built in the Mediterranean style. It was as white as snow on the outside, and nearly every wall on the inside was a pale tongue-pink. The bathrooms, being the exception, were turquoise-blue. The walls were eerily bare, save for a cross above each doorway. Adrian left them there as a reminder that irony lives on, it doesn''t falter with society. In place of other ornaments, the Croteau''s owned a multitude of small tables, each topped with a vase of dead flowers (he didn''t know which kind, though they all looked alike) or a steel tea kettle residing on top, sitting on hand-knitted circular table cloths. Like the house, these too were white. The cloths that supported a vase were scattered with petals that were colored a sickly purple. As Adrian passed through the hallway, one of the many tables flashed for a second, the one closest to the bathroom on this floor. The open wallet he had thrown there caught a glare of light as he walked to the next set of stairs. The wallet showcased a California driver''s license, belonging to CROTEAU, EVAN CARTER. The license had been reissued as of March 2029, so the picture was recent. A bald man with pale blue eyes, glasses and a warm, wrinkled smile stared out as Adrian shuffled on by. Downstairs in the kitchen, Adrian swore to himself. Over the course of 8 months, he had uncanned, peeled, opened and slowly cooked nearly all of the food that the family living here before had stored. There were three pantries and plenty of storage shelves stuffed with food. It was perfect, he considered. It meant less looting that he would have to do for the time being. He despised going outside in this new world, seeing what it was like now and remembering all that he had lost. Today, his only options for a meal would be stale Cheerios or one of the many jars of pickles in storage. He hated pickles. He knew that he needed to go scavenging today, or else he''d go hungry. Rooting around for food made him feel like a rat, or a crow. He missed Costco, and 7/11 with a bout of despair he couldn''t relate to. Similar to losing a friend you never knew how fond of you were, but more materialistic. On his way to Santa Monica he of course resorted to such tactics out of necessity. There were vivid memories of snacking on processed fruit snacks, his stomach not accepting them as meals and later gurgling from the pits of Hell. On one night while traveling, he found a tree. Oh, how he missed it. It bore red delicious apples from its long and still living branches, this part of America he was driving through still greatly unaffected. It was there, under the tree, that he camped that night alone on the edge of a dying and dead forest. Tucked into a navy-blue sleeping bag, he made another evening of avoiding any planning for his future or his necessities. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. How could he... how could he? The cloud that loomed over his head proclaimed. The only thought in his mind for the first six straight, long days after the catastrophe. Even now, he finds himself making time to ask the question, mouthing the words silently over and over. How could he begin a new life when everyone that Adrian Shepherd had ever loved was dead? Blown away by bombs. The town he had lived in was near the target of at least one of the bombs, maybe two, he couldn''t quite remember anymore. One of the victims in a sickly game of darts. A tear every night forevermore would not compare to those he shed during the first week as he left his parents, twin brother and his fianc¨¦e, and too many good friends behind. Knowing that they would die with disdain in their hearts for him, it made him retch when he thought about it. He was not strong enough to survive the journey set before him, but luck abides the unfortunate, it seems. Adrian encountered nary a problem as he drove for four days, which somehow made him all the more sadder. Even gasoline had been easy to come by, and he managed to create his own tools and learn a safe method to obtain it. But after the first few days, things got more dramatic. He avoided the nearest bomb''s explosion radius on day five, seeing the mirror-engulfing mushroom cloud in the rear view mirror. The shockwave spun his car out of control. He stayed out of sight when the invading army, their nationality still undiscovered to Adrian, plundered all of the desirable treasures out of America with their helicopters and soldiers and land rovers on days seven and eight. He also avoided scores of bandits. Luck abides. How could he ever expect himself to answer a question that has caused him so much grief? Turning his mind away, Adrian scanned the storage shelves for any food he may have missed, absent of any conscious presence. Reaching up with the flat of his hand he patted down the very top shelf and felt a brief, mild shock that brought him back to his full awareness. Near the back he found a box of flax seed and cranberry granola bars. A thin glare of delight shimmered somewhere under his foggy slate blue eyes. Quickly, he made a mental task list for tomorrow, now procrastinating any looting that he had once thought was necessary for today. A new easel was in order. It would be light, so he could strap it to himself and still have room on his strong-bodied person to carry two duffel bags and a backpack for food and other supplies he wanted to bring back to home base. Scanning the last container of food he owned carefully, save the shitty Cheerios and even less-desirable pickles. The expiration date stood out in bold font to his eyes before they could find it of their own accord. "04/21/30" rang out almost like a gladiatorial challenge to Adrian''s empty stomach. The food had expired months ago, but as hunger often does, it tempted him to open the box and grab a bar. Before removing it from the shiny wrapping it was held in, he bent it and found it to be not too hard. He assumed it was going to be stale, but edible. Crushed open and partially empty, Adrian set the box of bars and himself on the sofa made of purple corduroy, the color very radiant against the dull living room paint. He unwrapped the food in his hand, brought it to his dry lips and chewed. He was right, stale. The day was nearing its end, maybe an hour or two of daylight left. Now that he had excused himself from responsibilities for another day, he knew exactly how to spend it. --- Outside behind the house a lifeless generator slept lazily. Amiss the low roar of its power, the large hunk of grey machinery was no more than an over-glorified paperweight. Though fortunate enough to have found it in a shed only two blocks up the road, the metal-on-concrete shrieking and scraping sounds as he brought it back home still sent shivers through his spine. Hunkered down, he ran a hand across one of its cold steel bars. The only way to use electricity these days was to produce it yourself. What little of the continent had power after the explosions lost it quickly in the following days. Adrian narrowed his eyes at the setting sun, the sky a glowing, beautiful peach color. His thumb flicked the red power switch into the ON position. Strong vibrations trembled his hand, electricity now lighting the house up. The electric heat would be kicking in, warming up the house just as he preferred it. Now he could also enjoy his other, less artsy favorite past time in this unnatural lifestyle he owned. Back in the Croteau''s living room, he had set up a modern looking vinyl record player. He could put on Valleys of Neptune by the Jimi Hendrix Experience and drift away, letting the sweet melody of a guitar dissolve all of the weight he held, even if it was just for a few minutes of the day. Even though it wasn''t the newest of the new, the music was comforting. It came to grow on him as he listened to it in this dishevelled world. Perhaps he would even enjoy a cigarette from the pack he had stashed away, just to feel a little headrush. He swiveled his crouched body so that his shoulders could rest against the house, and he began rocking back on the heels of his brown hiking shoes, both sets of laces stuffed into them because he was tired of tying the strings together. Adrian''s temples throbbed still from his bout of rage, even as he massaged them tenderly with index and middle fingers. He retired his hands to the back of his shaven head, closing his eyes and focusing only on darkness and the buzzing beside him. Two omnipresent reminders of the worries and questions he often thought of. He was helpless but to fall under the spell his mind''s shadow often cast, holding his hand while walking him down a broken memory road. What would Douglas think of him now, who he had become? His brother... his sweet brother, who looked up to him once for support and answers. For most of their lives actually. After what happened with Alyssa, Felicia''s sister, Douglas thought of himself as an only child and he grew a hatred toward Adrian. Even Felicia tried to regain their shrinking relationship once, to no avail. Douglas too, Adrian realized, lived with a cloud raining over him, but its name was his own. So it was that the twins finally separated. But even Adrian could not of predicted the distance that would stretch over time without contact, until the day came to evacuate the city. Adrian had no idea where Douglas lived. His brother had moved without giving his location to anyone in the family, so Adrian resorted to calling his brother on his cell phone, only glancing at the number of ignored texts he had sent over the span of half of a year. "I told you to never fucking call this number" was the answer after four tones of the phone ringing. "I know, but listen, you need to hear this, ok?" Adrian quickly stammered, his voice broken and hysteric. "No, Adrian. I don''t have time for whatev--" "God dammit, Douglas, I think bombs are going to be launched!" Adrian interjected a little more loudly than he intended to. "...What are you rambling on about?" Douglas asked, adding a hint of curiosity without removing any resentment from his voice. "I don''t have the time to explain. There are things that I need to show you.. tell you, in person. I found out that the United States, maybe all of North America, is in danger." Adrian spat out. As soon as the message passed his lips, he sense how insane it sounded. Five minutes passed over the span of five seconds, but Douglas''s reply was crisp and short. "I''ve heard nothing about this on the news, a source that I''m more comfortable with. I''m hanging up, don''t contact me again, Adrian. " "Doug, no! Wait!" Adrian yelled into the mouthpiece. He was met with stone silence in return, then the dial tone humming in his ear so loudly, it clouded all of his thoughts. The humming stayed, spread into both ears long after he put the phone down. His eyes glazed with the reflection of oblivion. The noise grew louder, drowning out all other sound. He knelt to the ground, his head pounding now, the droning like a constant beat upon his eardrums. It grew louder. A persistent vibration that began to spread throughout his body. He felt his teeth chatter in his jaw, and had to pinch the bridge of his nose to sate his eyes, loosely shaking in their sockets. The phone had dropped but the volume and pressure had remained, increased, until... it shut off. Switched off was more accurate, as the humming faded, slowly growing more distant by the second. --- Adrian opened his eyes back behind the Croteau''s. The hum was dying all around him, his heart fluttered from his daydream. He shot a panicked look at the generator and found the source of the dying noise. "No... no, no, dammit no... no!" Adrian screamed, leaping to his feet as the generator grew silent. He had been lost in thought for maybe ten minutes! How could this happen? What did he do wrong? It was then that he looked at the gas gauge, located on the side of the machine. Empty, resting on the bold and red "E" just as the last of its life ran out. The lights in the house went off, flickering at first. The ball of stress unfurled and convulsed in the pit of his stomach, a white hot chorus of disbelief and frustration washed over him. He was positive he had left enough gasoline for last night and this one! Fists now curled, he swung his right foot back, leaning forward slightly with his body. He pulled his torso backward just a hair quicker than the speed he put into his kick, toes meeting dead on with the steel. The pain muddled by blinding rage, he kicked the machine once more. He could feel the toenail on his big toe crack and split, blood trickling out and being absorbed slowly by his wool sock. The generator, the clear victor of this battle, had shifted three inches to the east to expose dying and compressed grass . "Piss." he muttered under quick pants of breath. He paced back and forth in front of the over-glorified paperweight, muttering angrily. It took a measure of time, but he regained his composure and let out one more shaky sigh before turning around and moving on. --- Back inside, with one shoe and sock removed and a toe freshly cleaned, Adrian bandaged the aching appendage. That was stupid, he thought to himself. But it just doesn''t seem possible to catch a moments rest or a chance to breathe. He remembered checking the gas tank yesterday, and can still see it in his mind''s eye how the red marker rested confidently at the quarterway mark, pointing straight at the marker. Or... he thought so at least. Wrapped up tightly now, he put the wool sock back on followed by his shoe and tested his foot out. It hurt, but he could walk fine and without limping, so it was decided. He could wait until tomorrow for an easel and more food, but gas? Electricity? He needed that to keep the cold out, and more importantly to keep this house''s power locks locked. He didn''t have any of idea why the Croteau''s had them installed, but he was thankful. The electrical locks proved secure and powerful, and up until now the physical copy of the key had been unseen. Adrian grabbed a jerry can and his clear tube he had been using to siphon gas, recently cleaned. He put on a thick brown coat and at the doorway, with wind billowing in through the tiny cracks of the rectangular frame behind himself, he gently swayed the inside door to the kitchen backward, revealing his weapon of choice. A cane as high as his hip, a beautiful dark brown and made entirely of hickory. The pommel was made of cold, sheenless, solid steel and featured an excellently brandished toad, his belly protruding out in a perfect sphere. Adrian was charmed by the item, with no clear idea why. Formerly Evan Croteau''s, Adrian Shepherd had taken it in the event he needed to bludgeon someone with periling intent, which had so far remained unnecessary. Now turning, he grabbed the brass doorknob, his other hand reaching into a coat pocket for the soft pair of gloves he brought (to make sure they were there rather than put them on), and stepped back into the frigid world known as "the outside" once more to brave the storm. His shoulders slumped as he thought "luck abides". 2: Fuel me Once The wind whistling past Adrian made closing the door to the Croteau''s more of a struggle than he anticipated as he simultaneously tugged the doorknob and planted a foot at the baseboard of the doors frame. He had only been inside for fifteen-- maybe twenty minutes and already the atmosphere surrounding his tiny hobble of life had shifted. The sky, now a bright navy-blue was strung with sparsely placed clouds. Not the absolute clear night he had been silently praying for, but being able to see the twinkle of a few stars was pleasant. There were notably more of them these days, without any light pollution to act as a hindrance. Cold nipped at his nose and ears, Adrian squinted against it. It had been autumn for only a handful of weeks but he missed the warmer temperatures of summer. The weather was strange now that the residue of explosives linger in the air and on the land, also contaminating water sources. It was drinkable... but Adrian assumed that most people alive and who wanted to stay that way for a long while found cleaner sources. He took a sip from his canteen, filled with filtered water, and put it back. Gloomy trees swayed to the rhythm of the wind. Descending the steps of the wooden porch, placing the cane in its makeshift sling (a crude strap wrapped diagonally around his torso, a swath of velcro on his backside to keep the weapon in place but easily removable) with the end featuring the steel toad being lowest to the ground and Adrian''s right calf, he began to trace his fingers along the banister. White paint had begun to chip off, flakes still nestled along the wooden planks that the small patio consisted of. He gave a longing look toward the house, though never stalled in his pace. The Croteau''s lived in the north-west end of Santa Monica in the suburbs. There were multiple houses that looked similar to the one he was in, and some that looked like they would have cost a hundred grand more. A few homes had been looted and vandalized without method, stripped clean by people who had cleared out before Adrian had arrived. Although every now and again when he wandered he could spot a freshly targeted building. If they got much closer, he thought, he would take off and find a new place to live. It was a sad thought. The streets were narrow but not cluttered. Though chaotic looking, in the apocalypse the coast had not fallen into a complete mess of garbage and destruction. Quite unlike the land that lay further behind the shorelines, the areas most affected by warfare.. A lot of people here evidently tried to escape the bombs. Some of these folks had boats, and that''s probably where most of the cars are. Parked off at some dock or hidden camp, but not all of them were. Some had remained stationary on the sides of the street or in driveways or shut away in garages. Adrian wouldn''t have to go as far during this evening¡¯s scavenging trip as he would during the one tomorrow. He and whoever else that may have been taking gasoline from the area might have siphoned a good number of the vehicle''s gas tanks around here, but not all. He would walk maybe five blocks and find a suitable car to drain. When his feet dutifully made their way on to the concrete of the sidewalk, he stopped and listened to the cold quiet of the calm night, soaking in a natural moment of serenity. He allowed it to roll over the anger he still had nestling, permitting a shift in the thick, opaque substance that was his own demeanor. With subdued anguish, he could sense in his normal and more accepting perspective once again. A deep inhale of crisp autumn air passed as he acutely listened for sounds other than the wind, he found none. Adrian set off. Going down the street, which he deemed the safest route as it wasn''t as densely populated as going up it, he swept his eyes in a trained manner over the field of view in front of him and occasionally over his shoulder. Adrian had never received survival or combat training but he was by no means mindless in the art. He had scuffled once or twice, late at night outside of bars when drunken jackasses were demanding rides home, and knew the gist of how to defend himself. His father had told him before that he could be a great leader because he knew what battles to pick. Library books made small stacks in a room back at home base, containing tips on encounters with wild animals or in some books, people. He studied well and long on a number of subjects. No matter how much he took in, Adrian knew that what would keep him alive was what had been doing so up until now... his wit. By relying only upon himself he figured he removed all possible chances of unexpected failure. His steps were strong and confident, but also fell to the ground through forced willpower. Adrian would admit to anyone, he hated... absolutely fucking hated being out here. The world had color but he saw through a grey filter, not changing the hues but only the feelings that he received from what spread out before his eyes. He noted a house at the end of his block, a burgundy one that he recognized, with its front door newly busted in. Only the bottom left part of the wood was attached to the hinge and remained vertical, the rest was in a mess similar only too coldly to the one he created in the Croteau¡¯s attic not anymore than an hour ago. Praying that this looting was not ongoing and had already passed, Adrian quickened his stride and traveled down the next few blocks with nary a problem to be found. --- Kicking at the rubber of a tire of some white Toyota, Adrian scouted his eyes ahead. There were four cars in clear sight, a few more in the distance and partially hidden or out of the way. He bent down to the tire and grabbed around the back at the bottom of the cold, rugged material. He found and grabbed the red bandanna he left snugly under a rock placed under the car, and pulled it out from underneath its weight. Putting it in his back jean pocket, he moved on to the next car, a red Dodge. Old, well used. He popped open its gas tank and sniffed with intent. The faint yet powerful smell of gasoline touched his nostrils. He set his jerry can to the ground, removed a water bottle and the bandanna from his pockets and put them down as well. Taking the clear tubing off of his shoulder, Adrian stretched it out of its coil. He stuck one end into the gas tank deep enough to be suffocated by the liquid. After unscrewing the jerry can, he took out his jackknife. It took a little bit of elbow grease, but Adrian cut off a foot long section of the tube. He stuck this in the gas tank as well, letting its weight and force hold it in place as the back end hits the top of the opening and stays put. A trick he had learned from experience was to take a rag and stuff it in the airways of the tank opening to create a better flow by controlling the air that went in and out. He soaked the bandanna in water from the bottle, using about a quarter of his supply. He crammed it around the plastic tubing, hoping it would hold its place. Putting the end of the longer tube into the jerry can''s thirsty mouth, he began to blow into the smaller tube. His cheeks were swollen like flesh colored balloons for seven long seconds as he forced air to shove through his lips. Worry crawled into his gut as he noticed that nothing was coming out of the other end, the uncomfortable stretching feeling was growing from the sides of his face. Halting the attempt on this cars gas tank almost became reality, but as a last ditch effort he added a little more strength to his gust. He could see the bandanna begin to bulge out, panicked, but was immediately filled with relief as the overflow of sweet gasoline finally began, riding in a self contained water slide all the way down to the canister. Releasing the air pressure he had been creating, gravity continued to do his work for him. He could hear the faint, enclosed trickling of gas pouring and smell the scent of it growing stronger. Even though this was technically theft and it made him feel feel disgusting, Adrian never felt guilty. Nor when he looted for other supplies. It wasn''t even because it was necessary, the process just became natural... overtaking the spot of gas stations and grocery stores. Realizing again that it doesn''t take long for the world to change his morals, he sat down and stared at the night time clouds, reminiscing fondly about convenience stores and toll booths as the jerry can filled inch by inch. --- About a block away from the red car, with his gear all packed up and strapped on him and the red bandanna now residing under the tire of the vehicle again, Adrian heard glass shatter. The sloshing inside the canister crashed against the walls as he came to a sudden stop, making lapping noises. He cocked his head downward, angling his left ear upward to hear more clearly. Crouching down, only half hidden by a steel mailbox on the sidewalk, Adrian listened. If someone was after him, he thought while touching the end of his cane that was closest to his shoulder, he would be ready. He remained as a statue for two full passing minutes with not a sound or sight out of the ordinary. When things like this didn''t add up, stress would eat at Adrian''s innards. He recognized the initial sound to be on the same level as the ground, indicating that something glass fell or was thrown onto the ground. Gazing around quickly, doing a swift half-circle turn before turning back, Adrian scoped out the houses around him. This part of the area was a shade prettier, the home owners obviously more wealthy here. Charming colors that were cheerful even in the night coated their walls. No lights, no signs of movement, and no answers. There were hedges blocking his view by the house directly beside him, the house in the direction of the crash. The hedges were so tall and dense that even though they were dead he could not see passed them. Now there was a choice to make. Weighing his options, he wagered he had about two good ones. Option A would be to hide the jerry can in the mailbox, and investigate the source of the noise. Option B would be to hightail it out of there, avoiding the risk of confrontation and danger. Each passing second as he considered his choices was frozen in a glacier, and each one potentially put him deeper into danger. The wind blew by ominously. "God dammit..." he swore in a muttered breath, gripping tightly now to the realization that he would need to investigate the noise. He couldn''t risk being followed back home. Whatever made that noise needed to be dealt with before he moved on. As silently as he could, he slowly slipped the jerry can into the mailbox. The hinges attached to its mouth were rusted and let out soft, piercing squeals as they opened and closed. Casting a defeated downward glance at the noise, he waited in stationary silence. The hedges swayed behind him, and he thought he heard a thud in a direction he couldn''t locate. A sweating palm reached for the cane he straddled to his backside. Adrian nervously licked his lip, unsheathing his weapon as alarm doubled his heartbeat. He was no longer thinking, his thoughts lost in a whirlwind of decisions to be made. Standing up slightly and gripping the wooden cane like a sword, Adrian made slow and smooth steps until he was close enough to the hedges that his palm could rest flatly on the lifeless branches. Listening to the world intently, he approached the opening that was merely ten feet in front of him. The immediate stress and fear he felt had made a clear sky of the fog that racked his brain constantly. Trembling hands fumbled the cane he held, which he caught before it fell from his grasp. Counting his blessings, he did a shoulder check before arriving to the corner of the dead shrubbery. This was a calm night, perfect for possible danger to be lurking ahead or behind. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. He found himself lost in a moment, just a brief moment, as he gazed down toward the cane he now possessed. Crafted personally by the initials K.S. Wells, the blunt instrument that was once a helpful walking tool was seemingly built as a weapon that was perfectly accommodated for Adrian''s height, weight and strength. In the days where he practised with the weapon, he found its silver-tipped end was ranged so well as it would come in contact easily with what he swung at while keeping himself a safe distance away. Though the frog mount weighed heavy, and was able to demolish planks of wood an inch think, the staff was light and sturdy which resulted in quick and precise swings. The frog boldly stared out wherever he was cast, always resonating to Adrian how he needed to be as hard as steel, too. He was thankful for how expertly this piece was made. To make sure it wouldn''t break in combat, he had tested it. Admittedly he had enjoyed obliterating and smashing the door to a house two streets up. This was a few weeks, maybe a few months ago. Holding it as if it were a miniature battering ram, he plunged it straight through the wood by the door knob. The frog remained stuck as the door flew opened wildly. Losing his grip on the tool he stood silently and satisfied. Adrian accepted the necessities of life as they came, even felt some slight, masculine enjoyment from it, but already longed for a world that had more class. Rounding the corner now, his fear not concerned with whether he was ready or not, there was nothing to be seen but an average front lawn. Adrian glanced over the place. He partially saw the side of a barn behind the house, its door open. Someone had left the lawnmower out, residing by the fence to the side of the property. The house itself was a pale baby blue, with shutters along the windows in a darker blue. The grass, unkempt and decayed, didn''t appear to be trampled. Sure that the source of breaking glass was directed this way, he noticed that all of the windows remained fixed and in tact on this side. Cautiously he marched on, taking to the corner on his left. Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed, Adrian''s paranoia perceived it mockingly, though he let the thought slip. He wanted nothing more than to be back in bed with three thick blankets smothering him into a deep sleep. Maybe he could have used one of his hot chocolate powder mixes he had stashed in his backpack. He considered the stuff a nectar so sweet, he hoarded every packet he could find, which unfortunately had been very few, fewer so as time went on. Distracted by thoughts of chocolate he obliviously rounded the next corner. Adrian froze as a wash of cold spread throughout his back from the base of his neck all the way down to the end of his spine, rippling in waves of cold energy. His eyes transfixed directly ahead, he stared at the rather large bull terrier that was no further then ten metres in front of him. Facing toward him, the animal was distracted. It was busy ripping into the freshly made carcass of a bird, black feathers and gore flying higher then the creature would any more. Relentlessly, the dog tore and swallowed chunks of bleeding meat whole. Feathers and slobber glued its face, while its ass wriggled to and fro with a delight that seemed sickening in the light of the situation. Adrian was lost in the moment, hung up with no ideas. Unfortunately, it cost him as the terrier looked up, blood droplets falling from its jaw as it grew into a vicious snarl. Most animals now had become violent and aggressive, he had seen many dogs forming packs similar to that of wolves. As Adrian''s mind began to churn thoughts, the animal stepped courageously forward. He considered it some form of luck that he had only encountered the single dog, not gaining any comfort from the thought. A low guttural sound emanated from its maw as it closed the distance between them. Adrian stood his ground, straightening his spine and gripping the canes end with two hands. The guide and how-to books he read mentioned that you can establish dominance by not backing down. He swung at the air with much strength, releasing a yell. The force made him step forward, and the crazed dog froze in a defensive manner. Adrian followed suit. "Get back! Go!" he yelled at it, kicking the air with the same foot that he had attacked the generator with earlier. The dog, more cautiously now, treaded onward. The gap between them closed to half of what it originally was. Adrian warned the creature again, swinging once downward and then a rebound swing that went upward. His heart patted his chest steadily as the dog kept moving, never blinking. Its growls were now accompanied by threatening barks. Adrian''s peripheral vision noticed the leg of the dead crow twitch in the distance. Adrian stepped backward, resenting every decision that brought him to this situation. He loved dogs. Growing up, his family owned a beagle named Lulu. She survived until his late teens, and it wrenched his heart awkwardly in its socket when she passed. This was the first dog he had encountered closely since the world turned to shit. He gulped a mouthful of saliva. With purpose and apparent anger, the animal darted forward three steps before leaping, its jaw open as it began to clear the remaining six feet between it and its prey. Time moved in slow motion. The wind ceased to exist and as he recalled it in his head in the many nights from now that he spent reliving this scene, the sky wasn''t even there. As if set on a stage, acting in some movie, he lived and reacted as if this was meant to happen, a scripted event. The fear inside of him was never overwhelming, he felt secure in victory though his conscience screamed for him to stop. The toad that until this moment had been residing the top of its head on the ground, began to follow an arc. Sailing up, its trajectory curved, aligning perfectly in time with the skull of the bull terrier. The hunger-loosened skin of the animal rippled from the sheer effect, followed by a small cascade of blood not unsimilar to the effect of a stone dropped in calm water. Echoing in his ears much more then it deserved to, the hard squelch and thud from the impact reminded him of smashing pumpkins as a teenager, watching the vegetable brain-like matter spread out. The dog closed its eyes as it yelped in pain, momentum now carrying its partially crushed skull spinning to the right with the rest of its body spinning after it with weird and lazy momentum. Motionless on impact, the dog fell in a lifeless heap a short distance beside him. Blood matted the animals white fur and stained the toad on his cane. Something broke inside of him, and all about him gravity was dropping as the power of what he had just done consumed him. Mechanisms in his brain were at war. Rationalizing the situation by the reason of life or death did nothing to satiate the overwhelming disgust that screamed at his actions. He had bludgeoned a dog to its death. No tears came as he willed himself to cry. Dropping his instrument of doom, Adrian vomited. A mixture of granola, water and stomach acid left him. He fell backward, almost forming the fetal position. His eyes closed tightly, he tried his hardest to escape all thoughts. He begged God for nirvana, an escape from this reality even if just temporarily. It took minutes of breathing erratically before he could form any thing straight in his head. He needed to leave the area; this wasn''t the place to have a breakdown. Lifting himself to his knees, he groped around for the cane and found it. He used it to stand himself upright, fresh blood coating his palm. He sighed heavily as he slowly blinked his eyes, taking in the sight of the newly dead animal before him. Thinking back to Lulu brought his throat to a tight clench, gulping at the memory contrasted against the travesty he faced while fighting back another wave of vomit. Cruelty, he felt, was a crown glued to this head. Like a zombie, he walked toward the shed in the backyard. Beer bottles were strung along a banister of the balcony behind the house. One lay smashed on the ground below, the suds splashed along the walls and grass. Adrian passed the mutilated crow and without thinking to he analyzed its corpse. Innards lay outwards, blood-red coating crow-black in wild patterns across its body. The dog had had some time with his feast; a good chunk of bird was absent. Here and there around the bird lay bits of flesh, further spread out were feathers. Good lord, the feathers. Dozens if not hundreds of different sized jet-black feathers meshed in with the mostly hay colored grass, making for a disturbing and grotesque mosaic, being eroded by the wind. Adrian swallowed a lump that re appeared back in his throat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead that was gathering despite the chill and moved on, shaking his head in disbelief and disgust. Minutes had ticked by but Adrian''s heart hammered thunderously and steadily still, nor had he shaken the feeling of adrenaline coursing through his nerves. He brought his hand to his face. Pale, shaky, sweaty. It fell back to his side as he once again regarded the shed. Eggshell-white, dinky, and the door was left wide open. He swallowed the lump again and solemnly walked the remaining five or so yards to the shed''s open mouth, sheathing his cane. He looked inside the small building and quickly found what he was searching for. A determined hand grabbed the shovel, and he placed its tip in the ground beside the shed. Adrian shoveled out dirt, placing it carefully. The land around here was dense, making shoveling a difficult task. Digging the small grave took fifteen minutes when it ought to have taken five. Adrian planted the shovels rusted head in the dirt pile he created. The least this animal deserved was a proper burial. He retched at the thought of murdering some family''s former pet. Slowly he made his way back to the body. Blood had stopped spilling shortly after the event had occurred, and he was glad this wouldn''t be a messy affair. Having said goodbye to Lulu did not make this any easier, even though the bull terrier would not have shown him any of the respect he intended to show it. Only now did he notice the collar and tag it wore, and grabbing it he read aloud the name "Kevin". Adrian silently said his goodbyes as he patted the dog''s ruffled fur. Suddenly, his hand froze. His head cocked, he quickly pressed his ear to the chest of the dog. Its heart was beating. Softly, very softly. Emotions flaring, Adrian scooped the canine up carefully and with trembling arms. He could feel faint pants of breath against his skin as he now jogged hurriedly back to home. --- Interlude I "Felicia... Felicia!" Douglas Shepherd hollered with a smile in his throat, throwing his voice generously to the third floor of his $600,000 home. The ceiling arced high, and there was much room for his voice to reverberate. His honeyed-yellow locks of hair bounced as his neck swung about to properly face the stairway. Soft but sharp clacks constantly improved in volume, revealing her to his ears before she was in eyesight, but even then he knew of her beauty. Felicia Shepherd, formerly Felicia Haines, rounded the corner of the teak floor stairwell and stalled on the elegant platform, her eyes as joyful as the curve of her lips while she stared at him, together forming a state of unity they only found with each other. She wore a flawless heart-red dress (the same shade as her lipstick), cut open on the left leg. This matched the ruby pendant in the gold chain she wore gaudily around her neck. Like running water she flowed naturally into his arms where he caressed her, one large and soft hand holding the back of her head, feeling her chestnut brown hair. The other cupped the curve of her right hip courteously. "What was it, handsome?" Felicia said in a silky smooth voice that she was placing a few notches above a whisper, as she so often did. A wry smile was planted firmly on her face and for the span of a second he saw and thought of that only. He returned her smile, leaning in and with tenderly poised lips he kissed her with passion. He locked his arms around her waist, grabbing his other wrist and pressing her into his own body gently. He felt her lose herself in the moment. She leaned into him, depending on him to support her. She kissed him back with fervent love, then ended their lips embrace suddenly. She leaned her head backward to stare into his slate blue eyes. "You were saying?" she said, almost in a chuckle. "I''m sorry... the moment I saw you dressed so divinely, I was entranced to the point that I was driven dumb. Allow me to make a gentleman of myself, now that I have regained my speech." he said charmingly, kissing her on the lips quickly. "Originally, I wanted to ask if you were nearly ready for our dinner date... but clearly you''ve exceeded all expectations I could lay before you. Say, what woman is ready before the man has to complain, anyway?" "One you should never let go of." she said assuredly, dispelling from their embrace and putting on her thin leather jacket. She shot him a smirk. "And as soon as I say so, you allow me to get away!" she waltzed toward the door. "Hey, that''s not... that doesn''t coun--" he tried to say before his cell phone rang on the marble countertop across the room. The ringtone blared obscenely, chiming in his face as he made his way to it and picked it up. On the short walk over, he loudly mentioned to Felicia that he''d be in the car in a bit, and she should get it warmed up for him. He audibly gathered that she took the keys and left, and he gazed down at his phone. ADRIAN SHEPHERD His smile vanished. As if filled to the brim with vinegar, his stomach lurched and went sour. The crease in his mouth line was white and firmly in place as he swiped his phone to answer it. He had never been more calm and clear headed. Even when placed in a situation of stress, especially one where he lacked so much interest, he could maintain his ground. Whatever his brother wanted now would not ruin his day he had planned with Felicia. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. "I told you to never fucking call this number" Douglas angrily said, partially through gritted teeth. Adrian knew damn well that he wanted nothing to do with him. "I know, but listen, you need to hear this, ok?" his brother frantically reported to him. Douglas could hear a tinge of... something in his voice. What was it? "No, Adrian. I don''t have time for whatev--" he was interrupted. "God dammit, Douglas, I think bombs are going to be launched!" Adrian interjected, and then Douglas knew what it was in his brother''s voice. It was some finely mixed brew of desperation, guilt, fear and feral rage. Hearing his brother in any other light than collected and assured made Douglas ponder. "...What are you rambling on about?" Douglas asked, forcing his voice to stay strong, willing himself to consider these ravings fairly. His brother wasn''t one to act delusional or irrational. "I don''t have the time to explain. There are things that I need to show you.. in person. I found out that the United States, maybe all of North America, is in danger." was the quick squall of a reply he received. Stupefied, Douglas remained silent for a handful of seconds that seemed to stretch further. It had been a number of months since he had broken off any ties... had Adrian gone insane? "I''ve heard nothing about this on the news, a source that I''m more comfortable with. I''m hanging up, don''t contact me again, Adrian. " Douglas ignored the distant sputter of disbelief he heard as he ended the conversation, a simple press with the pad of his thumb. Coolly, he stared at the black screen and relived the past minute in his head. His brother had gone insane. Yes. Just more reasons to steer clear of that dangerous and delusional enchanter. Setting his phone down on the counter, he lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He gazed at the cabinets in front of him behind his eyelids and slowly blew out a fresh breath of air. Douglas, although inordinately rich when compared to Adrian, had much simpler values and dreams. Some would even say that Douglas was the kinder, sweeter one of the twin brothers, although some had also said the opposite. No one ever mentioned the negative factoid to the respective brother though. Douglas was skeptical of people''s opinions ever since Adrian had, to his own deductive mind, done the worst thing imaginable to not only his love Felicia, but through extension, to Douglas''s own little family. His brother, through Douglas''s own eyes, had committed a portrayal of betrayal that was still so heinous that it poked bruised memories for Douglas, and broke emotional bones in Felicia all over again. It pained himself to think of the stretched, tattered and snapped strings that once was the bond between Adrian and Douglas, but age put a fork in the middle of their road, and those you travel with aren''t guaranteed to follow you down your path, nor are you to there''s. In the end, Douglas thinks it was ego or maybe jealousy that overtook his admittedly bright friend and brother. But the end result.. unforgivable. He pondered. Life changes, that''s for sure. If you don''t grab it as it rolls over you, you''ll be left lying flat. It was unsettling to know someone he formerly loved was being left behind, but this was his wheel to wrestle with, and he didn''t have room to share with his brother any longer. Opening his eyes, he flushed his stress away like removing the plug from the bottom of the bathtub. Today was too good, too sweet of a day to let spoil by one phone call. Plastering a smile to his freshly shaven face, he walked casually to the front door and, after checking over his shoulder to inspect life itself, left the house to join his wife. --- 3: Intersection Interjection His pulse doubling just as the pace of his thoughts were, Adrian''s body strived to keep up with the exaggerated beat. The bottoms of his feet furiously pounded flat on the cold, litter strewn sidewalk and he could feel fresh blood leak from his bandaged toe. Beads of sweat poured out of his body, tiny rivulets falling behind him in silent patters down below and making his clothes stick to his skin as he hustled himself and the dying bundle of rough, matted fur back home. In a dry, matter-of-fact way Adrian considered it luck that he had already heaved out all of his stomach''s contents. Threatening to overwhelm him again, he was trying his best to ignore the dizziness and nausea. Panic still engulfed his conscious mind, and it was driving it to a feral state; all thoughts but simple thoughts were being replaced, repressed or blocked. Under its grizzly, cold encasing Adrian''s heart was soft. Not just for animals but for other people too. Determination, strength and experience all met and resided in his heart, alongside a tenderness that was almost rugged and delicate. The condition of a human who has experienced ultimate highs and terrible lows. If Adrian ever before entertained the thought that his sense of emotions was growing dull, he no longer would again. He had anticipated the need for defense against another human with ill intent, and was mentally prepared for it. But this.. a frigging dog? This was savage. Barbaric. A pang of emotional pain tremored through his heart, and he involuntarily sucked in air more then he anticipated, resulting in a short choking cough and wheeze. Not always one to wear his emotions on his sleeve, Adrian was having a hard time figuring out what exactly he should be thinking, aside from rudimentary thoughts such as "get home" or "scan the area". It was during a simple scan that Adrian''s ribcage and bicep took a brunt shot from an outstretched wing mirror of a car, cooly disguised against its midnight-black body. On a vehicle, side mirrors are normally manufactured in one of two ways, Adrian knew from a lecture in his past. Although both are made in a similar, hardened plastic. Firstly, and in the recent years more commonly found in America and even more so in Europe, are the sort that retract. To prevent them from being clipped, they tuck in on to the side of the car either manually or electronically. The car that Adrian used to drive had them, and he remembered the salesman with his warts and greased-back hair harboring about the differences. The greased-up wart went on to mention that there are also the kind that are stationary, jutting out like antlers. Often referred to as the older style, this was the sort that Adrian ran into. The hardened plastic material snapped loudly but not completely, now jutting at a more awkward angle. "Oouoof," the noise escaped his lungs as his body spiraled backward in a short, slow fall. Kevin remained silent in his unconscious state as momentum brought him upwards of Adrian''s chest. Legs buckling and beginning to become tangled, he made a last ditch effort to protect the dog, but to his dismay Kevin¡¯s fur slipped just out of the grasp of his fingertips, falling two feet to the ground, his broken body then rolling a short distance. Fresh blood dripped slowly from the wound Adrian had caused. Quickly realizing his own position, Adrian tilted his head forward at the last second to avoid the back of it smacking on hard cement, although the consequence was that his spine took the full force of the impact. A feeling akin to the effect of shattering glass spread throughout his own torso, and his lungs filled with spiderwebs as all wind withdrew and returned back into the world. Rainbow colored specks of dust floated across his vision while pain and panic wracked his body. Adrian required a moment, and though he didn''t know if he had any to spare, one was taken. A wheezy cough navigated its way through his throat, rattling his lungs and sending a new surge through his ramshackled ribcage. Wincing, he draped his right forearm across his chest, planting his left palm downward on the sidewalk beside him. Knowing he wasn''t seriously hurt was as far as the good news stretched. Just the body parts affected by the initial impact of colliding with the mirror would need a closer inspection, his upper few ribs and right shoulder. The pain along his lower mid-back was fading, maybe to return as a dull bruise. Assuming for now that his torso was just battered and bruised, Adrian used his left arm as a prop to help his body up. Quickly he noticed the motionless lifeform that was Kevin, and he was surprised that with the vigor that his own pulse was pounding with it didn''t break his fragile self. He was unmoving as he stared.. For many months after the explosions that would define a new way of living for those left in America and those who chose to stay, scores of clouds of dust, smoke and eradicated debris filled the air. If prompted to, Adrian could remember in the very beginning when the smog had wafted out as far as the west coast. In a fading life he once heard about the Great Canadian North, where in some places they experience something called a "polar night", darkness that can last longer than a day and often many more. Adrian thought those first few months of smog were like that, although sometimes he could recognize the white orb of the sun if he looked up at the ghastly grey-and-green smog, though its rays wouldn''t touch the ground for another couple of days to come. There was a period of time that some form of ventilation was necessary to be outside, the air too polluted to breathe deeply. All he had at first was a balled up t-shirt to hold against his mouth, it worked poorly. It was only a week before he was coughing blood, but tha passed thankfully, after he looted a couple of dust mask from a construction lot that would go uncompleted. Though tonight the world around him was no more than colored blurs passing by, the atmosphere provided for the two creatures was quite unordinarily cheerful. On this late October eve... a shade of clear navy swathed the sky with brilliant radiance, as notably beautiful as the sparkling glitter of the stars that dotted nonsensical patterns. The trees, though bare and dead, stood with a solemn diligence and nobility that Adrian could reconcile with. A breeze casually blew by, awkwardly out of place. On either side of the street that Adrian and Kevin were occupying, walls of well-built homes were spaced perfectly as far as he could see in both directions. Differing only in height and coats of paint, all of these houses looked like clones of one another. An eye sore to behold, really, but one that brought the comfort of monotony. Bringing himself to his knees, another droplet of sweat missiled toward and crashed upon the old, chipped concrete sidewalk. It, like most of the pavement stretching around Adrian, had seen better days. His breath escaped him in light wheezes as he regained his composure, stealing merely a half of a dozen seconds more. As if with the flick of a switch to turn the lights on, Adrian snapped to. Bent over in a hunch that was more suited for crawling than running, he made his way to Kevin. The color burgundy had already crustily meshed in with the white and brindle fur, but a wet coat had been applied in some areas and several drops had collected below. The animals large chest heaved deeply as Adrian lifted it up to torso height. "........rrrrewlp," Kevin let out an unconscious guttural growl, escaping from deep within somewhere. Adrian just hoped it was a good sign as he placed the dog''s wound on his right shoulder, resting its bum in the nook of his left arm. The gash caused by Adrian''s cane had been deep, he noticed. Just how deep he didn''t know, but it was obvious that the skull was not broken. There wasn''t time to examine it out in the open, and there was merely two blocks left until he was home. Slowly, Adrian picked up momentum, turning a brief walk into a quick-paced jog. Kevin was heavy. Being the largest bull terrier that Adrian had ever seen, he guessed the animal easily weighed eighty pounds. Adrian carried it with a well built, hardened body that came with the autumns of his youth being spent chopping wood for his grandfather. His grandfather, a quiet yet bitter man, paid Adrian twenty dollars every year to come visit a handful of times and split logs for his wood-stove he used during the freezing eastern coast winters. Growing up, it was a chore that he lamented. He could never seem to gain the satisfaction of the coot that, as his grandchild, he felt he deserved. Adrian realized eventually that they never had much of a relationship to gain that from. As age came down on Adrian, he grew to regret not spending time with more of his extended family. He was sure he would of loved and learned from them. Shrugging off another elapsed memory and looking for mental markers he made, Adrian brought his light jog to a speed that suited the situation a bit more, shuffling the dog around in his arms. Carrying Kevin this distance was something he could do. The bauble of his cane briefly touched the back of his leg, a shiver went down his spine. What would anyone else have done in that situation? As terrible of an act as it was... could it of been a necessary evil? He swept such thoughts away, not allowing himself his own forgiveness. While glancing down to check on Kevin''s status, Adrian barely noticed with his peripheral vision a fresh and deep groove cut into a telephone pole. The slit was wide and jagged enough to be from an axes blade. Failing to consider it in his mad dash for home, Adrian shifted the weight in his arms again as Kevin''s head lolled limply over his right forearm, bobbing about to the rhythm of his rescuer/murderer''s movements. The pattern that the dog''s head swayed in reminded Adrian oh-so painfully of a memory from nearly a decade ago, one that he had thought he repressed. Perhaps it was unbottling as a way to subconsciously distract him from the grim horror he held in his arms: --- Three years ago, age thirty and a man lacking the hardened aura he now possesses, Adrian drove delicately through the wooded back road at two a.m. that Saturday night in West Virginia. With experienced ease he rounded the corners of the winding pavement comfortably and without jostling the vehicle about. These roads were familiar, he could follow these lines as naturally as he could trace the ones on the palm of his hand. In mid-February of this year all of the trees were bare of leaves, but there wasn''t any snow on the straw-like grass just yet. They had gone all through Christmas and January without snow, leaving the landscape dry, cold and dead for as far into the dark as he could see. Not that he was expertly surveying the area about him right now, only making occasional checks for wildlife that may come barreling through the dense brush that covered each side of the deteriorating pavement road. Adrian''s mind was lost in a daydream with intensity that wasn''t apparent on his sunken face. Instead, a blank countenance matched the stare of the horizon looking back into him. Cold, stormy ocean-blue eyes that pierced through many good illusions and liars blinked slowly, his pale lips in a stern, straight and pursed line. Piecing it together again, hoping that the realization will sink further into his skin with repetition, Adrian ran through the events that had transpired within just the last three hours between himself and Alyssa, his girlfriend. --- "Adriiian... you praww-missed!" Alyssa pronounced with the hint of a lazy stupor encroached in her voice, one garnered from alcohol consumption and the feeling of grogginess from sleep. She was attempting to have a calm discussion that was referring back to an earlier, more sober conversation. Her thin and straightened beach blonde hair fell gracefully to her shoulders, where she now absently brushed it behind her shoulder in an angry huff. The arc of her eyebrows showed a willingness that begged for an open discussion, but her eyes revealed to Adrian something he saw in the heat of all of these arguments they had. It was apparent that he was fighting a battle with her once again, and he let a sigh escape his nostrils. "I said if you woke up before the liquor store closed we would go. It''s almost ten to eleven o''clock. The store closed an hour ago, Alyssa." He retorted in a definitive manner, though how fruitless the explanation was reverberated in his voice. Sporting a beard that he briefly rubbed, Adrian tried to convey to his girlfriend that the plans she had made would have to change. To some degree, he understood why someone would want to drink on their own birthday especially, even if they drank most nights anyway. "...what about... the... store... the store on Barrington street?" Alyssa asked, although her confidence had started to drain as she spoke. In all of the excitement of today she had perhaps drank too much. Her decision to take a quick nap around eight turned into a three hour snooze, one that Adrian couldn''t wake her from. "Closed." he said almost within the same breath of her last word, almost willing this conversation to its end. He could see the frustration brewing darkly upon her beautifully almond shaped face, the small curves of her mouth pointing downward in dramatically sharp lines. "...promised...my birthday..." Alyssa was barely speaking loud enough to carry past her lips, and Adrian asked her to repeat herself. "You promised you wouldn''t be mad that I was going to drink on my birthday..." she sulked at him, finally lulling her chin upward to meet his searching and troubled gaze. One of the moments they shared lasted longer than the others. A feeling not unlike the snap of a kite''s string was shared, and distance growing between them was implicitly recognized. "Babe, I know I did. I''m not mad at you, OK?" Adrian and Alyssa had been dating for eight months. She, a socially comfortable, open minded and flavorful woman was boastfully secure with who she was. Unfortunately, she couldn''t see like those around her could that part of who she was... was an alcoholic. Unfamiliar at this point in his life with vices and demons, Adrian didn''t recognize it until well into their relationship. Until recently the drinking had been limited to only a few occasions. Parties mostly. Those times, the amount she would drink concerned him. She brushed it off, telling him that he''s worrying too much or that with his inexperience with liquor, he couldn''t possibly know how much she could handle. He thought that she admired his refusal to drink and that that was why she herself had slowed down, but the past month has been nearly free of any day spent completely clear headed, minus the five days before her birthday. ¡°Detoxing¡±, she called it. Recently there had been lying. About when, how much and who with she would drink. Also about the true amount this habit bothered Adrian. A crack in what he thought was concrete began to form. They spent less time together, but somehow Adrian still didn''t see the slippery slope they were fighting on. The discussions turned into fighting which turned into screaming, and their formerly star crossed path that they walked on along side of each other had met a fork, and the separation began to pass at a glacier speed. Alyssa was aware, at least more so than Adrian, but she was too afraid to move on. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! "Then STOP!" she screamed unexpectedly. The hairs on his neck stood up on their ends as rage spiked through him, the outburst catching him off guard. Thoughts turning into flurries, he hid the true emotion he was feeling from his voice. "...Alyssa. I''m not mad at you, OK?" --- Alyssa closed her eyes. She could sense Adrian''s anger, she knew it. Even though she was drunk on the expensive Russian vodka she had bought for herself, she knew Adrian better than he knew himself. Adrian thought he was an adaptable person, someone who could flow with the direction of the water and handle all problems. He wasn''t, and never could be in her mind. Perceptive and cunning were two words more suited for Adrian than adaptable. The two of them had been fighting. A lot. He couldn''t change or understand her point of view, going as far as to let slip that he thought she was becoming an alcoholic! Mentally she scoffed at the idea again. If she was a common drunk, then how could she function so well in society or work the stressful 9-5 life of a secretary, drunk or sober? No.... just because she worked while intoxicated sometimes, that didn''t make her addicted to liquor. Adrian couldn''t understand this because he had never tried liquor in his life. Even though she accepted that at first, she found it hard to cope with and unlike herself to limit her fun. It''s grown harder to be with him because of it, she feels it separating them... but she doesn''t think he sees it. They''ve almost completely stopped communicating while not being in the same room with each other, and it''s much harder to meet each other''s stare. Adrian hasn''t mentioned a word about either of these problems, obviously oblivious to them. Somehow for the first time in her life she had the problem of carrying the emotional weight. Living carelessly but with structure was losing its vibrant sheen and appeal. The need to be responsible was a strange acquaintance in her abode that lingered. Running a single finger along a crease line in her old black leather couch, and she let a sigh escape her as well. Thinking beyond being with Adrian was scary, even though their relationship was only two thirds of a year old. There was something they had that wasn''t easy to put into words, but it was something she had never found in any other guy. A mixture of well-balanced personality, problems and ethic, maybe. A friend of Alyssa''s had recently told her "it was time to flip the page of this book" but Alyssa couldn''t follow those sentiments. Adrian wasn''t something she wanted to advance from yet, a kernel in her heart that she couldn''t let pop. --- "Alyssa? Alyssa? Open your eyes and talk to me. We need to work this out, OK? Why can''t we just handle this maturely?" Adrian said, cupping her small, soft hands with nails painted blue in his own. Alyssa''s eyes opened forcefully and there was a twinge in her lips. "I am, I am, I aammm." she explained. The gesture had clearly nestled its way passed her stubborn preface and made a connection. Adrian saw the woman he met those many months ago revealed to him now in her eyes. Desire and curiosity lingered there desperately, but a fire had returned that had been gone. He hadn''t noticed its disappearance until its return, but the sight of it again brought a great big grin to his face. Alyssa noticed, but was only able to cheaply imitate the smile back. "It''s just... it''s just my birthday, Adrian." she said, the latter half of her statement gaining confidence word by word. Something behind those emerald-green eyes shifted silently as she blinked, but Adrian didn''t catch it. "What happened to the quart you bought this morning? The vodka?" Adrian asked not accusingly, but some thought that lingered in the background of his mind knew the answer as well as Alyssa did. He wanted to hear what she would say more than he wanted to know the truth, nonchalantly searching for her Integrity. Rubbing the back of her hand with the front of his, he looked up and saw she had her eyes closed again, and looked unfocused. Mouth unlatching, he started to form a new tirade until he felt something quivering in his palms. The words and the bubbling frustration blew away, gone instantly as if grabbed by a windy storm. He didn''t need to hold her nerve-wracked hand to know what Alyssa was feeling, and she didn''t need it held to know that Adrian now, too, was beginning to see how spotty their romance had become. Slowly and with remembered passion, he slid a single hand up to cup a cheek. Her eyes slowly opened part-way, a tear escaping speedily as he began to speak. "What can we do to make tonight better, darling?" he asked empathetically. If there was a time to discuss this confliction at all, it wasn''t this moment. It might of been too late to salvage the night but he wouldn''t cause anymore distress with another fight. She met his gaze again and offered a dry but appreciative smile before replying. "Thank you for trying, Adrian... I think I do know of a way I can still get us alcohol." Adrian noted the way she used the word "us", and didn''t like where the idea was going. "How is that?" "A bootlegger." she said almost absentmindedly, her minor tremors becoming weaker. Adrian''s lips began to move awkwardly, but before he could articulate any of his thoughts, she interjected. "I know you won''t like the idea.. but this would not be something we did all of the time, ok? Just this once, and I''m not even sure if he''ll be able to help us." she explained, though by how deeply Adrian''s brow was furrowed it was clear that her words of comfort slipped right past him. Beginning to say his piece, he found himself just as quickly closing his lips as Alyssa chimed in again. "But if he does, then the rest of tonight will be just me and you, and no more problems. And even if he can''t then we''ll be ok. It''s just.. it''s just worth trying, right?" she said, a childlike muse lying behind her slight smile. Adrian recognized that he was living in a critical scenario right now, where his next words and actions mattered and would affect the wellbeing of their relationship greatly. She was right, he didn''t like the idea that she was proposing. At all. Not only was it illegal, but he knew the guy she was referencing. Emile Stoddard. An older friend of her ex, or something like that. He had been in and out of jail (for motor vehicle theft, Adrian had heard) two or three times during his forty-and-quite-a-few years of life and apparently wanted to live the more laid back lifestyle of a bootlegger now. Not only this, but he was twenty miles out into the boonies. Alyssa stroked a strand of her hair as she watched Adrian think, and those seconds stretched very long. "...well, what''s the worst thing that could happen? Although, I would suspect he''d be asleep at this hour." he replied, hoping he was doing the right thing. Alyssa tried not to show how relieved and happy she was. --- The front door clicked noiselessly amid the wind¡¯s whistles. Letting go of the doorknob, Adrian turned to face the wearisome looking night. It was a measly 43¡ãF, and he could feel his will to continue this errand drain as promptly as he could feel the warmth leaving his body, but he zipped up the blue parka that was padded extra thick even further. Alyssa, equally as bundled up as himself, was halfway to the car when he descended the steps. As she rounded the back of its burgundy colored body, she looked anxiously at her boyfriend, who caught the glance. Did she sense that he had emotionally withdrawn from doing this? That look, the one that she was trying to hide and play off now, was revealing something. She patiently waited at the passenger side door as Adrian arrived, smiled warmly at her and fidgeted to get the car keys out from his pocket. The spot where Adrian parked his car at Alyssa''s house was slightly blocked off from the weather, thanks to a worn-out barn that didn''t look safe to enter. He opened his door, sat down and reached over to unlock the side door as well. Adrian heard his girlfriend enter and sit down as he put on his seatbelt and nervously gulped, silently praying that it wasn''t audible. "Looks like snow." Adrian mentioned, looking at the dashboard more so than out of the windshield. Alyssa slowed down dramatically in how she fastened her own seatbelt, going from enthusiastic to physically stunned by the words. The gentle clasp of the buckle almost signified the tension between the two. "You don''t want to do this, do you?" she said flatly in a "I knew it all along" tone. "I didn''t say that. I said it looks like snow." he replied and they both felt how cold it was inside and out of the car. "Ok." was her faint reply, and with that Adrian planted the keys into the ignition. He sighed and let his hand fall to his lap. "I''m sorry. You know this isn''t my idea of a typical night, but I want to do this for you. It''s your birthday, and I want to do this, ok?" he said while looking directly at her, and her staring straight ahead. Her eyes were wide open, and as he finished she blinked slowly and turned to him with her mouth open slightly, dazed. "Adrian... are you sure?" "Yes babe, I''m sure" he replied, as his thumb and index finger gripped the key and started the engine of the vehicle. With the roar of life vibrating throughout, Adrian felt a wash of defeat comb his body. He had thought the question "why?" so many times, it now invoked an emotional response. The lonely delirium underlying his collected and calm mask festered as Adrian shoved the car''s gears into reverse and cut a rather wide right turn so that he was now facing the main road. A prickling sensation itched on his right side, and he glanced over to see Alyssa''s eyes boring into him. She made no attempt to hide how she was studying him, staring with intentness you could only find in deep drunken thoughts. It wasn''t disrespectful, but there was nothing warm in this hardened gaze. "I''m sure." he repeated and then watched her withdraw, like a turtle into her shell. She hunkered down, legs curled up onto the seat while her head laid on the armrest of the opposite side, her warm and gentle breathing covered by the various noises of the car; the heat beginning to kick in, the radio that was not currently picking up a signal, and the engine currently idling. As soon as Adrian shifted the gear from reverse to drive, he knew Alyssa was already asleep. The slight movement of the car, moreso as he applied gas, jostled her head loosely where it lay. He gently continued on, the gravel beneath the tires continuing to rattle both car and people alike. Alyssa didn''t wake; not a noise was made, although that was no alarm because he knew her to be silent in her sleep. Adrian made a smooth left turn as he approached the main road, feeling the transition under his feet. He hated gravel, thinking it noisy and slow. Now that his journey had begun, he silently wished Alyssa was awake. Not being an outstanding extrovert but not enjoying the audible silence, he fruitlessly tuned the radio. It was a twenty mile drive to Emile''s, and if he continued this sixty-five mph pace he would be there in about half an hour. A more enjoyable trip with a conscious travel buddy, but he respectfully let her sleep. This was her birthday and she could spend it how she wanted to. Growing with frustration he gave up on the radio, and instead trained his eyes out of the windshield. This proved almost as fruitless, as thick West Virginia fog pervaded everywhere he drove. He could only faintly discern objects before he drove by them, his visibility down to a margin. Decrepit looking and lightless wooden telephone poles skimmed by on either side, this stretch of backroad containing little else beside trees, grass and gravel. Despite his bitterness at having to chauffeur his girlfriend in silence, he was relieved to have a moment to reflect and gather his bearings. Adrian easily shrugged off the annoyance of Alyssa''s outbursts and attitude, the worry that her alcohol infatuation caused him, and his desires to turn the car around and drive them both straight home. It was easy to do because there were so many traits of hers to admire, outshining these trialling times. Relationships, Adrian believed, required sacrifice. He was nearly compelled to make this one, however. A rogue rock or maybe a discarded soda can made a thud and the car lurched up and down slightly because of it. He double checked; Alyssa hadn''t even budged. A sigh unconsciously escaped him, he only half-heartedly stifled it. Droplets of mist created tiny clusters on his windshield. Bringing his left arm up to rest on the car''s windowsill, hand now cupping the side of his face, he turned a gradual and wide corner with the other. Sooner or later he''d pass by a dilapidated gas station, and as he had this thought he subconsciously checked the gas gauge. It was full, resting on the full-tank symbol illuminated red by the dashboard light. It was always full, it was his habit to keep it topped up. Alyssa would interject at every pitstop, not being the sort to stop and smell the roses. "Adrian," she would start, "did you really just stop this car for seven dollars worth of gas?" "Yes," he would say. "It pays to be prepared." "Prepared for what?" "Well..." he thought about it for a second or two. "The worst, I suppose." "Well that''s dramatic, in my opinion." The conversations would always travel that path or a similar one. It depended on the day or the mood, but things mostly stayed civil. The corner he had been turning on finally straightened out, as did his arm to it''s "1 o''clock" position on the steering wheel. It was another long stretch ahead of him, but he squinted as he saw something was awry. The gas station, which should be visibly up ahead half a mile or so, which you could discern in the fog from the high vertical canopy lights that emitted onto the road, wasn''t lit up. This fog is thick he thought to himself, but as he got closer and closer still he saw nothing. Finally, as he approached the area he thought the gas station should be at, he saw a silhouette. It was one he didn''t recognize, it was that of an unlit streetlight. Then he noticed the sidewalk, the crosswalk paint and the unblinking traffic light. A man in a jogging outfit was crossing the street. It was only at that moment Adrian realized he''d been daydreaming for sometime, and this was the present-time necessarily interjecting. --- Adrian almost dropped Kevin as he tripped over his feet, confusion seizing his limbs. He truly was seeing this man run across a crosswalk in jogging gear, at an intersection not a fifth of a block away from the Croteau''s. At what he guessed to be 10 o''clock at night. The man was only a quarter way through the crosswalk as Adrian slipped behind a streetlight. He listened. He heard nothing. Not the exclamation he expected nor the continuation of the joggers feet pounding the asphalt, leading away, that he hoped for. He looked down at Kevin. What is going on? He peeked over the side of the streetlight. Nothing, he saw no one. Exasperation took ahold of his senses as he clumsily thwarted out into the open. Adrian clutched Kevin tightly and rotated a full circle before running the short remaining distance to the intersection. He saw no one, in any direction. If he hadn''t succumbed to his knees involuntarily he might of fainted from the effort it costed to remain standing. He sobbed silently, eyes wide open. Still trying to be aware, but so grief stricken that he gaped at the sky. Am I losing my fucking mind? I''ve gone crazy, it has happened. The world has beaten me. He lowered Kevin, softly setting him on the ground. The dog continued shallowly breathing. Adrian shut his eyes and strained back tears tightly, lowering his head between his knees. He didn''t care anymore, how exposed he was or what dangers were around him. He didn''t think he would even care if the jogging man came back. The world had beaten Adrian Shepherd. 4: Shock Bottom (Point B) Adrian was swimming. He was certain of it. Unquestionably. Weightlessness disinhibited his body while coolness washed over him in waves. He drank it in, this moment that was like ecstasy, as if he was gradually dipped and merged into it. I deserve this he thought subtly, and he was pleasantly surprised by how easy the thought came. As quickly as if it disappeared by the bomb explosions, he had forgotten what peace of mind had been like. True serenity. True contentment with no strings of stress attached. There was never a realization that the sensation was gone, nor did he go through any stages of grief at the death of his tranquility. He allowed himself to sink into it further, and it reminded him of slipping gently under warm bath water. Suddenly his veins were replaced by circuitry, the inside of him jolted with electric cold, but this ripple passed and simmered. He calmed, not confused but content and relieved. There wasn''t a trace of curiosity in him nor any signs of awareness now, and later on he could only describe the process as, "I was floating, swimming". He missed his mom and his dad, but it was a thoughtful longing for days gone by. He often thought of them, grieved for them mostly. When he had called to warn them of the bombs, they hadn¡¯t received him well, but had understood that the message he had tried to get across was beyond the petty family resentment they both shared for him. Still they didn¡¯t listen, even when he made a personal appearance (one of very few in the past year). It was difficult to talk to them. After Adrian and Douglas agreed to stay out of each other¡¯s lives, their parents passively took his brothers side. Maybe it was favoritism, Adrian wasn¡¯t sure but he was disheartened more and more after each visit, noting disapproval and spiteful questions in their eyes. It was like spilling ink on old family photos. He didn¡¯t know how it made Douglas feel. Spreading like cracking glass he again convulsed with alarm. It chewed and burned before the feeling resided, an afterglow remained. But he was calm, and swimming, he knew. In a way he didn''t think he could relate in words just now, Adrian also missed Douglas. Weird pangs thrummed in his heart, bearing a whirlwind of emotions that was stirred and turned by each beat. He felt the shadow of an eclipse traverse through his bones, its presence oddly emotional and not at all physical. The actual sun still remained set somewhere over the horizon. For so long had Adrian been used to the companionship that Douglas provided that he had unconsciously thought that they were extensions of one another, benefiting the other. The absence of a lifelong partner was so foreign that he, even now, still expected to see him sometimes when he woke up groggy or was lost in old daydreams. His pulse was quickening, so he swam away without using his arms or legs. The cool breezy feeling flowing by him was soothing and he quietly slipped further under the water¡¯s depths, feeling more than seeing the surface disappear. The shadow of the approaching alarm he felt moments ago was already a forgotten memory. Adrian laughed, joyfully. It came at first as a rough bark, an almost hacking in his throat (not unlike a choking cat). It turned into a low rumble, and transformed into something gleeful. He tried to remember where he was before this, but couldn¡¯t. So he laughed harder, each guffaw racking his ribs with remembered labour. Now he tried to remember when he last laughed like this. It was a while ago, he had been at home. Or around home, more correctly he had been in the swamp a few miles back of his home¡­ With great impact, Adrian slammed face and body first into a wall he couldn¡¯t see. Freezing cold snaked its way into his now-shaking body, spreading like color into water. His laughter stopped with nervous bursts, not as quickly as his swimming did. Slowly, Adrian groped for the wall that he had just crashed into. His raised hand fell straight to his side as he swiped gingerly ahead. There was no wall. Swimming again. Sideways swimming¡­ no wait. Now he was spinning, not swimming. Adrian was slowly revolving, as if his limbs were in orbit to his waist. He was frightened, the deep cold growing and thickening, emanating still from the impact area as if Adrian was lying on cold steel. His alarm was returning, his heartbeat not unlike the steadily uprising tempo of a galley drum. Wasn¡¯t there someone nearby? Someone he just saw? He recalled nothing. Wait. No. He remembered running. Running by, someone else running by. Like a spinning cog in reverse, the chill of electric anxiety spread backward and out of his system. Someone was running by, maybe he was at a sporting event? He couldn¡¯t think right now. It was really hard for him to swim and think about this at the same time. Or spin. But he remembered running and feeling that overwhelming sensation, that emotional-felt-physically kick in the gut. But as quickly as these pieces came, they flew away. Adrian imagined himself swiping for straws while swimming. Frustration festering, he floated and strained. Strained to recall anything pertaining to why the fuck he was swimming, when he needed so urgently to¡­ what? Something. Something that was becoming fleetingly more and more unimportant as each second glided by. The feeling of the uncertainty of an item questionably lost lingered in his bowels, the fingers of his mind frantically searching its own person for what that item may be. He remembered when he was six years old, they took him into the hospital. Adrian¡¯s parents took him into the hospital. For¡­ for surgery. An apicoectomy, if he was truly remembering anything correctly right now. Tooth surgery. The endodontist had used an anesthetic called sevoflurane to put his tiny, terrified child body into anesthesia for the operation. It was standard procedure, but they would of suggested it even if it was optional. His mother and father had brought him into the hospital with difficulties. He was a snarling mess, along the car ride Douglas had filled him with terrible stories of what was in store and what could go wrong. All brotherly lies, that Adrian had bought for full price. ¡°They need to take out the bottom right side of your jaw, Adrian.¡± ¡°...what?¡± he had said, taking off his second snow boot and letting it fall carelessly on the floor of their mini-van. ¡°They¡¯re taking out about six of your teeth, mom just never told you.¡± Douglas casually said, waiting for Adrian¡¯s outburst. Which inevitably came. He even still remembered the rush of fear, flowing from the cracked dam Douglas had broken. Adrian earnestly wanted to believe his brother was every inch the role model he had made him out to be. His own flesh and blood wouldn¡¯t lie to him, surely. Thinking back on the realization he could still feel the lash and pangs of young heartbreak. But now, as he slowly swam or spun, that memory was akin to minute annoyances. And so Adrian floated, more and more content by each passing second. Each one stretched on indefinitely, or maybe time was whizzing by faster than he could comprehend. It didn¡¯t matter at all anymore, Adrian had not been so tranquil in nearly a year. Without prompt, he racked that section of his mind, a quick shake of his apocalyptic survival, like the sifting through the tips of a book¡¯s pages with your thumb. Like a blip of life before your eyes, only Adrian didn¡¯t think he was dying. No, not yet. His heartbeat¡¯s tempo was as steady as a metronome, each thump pulsated tightly and fiercely. It was stuck in his throat and reverberated off of his eardrums. He thought it such a profound and strong force that it should make ripples in the water. He checked foolishly. Everything was black, had been black. It had been that sincere absence of color or anything that you see when you simply close your eyes. But Adrian was swimming¡­ he was certain of it. Without warning his body shifted with something that felt relative to top-heaviness. It formlessly, slowly and dramatically lurched. Adrian realized, with sudden dismay, that there was no water around him and he was in fact not swimming. In the manner that it spreads, his head began to feel foggy and swamped with disorientation. He no longer felt that he was weightless, either. Instead his weight came creeping back like winter cold seizing the wings of a bird in mid-flight. He was falling. It was dark and he was falling and oh Jesus why was it so cold? Keeping a straight line of thought became impossible. --- On the sidewalk, Adrian was drooling. His eyes, rolled up into his head, were shaking back and forth with fervor. In a semi-formed fetal position he was experiencing what he could only describe to feel like floating or... swimming. His jaw seized and released. Repeated. Breaths came in short, fast rasps that were choked out as often as they passed normally. A witness to the event might of noted he giggled hysterically once or twice, but violently convulsed and spasmed much more often. Kevin took no such notes, consumed with the effort it took to keep breathing shallow breaths that were comparably calmer than Adrian¡¯s. Somehow Adrian had managed to loosen off a securely fastened and impressively knotted boot, standing upright with its toes holding down a torn shred of newspaper that looked like it hadn¡¯t traveled anywhere in a long time. The wind blew but only Adrian¡¯s clothes ruffled in it. Amongst his own shambling puffs of air a groan was given birth to, slowly growing until even Kevin gave a shudder. He shut and shielded his eyes, pressing in on his eyelids with aimlessly placed fingertips. The groan warbled, rolling out in waves as his chest began to heave and swell like a rough ocean tide. Feebly, he propped one knee and calf under him and then the other. His forehead rested painfully on the cement, a rough rectangular patch of skin now bleeding near the temple where it scraped during his roll. Tears rolled out, as if all they needed was the proper flow of gravity. Adrian made phlegmy, wet sobs. Spittle spattered and dripped; pained guttural noises left him like fleeing phantoms. A shooting star that absolutely no one saw blinked in and out of existence up above, and then another moments later. Adrian continued to cry. --- Time moved on as Adrian couldn¡¯t compare to, although he drifted through stages of consciousness and eventually found himself awkwardly nestled up to Kevin. The numbness he hadn¡¯t known he was feeling fought to remain but passed before he woke. In total, Adrian laid prone on the sidewalk curb of that intersection for three hours and forty-five minutes, but to ask him of his opinion he would of told you it felt as if no time had elapsed at all. He didn¡¯t dream, fits and spurts consumed him but each was weaker than the last. He was pale, more so than the sidewalk. His own blood made dry stains on the cement, caked on his forehead, but more would pour when he shifted his weight and reopened the wound. It had smeared around his eyebrows and it would be matted in his hair if he had any. It was mere luck that nothing or no one encountered him as he endured his trial, even when considering that the non-existent jogger was never a physical threat. Though it was the dead of night there was no real curfew any longer, socially or officially. Adrian had heard people muttering as they walked passed the Croteau¡¯s some nights. Once a woman and a man, another time two teenage boys. They continued on and didn¡¯t return to scavenge the house, but in the moment Adrian remembered the anxiety that brewed in his belly while he crouched below the window sill. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. By a watch¡¯s time it was three o¡¯clock in the morning. A normal time to find himself asleep, even in this day and age. Although people seem to wander at all hours of the clock now, Adrian maintained a Monday-to-Friday work week lifestyle, utilizing the best and brightest part of everyday to learn, craft, find or obtain something of benefit. He slept a few hours after the sun went down and awoke a few hours after it arose. It was one of a few small handles to grip on to reality with that he had. Adrian opened one eye and inhaled a shaky, dry breath. He had meant to open both, but blood had smeared and trailed its way down to congeal and then crust over the outer corner of his other. He coughed. Coughed again. Lying on the frozen cement in awkward positions for hours had left Adrian¡¯s ribs, back, ass and calves sore and aching, which he sensed for the first time as a whole fit of coughing overwhelmed him. The other eye cracked open, loosening it¡¯s maroon debris. Adrian wheezed his body back into his control, and by this time he had managed to get to a slouched, not-fully-formed lotus position. He felt anything but zen. An ocean roared with stormful might in his head. Dread overwhelmed his panic, his common sense even. Adrian consciously thought about how dangerous this was, to be sitting here. To have been lying here. He sniffed. Wiped his nose. Dry blood flakes rubbed off as well. Adrian searched for the pair of gloves he had brought. God dammit he thought as lazy fingers performed unmotivational movements. The glove slipped from his grip as he jerkily pulled it from his inside coat pocket. It slapped gently against Kevin¡¯s face. ¡°..woof¡± he meekly replied. Adrian, wide-eyed and stunned, laughed. He laughed hard. Exasperated bellows bounced around and left echos. Kevin didn¡¯t find this exchange as funny, but Adrian was suddenly on his back, an ear-to-ear grin and making enough noise that a pair of nesting pigeons took flight from their nest and flew away. Adrian¡¯s head felt close to splitting like a hatching egg with the force raging inside it. He tensed and his laughter became short lived, but now he knew how much this dog had grown on him, even though he had only known him for the span of a two or three block sprint and one violent exchange. Plus a four hour nap together under the stars. Adrian made to grab for his boot, getting both gloves on first to warm up his extremities. The boot scuffed a piece of paper off of the sidewalk. He examined it closely and saw the headline of an article: NEW REGGIE¡¯S BOASTS ¡°ALWAYS-STOCKED¡± SHELVES, OVER 35 AISLES... The half-a-page article was just a blurb of the owner¡¯s plan and comments, mixed with local perception and the author¡¯s own opinion. What caught Adrian¡¯s eye was the date that this had been posted. October 27th, 2029. A very short time before the bomb went off. His heartbeat skipped before it doubled. He needed to go. Surely this would have been looted, but it was a great lead in this city he was still unfamiliar with. Was it really so much to hope the looting that had been done was only light? He scanned the article and found the exact location of the store. It was only an hour walk! He made to stand, but too much rust had developed in his gears as he had lain idle. His muscles seized and he grabbed for his cane. Kevin¡¯s blood had dried on the toad baubles crest, and noticing it made his stomach flip. He had caused so much pain. This animal had known a whole life before these two third¡¯s of a year had changed its nature, teaching it to no longer be a pet but a predator. It was a stupid decision to investigate that noise, he thought in retrospect. It did him no good. Without thinking of it as a burden or a responsibility, he had taken this dog. Perhaps he had felt both burdened with and responsible for taking care of him in that moment. It was he who had swung and hit Kevin. Was he not responsible? It was an act of self defense, against an attacker. Is this not another burden to carry on in an already overloaded burden-wagon? And in that moment, Adrian felt the feeling he had so rarely felt until this year. Uncertainty. It¡¯s shadow left him dumbstruck as he stared at the dog. Kevin¡¯s chest was still. Hope and despair flushed within him but didn¡¯t mix, it felt awkward. What had he had been hoping for, that Kevin would take care of himself? Adrian was a strong man, and the swing he had hit Kevin with was a doozy. He wasn¡¯t a doctor or a veterinarian, but the seriousness of the injury had never crossed his mind. Clearly, damage had been done. Gingerly, he knelt and patted the dog¡¯s dirty fur. He probably had fleas, too. Has fleas, he realized, as he felt the slow but steady rise of Kevin¡¯s chest. Hope and despair flushed him again, he gulped. Adrian glanced at the moon, locating it behind a cloud, and immediately knew that hours had passed. Kevin was in a coma. Or dying out slowly, or something. Being unconscious for this long was not a good sign He wasn¡¯t going to do it. This animal was a token now, the representation of how dark and cruel this life can make even a peaceful man. He couldn¡¯t wake up everyday to such a grim reminder. It wouldn¡¯t be hard to look after him, admittedly¡­ Adrian knew basic first-aid but to save him was out of the question. This fight was Kevin¡¯s. The question was whether or not he would have it here or back at the Croteau¡¯s. As it normally would, his mind imagined the preparations necessary to accommodate a newcomer in the Croteau¡¯s space. A comforter blanket resting in the corner, a fluffed pillow to prop the damaged head. He could find a bottle of multivitamins and crush half of one in water to moreorless spoon feed to the dog, but that was the most that he thought he could do. Was that enough? Could dogs even have vitamin tablets made for humans? He didn''t know, and he would be committing himself to watching his own drawn out murder if he was wrong in either case. Kevin yelped, or woofed or something. The sound was just another part of a current collection. Blood thrummed his ear drums with the passing seconds. Wind whistled with absolutely no melody unless gentle persistence is considered. Crickets chirped, and although Adrian hadn¡¯t heard the noise in months, maybe even since this shit had begun, he took no notice of how beautiful he thought it was. Vaguely, he registered a noise that sounded like ¡°pchitttt¡±, then a very fast rattling, but this was very far in the distance and still just another part of a symphony.. He stood up on drunken legs. Adrian swiveled with a teetering force but maintained his balance. A clammy hand grabbed a chain link fence that stood only three feet away. He leaned on it but held his balance before jerking his head away from his body and retching. There was nothing left for him to puke, but the dry heaving lasted for a while as he suddenly felt that he was.. swimming. Strength momentarily left his muscles, but his grip left thin indents on the skin of his fingers against the cold steel to help him stay up. As he stopped gagging, he saw Kevin lying exactly where he had been this whole time. That fucking dog hadn¡¯t moved an inch. It made him want to scream. It made him want to cry. It made him want to disappear. He didn¡¯t want to feel like swimming anymore, he wanted this to end. His vision dimmed, a black circle grew around Kevin and then faded away just before swallowing him. Still the gentle feeling of weightlessness surrounded Adrian. The expression on his face churned from discontent to ethereal, visible signs of stress or anxiety leaving in a flush. A crow on a low hanging and nearby branch cawed, Adrian flinched. Kevin offered no response. A wild gust of wind blew by with bad timing, overlapping and overwhelming a noise Adrian only thought he had heard. He ignored it, preoccupied with this swimming problem. This dog problem. That crow or his friend, yes¡­ he assumed about the noise, incorrectly. Through experimentation he discovered he could stand on his own again. He let go of his iron clad grip, the fence resumed its normal position with bouncing momentum. A cold sweat was developing across his brow. The toad bauble glared at him from the ground, so he sheathed it. His stomach still wished he had had a proper supper to throw up right now. With the back of a hand he wiped the sweat, and went to kneel by Kevin. Weak knees hit hard cement. Not only was this dog a dark token, a grim reminder that he would be bringing home to his sanctuary.. but it had tried to kill him. It didn¡¯t have the compassion he was showing it. It had lost that ability over the two third¡¯s of a year it must of spent without its former owners. It certainly wouldn¡¯t crush up vitamins for him. What in the holy fuck am I even thinking right now? Stay sane, Adrian. Snap together. With a dazed look drawn on his face, Adrian absently grabbed his canteen and tried to unscrew the top. It was too tightly closed to open without proper grip, and suddenly his focus shifted, jaw tightened, nostrils flared slightly and he saw clearly as his thoughts started to unclog. He proceeded to open the top and poured the water over his head, draining the bottle carelessly. Water in his eyes made him blink profusely. Kevin had managed to look even more innocent than before, somehow, and that¡¯s when Adrian made two decisions: One was that Kevin was his responsibility, through life and death. It was a decision. This was who Adrian was, he knew. Still is. It wasn¡¯t because of guilt and it wasn¡¯t because of any sense of responsibility. He felt passion and caring for this animal, it was helping him feel soft surges of feelings that had long ago been repressed. He felt this with clarity and made the choice, right or wrong. The second thing that he knew was that he needed to get moving, and now. At the same time he made his first realization, that rattle and pchittt noise came again, and that lead to his second realization. That noise was a spray can. Someone is nearby with a fucking spray can. That¡¯s all it took. Adrian¡¯s fire was lit. He screwed the top of his canteen back on and stashed it. With both hands he flung water off of his face. He scanned the area and decided he hadn¡¯t dropped anything. Even with delicate movements, it took Adrian mere moments to cradle Kevin once again. He smelled like garbage and something like mold. Adrian thought he might not smell much better himself. He coughed, wiped sweat off on the shoulder of his shirt. The dog¡¯s weight was awkward, so he shifted it. It¡¯s nose nuzzled into his armpit. Run, you moron. Time was so precious, he knew. Pchittt. It was closer than before. The noise was from behind him but he didn¡¯t stop to think about how he hadn¡¯t come across the supposed graffiti artist while bringing Kevin from Point A (the scene of the fight) to Point B. His eyes were quickly scanning in front of him, now the sides. He saw a clothesline with a sheet that had hung there for sometime, it was stained with mud and greenish-black specks that Adrian, from this distance and travel speed, couldn¡¯t tell were dead insects. The sheet was whipping playfully in the breeze on the other side of a fence, but it blocked a good portion of his field of vision. Adrian looked over his shoulder, saw it was clear, and continued running as quick as he could while carrying a nearly one hundred pound dog. Fortunately, luck abides, and the area between Point B and Point C (the Croteau¡¯s) was calm and/or clear. Adrian, while sputtering out hacked coughing breaths like a bad car¡¯s engine, soon found himself running up the steps -- those steps that seemed like the stairway to Heaven right now. He barged in, forearms aflame with the strain of a deadweight dog. It only took five quick strides to get to the couch, and he put Kevin down gently despite the impatience his arms was shouting with. With the deed finally done, Adrian relieved what he assumed to be the biggest sigh of relief he had ever had. It was done, he was safe. They were safe. Almost. His stomach rumbled, but as he thought of food he was reminded of the raw, sour burning feeling in his throat from a couple of fresh puking sessions. He looked at Kevin and felt lost at the idea of feeding him. It was a problem his brain couldn¡¯t comprehend, Adrian now nearing the end of his rope, exhaustion overcoming him like thick poison. It was only by habit, or maybe some sense of better judgement that he remembered there was something necessary to do before the day was done. Adrian walked toward the front door, drunken left foot after drunken right foot. He wiped sleep out of his eye and then reached up to the key holder hung by the door, an ornament in the image of a branch colored burgundy, the key hooks were craftily designed outward branch arms. He grabbed the remote control sensor that electronically locks the door, and that was when Adrian¡¯s last straw had been had. Exhaustion made him too feeble to exert anger, but it bubbled beneath the surface like an inactive volcano. He wore astonishment like a strung-up sign, and disbelief like a crown. Like a wounded man, Adrian slumped to the floor. He had forgotten the gasoline. So now he would sleep, and dream. Interlude II ¡°Hello, sir! ¡­ sir! You dropped¡­¡± but the man was off. The reflection of the sun glinted off of his new and expensive pair of sunglasses. Adrian Shepherd saw the tailcoat of his (also) new and expensive cream-and-gray-at-the-same-time suit jacket swish with a flourish and he disappeared from view. Adrian picked up the man¡¯s cellphone (he had thought the drop seemed a little unmindful, or at least that the man perhaps hadn¡¯t noticed that he dropped it), something else of the man¡¯s that was very clearly costly and state-of-the-art. Its screen was lit up and the phone was partially unlocked yet partially view-obstructed, but he hardly noticed this as his sure placed feet made large bounds to the same corner he just lost the phone¡¯s owner to. It came and went swiftly, but when he was on the other side he saw no one. Just the continued plaza that contained blackened-pole streetlights (coincidentally just turning their lights on), novelty and overpriced food shops, and benches galore resting on the cobblestones below them. The street continued just past this main plaza area, but there he also saw little. A smoke shop had a flickering neon sign he couldn¡¯t read.. In the far distance was a mother and child, fussing over a pink balloon Adrian saw fluttering into the clouds. But the man was gone. No, wait. There he is! ¡°SIR! WAIT!¡± Adrian bellowed with an authoritative intensity that was easy to bring forth. ¡°YOU¡¯VE DROPPED YOUR PHONE!¡± But the man was gone, slamming the door of a taxi. After a hesitation that only withstood the slow build up of Adrian¡¯s run to stop him, the car zoomed with jerky gusto. Adrian¡¯s momentum died in its throat. He looked at the phone¡¯s illuminated but blurry screen: February 20th, 2029, 6:31 PM Partly Cloudy, Beckley West Virginia, 48¡ãF It was broadcasted along a solid red bar on the top of the phone, which simultaneously noted a dying battery at 8% charge. He touched the screen with the pad of his thumb, and the phone left the stasis mode it had entered and removed the fog from the screen. Now he could see that what before looked like an e-mail had been an e-mail. The pang of guilt for snooping never hit him; Adrian was searching for the identity of the phone¡¯s owner or the quickest way to get this phone back to him. The poor fellow seemed like he had been in a hurry after all, and Adrian knew all too well how world-ending it felt to tap all of your pockets and not feel that familiar rectangular bulge. The drop of your stomach, the dizziness in your head. How the hands began to feel clammy and, unexplainably, distant. Adrian knew it, as had his cellphone provider heard all about it. This phone really was a bit of advanced technology, though. Adrian confidently colored himself as moderately wealthy and had a nice cellphone of his own to boast of, but this device in his hand looked strange in its newness and dwarfed his own possession. It looked advanced and out of its time, but it didn¡¯t look futuristic. With a nearly subconscious thought he decided it looked like a phone built today with blueprints from the future. This thought was nearly subconscious because it was quickly overwhelmed by the keywords and phrases Adrian saw. ¡°What is at stake¡±, ¡°safe location¡±, and ¡°terroristic threat¡± were just the attention grabbers, but soon he was enwrapped by the rest. At the bottom it had a picture cropped off, but Adrian could scroll down to see it if he wanted. He started to read the e-mail: Special Agent MO-GTOE Eyes In an unprecedented turn of events, you and many of your colleagues in your division have been reassigned. We are only at the cusp of understanding what is happening and what is at stake. That which isn¡¯t classified will be debriefed to you at a safe location. We have taken the liberty of escorting your wife and children to a designated safehouse, Safehouse 31 ¡°Angel''s Boat¡±, as you already are aware of. You are to arrive there with the other agents and producers promptly and wait for further instructions. The United States of America faces a terroristic threat unlike any it has seen before. This threat may even extend to both Mexico in the south and Canada in the north. A message of unknown origin and violent intent arrived yesterday and was just decoded this morning. It is now apparent that this great nation faces a catastrophe it may well not survive. The attached file below shows what locations the attacker is calling for as the intended target areas. Report to Safehouse 31 for further information. Stolen story; please report. An unsatisfyingly short message for Adrian¡¯s outsider perspective. With a thick tongue, he licked his chapped lips. Terrorists? A terrorism threat? Each passing second was a click of realization in his head, letting the unbelievable and eccentric pieces fall in front of him. ¡°I¡¯m not understanding this,¡± he murmured. But it was written plain before his eyes. Stress and anxiety lied under his twitching fingers, danced in his shifting legs and drove in multi-veined highways back and forth, to and fro. He let in a deep breath and then let one out and easily felt that emotional pressure leave, the feeling combining with the sensation of deflating lungs. A trick he had developed throughout his life, anxiety had ever been so easy to dispel for him. Now he could accept what he saw. He uncropped the picture by swiping gently, upward. At first he was looking at a picture of the United States that you might see on any weather channel. Several areas were enveloped with color circles that were cherry-red in the center and faded to bright lemon-yellow at their borders. Adrian guessed that 50%-60% of America was within these circles, and he knew from basic geography that several landmarks and monuments as well as heavily populated cities were the centers of these circles. Four red stars were plopped on the map, seemingly random to Adrian. Then he noticed the maps legend and gulped a lump of fear. The red stars were labelled as ¡°SAFETY ZONE - VIP EXCLUSIVE¡±. Adrian¡¯s head was starting to spin, but he could make out the safe zone with the biggest clearance area away from the bomb¡¯s radiuses was in California, Santa Monica. The only other marker on the legend was for the circles, which was labelled ¡°IMPLIED TARGET ZONE/EVACUATION ZONE¡±. From here it didn''t take many educated guesses. Although it wasn''t explicitly stated, Adrian thought it was all but said. A wretched feeling began to cling to his guts like frost, this bout of nerves wasn''t so easy to dispel... but he did. His hammering heartbeat slowed... dulled, as he controlled it to its rational and regular beat, a tactic he once heard a comedy movie refer to as ¡°ninja focus¡±. But even still his mind raced, he tried with a tolerable degree of success to pick one thought out and focus on it. ¡°Someone else needs to know¡± was that thought, and the whirlwind of words shifted its current. It frantically blew a slurry of new words. Places. Names. Who should he tell? Who could he tell? He glanced around on the street. The child without her balloon was now being led to a balloon stand that Adrian previously had not noticed. The cart tender was a balding middle-aged man. There was a couple enwrapped in each other and a few years younger than Adrian that just arrived and claimed a bench for a quick snuggle. Two cars drove by each other directly to his left on the main road. No one here would fucking believe this horseshit. Except¡­ the phone! The phone was proof, hadn¡¯t Adrian himself come to the conclusion of its realism? True, only he had seen the new-and-expensive man, but how could you ignore the seals, logos and signatures at the top of the e-mail that he had seen? Those were well known spy agencies and government officials. Wouldn¡¯t that merit a fanciful glance, maybe? The phone¡¯s screen was black, Adrian thought with a drop of regret that the screen might of ran on an auto timer. The drop splashed, it was a regret with a rippling strength now as he pressed for the unlock button and realized the phone didn¡¯t have one. He flipped the phone over, put it upside down and danced his fingers along its edges. It didn¡¯t have any buttons at all. A sweaty double-thumbprint remained after trying to fast-tap it open. The phone stayed black. Ok. So now who could he tell? Not knowing how it operated, he pocketed the new and useless phone and withdrew his own, a smaller thing that had buttons on the side. As he flipped through the list of personal contacts, his heart fluttered with panic and disappointment. Panic for the immediate danger and plan of action at hand, disappointment for the list of names who would simply laugh at Adrian''s ¡°attempt at a joke, surely¡±. There were coworkers and ex-coworkers, none of which he knew on a personal level any further than the name of their kids and pets or their last vacation. Tom Middleson might listen attentively, he was actually fired for an obsession with conspiracy theories that eventually lead to an outburst against management in the workplace. But that was four years ago, and Adrian thought he had left the country. And he was weird, Adrian also thought. He had saved the numbers of first dates that didn''t make it to second dates. He''d saved the numbers of second dates that shouldn''t have made it as far. Adrian''s love life was not unlike the life of a simple honey bee. Once a pretty, colorful flower came along he would sample its nectar, benefiting the plant as much as it benefited him. And then he would depart the flower when the benefits were gone; taking too much destroys something beautiful, no? Regardless. Awkward shame brushed these ghosts from his body while his thumb brushed the phone''s screen, a tinge of mania seeping in. Names of cousins, friends of friends, and several delivery pizzerias went by like a showcase viewing. With increasing speed, also went by Adrian''s former car-pool buddy, his parents and many high school classmates that, even after a decade, Adrian still hadn''t gotten around to deleting them, many of those people had likely changed phone numbers by now. He called his parents. Called them twice, but got no answer both times. That was nothing new. They were still on speaking terms but the ice was thin. He had noticed that they no longer had an answering machine, and that was new. A puff of a sigh slid through Adrian''s nostrils. He¡¯d try them again later (and although he would reach them, he would not convince them of the threat he knew of). Finally he reached the bottom of his list. It was lengthy, Adrian always bristled with humble pride at that fact. He liked being known. But it was at the bottom that he remembered the one number he gloomily wished he did not remember, wished that he wouldn''t call it. But he did, and the name emboldened as for the first time in months Adrian called his brother, Douglas Shepherd. ¡°I told you to never fucking call this number,¡± came a harsh voice after four dial tones. 5-A: Picking up the Kids A beautiful sunrise kissed and then blossomed over a new day. Daylight-orange met midnight-purple, the color ratio first higher for the latter but within the hour it had switched to be higher for the prior. Leaves flew from trees as if eroding it. Somewhere nearby the Croteau¡¯s Adrian had taken a power nap and left a bloody print on the sidewalk behind. If Adrian was outside now, he¡¯d see that it was likely going to be a calm but cold day, even with no apparent clouds to block the peeking sun. He could also mistake himself for the only one on planet Earth right now. Even with the standards of today it was eerily quiet and still, the gentle wind had waned out during the night and all was still. Grotesque snores nasally left Adrian, unfitting for a man his size. He was still deep in sleep, and could go on for hours yet. It had only been four hours since his return home, not nearly enough to restore Adrian¡¯s exhausted reserves of energy, but still his eyes fluttered open in brisk, sharp movements that then gradually became lazy. He had decidedly (the decision made only upon waking) been having a nightmare. Back in West Virginia, so many months ago¡­ Adrian¡¯s vision collected and gathered, finally he could see the washer and dryer in front of him, dust covered all over save the few times he had rested a hand on it. He saw these fingerprints now and grew distracted, allowed his body to calm from the symptoms of night terrors. He very seldom left the Croteau¡¯s house. The first week after his discovery of it, he had stalked it outside and in, feeling ridiculously like a movie quality FBI agent on the heels of a perp, and bunkered away in the attic, readied with acutely placed impromptu weapons where he could advantageously have them easily at hand. One was most definitely a very well made cane, topped with a bauble of a toad. It was like this, hidden away upstairs amongst old, moldy smells that Adrian waited for a full seven days, outweighing his curiosity with his fear. The only thing that came home in that week was a slice of his confidence. Not unlike a caveman breaching into light he descended from the attic with much less caution than on previous food breaks (he hadn¡¯t even dared make bathroom trips necessary), and set out to fully explore what he had now acquired: The generator out back, but I¡¯ll need gasoline¡­¡­ Jesus, look at all of this food! He had stopped long to admire every bag of minute-noodles, the tin-packaged ham and chicken. The cans that had been stacked by type into neat triangular patterns (peas, carrots, corn, beans beans and beans¡­), and that was only the start of all of the food there (glossing over the jars of pickles that would continue to age)! But eventually he had moved on to further his mental inventory tally: This furniture is weird. I¡¯ll get rid of the vases, dead and dying flowers and the kettles (although he never does). Makes me feel like a grandma¡­¡­ A radio, hmm¡­ he tried it, only then remembering he had no electricity in the house as of yet. Also forgetting that the radio in the car along the drive to Santa Monica had been nothing but dead air. Moving on: Those toilets upstairs will work for a while yet I bet, Santa Monica runs on a sewer, and it should stretch out to hear... and praise the day for that. He spotted a vinyl record player and a number of albums to choose from, several in his taste (Jimi Hendrix, Aerosmith and... no frigging way, Purple Rain by Prince!). This last discovery, in the the thralls of enjoyment, brought on a break from rummaging in someone else¡¯s belongings. It was a crisp memory to this day, all of these months later. Removing the disc, placing it on the spindle and watching it begin to turn. He cherished an immediate treasure, the turntable running off of both batteries or by use of a power cord. Before the dulcet tones soothed him, the spoken intro to Prince¡¯s ¡°Let¡¯s Go Crazy¡± would plant a seed that grew into a grim, deep seated but repressed fear. Like a hole in a shoe that you only noticed on the worst of days: ¡®Cause in this life Things are much harder than in the afterworld In this life You¡¯re on your own He had walked gaily around the house, a child¡¯s delight had filled him. The cupboards a hidden grotto, every unclosed door a portal to another world. On this day, he felt like a pirate king. Only a slither of regret, a trace of disgust lay in the back of his throat. Too long had he suffered, starved and hidden. I¡¯ve been shitting into a bucket for a week, he remembered the stubborn thought before tossing it away, opening a bag of plain potato chips and enjoying the taste. He ate without manners, who was there to witness? In the mudroom placed in the entryway there was a washer and dryer. Crinkling the aluminum bag as he bent, Adrian smelled himself. Sour tang filled his nostrils, and only now did he spot the greasy stains in the pits of his shirt. Maybe that will work, he thought while wearing a look of doe-eyed innocence (it had, briefly, but the detergent was nearly empty and ran out quickly). He had opened the washer and found it empty. The dryer, however, had a rather expensive looking pair of gloves in its drum. Clean as a whistle. He tried them on and, being someone inclined to appreciate quality, noticed the reinforced palm padding but how thin his fingers still were without still being exposed to open air. He gripped the dryer¡¯s open-mouthed edge and knew he could use these. The possibilities ran in his head, were acted out in the following months once or twice, and repressed in the current day. Present-time Adrian blinked. The sharp burn of exhaustion creased his eyelids. Adrian wiped them with his hands. His muscles seized through the work, as if dozens of tiny ropes tightened against his arms. His breathing was a thin and laborious thing, knocking the bone against a fresh bruise that was sickly blue and spreading on his shoulder. His feet, not having done anything more active than brisk walks for gasoline, throbbed steadily and begged to be untied from the damned boots that held them prisoner. Not yet. I can¡¯t, Adrian thought. Let me lie down, let this be a dream for now. The rumbling in his stomach shattered any such illusion, as if on cue. It called out for bacon and eggs, sausages and orange juice. God, Adrian never wanted a slice of toast and some butter more than he did now. His mouth watered. Now his feet grew sweaty and fidgety, the irritation the boots caused welling up in his mind with anxiety. The more he tried not to think about it, the further into his forerunning thoughts it pressed until finally he couldn¡¯t take it. He sniffed, coughed, and regretted coughing. It shook his sore body with unexpected pain, then, with a quick reaction, he held still like a man afraid his tower of cards might topple. He stayed upright, the feeling of physical instability receding like one tide, and a sense of nausea rushing in like a new. This was as short lived as Adrian¡¯s patience to deal with it. He tucked in a leg with the vigor of a man at the end of his day, and with a hand he shielded against the rising sun¡¯s light that was creeping its way across the door and now into Adrian¡¯s line of sight. The other hand pulled at the knots of his boot, familiarity plucking at something like muscle memory, and he was thankful for small favors that both boots came off with mere tugs at his expertly tied laces. His feet sighed gleefully and rolled off steam, or was that his imagination? Food, he thought. Again his stomach rumbled, and in it he heard more cries for foods he couldn¡¯t obtain. Pancakes and pork chops, french fries and watermelon, ice cream and chicken wings. Flavors and images flashed across his mind and he felt them lucidly on his tongue and in his nose. He didn¡¯t feel any repulsion at the flavor list because he felt them separately, not in tandem. He walked to the pantry that was not unfamiliar with baring the hefty weight of food on its shoulders. It was empty, still. Adrian grimaced as if he took it personally, the fact that a magical fairy hadn¡¯t restocked his wares. It was a slow start, but Adrian stretched his limbs out and massaged life into them. He splashed water onto his face (also refilling his canteen from one of the few several gallon jugs that wasn¡¯t empty and in storage, waiting for a literal rainy day). Walking to the sofa in the living room, he found the box of stale granola bars and the two wrappers from the ones previously enjoyed laying underneath of Kevin. Adrian was struck with momentary amnesia, forgetting not only that he brought Kevin here, but the whole exchange that they had shared. It came back to him vividly and quickly, with force enough to make him gasp in shock. It took him a generous handful of seconds to register it all and accept it again. Then he set out in motion again. He pulled the wrappers and the box out from underneath Kevin¡¯s girth. Kevin¡¯s chest heaved normally but otherwise he gave no response. He was much more still than last night. Adrian stuffed the wrappers in the box, took out two fresh (in the sense of being out of the box, that is) ones and stuffed them in a pocket. He stretched his limbs again, no longer excited at the aspect of eating. He was, however, glad that he had washed the taste of vomit out of his mouth with water, at the same time being disappointed that the taste of imaginary food didn¡¯t last. The box of (four remaining) granola bars was placed beside one of the numerous vases, and Adrian went to speculate the time. He stepped outside and smelt the crispness of autumn. The sun glowed and further probed Adrian¡¯s still sensitive eyes. It had just recently broached the horizon, revealing its full fiery orb form. It¡¯s about 7:30-8, he thought to himself. No later. Next he thought about Kevin, laying on his sofa. Water was all he had to offer, he didn¡¯t think dogs could have granola nor was there a way to give it to him. He also had nothing for himself besides half a day''s worth of bars that he didn¡¯t want to eat. This would be it, scavenging day. The day he had planned, anticipated and dreaded for months now. Although (and he¡¯d never admit, but) he was a silent wisher against reality, he was too realistic not to recognize a depleted store of foods when the time came, and had planned out everything but the where of looting and scavenging for said food. Coincidentally, last night¡¯s nap under the stars gave him that answer: Reggie¡¯s. He didn¡¯t know where Reggie¡¯s was, but he had an idea of where the area was. He passed through the main part of Santa Monica on his drive here, avoiding the small and sparse chaos-ridden areas. But he recognized that area in the picture of the newspaper¡¯s ad. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. An empty pop can blew down the street. Its rattle as it rolled and the pops as it hit loose stones jarred him nervously at first, it reminded him strongly of the person with the spray can last night. Through the connection of events transpired at the time he also thought of the jogging man, the man who seemed to be running a marathon. The man who disappeared with no corners or exits to duck behind, and the man making noise, shaking a can, that was following him down the street. Were either of them real? The question brought a fear filled with paranoia, it ate at him silently. He didn¡¯t know. What if they were real, both of those people, and he had been caught? Someone could be watching him on this very porch¡­ He shook his head, dispelling some of the paranoia that gripped his stomach, begging him to back away like the natural response to looking over a high ledge. He wanted to go back inside, but didn¡¯t. Sleep teased him, the sandiness not leaving his eyes. Still, he knew he couldn¡¯t rest. There was a full day of work ahead of him. If he left soon, he thought, he could get back with daylight to spare. Mostly to calm himself, he rattled off the task list: Firstly, the gasoline would be gathered. It was the shorter trip, and after lugging food home over what he speculated to be a walk of an hour and a half, making it a three hour round trip plus the time it took to loot, he would want to go no further. His bed was also a high reason to get the gasoline; another night spent sleeping in front of the door might just cripple him. The locks would shut at the command of his remote control when the power came on, and from now on he would only put in a night¡¯s worth of gasoline at a time. With regret-stuffed hindsight, he remembered letting gasoline go to waste when he first found the generator. He simply didn¡¯t care back then, but he did now. Dammit, I¡¯m a fool. Secondly, food. God help him, if he could find berries along the way to the city he would probably be unable to restrain from weeping. If he found an untouched vending machine he might faint. But these were daydreams that only served to put a fresh coat of saliva on the walls and floor of his mouth. Third of all, vitamins and maybe kibble for this damn dog. Reasonably ranked, he thought. He might claim responsibility for this animal, but this wasn¡¯t the time it was before the country exploded. There couldn¡¯t be any catering or pampering to this animal unless it fit the schedule, lest Adrian put his own health at risk. Fourth, and as unlikely as he thought it might be, Adrian was going to keep his eyes open for a new easel. After these events, he could really use some alone time to just¡­ create. Adrian went inside, and gathered the necessities: coat, gloves, canteen, walking stick (unsheathed for the moment, although the sheath itself was equipped) and rope. These he routinely put on his person like a uniform. Next, and this with a more awkward grace, he criss-crossed a pair of empty duffel bags, the bag portions bumped against each hip and deflated as his arms adjusted to the hanging lumps. Lastly he put on a backpack, then sheathed the walking stick with the toad bauble. He looked in the mirror, and barked out a laugh. He looked like a camper-turned-hitchhiker-turned-hermit, who lost all of his camping inventory during one of the transitions. But, after testing his mobility with some degree of satisfaction and self assurance, he was ready. --- Back outside the sun had risen the span of a finger¡¯s width, painting the sky with a fresh layer of something more blue than the last time he was outside, not but ten minutes ago. Life had found its way into his limbs, a lot of the pain actually subsiding after a few mouthfuls of water. He had (with regret) eaten a granola bar and stuffed its wrapper in the growing collection inside the box and after thinking about it, brought another one to his pocket. He had wished the Croteau¡¯s would be the sort to have a stashed handgun or even a knife, but if they didn¡¯t have it looted, or hidden better than he could find it, he was sure they took it with them. If it existed. The Croteau¡¯s didn¡¯t have much in the way of hidden treasure; the food was organized and presentable, the doors had been unlocked and the backup house remote left behind sitting on a hook by the door. Even the walking stick with the toad bauble was leaning against a plain color wall like it begged for attention. It wasn¡¯t much of a surprise to Adrian that he wasn¡¯t able to find a loaded handgun with ammo, not that he¡¯d know how to use it regardless. A side mechanism of his brain thought of and noted to get a book on handguns for dummies. Just in case. He started down the stairs and back the way he went last night, feeling slightly stupid as if he was in a post-apocalyptic walk of shame. At first his walk was brisk, but as he grew closer to the intersection his speed decreased. His heartbeat increased, muddling his sense of hearing. But he never stopped, save to duck and scout out the area. He gave himself that much credit. His head swung about as he got to the intersection¡¯s corner. It swung like each side of his vision was at war, his eyes gathering in everything. On the adjacent side he could barely see the three-inch blood stain his forehead had left. He grimaced and rubbed the few scratches that had crusted into scabs above his eyebrows gently. Moving on, gaining speed like a locomotive burning coal, all the while keeping a lookout for mystery joggers or hidden taggers and avoiding a faint swimming feeling, he made a beeline for the gasoline. For the mailbox that held the gasoline, rather. --- Temptation was too strong of a force. Or maybe curiosity, or maybe both. Often in life Adrian found it difficult to resist knowing the answer to a question. Did that taste good? Was this better over here? And just what was that noise he had heard? He didn¡¯t always act out on these curiosities, because sometimes the impulses weren¡¯t so strong and they would falter before he could do more than ponder, the strength an emotional reserve of energy being drained at the pull of a mental plug that he tugged at unknowingly with his emotional tension. Sometimes the question wasn¡¯t answerable, He couldn¡¯t gather the answer with his available resources. And sometimes it was fear. Cold, icy fear that would grip his stomach, squeeze, clench and twist. He supposed that that was what bravery was. Walking through that icy feeling, trusting in those reserves of personal energy that only he could tap into and to keep walking when they had been drained. He didn¡¯t consider himself brave, though. He fled a thousand questions, leaving them to be forever unanswered back in Virginia. It wasn¡¯t even possible to face the questions lingering past the front door of the Croteau¡¯s, most times. But like an oily snake, curiosity slithered its way and was a feeling he couldn¡¯t get a complete hold on, it grew into an overwhelming sensation. As he grew nearer the mailbox, he couldn¡¯t keep his eyes off of that direction, either. He was now five steps, four, three, two¡­ now he was within reaching distance of the wretched thing, but the curiosity thrummed. He had no damned idea why, but before he could grab that jerry can he needed to see the scene of the crime. His crime scene. Slowly and with the grace of walking a graveyard at night, he padded around the corner of hedges. Where before he smelt beer, now he smelt nothing. The air was cool on his face, but scentless. He met the side of the house, sidling the wall facing-front. He gulped. It was nerve wracking, thinking about the expectant flood of emotions you would soon encounter. It built up in anxiety and finally he couldn¡¯t sidle for one more second. Emerging, he rounded the corner. He released a breath of air that a claustrophobic could relate to. His eyes refocused as his nervous system worked on the overheating problem it just experienced. Finally, he adapted and took everything in again: the shovel he was going to use, way in the back. The single broken bottle, the full ones now gone. It brought on a slew of more curiosities (how long after I left were they taken? Who took them, and were they still near?). He brushed them away forcefully, afraid he couldn¡¯t handle them. He noted with distaste the feathers, only slightly windblown and starting to gather against the fence. Most were black. Some were red. Some were speckled. The body of the crow itself hadn¡¯t budged, hadn¡¯t been touched. The closer Adrian¡¯s stultified feet got to it, he was able to pick up the faint smell of decay. A single fly crawled around and in and out of its torso. Adrian couldn¡¯t stomach it and moved on. He moved forward into the backyard mostly to avoid having to look at what was behind him anymore. But as that sickness passed, he decided to use the time and his clear head to look through the barn. The shovel was of no use to him, the Croteau¡¯s had one back at home if it turns out he needed one. He pushed open the barn door that was splotches of old-wood-brown and old-paint-burgundy that was decorated in a chipped, splotchy pattern. It creaked miserably, the rusty hinge actually jumped and he thought that maybe it could be opened a handful of times more before deteriorating into a fine dust. Inside of the small barn there was almost nothing of note, beside actual notes. It was extremely cluttered and cramped, musty slips of paper lay and hung everywhere. Most had measurements written on them (1 ?¡± x 3 ?¡± x 35¡± (8 pc), ?¡± x 5 ?¡± x 96¡± (2 pc), and 3 ?¡± x 3 ?¡± x 96¡± (1 pc) were some of the ones he read on the right side of an old wooden workbench before he put a passive glaze over that pattern of notes). The ones on the left and closer to the door were much more fresh and had a different, darker message to spread (¡°Vanessa - critically injured, Johnathon - missing, Benjamin - dead, Mom - dead, Dad - missing. God help us.¡± was one such request, ¡°GODDAMN THIS THIS ISN¡¯T WORKING¡± was exclaimed, and the last he saw, being the final one he could stomach, was ¡°Today I buried Vanessa at the park. She loved...¡±. Through the early morning light he could see a fingerprint on the reverse side of this note. He flipped it, the dry imprint of dirt revealed itself. With a sudden gasp he dropped it. It fluttered down, and a reflex of anxiety asked him to swipe for it. He did, marvelously catching it in between his ring and middle finger. The position of fingers brought his index one out, and it pointed at something red and square that Adrian hadn¡¯t noticed on his earlier trip here to get the shovel. For a moment he didn¡¯t feel anything about it. Perhaps it was an overload, too quickly brought on for his brain to handle. In retrospect, he felt rather annoyed by how likely he thought it was to happen. But barely a thought was registered about it right now, his hand dropping the note again and grabbing the handle he had been pointing at instead. It was one of those moments that you didn¡¯t expect, but of course it would happen, and of course it would happen to you. He grabbed the second jerry can, this one was newer than his. It was in much better shape, so he felt reassured that his was still in the mailbox. This one was three quarters full! What luck, Adrian thought he might have twelve, no¡­ maybe even fourteen litres of gas now! That¡¯s electricity for another handful of nights, and since Adrian was a proper rationalist he wouldn¡¯t need to go siphoning gasoline for at least two months if he found a good hoard of food today. Which, with a gut full of new vigor, he knew he would. Sweetness soured as he left the barn in haste. Almost in a jog to the mailbox, he spotted on the wall what he either didn¡¯t notice or mistook for blood in his peripherals as he walked with it to the back of his head. On the wall of the house was a red spray painted ¡°X¡±. Adrian¡¯s eyes went wild. He dashed without thinking, placing his feet without looking. He barely registered the body of the crow as it pressed down under his weight, and past the heart beating in his ears he didn''t at all hear the puff of a caw it let out under his weight. That mark was bad, he had missed the tagger by minutes, probably! Maybe they even heard his battle and came inspecting. Adrian rounded the houses corner, making small checks at places he thought someone could be. The mailboxes handle was cool against his gloveless hand, he pulled it back. His jerry can revealed itself, too big to fall past the mailboxes mouth slot. With some elbow grease and cursing he pried it out, and dashed back toward the Croteau¡¯s. On the way back he stopped and cautiously checked most of the houses. For this block and the next, all of them had the spray painted ¡°X¡±. The three blocks past those, that included the Croteau¡¯s home and was near the intersection he feared but repressed for the moment, were not marked. This brought on a sense of ease as he stored the jerry cans inside, hiding them under the kitchen sink, and grabbing a moment to let his head calm down as he helped Kevin and himself to some water. 5-B: Being Stuck in Traffic His route would for the greatest part be along the Pacific Coast Highway. Even in territory that was only growing in familiarity, this was a road he had only seen once on the initial journey that had taken him to the Croteau¡¯s. When he had fled West Virginia, Santa Monica was deemed as the safest place to be. It¡¯s generally safe he was able to assuredly determine before setting off alone. Of the several safe spots that he could determine, and although this one lay farthest from him, he had convinced himself that it was the safest due to the clearance radius he had seen on the map. Of course, there was no current way to know if he had been right. Even if it isn¡¯t entirely safe, I¡¯m likely to find a boat, he remembered thinking on the voyage across America he took. After a week lodged at the Croteau¡¯s, he gathered that there were no suitable boats left in the area. They were all gone, stolen or transformed into burnt husks in the water just off the shoreline. After two weeks, he no longer had the ambition to search and had subconsciously started thinking of the Croteau¡¯s as ¡°home¡±, although it wasn¡¯t a thought so embedded that it was recognized. Now he wanted to walk across the highway on its reverse side. It was going to be a scorcher of a day, with little shade from cloud or tree. He thought of burning boats and how that wood and paint smelled, even through sealed car windows. The sky was growing pale as the sun took its place and climbed. He had once again left the Croteau¡¯s, not before giving Kevin a solemn pat across his backside. Blistering, sweaty and (on one foot, anyway) toenail-cracked feet traced a pre-drawn line his mind had drew one step after another. Adrian swiveled his head to look for red spray paint. He hadn¡¯t walked this way before, ever, but that wouldn¡¯t stop his radar-like mind from knowing where to go. With a ¡°hup¡± he shouldered a slipping duffel bag. It was going to be a long walk but something flew around inside his stomach like butterflies. Not the feeling of butterflies, exactly. Not as pleasant. He thought of them as moths, knowing it would only make sense to himself. A great part of him asked with the urgency of common sense to simply go home. The scary part to Adrian was that this felt like the smarter option. But here he was. Left foot and then right foot. Again. Again. The sun was laboring now and soon he had a light sweat on his brow. Another smaller part of himself felt a tingle of excitement. Well-versed hands trembled, and it seemed his throat had a never ending supply of lumps to be swallowed. Adrian rounded a bend and walked the road westward now, not yet able to see the ocean but already able to smell salt in the air. It was an odd but not unpleasant smell. Briny. Very briny. Adrian had been to the ocean before, although the nearest to him back home was a six-hour drive away and, in his opinion, not worth the trip. The smell was a sharp accent around this bend, not traveling as strongly at the Croteau¡¯s. It only heightened this sensation of moths. He still couldn¡¯t see the ocean, but the moths told him that he would soon. Adrian kicked loose stones and made sure the items on his person were strapped and secure, resisting the nervous pull his hand felt to grab that toad-headed cane. To be prepared and have it battle ready. Remnants of his dream back in West Virginia floated in his head like old cobwebs on a fresh breeze. To be honest, Adrian forgot a long time ago what happened to his cell phone or that of the man, who never did get back his dropped belonging. His piece of the future, or wherever he got the device from. The feeling of a glass screen beneath fingerprints was a faint recollection for him, one that almost brought on homesickness. Almost. Still he couldn''t think of that moment, that day without looping back to Douglas. Sweet, intelligent Douglas. His scabbed heart cracked and bled a gush of sorrow. Tears flowed inevitably, although Adrian wasn''t necessarily crying. He wiped his eyes, wiped away his brother''s memory for another day, and picked up his pace. He glanced around, scanning the environment as much for a distraction as for his safety. It was a massive road compared to the ones he had driven his whole life, buildings and homes were dotted here and there. There was so little around of note that Adrian, for perhaps the first time this entire year his passivity slipped into boredom. It was a stale feeling, even in its relative newness and it was one Adrian did not enjoy. With a physical presence that built up, it became an uncomfortable sensation in his lower spine and shoulders, one that made him fidgety. Suddenly, he wished powerfully that he was back at home. And he was surprised that that was how he thought of the Croteau¡¯s now. As home. Yesterday he would have called it for what it was, the random building that Adrian had shacked up in. But with the addition of a pet it gave him a responsibility to something other than his own human maintenance, he felt heartstrings that had grown old and loose in such a short-time becoming taut. And this was an unshakeable feeling. Perhaps he could make the Croteau¡¯s into a home. So he walked on without distraction nor the comfort it could provide. Homesickness, loneliness and reluctance walked beside him and matched pace. It was with great relief that the horizon peaked above the slow loping-downwards hill he had been walking. A grey-blue the width of a piece of string appeared, grew thicker, and then was discernible as the sea. Adrian, although no expert, thought that the ocean looked ill. It had a ghastly, dull glow to it in accordance to the early morning sun beams bouncing off of its surface. Out in the not-so-distant distance was a charred back half of a larger boat sticking ass-end up. It was nothing more than a black isosceles triangle from where Adrian was, but he recognized it from eight months prior. He thought it had drifted considerably. As dull and melancholy as it looked from afar, the sight (and the dirty-salt smell) of the waves put invigoration in his muscles. Feet that dragged began to march. Limp arms took a more rigid form that suited the motion of walking. And it wasn''t long before Adrian had met the bottom of the slope, and could see the oceanfront spread out before him. He thought it was beautiful. More than that. He thought it was out of this world. The waves formed with salty sea bubbles, swelled, lapped and then slapped its own surface or the rocky shoreline. It produced a very bitter and sharp smell that was a tinge acidic on his tongue. Gulls flew in pointless circles and dipped here and there, singing their song of animal moans. They were a blot of ink on a perfectly fresh piece of paper, and Adrian tried to tune them out. Adrian bounded left around a small intersection. The highway snaked both ways, to his right he could see trees, pavement and water. To his left was much the same, with the addition of the tops of buildings that proclaimed the city of Santa Monica. Despite the distance it looked like death, quiet and unmoving. If cities can be described as breathing things, this one had taken its last and was stale and deflated. The tallest building had rows of windows, and although the sun was of no helping factor, Adrian could see that as many as half of them had been popped out or shattered. He thought of a giant¡¯s version of an advent calendar before waving it off, not in the mood for humor. Once more. Left foot, and then aching right foot. Litter collected itself on the curve of sidewalks, crushed cans and odds and ends. Wet-but-drying cardboard was sprawled like area rugs here and there. Adrian lifted a piece and a family of insects scurried for new shelter. He guiltily laid it back down. Adrian glanced up the slope to his left, the sharper one that housed trees and grass and was a sort-of wall against the coastline. Nothing was there to be noticed, but Adrian supposed that that was what he was looking for. He slapped a hand on a rusting two-door car that, even with no mechanic skills or knowledge, he knew would never start up again no matter what maintenance was put into it. A wet, light and sticky dust lifted and fixed to his hand. The environmental conditions made it nearly viscous, and it left a smear when he wiped it on his pant leg. Great, he thought. As he had passed it, though, Adrian had scanned the innards of the vehicle and saw it had been picked clean; the seats were realigned and leaning forward, a couple of maps and open canvas bags were strewn wildly. On its outside, the back left tire was slashed. It hadn''t popped, the slash mark was clear and visible and Adrian felt a bubbling sensation of anxiety. He had hoped, although now he saw it for the foolish wish that it was, that the highway would be a forgotten and unexplored thing. Now he couldn''t shake the feeling that he was a sitting duck. You''re working yourself up, Adrian thought. Like seeing ghosts, thinking about it creates the feeling, you dunce. Be a man. Adrian swallowed a lump of apprehension and tried to be a man. He straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and scanned the horizon. A parking lot with a building on the side closest to himself was now within inspecting distance. A good dozen-and-a-half cars were sporadically parked, only one in every three or four were parked between the lines. There were more open doors then shut. Luggage spewed out of trunks, while the undesirable engine parts were rudely and briskly piled at the front near open car hoods. Two had hit one another. It took only another minute to get to the angle that was required to see it, and he had noticed it only after noticing the swinging, broken main door and the battered and empty window frames and the blackened corner that spoke of fire, most of which had been hidden until Adrian got to this specific angle. And it was standing in this spot that he saw the most dangerous part of it all: a red ¡°X¡±, drips of paint making cryptic waterways. He choked on spittle that flew back into his throat with a shocked gasp. Hacking it back up, he worked up a nervous sweat. Now he not only felt like easy prey, but like he was hunted. And I''m out in the fucking open standing about! Stiffly, he hunkered down by another rusty vehicle. He let a couple of breaths pass by, and then a few more that passed in a slower and more calm measure. He checked his pulse and wasn''t surprised by the steady tempo. For the next two full minutes Adrian did nothing but listen and focus and relax. The crescendo of water in motion, the soft rattling of wind-through-plants, and off in the distance he could hear the arrhythmical pop-poppa-poppoppop-TING of a soda can making its own crusade down the PCH. Adrian listened underneath these sounds, trying to pick out any oddities or intricacies. But the night was, aside from the aforementioned, as silent as a phantom. The building''s loose and broken door swung noiselessly and piteously. Considering his options, Adrian wondered if going inside the building might not be a bad idea. Surely by now it was either obviously occupied, or (more likely, Adrian thought) it had been picked clean with a fine tooth comb and vacated just as promptly. But then what? It''s not like he could stay in there, hidden away from some unknown threat that might be long gone. Or worse, coming back. And it was with that that Adrian stood, surprised by how quickly fatigue was seizing the muscles of his limbs. A surge of exhaustion that almost sent him back down helped him remember that it wasn''t quickly, it was building over time. What little sleep Adrian had gotten in the past twenty four hours wasn''t restful, and he thought the pain might fade if he could lie down on the Croteau¡¯s mattress for a day, maybe a day and a night. God knew he felt like he needed it. But he trudged on, what other choice were there? Die here or die later, he supposed-- Adrian jerked back, his momentum caught by the shoulder. Fear bubbled up and then melted into quick, hot frustration. He looked over his back and saw what he had taken for an attacker striking was no more than the strap of a duffel bag being snagged on a particularly rusty and jagged piece of car. Always one to make hasty and regretful decisions in moments of aggravation that he found intense or overwhelming, Adrian pulled when he should of stepped back to loosen it. A dumb look grew on his face as he heard the rip of fabric, and he jostled to a stop to inspect it as any and all anger was replaced with worry. He had been foolish, and now he felt like it. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. But luckily, the duffel bags strap was intact and perfectly usable, although Adrian would find a new one if he could to replace it. It had gotten twisted during Adrian''s brief relief, so he pulled it free carefully as not to damage it further. Upon further inspection he decided that this might be the first and last trip he makes with this duffel bag. A glint of white on the pavement below the car caught his eye. He could see a single suitcase which had likely belonged to this car, now splayed directly outside its trunk. Mostly hidden by this, Adrian could see a box. A box of medium size, and he could see tiny metal hinges with speckled dots of maroon rust. Long fingers attached to hands on long arms reached for it and stroked it. He applied grip and pressure and slid it slowly to himself. He saw another red ¡°X¡± but this one brought relief, not horror. Adrian had required a first aid kit, something that even the Croteau¡¯s with all of their pre-planning had not had on hand. Or maybe they took it with them when they left. This thought was to the side as Adrian clicked open the metal box and rifled through its innards. Neatly stashed were bandages, gauze, safety pins and medical tape. He saw packets of pills for pain relief and vitamins and saw creams and ointments for burns and cuts. A small pair of scissors was tied tightly with thread to a small pair of tweezers. Lastly he saw a tiny spool of thread, and a needle stuck through one of several cotton balls. Adrian could not believe his luck. Kevin, he thought, I can help Kevin with this stuff. The kit was stashed in the duffel bag that wasn''t ripped, for safekeeping. Once it was away, he remembered that he had felt hunted and the feeling came back. But what else could he do? Adrian walked away from his hiding place and back onto the open highway. A seagull cawed. It cawed again, and again. Adrian picked up a rock and threw it at the bird. It sailed well under it and the creature gave its low repetitive call that sounded too much like bird laughter for Adrian to ignore. What''s more, this fucking thing was following Adrian like a vulture around its dying next meal. He threw another rock, closer to the target but the gull nimbly banked left and easily avoided it. It grated out another piercing bird laugh. Adrian hated it and wasn''t able to ignore it. He walked on, and any feeling of anxiety was gone. If anyone else was around, Adrian was certain that this squawking winged rat would of aggravated them away. His stomach rumbled, a lump of hunger to digest well with the scoop of anger already fermenting. Adrian grimaced at another shriek outburst from above. He glanced up, the bird shit and he narrowly had time to sidestep it. ¡°This is unbelievable..¡± Adrian muttered. The joyful bird swooped and flew in circles, seemingly enjoying Adrian''s company. Out of reflex he had swiped at it when it dipped low and cawed right near his ear. He missed, and the bird wasn''t inclined to take offense from it. Instead it shifted its weight and moved so that it was flying above the water, parallel to Adrian still and well within hearing range. Now not even his best thrown rock would intimidate the beast. He sighed, a thing born of misery and defeat. CAAWWW-- it squawked again in its singsong way. Adrian stifled a whimper, he felt threads of sanity part. This was going to be it, undone by a stupid fucking seagull. The bird landed in the water and was silent. First twenty seconds passed uninterrupted, then thirty. Soon a full minute passed and Adrian let go of the muscles he didn''t know he had been keeping taut. His eyes rapidly began to feel less strain, and a small headache developed instantly. It was small possible to ignore. He picked up the pace, hoping to put distance between himself and the seagull. He passed by the last of the cars and the last of the parking lot to his right and thought I''ll skim them on the way back, if it''s safe and still light out. Up ahead he noticed a couple of round garbage bins with faded neon trimming on its bottom and on the rim of the plastic tops. They stuck out like a group of three sore thumbs, although Adrian could almost tell from here that he wouldn''t find anything useful amongst them. He shoulder checked and saw the seagull had lost interest in him and was bobbing in the ocean some distance away, facing the opposite direction. It screeched, but it was only a small annoyance now. Adrian bent down to rub at the toe he had injured in his impromptu kickboxing match with the generator. It ached slightly with every beat of his heart. Adrian had never broken a bone, barely had so much as a sprain during his years. This stubbed toe was about as gruesome of an injury as Adrian ever got; his physical bad luck came in the form of consistent cases of pneumonia in the fall and winter. He made a mental note to find cold medicine, but he guessed that at this point in life he might as well of been asking for a pot of gold. He marched on, the city of Santa Monica looming in the distance. Adrian allowed himself a beam of hope to break through his otherwise stormy complexion. He quickly inspected the garbage cans, and it was to his thinking: useless garbage remained, only for some reason these bins were better treated than most of the cars he had passed, the sparse number that that was. A cluster of different colored and shaped automobiles that looked like miniatures built to some scale in size was nestled at the mouth of Santa Monica. From here he could discern a transport who''s container had flipped during an apparent emergency brake, but the rest was too far away to make out any more. The uneasy feeling of being watched wouldn''t leave, but if someone was looking at him¡­ from where? The foliage along the upward-slanting slope that forms a wall against the coast was thick but not dense, and there was clear sunlight to boot. He likewise didn''t see how someone could be following him as he himself was walking in the clear open. If someone had been in that damaged building¡­ that was possible. But no. Adrian had a feeling that whatever the red cross he''s seen on buildings means, ¡°abandoned" might be its key definition. Lootable might be another loose translation. He felt self assured that it was empty, and if it wasn''t, the people in there would be the sort to want to stay hidden and unchecked-. As he would leave it. Up ahead amongst the sand were rows and rows of poles standing some equal distance from each other. Adrian realized what he was seeing when a frayed bit of net blew in the wind on the fourth set of poles. Volleyball courts? He left the highway to examine the frayed net. It had been cut, and not with much effort either. Quickly he made his way back to the road and went on, noticing how much more smoothly the other nets had been taken. He gulped, shivered, walked. Goosebumps were growing on his arms, even in direct sunlight. He kept his hand ready to grab the ground-end of the cane (the part that made contact with the ground, and as the walking stick was resting upside down, this end was near his shoulder) that he wore sheathed so that it would unfasten from its two makeshift velcro straps that he himself had attached to some fabric, and then expertly sewn onto a recycled bookbag strap which was no problem for Adrian to put together; he possessed nimble fingers and could thread the eye of a needle with his off-hand. Gently he palmed the bit of it sticking above his shoulder. The polished wood felt smooth below his fingertips and brought back memories of sanding wood crafts with his grandfather. Nostalgia overrode his senses like waking up to find that you''ve been thrown into a pool of water, and then it died with a stale little flutter. What good were these memories when the path they lead to and end at is not only broken, but unable to be properly crafted by Adrian''s hands? That these people he loved might see him like this after how he left¡­ no. No. He repressed the thought and filled his head with thoughts of nothing, or that tried to be. Some small distance later he met and passed a lifeguard shack. He thought about climbing the ladder to check for water, maybe another first aid kit, but ultimately decided against it. It wasn''t wise, he knew, but his heart couldn''t stomach the effort. Depression made him feel exhausted with the effort it took to walk, and going up that rickety ladder was not unlike trying to climb a mountain right now. Swiveling his head away from the small building on the beach, he came to see that Santa Monica''s entrance was approximately five minutes away. The container of the transport, he could see now, was battered, dented and crumpled. Adrian''s first impression was that someone with a baseball bat-- forget that, it''d have to be a whole team for this kind of damage-- deliberately smashed it until the warped metal bent inward, so much in some spots that he thought the sides might only be four or five feet apart as opposed to the original eight or nine he assumed there was. Standing up in it wasn''t possible, Adrian assumed. This would take one man a very long and violent day to do, and still an easy hour for a group.. and why? Adrian didn''t know. Curiosity overwhelmed his fatigue here, mostly because the transport was directly in his way. He put his hand on the vehicle''s cool metal, not yet touched by rust but definitely touched by the sticky, moist dust that time and the ocean have left behind. It was considerably less dust than on the previous car he had touched. This one hasn''t been here as long, he thought. Although he wasn''t an expert of cars or reading the paths they''ve taken, it was easy to tell that this transport was placed here due to emergency abandonment and not by choice. He could almost envision it himself, the driver hauling hard on the steering wheel and applying the brakes frantically. The vehicle must of came to a lumbering halt, and its body couldn''t carry the momentum and spilled. In the cab of the transport Adrian found a magazine he didn''t recognize, but it was an issue on woodworking, coincidentally enough, and so he took it for himself. At the transports ass end, he saw the doors were closed even though the metallic beast lay on its side. Upon closer inspection, he could clearly make out bullet holes. Five of them, and they all pointed outward from the door. Adrian gulped the familiar taste of anxiety. He tried for the lever that acted as a manual door release and found it wouldn''t budge. Chains rattled from inside the transport, and Adrian had enough of the puzzle pieces now to give up and leave. ¡°...Sorry. If you''re there.¡± he said awkwardly. No one replied, and that made him feel sad. Not out of rejection, no¡­ but Adrian was always one to put all of the pieces together. ¡°...I''m so sorry.¡± He walked on, full of melancholy. He did look in the cars as he passed, but they had all been looted, every single one. There were flowers at the mouth of Santa Monica, right by the turn off. They grew wildly, with weeds waiting to be maintenanced by staff. Adrian didn''t stop to consider these, he marched into Santa Monica. He entered for the second time in his life, but it was the first time he noticed it. Being so near to such tall buildings was confusing, after so long spent away from a city. Most roofs near the Croteau¡¯s were one-story and you could climb onto them with a proper jump-and-grab technique. He stared straight up at the gigantic structures, admiring them. These were works of art, to Adrian. Works of art that took hundreds or thousands of skilled hands to build, all manufacturing off of a few people¡¯s designs. There was row on row of grey and black square dots, each a hole with or without a window respectively. From one window flew a white bed sheet, like a flag only tied at a single corner somewhere behind the wall. Reggie''s was up this turn off and somewhere ahead and to the right. That was all he knew of the area, and he didn''t have a map to go by right now. Another twenty minutes of walking, thirty at most. Maybe forty-five if he got himself lost. Regardless, he walked up the turn off labeled as ¡°W Channel Road¡± with some confidence and a lot less desire to care about whereabouts. Normally his instincts did the navigation work, but if it came to it, Adrian was more than capable of finding out where a simple grocery store would be, especially one that was described in its ad as, ¡°so accessible-- tourists will LOVE it¡±. The newspaper had an image of the storefront, too, and Adrian''s memory would serve him. The turn off was a gradual slope upward, a paved and accessible version of what had been on his left during the walk on the highway. It added strain on Adrian''s feet, and he felt that blisters might form even before this trip was out. Just another straw on the pile, and Adrian thought the pile had been overbearing for a while now. The feeling of walking through a city again was awakening. How empty it was, even at its outer limits, reminded Adrian of walking through a closed down shopping mall or an empty parking garage. It was somehow hollow and mystifying. There could be any kind of surprise around any hidden corner, and somehow this didn''t make Adrian feel any worse about the situation. Dare he say it¡­ Adrian, upon rediscovering city life, felt optimistic. But not happy. Not happy at all. He sighed and rounded some corner that truly introduced him to the city. Now it was on all four sides of him, the smell and the sound of the ocean replaced with rot mixed with sour wind that took old flyers, newspapers and other clutters of lightweight garbage as it went. But he saw Reggie''s. It wasn''t hard to find at all, but it was tucked out of the way. Up one street to the left rested a ¡°REG-¡± before getting cut off, but the text was recognizable from the newspaper ad. This was the building he wanted. He bounded toward it, saw the road it was on ended in a roundabout market area. A good location for the store, he supposed, although this road was its only access point. Adrian froze solid, a shadow moved in the stores behind the gap where two sliding doors should be -- they were completely gone. It was just a gap where two automatic sliding doors should of been, making the store grin with missing buckteeth. Someone was inside of Reggie''s. 5-C: Grocery Shopping Similar to when you drop a fragile item or witness something tragic, Adrian felt time slow, his blood freeze, and then felt both return to their proper flow. His teeth went numb and the air touching his eyes was acutely prickly. A dry tongue rolled over a barren mouth in an attempt to wetten it. An old man sat inside of Reggie¡¯s, eating from a bag of chips. Even from here, a block and a half away, Adrian could faintly hear the familiar rustle of aluminum, the breeze brought it in snatches as it swept past him. It wasn¡¯t so easy to make out what the old man looked like from here; Adrian was on a slight slant of a hill, looking up he could see an olive green shirt with a black stripe that was around nipple height. He was also wearing navy blue jeans that had been ripped into shorts. Possibly. It was hard to make out from this distance. The man also looked as bald as Adrian, if not more. Adrian gulped half of a mouth full of saliva and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. This was not in his plan, but it was in some of the negative thoughts he had had. What do I do? What would Douglas do? The thought invaded him like only God¡¯s voice is known to do. It stabbed a gentle prod into a tender spot in his heart that made him convulse, and as he shook with his nerves a few tears spilled out and rolled to his cheek, there he wiped them. What would Doug do? Doug wouldn¡¯t be here in this situation. He would of played it smarter and chose a safe area closer to home, across the country. Somewhere familiar. Doug would of collected friends and family together, everyone knew of his nobility and his charm. Mom and Dad would have easily believed him, and everyone would be together. Mom and Dad always claimed to know half of West Virginia, and Adrian personally could attest to his Dad having several beneficial friends like warehouse workers that had access to stored food, paramedics, pilots and boat owners. His mother worked at a food bank and went to church every Sunday, the web of networking was deep amongst his parents. In this specific scenario¡­ Adrian thought Douglas would have turned tail and went home. Or at least explored the city for a different, safer grocery store. He would have cautiously backed away, turned and dodged around the nearest corner. And who would argue? Caution is safe in this day and age. But Adrian was quickly adding reasons not to run and turn away. What if the corner he turned was worse? What if there were no more nearby grocery stores? What if the old man saw him anyway? The questions just added on, Adrian even thought about the possibility of the man being nice. He was just peacefully eating a bag of chips, and now that the wind died down he could properly hear, but very faintly, rock music coming from a stereo somewhere in that direction. It was very low, probably so only the old man could hear. That was a good sign that he was peaceful¡­ Adrian hoped. But then again. There were so many reasons to listen to his inner voice, his inner Douglas. Indecision was tearing at him. He couldn¡¯t think of what to do quickly enough and the man danced his way out of the door frame and out of view. Adrian saw a boombox he was formerly standing in front of, and on it were several bottles. This is just an old man, relaxing, having a good time by himself. Adrian was standing on a sidewalk, not hidden and not being cautious. Alone. He wished he wasn¡¯t alone. Douglas¡¯s opinion would be invaluable right now. Even if Kevin was here, healthy and standing, he¡¯d have the confidence of having the advantage in numbers. Adrian didn¡¯t doubt he could physically take on this old man and win, but he didn¡¯t know if he dared risk the odds. The goddamn odds¡­ wasn¡¯t luck supposed to abide for him? Hadn¡¯t it always up until this point? Had he not coasted in the Croteau¡¯s, twiddling his thumbs essentially and eating their food while the world around him evolved into something sputtering and decayed? Where was his luck now? This decision was one of the most difficult he has had to make since deciding to flee across the country. And he couldn¡¯t make it. Adrian trembled and let his shoulders sag. He didn¡¯t know what to do. He was at odds with himself. I can¡¯t deduct it any further than being a 50/50 chance for either course of action being a risk. An idea struck him and the temptation at its release of his stress was too strong. Quickly he searched his wallet for what he knew he¡¯d find in the tiny coin section. Adrian plucked out a quarter and held the coin in his hand. ¡°Heads¡­ I go in. Tails, I leave.¡± he said aloud, and put the coin on the bridge of his thumb and flicked it in the air. It shimmered as it caught direct sunlight and it fell precisely into Adrian¡¯s open palm, which he then closed and turned over before smacking on the back of his left hand. He gulped nervously and looked up. The old man was now drinking merrily from one of the bottles, Adrian thought it might be a beer bottle. He drained it and then chucked it outside of Reggie¡¯s without looking, but Adrian had a flutter of moths at the possibility of being spotted. He checked the coin. And he was astonished. Not at the answer, he damn well could have predicted it. Barely needed to flip the coin, in fact. But he was astonished at the lack of fear that he felt now that fate and hopefully luck had taken the wheel. The coin had landed on heads, and he would confront the old man. With a tiny bit of experience in confronting creatures of the apocalypse, he felt a slice of confidence well up in him. But how should he proceed? Cautiously and without raising any alarm, he thought. The man was drunk, but didn¡¯t appear disorderly. Adrian would give him the upper hand and let him lead their interaction at the beginning. He took timid steps at first, but as he got closer he put more courage into them. Even if it was partially faked. At a closer range he could see that the old man¡¯s shorts were indeed ripped, the right leg resided above the knee and the left leg was below it. They were also filthy, as was the man¡¯s wispy white hair. Only the top had a few scraggly strands that flew in any which direction they were moved. Adrian could also see that the man¡¯s shirt had holes in it. Another bottle was polished off and tossed out of the door, but this time the old man did look. When he saw Adrian, he froze with an outstretched arm, looking like a bowler waiting for a strike at the end of his lane. Instead there was Adrian. He didn¡¯t pause in his stride when the old man recognized another human looking at him, he only raised his hands in the classic ¡°I come in peace¡± symbol. The old man bolted further into the store, kicking the boombox over accidentally and sending the remaining two bottles crashing to the ground. After a few seconds, the unidentifiable rock music cut out. Adrian stopped one intersection away from Reggie¡¯s. The sun was hot and the tension was high. Adrian was sweating. The sensation of swimming overwhelmed him. He ceased being conscious momentarily, short enough of a span to stay on his feet. Air rushed out of his lungs and he clawed for more. In the brief amount of time he was swimming he was able to reflect on his scenario from a different point of view. In that moment he knew he was being a fucking idiot He came back to, the drifting feeling abandoning his body. Now he felt exactly like a man washed ashore, disheveled and fatigued. And in the wrong place. He needed to leave while he had the chance, the old man had receded into the store and this was his opportunity, his calling to back out. Adrian swiveled, when: ¡°Hello?¡± came an old croak of a voice. The voice that could only belong to a veteran smoker or drinker. It had a shrillness to it that was like nails on a chalkboard. The man didn¡¯t sound scared, he sounded nervous. ¡°Hello? Who¡¯s there?¡± came the voice of the old man again. Now it had strength in its shrillness. Amidst the croaking and shrillness and slurring, the man also had a whistle lisp, it accented on the word ¡°who¡¯s¡±. ¡°I said who¡¯s there? I¡¯m comin¡¯ out, now. Don¡¯tcha be shootin¡¯ at me ok?¡± Adrian turned around as the anciently old man came around from behind a (disappointingly) empty shelf. His hands were up just as Adrian¡¯s had been, so Adrian mimicked the gesture back once again. They walked closer to each other but didn¡¯t get closer than fifteen feet from one another. They lowered their hands like mirror images and stared across the street and tried to figure each other out. A silent couple of seconds passed where not even the wind interrupted. The old man spoke first, and then things moved quickly. ¡°What¡¯s yer name?¡± he said in an accusative tone. His hands absent mindedly went to his hips, where he wiped them and left a trail of greasy fingerprints on his filth stained jean-shorts. Stolen novel; please report.¡°Adri..¡± he coughed a lump of phlegm out of his throat. ¡°Adrian¡­ Adrian Shepherd.¡± the words stumbled out with unprecedented scrutiny. His mind was a factory turning all of its inner gears and procedures. His sensory input was on hyper alert and every breath was done manually, every blink was not automatic but the squeezing of his eyelids to relieve a familiar tension. ¡°Who are you? What¡¯s your name?¡± Adrian said, a growth of confidence was notable and the older man didn¡¯t budge, but shook his head once as if Adrian had invaded his personal life. ¡°Nope. You ain¡¯t needin¡¯ know that, you¡¯m just gonnuh lissen right here to me, yep?¡± the idea almost made Adrian laugh, and he had to fight to suppress it, but this old man was trying to be the figure of authority in this scenario. Adrian looked down, which the old man took as a sign of submission. In fact, Adrian was just making sure he hadn¡¯t slimmed down over the past two third¡¯s of a year. He hadn¡¯t, he was still physically fit as he should of been. He no longer had a gym membership, but doing push ups was free and possible to do just about anywhere. ¡°Why would I do that? What do you have to say?¡± he said in a tone that let down no ground. The old man shook his head again and staggered. He caught himself, then took two steps closer to Adrian. ¡°¡®Cause I know why you¡¯re here.¡± he said with perfect clarity, and Adrian¡¯s heart fluttered. What did he mean? ¡°What do you mean?¡± Adrian said after a pause. The old man fired back. ¡°I said, I know why you¡¯re here, and I know that I ain¡¯t lettin¡¯ ya get in this store. I fown it. I fown it, you hear me? It¡¯s all mine, all for me. You dawnt know wott I haveta did to get it. You weren¡¯t here.¡± the old man¡¯s voice croaked out and broke on the last word, he balled his fists into his eyes and started crying, loudly. Adrian didn¡¯t know what to do. The crying was loud but the man, whoever he was, had just said he had to do something Adrian wouldn¡¯t want to know about to get to where he was now. He took a chance and moved forward with an outstretched hand. ¡°Listen, you don¡¯t know me but I can be a frien¡­¡± as Adrian got within spitting distance of the man, he ran and lunged wildly. Adrian instantly flashed back to Kevin¡¯s attack and he flinched. It cost him. Adrian reached for his cane and grabbed it. His palm wrapped the handle and he pulled, but not with enough time. He heard one velcro strap rip before something hard and blunt that the old man pulled from behind his back cracked him in the temple. Adrian fell and rolled over his duffel bags, and the old man hooted and hollered and danced as the world grew dim. --- When he came to he was inside of Reggie¡¯s lying on the floor, covered by a blanket. He moved his head and saw row upon row of shelves, and the ones toward the back of the store had some indistinguishable (from this angle) items on it. He saw a single cashier lane that was raided empty of its convenience items like chocolate bars, gum and mints. In the very back of the store was an icebox, open and empty. The scoop hung on a chain and was left carelessly on the floor. It took Adrian a couple seconds for his brain to warm up and remember why he was lying down. Although, he had no idea at all why he was inside of Reggie¡¯s, when he had taken the blow to the head outside of it. Presumably the old man had dragged him in, but what had he hit him with, anyway? The injury in question was throbbing. It felt like he was bleeding but he wasn¡¯t sure. He lifted his hand up to his temple. Or tried to, in vain. His hands were tied at the wrists in a knot that must of been impressively strong. The rope was thick and went down to his ankles where they, too, were tied. Panic seized him as he shook his limbs, the wool blanket shifting only slightly. The old man popped his head into view. He was standing over Adrian from his backside, so all Adrian could see was an upside down forehead and two crazy, glossy eyes. The old man tilted his head back and audibly gulped down an entire bottle of beer, which then went sailing in an arc across Adrian¡¯s view before smashing on something on the other side of the store. The old man cackled before it failed into a coughing fit. ¡°Sir¡­ what are you, why are you¡­¡± the old man cut him off with a weak kick to his back. The kick was weak but the toes of his working boots were steel. Adrian shouted in pain, a scream that would of woken up half of the surrounding neighbourhood if there was one. ¡°What the fuck was that?¡± he cursed at his senior. ¡°Them¡¯s my steelies. You wonna meet ¡®em again?¡± Adrian shook his head frantically. ¡°Lissen here then you ignoran¡¯ brat. You dawn¡¯t know HAFF of wott I did. You juss some outta towner tryin¡¯ take wott ain¡¯t his. Wott you done? Where you been? NO WARES. You ain¡¯t been NO WARES, hear me? All my life I live here and I been disresepted. Then God up above came and delivered Armageddon to all of us sinners.¡± he paused for a breath, and Adrian took the opportunity to speak up. ¡°Sir, listen. I¡¯m not here to take anything from¡­ OW FUCK, YOU PRICK!¡± He delivered another steel-enforced shot to his spine, and Adrian was sure that area would bruise, if not break. ¡°Fuck, stop! LISTEN TO ME.¡± Adrian yelled. ¡°I¡¯m not here to steal! I made a mistake coming here¡­ I only wanted food, I¡¯ve been starving for two days, man.¡± he quickly said. He couldn¡¯t see the old man until he had circled Adrian and knelt with the gentle fragility of the elderly. ¡°Now. Why¡¯m you gonna lie to me? Why¡¯m you gotta go and try ta pull on these ol¡¯ heartstrings? All that¡¯s gonna getcha is a hole right in your forehead, friend.¡± the old man said these words slowly, and then dramatically poked Adrian in the middle of the head with his index finger. Adrian noticed what the old man was holding loosely in his right hand. A gun. An old school revolver like the ones that you saw the cowboys on TV shoot. Adrian was sure that his pupils grew and enveloped his eyes. The old man grinned a dirty yellow toothed smile. He waved it closely in Adrian¡¯s face, and he could see his own blood on the butt end of it. The old man also had blood smeared on his palm and fingers. As if just noticing it for himself, he awkwardly wiped the mess on his jeans again. Adrian grimaced. ¡°Come on, put that away. There¡¯s no need for anymore violence, ok? I have a medical kit in my duffel bag. Take it, it¡¯s yours. A offering of peace. Take it and let me go and that¡¯ll be it.¡± Adrian wriggled in his confinement. ¡°God dammit, I only came in here on the flip of a coin! It wasn¡¯t even my decision to come in here.¡± The old man froze and locked eyes with Adrian. A goofy grin spread, revealing teeth until a hoarse chuckle turned into a gross cackle. Adrian saw him wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, but had no idea what he was finding so funny. ¡°Came here on a fifty fifty chance, huh? Well ain¡¯t that juss somethin¡¯. Ain¡¯t that juss a damn coincidence?¡± the old man began to march about, tottering in his drunkenness. ¡°Well ain¡¯t that juss a damn fine honey of a coincidence? Ya see, friend. I got this here gun. Stole it from the owner who¡¯s gone now, you hear me?¡± He lifted the gun for his own inspection, pulled the chamber out and spun it slowly so Adrian could see. ¡°I got me three bullets leff. Can ya cown ¡®em? One, two, three.¡± Adrian could see this, and nodded. ¡°But ya see how many of those chambers is empty? There¡¯s three more could be filled. I got me three outta six bullets. Know what that is? We got ourselves another fifty fifty scenario.¡± the old man laughed like it was an unbelievably hysterical event. Adrian whimpered and was shaking his head from side to side. ¡°So what we¡¯m gonna do now¡± the gun¡¯s chamber closed, and a wrinkled hand spun it like a child might. ¡°Is we gonna have us another flip of the old coin.¡± The chamber stopped spinning and he shakily pointed it at Adrian. He stuck his tongue out, closed one eye and took aim. It was a ridiculous sight but it struck Adrian with fear. The barrel of the revolver was pointed right at his head. The old man took the wool blanket and tore it off with no showmanship. Adrian was covered in sweat, his clothes were wet and sticky. He felt the rope on his left wrist give a little and the rope rose to the bottom of his palm and caught again. The old man hadn¡¯t noticed the shift in his arm, he was much too busy trying to aim through his beer goggles. ¡°Hold still... ya damn¡­ urk¡± the old man dropped his gun, bent and promptly puked on it. He went for a second round and Adrian smelt beer. Vomit drops splashed his face, but he was too busy prying his hand out to notice. His greasy appendage had wormed another inch passed the rope. Meanwhile, the old man wiped his mouth with his hand, and wiped his hand on his shorts. He bent down lower and picked up the gun, not noticing or caring that the handle and one side of the barrel was puke splattered. ¡°Now¡­ where were we, darlin¡¯? Uhehehehe.¡± he laughed like a hillbilly as he aimed down the sight again, his arm was much more steady now. He barely held the gun in place or registered what he was looking at before he squeezed the trigger like someone with experience would. At the same time Adrian got his left arm free and with the momentum carrying from the strain of freeing it, it sailed and landed in warm vomit, his body turning. He heard the deafening boom of the gun and felt an excruciating burning in his left hip. He checked it with his hand, brought it up and saw he was cupping a handful of blood and vomit. The sight of it made Adrian fall unconscious, his third time doing so in twelve hours. --- 6: Palette Cleanser Adrian came to. He recognized the old man staring with wild eyes into his face but the room he was in wasn¡¯t familiar. Between the blinding pain in his leg and the temporary location amnesia, he could barely remember his own name. What was beginning to get familiar were the eye floaters that swam in his eyes. His body tremored and felt icy-hot. ¡°Low blood sugar, or something..¡± he mumbled. The old man gave an inquisitive look, moved his lips and made noise, but Adrian was already fading out again. --- Fire brought him back to consciousness this time. Adrian tried to scream but had something hard in his mouth, pulled back to make him grimace. It had been tied with something behind his head to keep it in place. That was all he could register before most of his sense turned to black. Vision was blank, he felt nothing but fire and a thin picking sensation in his hip. He would be screaming in his agony if it wasn¡¯t for the gag in his mouth, and with the pain he was obligated to bite down on it. Whatever it was cracked in his mouth after some time and strain, and then Adrian once more faded out. --- The old man was somber in his sobriety, now that the party had ended. Like only trauma can, shooting this young whippersnapper cleared his head. Still too drunk, he had located the med kit and managed to staunch the blood flow. And oh deary lord could this boy bleed. Kenny had shot him in the ass, very close to the hip bone. It was meant to be a scare tactic to get the boy out of here, but his aim misaligned when the boy-- Adrian, he said he was, broke free of the knot his hands were bound in. Quite a surprise. Kenny moved an armload of bloody rags and towels away and threw them into the embers of a dying fire. He looked over at the kid. Sleeping. Probably won¡¯t wake up until tomorrow. It had been at least three hours since they were introduced to each other, and over the time spent and as the clouds darkened, Kenny couldn¡¯t quite say he came to like this guy. But he did the kid wrong, and had the talents and provided tools to make it right. He took a victory swig of the vodka that had been used for sterilization earlier. ¡°Ya damn fool¡­ made me use half my stash.¡± he said dryly. He chuckled while taking another swig. Suddenly remembering, he hopped up and went over to Adrian. He put his hands behind his head and untied his makeshift bit: about half of a broomstick he had broken over his knee, and then tied tightly around his head. As he was untying, he noticed the flow of blood turn the tightened skin from white into a flushed pink. The rope he had used left imprints on the man¡¯s scalp. He checked the wound, the one he had cauterized with his wood whittling knife after setting it in his inside campfire of mismatched odds and ends; it was comprised of alcohol soaked rags, pieces of cardboard from discarded items that had already been scavenged, and a couple more broom sticks he had cracked over his knee. Kenny wasn¡¯t strong, nor young, but he wasn¡¯t weak. Kenny went to put Adrian¡¯s medkit back in his duffel bag. A looter? Murderer? Sure. But no thief. He had honor, and the poor folks he went and offed that were hiding out in this store put a tainted taste on his mouth that only beer was washing away right now. They were still out¡­ Hang on, what in the blazes is this? Kenny went up to Adrian¡¯s duffel bags, his backpack, and his sheath. All of which he had disrobed from Adrian when he had tied him up like a hog. Kenny picked up the sheath and took out the cane that he himself made ten years ago. He noted with nostalgia the supreme condition of the hickory wood, the dried blood on the bullfrog with its throat extended. This was one of his most favorite pieces he had crafted. And he did so as an anniversary gift for¡­ Evan Croteau? Was that who? It¡¯s been a decade and one extremely long eight months¡­ but yes. This was Evan Croteau¡¯s fortieth wedding anniversary present. He had given his wife Ellen an adorable handmade wooden charm bracelet with three trinkets to put on it: a horse, a hot air balloon, and a crescent moon. Kenny was close friends with the Croteau¡¯s and made her gift a craft that symbolized their honeymoon vacation. He was getting distracted. He shook his head when Adrian moaned just loud enough to be heard. Kenny did a shoulder check, but he was still out for the count. He turned back and rotated the cane until he found it. His initials. K.S. Wells. Kenneth Stanley Wells. How in the dickens did this child, this barely-a-man, get this cane that he had made for his friend? A grim feeling washed over him as he thought of the possibility that Adrian killed the Croteau¡¯s. Those poor, sweet people. Killed them and then raided their small house they could barely afford in their retirement. Air puffed out of his nostrils in an angry fashion as he again noted the blood that was caked onto the bullfrog. He glared at Adrian, the man whose life he had just put in danger and then saved, and now thought about ending. Evan had been Kenny¡¯s childhood friend and if this asshole had killed him¡­ But what Adrian had said earlier popped back into Kenny¡¯s mind. The kid was basically begging me, begging me! A frail man at the age of sixty-seven, he was begging me to let him go. He did come with his hands raised when he could have came in swingin¡¯... Now Kenny felt confused. He wasn¡¯t a jury or a judge, and these violent ways were foreign and discomposing on his mind. Kenny wasn¡¯t even that heavy a drinker until yesterday morn¡¯ where he found a sweet love for the taste of its relief. The vodka burbled uncontrollably in his gut, and with it his temper faded. Kenny didn¡¯t think of himself as a bad guy. When he had gotten here¡­ that poor family. But he was so hungry, and they had jumped him when he had helped himself inside their store. He repressed the memory and took a long draught from the bottle. There was maybe two finger¡¯s left. Now that his head was more clouded, he could think. Most of his thoughts were muddled now and he could control the flow of them. He decided that, no, Adrian wouldn¡¯t have killed the Croteau¡¯s. He thought it more likely that Evan and Ellen had driven their car to the docks and taken their boat to their parent¡¯s summer cottage that they had inherited. He was happy at the thought of them getting away and surviving. Kenny looked at Adrian one more time, and sighed. He had done all he could for the kid. The wound was sealed, the bullet was gone. He checked the bleeding again and saw that Adrian would have to change it when he woke up. But Kenny wouldn¡¯t be here, he couldn¡¯t look at him with all that had passed between them. However interconnected and whatever the score between them was, Kenny just wanted to forget. He finished the vodka, set the bottle down on the ground and found a notepad and a pen in his own supplies. He wrote a note and left both in Adrian¡¯s eyesight. He packed his own gear, put Adrian¡¯s water by him and set down a pack of beef jerky from his own wares, and left through the gaping bucktooth grin of Reggie¡¯s. --- Adrian awoke as sunlight dawned on him. Sunlight? What time is it? He opened his eyes and once again couldn¡¯t locate his surroundings. Where the hell am I? He thought. It registered when he saw the cash registers. Reggie¡¯s. He was at Reggie¡¯s, on the ground for some reason. He made to get up. A blistering ripple shook through his hip and his leg spasmed violently. He cursed, bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and pounded the ground with his fist, hoping to gain tension relief but finding none. What the fuck was that? It feels like I got shot¡­ and it dawned on him. He fell back down but didn¡¯t pass out. Refreshed eyes, crusted with sleep, opened and looked down at his legs. His pants were undone but pulled up to his waist. Tentatively, he pulled them down to inspect the wound. He saw a square bandage that he thought might have came from his own medical kit. The patch had a blood stain soaked into it, and as he inspected it the splotch only grew bigger. Inspecting the area by turning his head in a circle, he came to several conclusions at once: The old man was gone, Adrian¡¯s stuff hadn¡¯t been stolen, and he was now inside of Reggie¡¯s. That last realization should have came back with the flood of memory that happened when his gunshot reminded him of itself. To blame a spotty memory on the past day or two isn¡¯t stretching reality that thin at all. There was a counter a couple of feet behind him, so he crawled as slowly as he could without moving his left flank so that he was laying his back and right hip against it peacefully. Heavy eyelids closed and then opened, for the first time in a long time Adrian didn¡¯t feel tired. He didn¡¯t feel rested; hunger and thirst were becoming mortal enemies, but he didn¡¯t feel tired and Adrian was in a mind to count his small blessings. Like the continuation of his life. His stomach twirled with a potent brew of confusion and guilt. He had truly come close to dying. For whatever reason, that old man refused to be pacified and he had shot Adrian right in his left ass cheek. Now that he had come so close to death¡¯s door, he didn¡¯t know if he really did want to die. He wasn¡¯t sure if a guilty conscience ridden waking life was a bad idea, anymore. The blackness, the pain. The burning sensation¡­ Adrian never wanted to experience anything like it again. He had thought the twisting knife that Douglas had stabbed him with when he blocked out Adrian from his life was suffering that he¡¯d never wish on anyone else, but now, at least temporarily, it paled in comparison. He grimaced as he shifted his weight to reach passed the bottle of water (his lips were cracked, throat was as dry as a riverbed, but he had not had anything other than stale granola for forty-eight hours. Hunger won out), grabbed the bag of jerky and opened its vacuum sealed packaging. The jerky was more chewy than it would be if Adrian had found it fresh on a shelf. He couldn¡¯t even bring himself to check the expiry date. Didn¡¯t beef jerky last nearly forever, anyway? He gulped down half the pack before his jaw grew too tired to chew. He stretched again for the water and let out a bark of pain as has bandage peeled off, the wound opening slightly. He drank greedily and then (while trying to find some privacy) re-cleaned and awkwardly bandaged himself with what he could find in the medical kit. He didn¡¯t have much for the cleaning process besides water and an ointment specifically meant for cuts, but it would have to do. How in the hell am I alive? Why did that old man patch me up? Adrian had assumed it was the crazy old man, although he had no idea why. The last time he remembered talking to him, Adrian was pleading. The note that the old man had wrote flashed back into Adrian¡¯s mind. It was the first thing he saw when he awoke, but with the disorientation he had thought of it as random garbage. He turned to it and pulled the notepad to himself, beginning to learn how to twist and bend without aggravating his wound. A hard task to accomplish. Adrian read the note while steadily gulping down water, the writing was the scrawl of someone with great penmanship who had obviously not picked up a writing utensil in quite sometime. Through squinted eyes, Adrian could make out the note in its entirety: Adrian, I won¡¯t apologize for what I did. I shot you in your leg, and I also performed a surgery that likely as not saved your darn life. The bullet I used, I tossed. Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d want it as a memento, anyway. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. As you laid there bleeding out, realization dawned on me. I¡¯m no killer, I¡¯m just an old hardened fool. The family I killed to claim this store will haunt my every dream for the rest of my life. That isn¡¯t to say that I didn¡¯t think about taking that cane you stole from Evan Croteau and battering your damned brains out. Adrian blinked as he read the name of Evan Croteau. That was a zinger he never predicted. He eagerly read on: But however you came by that is none of my business. I¡¯m a sinner too, man. Maybe you offed the Croteau¡¯s and maybe you never. But for those of us with heavy hearts, we walk harder. This is why I¡¯ll leave you where you lie. I¡¯ve righted my wrong with you and my hands are clean. Now you will have to stay here and die, or walk your guilty path. P.S. As a word of advice don¡¯t go into the office in the back, Reggie and his family were holed up in there and that¡¯s where I left them. Even though he was wrong in the specifics, how eerily close this old man came to predicting Adrian¡¯s past life filled him with a nervous energy. Slowly, Adrian got to his feet by using no strength at all on his left side and instead grabbing his- Evan Croteau¡¯s- cane for support. He was upright now and could see out of the paneless window. Dawn was quickly turning into morning, and with some quick math Adrian discovered with a shock that he had been asleep for approximately sixteen hours. If not, one or two more. Personal record, he thought, chuckled, grimaced and then clutched at his leg. It was an odd turn of events that now his stomach and mind were well and healthy (strictly meaning he had eaten and slept), but now his body was running on fumes. He tested out walking. It was a pitiful thing and after eight excruciating steps, relying heavily on the cane (that was still matted with Kevin¡¯s blood that he had forgotten to clean off), he had made it a measly five feet. Getting home is going to be a fucking treat. And before that¡­ shouldn¡¯t he loot? It was the thing that he originally came here to do. He looked longingly down at his legs, and then surveyed the shelves. He saw a dozen or fifteen right in front of him. All but the back three were empty from what he could see, and the closest two that were stocked were not heavily stocked. Adrian guessed that the ¡°always stocked shelves¡± guarantee didn¡¯t extend into the apocalypse. It took Adrian ten minutes to gather a duffel bag (the one without the rip) and set it on his right shoulder in a way that cradled the bag on his side firmly and had the opening unzipped and propped wide open. He¡¯d have to ditch the other duffel bag, and maybe the backpack too. He had put the sheath back on but was depending on the cane heavily. Adrian perused the aisles at the front with observant eyes. The shelves that were too tall, he leaned on the lower part and banged around the top with his cane until he decided it was empty. A box of crackers fell down from one shelf that had not only expired, but evidently been chewed by mice. Crumbs and rat shit fell out of a hole in the corner. Adrian discarded the box and moved to the aisles closer to the middle of the store. It was starting to seem like the looting was only done in the front of the store, and as the looters progressed further into the store they were pushed back somehow. Blood splattered a few of the shelves and items on them. A few cleaning supplies. Toilet paper, he managed to stuff two four-packs next to the medical kit in the duffel bag without using up much room. He hadn¡¯t had toilet paper in two months, even though he had used it sparingly before then. There was a couple packages of paper towels, rubber gloves, dish soap, hand soap, and a lot of dishwasher tabs. A lot of worthless junk. Antiques. He scanned the rest of the aisle quickly and noted nothing, so he moved further back in the store. These aisles were nearly a fifth full, a vast improvement. More importantly, he had found canned food. Like a child in a candy store, but with the limp and walking speed of an elderly man, he hobbled down the aisle. Soup from a tin can had never had such an appetizing look. He picked up a cream of asparagus and could tell the cans were fine and the food inside was edible. Not wanting a lot of weight in this one bag, he stuffed in the can of cream of asparagus, two chicken noodle and three vegetable. He hefted the bag and decided that there was still an ample amount of room and he didn¡¯t think it was weighing that heavy yet. Reggie¡¯s was much better described as a mega-convenience store than a grocery store. It sported dozens of aisles but only stocked dry goods. The aisles were aligned like library shelves. The front of the store, upon shoulder-check inspection, consisted of the main door frame and two large rectangular window frames, one to either side. Adrian squinted and saw that the right window frame still had a gnarly piece of glass jutting out in its corner. He went back to inspecting the aisles. There were ramen noodles, two packages and both were shrimp flavored. He gave an appreciative head bob and tucked them away. Other secret treasures, the rest being cooking and baking supplies he really didn¡¯t need, were canned beans and fish, three boxes of penne, and a box of wafer cookies that he had optimistic thoughts about. The very last aisles shelves were full on the back side, and empty on the front. Unlike the orderly-but-not-neat placement that the items on the other shelves had been in, remaining roughly where some young grocery clerk had probably placed them, these were grouped in near obvious categories. Some shelves were even dislodged and propped against the wall in order to make more room for some of the bulkier cargo. Adrian saw groups of canned food, junk food, canned fruit and tomatoes, dried meat, a large area for water in bottles and jugs in which there were only two jugs and fourteen bottles. On pegs nearby the water there were several canteens, and on further inspection they turned out to be empty. There was gasoline (only two jerry cans, Adrian nudged them with his good leg and found that they were full), a section for alcohol that only had a twenty-four pack of beer. There were grocery bins of clothes, each of the three shelves apparently for a different sized human. The top belonged to a man, the middle a woman or rather big teenage girl, and the bottom was clearly for a little girl of maybe five or seven. At the end of each shelf was a box of laundry detergent powder resting in a washtub. Near this was a small stash of cleaning supplies: hand sanitizer, three bars of soap, bathroom and kitchen tile cleaner, stainless steel polish and dish detergent. Adrian scooped in the remaining bars of soap (he hadn¡¯t seen soap of any kind in seven months; the only baths he had had were bird baths) and the hand sanitizer before scanning the rest of the shelves. There was nothing of value, in fact it all looked like boxes of¡­ personal effects from home. He decided against his previous decision, went over to the boxes and began rifling through them. He saw old family photo books with a patch stitched on that read out ¡°HERNANDEZ¡±, family photos in frames that confirmed his earlier suspicion: a father, a mother and a little girl of about five or seven. They looked like an honest, hard-working and happy bunch. The father had crow¡¯s feet, the mother¡¯s hair was graying but the little girl wore a grin that only children can wear. He noted how her smile also was missing its buckteeth, like the appearance of the storefront. Adrian set the photo down as he put the connection together between the old man¡¯s note and the situation that was set up on this back shelf. He saw, just to the right of these boxes of family-goods, an open door where a light was flickering. On the window that was opened outwards, he could see the word ¡°OFFICE¡± written backwards on the side not facing him. The goods he had looted in his duffel bag now felt twice as heavy, guilt adding more weight. Slowly, Adrian walked to the office door and opened it, the hinges creaked loudly. An irrepressible odor overcame him, the smell of rotting meat and the copper of blood. It was mixed in with something faint but memorable¡­ he recognized it. The sterile aroma of piss. The jerky in Adrian¡¯s stomach began to spin and swirl in the water he had also drank. He fought to keep it all down, knowing how important every bit of sustenance he could get was. The nausea passed, and Adrian walked into the office after pulling his shirt up over his nose. He instantly regretted it. Adrian vomited (after reflexively hauling his shirt off his mouth) with a bit of propulsion that was mustered up by the mixed feeling of sudden alarm and disgust. Whole pieces of meat scratched his throat as he yacked, and the stomach acid burned it further. He fumbled for his water, but he had left it back where he had gotten shot. Vomit residue was on his lips, with a trembling hand he wiped it. After stabilizing himself, he looked up again. There sat, in crumpled and depressed forms, the family he had just seen in photographs, and the one that the old man had referenced to. Adrian thought he might cry, but in truth the feelings he had expected never even came after the initial outburst. He felt pity, but not desperation or disbelief. He felt angry, but not infuriated. Most of all, he was sick by the smell that still was threatening to tempt another round of meat-and-spew-stew. He cleared his throat and then winced at the sting. The father, not obviously but Adrian assumed, was Reggie Hernandez, the original store owner. A Latino man who had strong muscles, jawline and eyes. They stared back in horror below a red hole in the left of his forehead. Blood had dripped and then dried considerably. He didn¡¯t know the name of the wife or daughter, but as his eyes drifted over them the images started to blur. His eyes watered, he tried not to let his mind have the recognition of all that he was seeing. He turned away from the massacred family. No, this isn¡¯t right, Adrian thought. Although he played the coward for the better part of a year, Adrian knew that that wasn¡¯t who he was. Adrian Shepherd was not a man who would turn his back on someone in need of assistance. He turned back around and set to work. He laid the family out as delicately as his leg would allow him. Their hands were been folded on their chests and their eyelids were close. Adrian had found towels to wrap around their foreheads, where the fatal wounds were. The process was lit by the last bit of light from a formerly huge candle in a jar. They looked peaceful. There might be something to say, he thought, but he was never very fond of goodbyes. Instead he solemnly bowed his head and closed his eyes. He didn¡¯t know the family, but if he had been here a couple of days earlier what would they have done? It was evident they weren¡¯t allowing people to take their food, and it must of took the ending of all of their lives in order for the old man to get his harvest of beer and chips. The senile fuck had felt regret, and was clearly someone to feel some remorse as Adrian was alive and hadn¡¯t bled out on a dirty floor on the other side of the country from his home. After a moment, Adrian turned from the family. He was getting accustomed to the smell, but not the sight of them. Not the feeling he got from being in the same room. Across, on the opposite wall, there was a rickety old table. The sputtering candle that Adrian was only now taking a close look at was illuminating a dozen or so styrofoam cups that held dirt. Each cup had greenage sprouting with tiny nubs of orange peeking out, and Adrian could easily identify them as carrots that were on the verge of being ready to pick. Not quite ready, but they were edible. He pulled one eagerly and brought it to his mouth. It was a babyish looking thing, but bright orange and fresh. He stopped hesitantly and cast a look over his shoulder. He envisioned the little girl eagerly watering her vegetables everyday, wanting only to contribute to the family¡¯s survival. The father probably looked on with sad pride, the mother offering comforting words of approval. In Adrian¡¯s convoluted story, he also saw the carrot garden as a way that the girl might have kept her sanity. Having a chore, a project to focus on might keep her mind away from her dead friends, relatives, teachers¡­ Adrian put the carrot back in the dirt. He looked at the sack of stolen goods he had just acquired, and then cast another longing look at the Hernandez family. How far am I willing to go here? Can I honestly take these goods? Well, in truth, these are groceries. Reggie might have owned the store once upon a time, but those days were gone, he thought. They aren¡¯t his personal belongings, even if he had a right to the ownership of them. Also¡­ if I don¡¯t take these things, some other crazy man will. This isn¡¯t an Egyptian tomb, the Hernandez family doesn¡¯t need to be buried with their treasures¡­ In the end Adrian was able to convince himself of the honor that existed in plucking items from the dead. With his duffel bag three-quarters full, he scanned the room to decide which items of the grocery horde he would take. An easel, a child¡¯s easel, was propped against the wall. It wasn¡¯t a suitable work prop for Adrian when he stood, but if he sat down to paint¡­ The material was cheap plastic, and its weight was like air. He hooked it through the straps of the duffel bag, where it poked his armpit slightly when he walked. Then he slowly made his way back out and decided on what was worth taking back home. The water bottles were too low to grab while standing, so Adrian sat and packed six in the bag to take up half of the remaining space. He slung two canteens around his neck after filling them, they swished and clattered a great deal, then filled the remaining space with dried meat and one tin of canned fruit. With awkward finality he zipped the bag close and found its weight to be a hindrance, but a bearable one. Maybe with an ample amount of breaks for his banged up leg, he could make it back to the Croteau¡¯s by high noon. Maybe. 7: Code Red/Pink Adrian stepped foot outside of Reggie¡¯s for the first time in sixteen hours. He was worried about Kevin. Is he alive? I hope so. The fear ate at him, surprisingly. He''d barely spent time with the creature, but already Kevin had become a priority thought, like an actual pet. Not that that was what Kevin was, Adrian thought. Kevin was too vicious, too changed by the new world to be a pet. At best, Adrian thought, if Kevin came too- and that was a mighty big if- he would need to be penned up for Adrian''s own safety. After Kevin was healed, he''d be free to take his own path and Adrian would go his. The thought invaded his emotions and stained them with hope and anxiety. He wanted to postpone having to make the decision. No, not quite. He wanted life and time themselves to leave him alone, to stop putting him in these predicaments. Choice after choice keeps cutting my soul in half. The day was not as bright or clear as yesterday; smokey colored clouds rolled by in one huge mass, blocking the sun but not darkening the day. Here and there Adrian could see a beam of sun, looking spiritual in its splendor. He shuffled the duffel bag on his shoulder and winced at the pain in his hip it caused. He strengthened his grip on the steel toad for support and relief. The pain subsided but left an itch, a horrible one. For a single second Adrian considered scratching it, even going as far as moving his hand to his side before the sudden horror of the imagined aftermath swept it away. He set on. Santa Monica¡¯s outer limits looked alien to him. The bricks around him were weather-battered and sun-baked. The sidings of other buildings were either torn haphazardly or still in good shape. The only inbetween were the sidings that featured comedic or serious messages and images, conveyed in spray paint. Adrian walked by one of these, an overly large and crude purple penis, without giving it much of a glance. The road before him turned into a gradual downhill slope. He knew from yesterday¡¯s travels that this would take him back out onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Adrian looked like he was acting out an old man with a bad back as he traversed it. --- The highway, much like yesterday, was empty. Eagerly ignoring the beaten hunk of a transport trailer, he scuffled down the black tar pathway. The sun was beginning to meet the high end of its bend as Adrian walked on by that charred up house. He was wondering whether it was a curse or a blessing that his wounded leg definitely prevented exploring it when he heard an engine in the distance. It was low and faint, but it was unmistakably fast sounding. It was coming from in front of him, and if Adrian couldn¡¯t see it now then he might still have some time to hide. He looked around like an animal caught in a corner. There were two options. Adrian spotted some garbage bins to his right, they could easily hold him. Then there was the charred building to his left. A short but nonetheless intimidating jaunt due to recent injuries where the garbage bins were ten, twenty feet away. Through all of this pondering, the engine was getting louder. He could hear gears shifting, and thought he might have seen a blip of black far along the bend in the road. Adrian thought, rapidly. His mind was slowly charging but finally gaining headway, plans were forming. His leg wouldn¡¯t allow him to fit in the bins, that should have been obvious straight away. He could hide behind them, true, but that runs a certain risk. If the car stopped to inspect the building, he would be out in the open and left to luck¡¯s mercy. Another inspection of the building that took three valuable seconds determined that it hadn¡¯t at all changed in the past day, and he didn¡¯t think that what cars he could quickly scan had been moved or were new. Hadn¡¯t it been so abandoned looking that I passed it over, even with my health and need for food? Adrian ran out of time to think. He needed to act. Far, far up on the highway, still another thirty seconds before being able to see the small figure that would grow into Adrian was the sudden appearance of a very quick, black car. Adrian could only see a dot moving in a steady line. He began to scoot and shuffle toward the building, crying out in pain as his left hip grinded, burned and poured blood that quickly stained his pant leg before Adrian had made it three-quarters of the way there. With a pathetic attempt of a baseball dive he jumped behind the charred door. The hum of the distant motor had grown but was mulled considerably behind these walls. With baited breath, Adrian listened and waited. --- Outside of the burnt shack and still a distance up the road, an incredibly sleek and shiny foreign car was cruising at an alarming speed that any police officer would flip their lights on and give pursuit for. It rounded corners with perfection maintained by a good car, and ease maintained by a good driver. The black body of the automobile was matched in equal by the tinted windows. If Adrian could see it, he would be impressed by the quality and clear cost. The engine, loud from a distance, was deafening at close range. It rolled on by the turnoff that Adrian had walked out from yesterday, creating a current of wind in its trail that scattered debris and litter. Inside the car were two people, and the one in the passenger seat rolled down his window to look at the upcoming building. He was a black man, early 30¡¯s with dreadlocks that were tied in tight cords along his scalp. He wore an angry but calculated scowl that was all business and no pleasure. After the passage of a few seconds, he turned his head to the driver and spoke. The driver replied and began to slow down his breakneck speed. As the burnt shack came into range, he stopped completely. The man in the passenger seat nodded to the driver, and the driver pulled in the lot with a well practiced turn. He put the car in reverse and rolled it back all of the way to the front wall of the building. --- As Adrian heard the car slow down, stop and then pull in he began to panic and search for a hiding spot. All around him was wreckage, it looked like the long abandoned and burnt remnants of a wild party. There was a counter that wrapped around like a bar at navel height. It was cluttered with magazines that were cluttered with dust. It didn¡¯t look like anything had been touched in a long time. Across the floor were fallen magazine racks, tables and chairs that no longer were in their original arrangement. Books, cards, pamphlets and papers were littered like dry leaves on an autumn forest floor. Adrian heard the car backing up to the wall and knew he was running out of time. He saw his only shot at salvation; in the corner there was a five foot tall cardboard box that was leaning against the wall, already opened violently on the top. The water cooler that had been inside of it was laying in pieces on the floor. There was no time to lose, car doors were opening and closing as he hobble-sprinted to the corner, threw the duffel bag behind the counter (Luck will have to abide for me a little while longer), took the box and pressed it over top of his body and laid on the floor. He had to bend his legs and spine; his six-foot-two frame didn¡¯t fit in the box perfectly. As the building¡¯s front door opened again, Adrian was just slipping his finger tips back inside of the box. ¡°--and another thing, Brady. We¡¯ve got to whip these taggers into shape. Look at this. What was the point in tagging this heap?¡± the man had a boisterous voice that was set in a deep baritone. An accent thickly coated each word, but Adrian couldn¡¯t make out which. German? Swedish? ¡°Mmm,¡± came the indifferent agreement from the other stranger, another man based on the low-toned voice. This person spoke more quietly. The fall of heavy steps in boots padded around the building, first growing distant and then closer as they rounded the room, discussing things all while Adrian¡¯s heart hammered at his throat. Unknown to the duo, there was a man on the verge of a heart attack merely a good kick of a box away. ¡°Brady, there isn¡¯t anything in here. This place is a dump and we¡¯ve waste our time coming here. I don¡¯t understand why you thought there¡¯d be anything here, didn¡¯t I say so in the car? Come on, we have a busy day.¡± ¡°Relax. The day¡¯s been good. We¡¯ve found a lot, Johnny will swing by what we marked and get it. Two flat screen¡¯s, a fucking shit load of food, and we found that portable generator. When Johnny gets off his drunken ass, he¡¯ll pick up the boys and get it all up and bring it home. So look around, we¡¯re scouting for valuable shit for them. For us.¡± the second, quieter man was most definitely in charge. Adrian listened. The men weren¡¯t moving. Seconds ticked by and the box was growing more and more stifling hot. Glimpsing down at his feet he could see a slither of light pouring in through a hole, roughly by his knee. This produced a fresh wave of nerves, but it was much too late to do anything now. After a minute, there was a shuffling of feet that led to the main door. ¡°...Ok. Let¡¯s go. There¡¯s nothing here we need, that water cooler would of been nice, had it not been smashed into a million pieces,¡± this was the quieter man speaking. ¡°Finally. Or, are you sure you don¡¯t want to check these empty boxes for secret jewels?¡± ¡°Lay off of it or the boss will hear how you swiped his cigarettes the other day.¡± ¡°You wouldn¡¯t. Besides, we both know you¡¯ve been¡­¡± this last bit was cut off as the door banged shut behind them. Adrian could hear mutterings but couldn¡¯t come close as to guessing what the first man knew that the second man might have been doing. Finding himself curious, he shook the feeling as he shook the box off of him. Staying out of view, Adrian peeked through the window and saw the backside of the first man as he got into the driver¡¯s seat of a very luxurious looking black mustang. In rapid succession there was the brief shake and rattle, the noise becoming familiar to Adrian now, of a spray can followed by the sound of it spraying. There was barely time to react before it had finished, but Adrian was putting his back against the wall regardless. One hand gingerly massaged and checked his gunshot wound, the other was primed and ready to grab the cane in his sheath. A second car door slamming shut could be heard, followed by the sound of an engine coming to life. In ten mere seconds, the mustang was gone, and Adrian came out from hiding to watch it drive off toward Santa Monica. If I had slept for ten more minutes today, I would have been robbed, mugged and probably killed. He blinked and a bead of sweat fell into his eye, he wiped at it and then wiped at his damp forehead. All of a sudden, Adrian wanted to be back at the Croteau¡¯s more than anything. He weighed that impulse against his other desire¡¯s and was surprised to discover that he even wanted to be at the Croteau¡¯s more than he missed Douglas or his parents. More than he wanted to be home in West Virginia. The building he was in now smelt musty, but a new scent lingered. Cologne? Very strong cologne, and sharp smelling. The scent was potent enough to travel to his taste buds where they produced excess saliva at the sour tang of the fragrance. Without a surplus of caution, and after obtaining his duffel bag again, Adrian stepped outside. The day hadn¡¯t changed much in the brief ten minutes that he was inside, but now there was a new smell that persisted. One not so familiar, but easily deductible. Spray paint. He turned around to face the building and saw that where there had formerly been a grotesque red ¡°X¡± in paint, now the letter had been overwritten with hot-pink streaks. The former marking that apparently symbolized ¡°possible loot¡± was no longer visible besides a few tufts of red. Adrian touched it and wet paint lifted off to stick to the three fingers he had touched it with. Staring at it let him accept all of what had just happened as real. I must be the world¡¯s luckiest son of a bitch to still be alive, he thought. The past day had been a series of trials and errors, and despite the long rest he had awoken from only an hour or two ago, he was ready to be back home at the Croteau¡¯s to put his feet up. Faintly and growing more faint he heard the engine of the car barreling down the PCH. He cast another glance at the burnt shack before continuing on the highway, a little more quickly now even with the pain in his hip. --- Adrian rounded the bend off of the highway without another hitch in the plan. The day was relatively relaxing and only grew moreso as he climbed the gentle slope that would soon put him on the final turn to home. An uneasiness grew in his stomach, at first small and bubbling but then it solidified into a knot. It gave off a pressure that was disorienting, but as it persisted Adrian was able to define it: homesickness. Adrian was longing to be on the inside of a familiar four walls. Invasive thoughts of Kevin brought worry. The formerly strong scent of ocean was now becoming a background smell. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Not being a man who lived on the edge of his seat very often, Adrian was glancing over his shoulder for every odd noise he heard. The wound in his left hip was throbbing and begged for a break, so he felt inclined to listen to it. There was no way he would let this injury get any worse than it was already. Along the upslope of this road was a low rising brick wall whose pattern cascaded as it ran parallel to the pavement, never being more than three feet high. Adrian simply chose here to sit. There was an immediate relief and a noticeable drop in intensity from the thrumming in his hip. Adrian thought it was something like a magnified version of the feeling of taking your shoes off on a long day full of walking. The thought made him conscious of how sticky his toes felt, trapped in the working boots for a whole day. He daintily removed the left boot and with a little less care removed the right, followed by the socks. The cold breeze kissed his sweaty, slightly swollen (and cracked on one toe) feet with magic powers. It was a sweet drink of iced tea on a scorching summer day, or a clear blue sky after emerging from a long darkness. He wiggled his toes and felt grit fall loose, but he didn¡¯t care about his hygiene right now. I probably smell like a pig¡¯s ass, but who¡¯s here to know? No one at all. He glanced up the slope, barely able to see the tops of trees at the peak of the hill. Down the slope was the small turn-off intersection he had just came from. Not a soul in sight. No mysterious foreign black cars. No maniacs with guns, or mythical marathon runners. Nor was there any danger from hostile animals. But still, the paranoia he had come to recognize as a close acquaintance instantly creeped in. First in his bowels, creating a loose stirring. The stirring churned into something more. It was spreading in a familiar way to his abdomen, then going both ways and reaching both toes and fingers simultaneously. All of a sudden he was a twitchy mess. An uncontrollable impulse propelled his left foot in a light kick, the flare of pain was brilliant in his bullet wound. He tried to stifle it with the palms of his hands. Once again he looked up and down the road and although he still saw nothing, not a soul, he couldn¡¯t help but feeling like he was being watched again. Behind him, there was nothing but buildings and ferns but suddenly every bush was a hiding spot and every house a potential vantage point for someone Adrian didn¡¯t know about or see. And that was that, his moment of respite was over. He pulled on his socks quickly. One had been balled up when he took it off, and it took a bit of in-the-heat-of-the-moment cursing and finger work to put it on inside-out (which went unnoticed). Next came the shoes, a normally simple task made difficult by pain. After a struggle they were on, and he was off of the wall. He marched up the hill, looking down out of fear and a small silly belief that if Adrian didn¡¯t see any danger that the feeling would go away. Soon panic seized his legs, the muscles began constricting until they locked up, preventing even a single step more. Similarly, his arms shut down and hung loosely but still, the cane fell out of Adrian¡¯s non-existent grip and rolled slowly down the hill before the bobble¡¯s weight took the lead and swung it where it stopped by the brick wall. Adrian was frozen in a warm stupor. The day was calm but inside of him there was a storm. He tried desperately to control his mind, taking deep and forced breaths. He couldn¡¯t center his mind though, each breath and every thought was just a snowflake in a blizzard as all around Adrian the world was spinning. He put a hand out but met nothing, somehow managing to keep his balance in spite of this. Time saved him. Even though his world was a flurry of chaos and the one around him was nearly perfect in how still it stood, time brought the two back together and after five very long minutes, Adrian was calm and had stopped tremoring. He licked dried and cracked lips, took an exaggerated swig from a canteen around his neck, then feebly picked up his cane and continued walking back to the Croteau¡¯s, where a long awaited and proper rest was. --- Adrian was now on the same block as the Croteau¡¯s and was relieved at the familiarity of it. During (what should of been) a simple walk, Adrian quickly went from a home folk to a wanderer, and now he was finally back to a place he could recognize. It was odd, only being strongly familiar with a single block or two of land and then virtually becoming a free land explorer or maybe something as simple as an exotic tourist, only to arrive back to a slice of comfortability. A slice of home. The day was growing long. His walk home, which should of lasted thirty to forty-five minutes, took up two and a half hours of precious sunlight with his decreased speed and all of the necessary stops he had to make. Even with the extra precautions, his leg threatened to burst open anew and spill blood. He hadn¡¯t checked it; it was something that he could feel. It was upon this thought that he decided on one more short rest to relieve the pain and also check the wound, all the distance of only eight or ten houses down the road from the Croteau¡¯s. Devoid of any immediate resting areas such as a bench or half-wall, he simply sat on the edge of the sidewalk and unbuckled his belt. What''s one more stop? With the grace that still tried to protect against social embarrassment, Adrian scanned up and down the road for any unexpected traffic and saw none. Perked ears only heard whistling wind. He unfastened the button of his jeans with two fingers and gripped the waistband with his other hand, the cane was laying on the ground and within reach. Like unwrapping a fragile box, Adrian lowered his pants to his knees and propped his right ass cheek on the sidewalk, leaning at a near 45¡ã angle. With his left hand he carefully picked the medkit out of the duffel bag that Adrian still wore but was resting behind his back. Next he peeled off the bandage. It felt much more like ripping off wax. After it was removed, he inspected the wound. The gunshot had been clean, but he was surprised at how big the wound was. Doesn¡¯t look exactly like how they do it in the movies, he thought. With an alcohol soaked pad he wiped away all dry, drying and wet blood as best as he could. The cleaning provoked a further gush, but Adrian quickly put on another bandage so that it was tight and snug. Only a small red dot blossomed, and he noted that the stinging burn was marginally better. The med kit went back in the duffel bag, and Adrian¡¯s ass went back in his jeans which he then zipped, buttoned and buckled up again. With a fumbling hand he grabbed the cane and propped himself up so that he was standing, the duffel bag slid and bounced on his backside which brought a bark of pain. Adrian had barely noticed it, once again trading awareness of what is around his body for the amount of focus required for what he was staring at. Directly across the street, just barely visible from where Adrian was standing, was a logo on a house that looked like a red ¡°X¡± entrapped in a pink circle. The pink paint gleamed flashily against the red paint which had lost some of its shimmer from being applied a little before the priorly mentioned marker. Without sparing a moment he turned in a half circle and saw, on the house that had been behind him, another splotch of pink paint like he had seen on the burnt shack. No trace of red paint was visible here, but Adrian assumed it was underneath the pink just like before. In a surprise to even Adrian himself, his body did not freeze up in terror. Arms, legs, hands and feet moved as nimbly as ever (or as they could when going against a bullet hole in your hip) and he was quickly heading back to the Croteau¡¯s. Every house along the way though not obviously damaged or looted, was now sporting a swath of red paint that was either circled or smudged out with pink. Adrian rounded the final corner to see that, yes, the Croteau¡¯s had been tagged as well. On the front left corner of the house there was a red ¡°X¡± and a bright circle around it, paint drips were still running down from the circle in tiny beads. He rounded the corner, awash with horror that felt numbingly cold, and saw that his generator he looted months ago was gone. A large square of dead grass was visible. They took it. They took it, and they probably went inside as well. Now he was frozen. He was a river dam cemented with fear. The Croteau¡¯s looked haunted. The windows, though intact besides the one in the attic, were grim and concealing. The chipped paint now looked like desecration rather than rustic charm. Adrian could see that the door was shut, and with a little further inspection he could also tell that there were deep set tire tracks, probably a trucks, that had backed into this driveway. Adrian tried to lift two stumps that were formerly feet but found them rooted to the ground. His knees were locked solid into place. The Croteau¡¯s was towering over him, threatening to collapse. Adrian shook all over and silent tears fell from his eyes. His fingers twitched and a wave of sickness washed over him, to be replaced then by that ominous swimming feeling. Adrian looked down for fear of seeing himself floating above his body, but saw only his feet at an elongated distance. Clammy hands wiped drool from his lips and fell back down limply. The air felt thick and Adrian could feel it being displaced more noticeably than usual. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and dropped off of his eyelid. Kevin. The thought came like a rock to a windshield, causing a crack that spread. Adrian lowered back into his body, the feeling of swimming was fading away again. Muscles let go of their tension and Adrian tried to settle an uneasy stomach. With deep remorse he took baby steps (helped heavily by the cane) and walked up the steps to the door. It didn¡¯t look like it had been touched, but then again Adrian hadn¡¯t bothered to turn the generator on long enough to lock the doors¡­ forced entry wouldn¡¯t have been necessary. Fucking tool, he thought angrily to himself. The door handle turned noiselessly and swung in. The mudroom was now the yawning jaws of a cave¡¯s opening. Adrian scanned it for any noticeable signs of entry and found none. There were no footprints nor dishevelled items. The curtains remained in place and the cabinet drawers that contained scarves, winter hats and mittens remained firmly shut. There wasn¡¯t a noise to be heard from inside. No one¡¯s inside. No one¡¯s been inside. And he was sure in that thought. If looters had been inside here, even to just give a passing eye over for the interesting items like the two men he had encountered before did, they would have taken the water that Adrian could see even from the porch. It wasn¡¯t hidden, it had been at first but Adrian quickly grew wearisome of taking it out and putting it back under the sink. He stepped in, a little less fearful but not yet brave. ¡°Hello? If anyone¡¯s in here¡­ I am armed and it¡¯s in your best interest to get the fuck out.¡± Adrian tried to sound menacing, but his throat cracked and the word ¡°fuck¡± went too high in its pitch, making him sound like a scared teenager in puberty. Not a soul stirred in the house, and the fear he had welled up started turning the gears in his head. A plan was already formulating. --- Kevin was fine, that was the first thing Adrian checked on. When he had seen him in the exact position he left him in, albeit now with thinning ribs, his heart leapt in joy. Five minutes was spent patting the matted fur and giving bottle caps full of water and crushed up vitamins. Kevin was silent and unmoving except for shallow breaths that came out in wheezes. That was all the attention he could afford to give him. After that his time was passed by putting all of his belongings into a centered pile in the living room. Unconsciously, Kevin watched over a small pile of water and dried meat, along with other foods Adrian brought back. The two jugs of gasoline were there, along with a reusable grocery bag that had every single article of clothing that Adrian owned inside. The easel lay propped up against the remaining canvases that Adrian owned, along with a small box of art supplies. Adrian had decided to take the vinyl record player and a few of the good records. All of this chocked up to compile the list of all of Adrian¡¯s worldly goods. And he was ready now. Ready to leave the Croteau¡¯s, to leave home. --- Another ten minutes was spent hobbling around outside, checking the neighbours closed garage doors. In the house across the street he spotted a vehicle that he thought would run. He hadn¡¯t tried to drain gasoline out of cars parked inside of garages, that still felt a little too much like breaking and entering back in the earlier days. Hell, it might of even felt like illegal activity just three days ago. But now it felt mundane to bust open the side door¡¯s window, unlatch the lock and let himself in. A white hatchback with two doors was parked facing the outdoors. He searched the entirety of the garage, opening containers and tapping under tables and feeling around door frames and ledges. He got down on his belly and searched under everything that made a crevice: tables, counters, an old sofa, and the car itself. Finally. He found a spare key to the car under the rug that was just by the door Adrian entered from, attached to what he assumed was a house and garage key. He jimmied the garage door open and breathed in fresh air. The day was darkening, the Croteau¡¯s was still untouched. Adrian unlocked and tried out the car¡¯s ignition, the engine came alive instantly and displayed a nearly empty tank of gas with the REFUEL symbol lit up in neon yellow. Two sunflowers hung like mock fuzzy dice around the rearview mirror, each with a cartoonish face. He drove to the Croteau¡¯s, put the car in reverse and then backed into the lot. The seating was not comfortable on his wound, so he placed a small pillow that the Croteau¡¯s had on the couch in a position that helped alleviate the pain. Still, driving would need to be kept to a minimum. An hour at the most. Despite the fear he still felt, being in motion and keeping his mind occupied helped him stay in control of his body. It was there, tempting to overwhelm him like a glass of water filled to its brim. But not that Adrian saw the plan, the problem and the solution he was putting himself into action. Then he packed up. Everything. His small pile that contained his life was crammed into the trunk of the hatchback. Kevin was nestled comfortably in the backseat and support was added from the floor to help keep him still should there be any sudden stops, this was mainly comprised of pillows and blankets. Adrian stood in the Croteau¡¯s and limped through each room, remembering. The wooden crosses were hanging above the door frames, and even more petals had fallen from their stems. He reached the attic and found a wood splinter he hadn¡¯t swept up earlier two days ago when he broke his easel. Before, I couldn¡¯t handle what was outside of these walls. My past ate at me¡­ and these sudden bursts of anger¡­ Can I control them, now? Can I do this? Am I passed this? Adrian walked downstairs on damaged legs and grabbed the two jerry cans he had hidden under the sink, one was half full and the other one was a quarter full. He dumped them both into the hatchback''s gas tank and then sat in the car. His mind was racing with questions and possibilities. He patted Kevin on the backside, turned the car on again and with nearly half of a tank of gas, left the Croteau¡¯s. Forever. 8: A Perfect U-Turn of Events The hatchback was a smooth ride. It handled the corners and took the bumps without any complaints, grunts or clunks. The padding under Adrian¡¯s rump was helping his gunshot wound, but even before he had absentmindedly turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway it began to throb and burn. There was also an insufferable itch around the area, Adrian was trying his best to ignore it. As the car bounded onto the PCH, making this the third time in Adrian¡¯s life that he had seen the Pacific Ocean, Adrian flipped the radio on. It was a force of habit, something he did without even realizing. He met dead air, but was prompted to check the dashboard of the car as well as the front seat folding mirrors for any CD¡¯s: no dice. The car was as empty as it could have been, but not pristinely clean. Ancient coffee drops splattered the gear shift and cup holders, hair clung to the seats. Dirt and loose pebbles rested at his feet, and as he inspected the floor he saw a quarter. He quickly glanced away, not too fond of that form of currency these days. Now he was passing by the burnt shack. Physically it was unchanged but mentally, as Adrian was exploring it in his mind, it was filled with demons and shadows and men who wanted to hurt him. He pressed down on the gas harder, the dial on the speedometer was pointing at fifty miles per hour and the building went by him. Where am I going? He didn¡¯t quite know. Where was there for him to go? He knew of nobody and nothing in the area. Santa Monica was barely anything more than a name on the map to Adrian, traversing it twice before in the span of a year didn''t exactly equate to a good knowledge of the town. But still he was driving toward it, not feeling compelled to that direction but having no real desire to turn around. Being behind a wheel again was therapeutic. The constant vibration and hum of the road beneath him, the rubbery feel of the steering wheel in his grip. Adrian put the window down and felt an incredible gust of wind that he¡¯d only felt anytime recently on stormy nights inside of the Croteau¡¯s as it shook the house by its frame. The feeling of homesickness was surreal and hit Adrian full force. It was a realization that pulled him out of the stupor he was in, trying to enjoy the joys of a vehicle. He would never again see the Croteau¡¯s, he was certain of this. The feeling was molten lead in his gut and added a certain laboriousness to breathing. Breaths were coming out in sighs that felt like they weighed five pounds. In the rearview mirror Kevin slept with his face turned toward the seat, but the egg of a lump on his head was noticeable. Adrian had first noticed the swelling as he was loading him in, but had no time to ponder it. Now it was a concerning thought. That¡¯s just a lump from a blunt hit¡­ I think. There¡¯s no way that¡­ his brain, or something, is swelling. I don¡¯t think. The attempt to console himself only added to his worries. Adrian had a limited medical knowledge, and about an equal amount in history or experience depending on how you looked at it. Beside¡¯s a jaw surgery he didn¡¯t have that many memories of a doctor¡¯s practise, equipment, or even hospitals. At that last mention, Adrian scrunched his forehead in concentration. Wasn¡¯t there¡­ something¡­? --- Adrian drove by a gas station that was well lit up with canopy lights. It was nearly midnight, the clouds were sparse. Adrian glanced back at the road in time to notice a man in complete marathon attire jogging on the side of the road to his right. The man grew smaller in the mirror, and Adrian thought he recognized the face but never made the connection. He forgot about him and turned back to the road, thoughtlessly rounding a corner. Alyssa slept noiselessly beside him, her head was wilted onto the window sill, forehead pressed against glass that would leave a crude mark when she woke up. Adrian giggled silently at the charm of it. Despite the turmoil and strife they shared, he did think that he loved her. He never had to think about it before, he just felt it but tonight brought the question up. And his answer was that, yes, he did think that he loved her. And he supposed that that answer only brought up more questions, ones that he asked himself. You think? What else are you thinking, what¡¯s on the opposite side of the coin? And Adrian didn¡¯t know. Not immediately. They both drove on in silence for three minutes before Adrian could answer himself. She¡¯s worsening. Alyssa is getting more sick. And he realized that he did think this need and obsession for alcohol was a disease that was growing stronger, too strong as of late. Tonight had been the worst by far. She normally would never push so far as to go to a bootlegger this late at night. Birthday or not, she used to be content with late nights inside and conversation, movies and cooking together. I don¡¯t recognize this side of her. Alyssa stirred when Adrian hit a rather deep pothole, distracted heavily by the self interrogation. In his peripheral vision he could make out her eyelids fluttering open in a way that expressed disorientation. Not quite sure of what she would do, sleep or wake, he silently ignored her arousal and focused on the road. Slowly and then methodically she went through the functions of sitting up right. She rubbed her neck, a small patch of skin on her forehead had went pink as the blood flow there returned to normal. Now he turned his head and noticed her, and she noticed him back. Confusion rested comfortably in her eyes, but he could see her trying to battle it. He decided to help the process along. ¡°You¡¯ve only been out for five minutes, maybe ten, my darling. We¡¯re still quite a distance away. You can sleep if you want to, I know the last few days have been stressful on you.¡± he said with good nature. She soaked the words in and recollection finally shone in her eyes, followed by a dancing light that could only be excitement. ¡°No, I¡¯m fine. I¡¯m awake now, I think I had a power nap.¡± she said, growing buoyant. Silence returned to the car. Alyssa nestled into a comfy if not childlike position, Adrian drove with his right hand on the wheel and his left propping up his head. They were about half way there, the trip would only be an hour there-and-back. The car rolled over a small bridge, an immense river was flowing underneath it. Adrian knew the name of it, as it had been renamed in recent years to ¡°Swimming Falls¡± due to a spot upriver being a popular swimming spot for the local youth and families. He barely glanced at it as they traversed it, but Alyssa poked up and took as much in as she could. ¡°Wow, it¡¯s so pretty tonight Adrian.¡± she admired out loud. ¡°It looks like it does on any night¡­ like murky water.¡± Adrian was not one to appreciate nature in a normal mood. As offput as he was tonight, he had no taste at all for the flowing water. Alyssa stared at him in discontent but said nothing. The river went by as they drove off of the bridge, and the surrounding scenery returned to evergreen trees and dying tufts of grass and gravel. They so far hadn¡¯t encountered a soul beside the jogger they went by earlier. Adrian tried to place a name to the face again. Short black hair, a sharp pointed chin and a rather button-like nose, all on a slender-thin frame of a body. ¡°Adrian watch out.¡± Alyssa said, and Adrian had to swerve immediately around a tiny rabbit that was crossing the road. It bounced onto the gravel and Adrian returned to his lane and tried to pay more attention to the road. The spell of sleep was beginning to be cast on him, and he felt heavy eyelids droop, and then immediately flutter open. Nope. Wide awake. Alyssa had been tossed in the swerve to avoid the animal and now was glaring a hole into the side of Adrian¡¯s face. It took him half of a minute before he felt the intensity of it and glanced over twice, finally noticing the scowl she wore. ¡°...What¡¯s up?¡± he asked timidly. Alyssa didn¡¯t respond at first which led Adrian to believe she hadn¡¯t heard him. He repeated himself, a little louder and more pronounced. ¡°I heard you the first time for fucks sake.¡± Alyssa snapped back instantly. Adrian¡®s left hand fell to the wheel and he straightened his spine. As he grew to his original height he was blinded by the front lights of someone¡¯s car in his rearview and wing mirrors. He shifted them a little bit while he spoke. ¡°Alyssa¡­ what¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°You swerved on purpose and made me hurt my hip.¡± ¡°Your hip? How?¡± ¡°When you swerved I was pressed into the seat belt buckle, really hard. I think it¡¯s already bruising, I can feel it still.¡± ¡°Alyssa¡­ I swerved to avoid the rabbit you warned me about. I¡¯m sorry I hurt you¡­ should I pull over, do you want to go home?¡± ¡°NO!¡± And as she said this she made to grab at the wheel. Adrian jerked in response, and the car swerved into the opposite lane again, which Adrian quickly corrected. They were both quiet. Adrian again adjusted the mirrors in his car, the vehicle behind him was nearly tailgating. None of them said anything nor looked at the other as Adrian rounded another corner. He went for the radio, almost out of pure habit. The static crackled, but before the signal could be picked up Alyssa shut it off. ¡°I¡¯ve changed my mind. I¡¯m going to sleep off this hip pain. Wake me up when we get there, I know it¡¯s only fifteen minutes so don¡¯t try to pull anything over me.¡± She threw an accusative look his way, which he gave a smugly bewildered one in return. ¡°We¡¯re here, aren¡¯t we? On our way to Emile¡¯s. Go ahead. Sleep. I¡¯ll wake you up when we¡¯re there.¡± He said it with almost no inflection, no emotion in his voice. Alyssa looked like she might say something back, but thought against it and nestled into her seat and was asleep before Adrian felt his anger slide back down, which was nearly immediate, and he wanted to apologize. ¡°Look, Alyssa, I¡¯m...¡± he stopped when he heard her snoring softly. The bated breath he held was released in a sigh, an expression that was starting to grow more common with him. Let her sleep. She won¡¯t even remember the argument when she wakes up. He shook his head with silent disapproval. What appeal is there in this? How is this a lifestyle craved by so many? This want¡­ desire, no¡­ obsession that goes so far as to control solid portions of a day. Time that could be spent on so many other things¡­ it¡¯s a waste. But who was he to judge? Did Adrian not (unknowingly) have a similar obsession with love? Or what other reason could he have for staying with someone that he was so incompatible with? These thoughts were too far down the rabbit hole for Adrian to think about, instead they lie dormant in the dark places of his mind. In his repressed thoughts. Instead he thought about ways to fix things, their broken bond and simple connection that was based on initial attraction and not much more. Like with water and rock, time simply eroded what Adrian and Alyssa had. What once was, was not possible again despite what he thought. But he persisted in trying by letting go of his anger. He felt it exit on the exhale of his second bated breath. It was becoming a pet peeve to catch himself in the middle of one of them, and he didn¡¯t want the habit to form. The inhale rapidly turned into a strong yawn, one that overpowers the system and sends the alert message: you need sleep. Even though his eyelids gained more weight, Adrian could keep them wide open. It took a lot of focus, and he could feel the air rushing in behind them and drying them out, but he was determined to stay awake. His surroundings were of no assistance; all around him was the repetition of scant forest, asphalt, gravel and paint. The glare of light behind him, however, was helping. He propped his head back onto his left hand and coasted over a small hill that had a pretty steep downslope. This position helped avoid the tailgater behind him, and in general made him more comfy. Which, with no true driving companion, why not make himself comfy? The road was stretching on as straight as an arrow for as far as his lights would penetrate into the dark. In this part of the backwoods there weren¡¯t any streetlights out here, this was what the locals referred to as the boonies. Why anyone would choose to live here was beyond Adrian. Beckley was a small enough town as it was. No, Adrian felt destined for bigger things than these back roads. He longed for the sense of climbing a figurative ladder, working hard to make it to the next rung. He had felt some of that thrill, cheaply. Working at a hotel for eight years provided a lot of opened doors. Adrian was a hard worker and it didn¡¯t go unnoticed in the business, and so he had climbed a ladder there. He had made it to assistant manager of banquets after six and a half years, the hotel having one of the largest and also the most banquet halls in town made it no easy task. He¡¯d served, cleaned, initiated cheap pleasantries and conversation and received expensive criticism and backlash for thousands and thousands of guests. He had personally hand delivered food worth hundreds of thousands of dollars that came in from all over the world. And all of that might look nice on paper he thought, but he wanted more for himself. So he fantasized about packing up and moving across the country. The hotel industry was booming everywhere that a tourist would go, and with his resume he could easily pick up another job. Somewhere where the buildings were tall and the people were rude and to themselves. Where it was warm and where there was a place that he could be by himself. Which brought on the side question of whether or not he would want Alyssa to be with him on an adventure like that. He still felt the love for her that he has always had since they met, but maybe¡­ He swerved over the line again, this time drastically. The car had made it over the double yellow stripes before he managed to swing it back into his own lane. Fortunately, he hadn¡¯t seen a single car go by on the opposing lane. He supposed that was part of why it was so easy to be distracted while driving these back roads. Unfortunately was the sound of the sirens and flash of blue and red lights. The sound blipped twice in a shrill manner, a warning. Adrian could see the strobing colors in his mirrors and bouncing around the interior of his car. He glanced at Alyssa, who was still dead asleep without a care in the world. ¡°Piss.¡± Adrian muttered. The police officer sounded his siren again and Adrian put on his right blinker, not necessarily wanting to stop on the middle of a dark road but he didn¡¯t have the slightest indication of where the next lit up area would be, the last one he saw was the gas station where the jogger was running by, some number of miles behind him.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The two cars pulled over and parked, Adrian shut his vehicle off. The squad car kept its lights on and the engine running. He was wondering whether or not to wake up Alyssa, staring at her sleeping, when there came a light rapping on his window. Adrian looked over to see the face of a no-bullshit black man in his fifties. This man had clearly been on the force for at least twenty years, maybe thirty. The name tag on his shirt read ¡°Lieut. Barfield¡± and he had a closed shaved haircut that was beginning to grow out in curls, and a moustache that was neatly trimmed. He was an intimidatingly large man. Adrian rolled down his window. ¡°Sir, what do you think you¡¯re doing?¡± came a deep voice from Barfield, he spoke quickly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, officer. Me and my girlfriend were-¡± ¡°I don¡¯t care what you two miscreants were off to go do,¡± he interjected, ¡°I care about why you¡¯re behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle while intoxicated, young man.¡± the officer lowered his brow into a furious scowl, one he had seen worn by Alyssa a few minutes ago. ¡°Sir¡­ what? I¡¯m not¡­ no. Wait. You¡¯ve got the wrong-¡± ¡°Step out of the vehicle, sir. Be prepared to take a breathalyzer test.¡± --- And so over the next twenty minutes Adrian was grilled by Lieutenant Barfield on the side of an unlit road. The breathalyzer test came back clean but the strong willed Barfield wasn¡¯t having it. His voice rose in volume and bass as he repeated aloud the incidents of the multiple swerves, the stuttering, the clear anxiety of the situation. After some arguing there was even an accusation about the origins of an unconscious woman in his vehicle. Thankfully at that exact moment, Alyssa slammed the car door shut to promptly (and a tad bit outlandishly) handle the explanation, having woken up from the commotion. Barfield was more than inclined to listen, clearly able to see now that Adrian was the designated driver. He gave Adrian a brisk warning and told him to be on his way. The police cruiser left first, pulling around their car and passed it but not before casting a distrustful glance back. ¡°Thank you, Alyssa. That guy was giving me a hard time.¡± Adrian was stressed to the point that he felt like popping. He wanted to turn the car around. ¡°You¡¯re welcome, Adrian. I thought he was being a dick, too. You just can¡¯t let people treat you like that no matter who they are. Let¡¯s just keep going, ok?¡± and with that she took off her coat and wrapped it around herself like a blanket, not waiting for a retort. Adrian offered one regardless. ¡°What was I to do? He said it himself¡­ out here in the backwoods with an unconscious girl¡­ maybe if you had been awake it wouldn¡¯t of seemed so suspicious. Maybe if you hadn¡¯t dragged me out here in the dead of night I wouldn¡¯t have been tired enough to swerve over the line. Maybe if how I felt was considered, we wouldn¡¯t even BE here!¡± his anger was building up, puffing his chest like a toad or some bird. Even while ranting it out, he knew how wrong he was, but it was impossible for him to bite his tongue. The bottle had popped and the cork went flying, and the contents that fizzed out was unsaddled rage. This time it had cost too much, the slice of dignity he left behind as he was forced to take that breathalyzer was embarrassing to think about. Alyssa hadn¡¯t heard most of Adrian¡¯s rant, as was her habit, sleep had claimed her nearly immediately while in the throes of an alcoholic binge. She wasn¡¯t impossible to wake up, but it would take effort. None of which Adrian felt like spending right now, so he let her sleep and let his reservoir of anger drain out at its bottom. He exhaled a breath with emphasis, there was no longer the slightest tickle of sleep in him. The brief interaction was more effective than a splash of cold water. There was no longer any joy in what he was doing. He thought of how happy it would make Alyssa and still felt nothing. Adrian wanted to be home, doing anything. Anything but this. She was resting soundlessly in the passenger seat. How is that fair? I¡¯m doing her the favor and I just turn into a chauffeur who works for free. Worse, one who''s willing to drive to commit illegal activity. Even the reminding thought that it was her birthday couldn¡¯t stifle this sudden turn of the page. Adrian did not want to feed the fire any longer. I can¡¯t keep giving in to her. It was a mistake to think that if I aided her that she would see that she was hurting herself, but now it¡¯s obvious that I¡¯ve only left a wound unclean so that it could fester. I need to stop giving her control. For her sake. With this shift he took one last longing look at Alyssa. Thin blonde hair lay in messy bunches that spilled across her shoulders. Her delicate eyelashes fluttered once, movement was made underneath of her eyelids as she searched for restful sleep, and then they were still. She was beautiful. Adrian¡¯s kind of woman, physically speaking. Even emotionally, to admit the truth. He admired the tenacity to defy the natural order of things that she has, and the ability to follow through with a commitment. Even if the commitments weren¡¯t ones that she should be making. There was a noticeable trend between all of her lovely traits. They spoke for a certain immaturity and a lack of wisdom to apply to her aspirations. Simply put, Adrian thought that Alyssa never truly left high school. She was still a teenage girl wanting to act out. What she thought of as ¡°mastering both worlds¡±, was more like refusing to let go of the former phase of her life while stepping into the next, in his opinion. Was Adrian supposed to act as the parent. Or, more appropriately, the guardian? Then he would. With dramatically exaggerated gestures he drilled the key into the ignition, turned it forward and felt the car come to life again. The gear shift left park and arrived at drive, and then Adrian made a u-turn from the gravel on the side of the road so that he was now traveling on the opposite side, heading back toward Alyssa''s home. There was a giddy, guilty feeling that bubbled inside of him. Adrian felt like a six year old who just made off with an extra cookie from the jar. He wasn''t trying to do it intentionally, but he knew that this would royally piss Alyssa off. Defying her was bittersweet. Given its natural characteristics and the fact that Adrian had just been driving here but on the other side of the middle lines, the scenery was starting to look aglow. As if the moon and stars had just come out from behind an enormous cloud. The trees waved merrily in the wind, and the sky had a peculiar shade of purple that was so deep and dark that it threatened to change to pitch-black. Adrian was a little alarmed to look down and see that the speedometer was pointing at seventy miles per hour, he let weight off of the gas pedal and coasted back down to the speed limit. Alyssa slept on, as dead to the world as she could be. Maybe she¡¯s out for good. For the night. She¡¯s certainly having a lot of difficult staying awake, and that¡¯s been a showing sign of her being ready to call it a night. Plus, that Russian vodka was stronger than what she normally drinks. And as he thought that in his head, she let out a long and very unlady-like snore. Another familiar indication that this evening was over for the birthday girl. Adrian let himself relax, his shoulders slumped from a tense position he didn¡¯t realize that they were in. Likewise, teeth unclenched from a jaw that had been unknowingly clamped shut. I am stressed. I haven¡¯t felt like this in¡­ forever. But a good night of sleep will put me right. For now, just push the anxiety aside, Adrian. And he did. He exhaled it away and felt tension and stress leave. Now he was truly relaxed and felt control, behind the wheel of not only the vehicle he was in but also, and finally, his body once again. Adrian glanced at the fuel tank and saw it was under half full by a slim margin. He tensed up with apprehension. That shit wouldn¡¯t fly in my car. How can she drive like this? What if we have an oil crisis, or even more plausibly what if she got lost? It was easy enough to imagine the scenario, a confusion-ridden woman who would be driving with her head on a swivel, hoping for a landmark she remembered or a gas station to replenish the depleting fumes in the tank. It wouldn¡¯t be a surprise to learn that she had even already been in a scenario like that. Alyssa wasn¡¯t exactly a survivalist. She was barely someone who could keep her life in order with her plans. Not at all unlike a train running on its track, the vibrations of moving forward causing the screws to turn loose and fall. And derailment was as unavoidable as much as it was an uncertainty to her, the only real questionable factor remaining was time. How many dregs did she have left before the bottom of the barrel was hit, literally and figuratively? What could she accomplish before her time was up and she reached the epitome of her shame? Even Adrian could now recognize that she was beyond the point of saving; at a certain point in their addiction, the junkie needs to make the choice to turn around for themselves. So why am I here? Why am I with her? Our lifestyles are clashing so violently because they¡¯re so violently different. Have I¡­ have I only been hurting her? Has she only been hurting me? The thoughts brought an ominous silence inside of his own mind. They provided the illusion of being hollow and ached in a way that only hurt emotionally. Adrian loved Alyssa. She was his heart, and he hadn¡¯t felt like this about anyone, ever. She was his first true love, the rest before her were simply, as the expression put it, puppy love. The strength of it still burned passionately each time his heart pumped. It was a fiery hot force that redoubled when he stared in her eyes or saw her mindlessly play with her hair while talking. It brightened when she joked with him and was its brightest on late nights spent inside of each other¡¯s arms. But this¡­ this was not what they once had anymore. Realizing this was weird for Adrian. He realized that he had all of a sudden noticed a gradual change. Like¡­ Like all of a sudden I¡¯m caught in high tide. That panic, that alarm and disorientation. Adrian felt¡­ loose and disconnected from himself, as if due to an overload of stress his consciousness had reverted as inward as it could, providing a good and thick layer of skin as a shield, a barrier from the world and all of its wrong doings. A rock the size of a shoe was in the path of Adrian¡¯s left tire, so he smoothly turned the steering wheel, and the car drove dangerously close towards the curb of the road. Out of fear of other watchful policemen, he avoided crossing over onto the left side of the road. Driving was a given skill to Adrian, his uncle had been a natural and coached him during the months that he had had his beginners permit. They drove over quite a lot of West Virginia, testing its back roads and the main roads, the highways and the byways. Despite this knowledge, experience and ego, the right side tire¡¯s dipped onto the gravel. The car shook with quick tremors, loose items in the dashboard jingled and clunked. Change spilled out onto the floor from the holder by the gear shift. But then it was over, in a matter of four seconds Adrian had swerved around the rock and pulled back onto the road. Nervously he glanced over at Alyssa, the tumble and rumble onto the side of the road had been loud, it surely would have woken someone¡­ Dead asleep. Alyssa¡¯s head lolled more limply, shaken out of place by the dip they took so that she was now pointing the top of her head at him. He thought, as she snored nasally, that she¡¯d have a stiff neck if that¡¯s how she slept on the way back but he didn¡¯t dare do anything to correct it in fear of waking her up. It swayed like a branch in the wind when the car lurched and went over bumps. It was a relief that was felt twice. Once for having her remain asleep, and again for the reassurance that she would most likely stay asleep until they both made it back to Alyssa''s, where he would carry her into the house and put her comfortably in the bed that he had often shared. Adrian didn''t think he''d stay there tonight, birthday or not. He needed time to clear his head and sort these thoughts out. She looked so peaceful, most of her face was covered by a cascade of blonde hair, thin and straight. What he could see was a delicate and angelic face, so concentrated on sleep that her forehead had the faintest traces of wrinkles. Adrian traveled on quietly for another five minutes. It was smooth sailing and he began to relax, going back to his head-propped-on-left-arm routine while his right hand took control of the wheel. Despite being tired he no longer displayed signs of it. Where formerly he had nearly dozed off at the wheel, he now was staring wide eyed out of the windshield. Up ahead, way in the distance on the straight and narrow road, was the small bridge that ran across Swimming Falls. It was only a tiny reflective dot quite afar from Adrian, but it signified that he was nearing in on Alyssa¡¯s house. It was the bridge, then the gas station, and then a short five minute drive and he¡¯d be there. Free of the woman he loved who was creating thoughts that were to burdening for Adrian to handle right now. He needed time to think¡­ this was not a subject he was well versed in. It would be a much easier task to accomplish at his home, in his bedroom. A well furnished area on the third and top floor of the condo he lived in. There was a comfortable leather chair there that he could sink into and lean back. He would close his eyes and let time and his mind sort this problem out, followed by a decent night of sleep that would surely come after this stressful part was done. He thought of calling Douglas. It was late, but Douglas was always one to stay up into the first hours of morning where Adrian craved ten, eleven or even twelve hours of sleep every night. Doug had been in a relationship for years, surely he would be able to relate with what Adrian was feeling. Or at least be able to give him some advice. That was the beauty of their relationship as brothers, even if they didn¡¯t relate to each other¡¯s problems they could always see the other¡¯s point of view, because they had known the other for their entire lives. No one knew them better than Adrian and Douglas knew each other. If it¡¯s not that late when I get back, then I¡¯ll call him. If it is than maybe this can all wait until the morning. And having settled on this plan of action, feeling security in that the future will heal the wounds that he now had, he pumped the gas a little further. Not too much, barely even noticeable. Adrian could see the treeline beginning to break as the Swimming Falls was coming closer into view. The water was ten or fifteen feet below and not possible to see until you were crossing. It was a beautiful sight though, day or night. The bridge¡¯s rectangular reflective pads were glaring, casting direct light into his eye. ¡°Adrian, are we there yet?¡± came the sleepy, grog filled voice of Alyssa. Adrian¡¯s heart palpitated at twice its regular speed. This wasn¡¯t supposed to happen, not when he was so close to freedom. ¡°Uh¡­ well, Alyssa. You, um, you¡­¡± Adrian couldn¡¯t put a complete sentence together. He saw Alyssa¡¯s eyes flutter open. ¡°Adrian, where are we?¡± she asked with a suspicious tone, sleep shaking off quicker than he would have thought humanly possible. It was as if Adrian had just shook her awake to warn her of a sudden fire. ¡°Adrian?¡± she sat up, lurched slightly, steadied and looked out of the window. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ Swimming Falls. We¡¯re going back.¡± she stated angrily, not questioning the events. ¡°Alyssa, ok¡­ just-¡± ¡°SHUT THE FUCK UP ADRIAN AND TURN THIS CAR THE FUCK AROUND.¡± she screamed, ear piercingly loud enough to be a proper imitation of a banshee. In surprise, Adrian did the one thing a driver should never ever do while behind the wheel of a car. He let go of it. His hands flew up in fear, out of what? He couldn¡¯t say. Being hit, even though Alyssa was never a physical abuser? Maybe it was just being jumpy, on top of being caught off guard. Or maybe Alyssa truly scared him, with her powerful confidence and display of aggression, and he had never realized this until her full power was being displayed. Regardless, his hands left the rubber steering wheel, his foot accelerating a bit further making the speedometer touch just under seventy miles per hour. Wearing a feral snarl and using an uncanny speed for someone who has been awake for a total of twenty seconds she grabbed the steering wheel. The seatbelt prevented her from fully diving into Adrian¡¯s lap as she had tried, but it also provided the jerking momentum necessary to haul the steering wheel down and hard to the right. Both people swerved, as did the car as it drove through both layers of wooden guard posts, laced with heavy, thick and taut wire. The automobile drove clean through both sets about a quarter of the way onto the bridge, and plunged deep down in an erupting and thunderous BOOM as it penetrated the surface of the Swimming Falls. From outside and with their windows shut, the sound of their death-frightened screams couldn¡¯t be heard. The impact deployed both airbags, giving Adrian a concussion. He blacked out temporarily, and the last thing he consciously remembers was a weird¡­ disembodied swimming sensation¡­ Interlude III Adrian was physically sitting in a leather chair inside of his home. Physically, he was contained in the seat he was in but spiritually and mentally he had fled his body. Like a hypnotized man, he was slouched forward at a back-aching angle with his elbows resting heavily on his calves, his hands were limply held in between. A gaze that would be hard to break bore beams into the wall across from him, ten feet away. Bare feet touched dusty hardwood floor, the only part of Adrian that was unclothed beside the top of his head. Inside of his head, Adrian was swimming¡­ a weird and nauseating sensation that pulled at him much like how a riptide will pull a strangler out to sea. As thoughts tried to process, sensational wave after wave slammed him around. Not being a man who felt the sickness of the sea often, his gut was churning like someone furiously wanted to make butter. Adrian had had this tormenting swimming feeling ever since¡­ the accident. There hadn¡¯t been a moment of clarity on account of it. The hospital lights had been much too bright, the doctor¡¯s too loud and persistent which did not mesh well with an unsourceable loud ringing that stayed persistently in his ears that was only drowned out if Adrian instead focused on trying to swim. Which he did not want to do. Swimming was terrible. There was no destination nor place to rest. Swimming left him devoid of a lot of his mental abilities. Critical thinking power, his sense of morality and even his own personality was now a big encyclopedia that he needed to leaf through to get the answers he was looking for, answers to questions as simple as ¡°is this pain bearable?¡±, ¡°have I been through anything worse than this?¡±, or more frequently ¡°was what they told me of the past two days all a dream?¡± And that was how everything felt to Adrian. Like the moments after waking up in the morning, the power of sleep fading. The past two days were like trying to remember the dream he had been having as it relentlessly slips from memory. Except not even a single detail was able to be retrieved, and would not be brought to the forefront of his mind for a long time, on a day when Adrian would be gloomily driving through Santa Monica with a dog in his backseat. Back in West Virginia, though, inside of the condo building that he had been living in for three years, Adrian was sitting. I might just sit here until mold and moss grow he thought. It would be the easiest thing to do, rather than confront anything beyond this murky veil. For at the same time that it was imprisoning him, this feeling of swimming, it was also protecting him. There were realizations that he wanted to let lie for a while, deep in the black recesses of his mind. No lights were on, the blinders were shut. It was dark all across Adrian¡¯s room, with little rays of sunlight sneaking past the curtains to make a glowing rectangle on his wall. It reminded him¡­ of¡­ something. His mind irregularly whirred passed a few memories that whisked themselves way as soon as they touched the tip of Adrian¡¯s forerunning memory. He tried to recall them but found that he couldn¡¯t. A cold, tingling sensation gripped him from the top of his spine and shook its way down. All of a sudden he didn¡¯t like the dark. Like a stone giant come to life, Adrian unbent concrete legs and with speed that became quicker over time he drew back the curtains and opened the window blinds. Outside was a small park, Adrian lived in a quiet part of town. Children ran freely at three o¡¯clock, playing tag and other games with their families. Animals wagged to and fro. Ducks swam gaily through a pond¡­ Another series of janky memories ran by the running screen that was Adrian¡¯s conscious mind. For fractions of a second he was able to see unidentifiable images that came across in blue, red and white blurs. Each one was a miniature wrapped-up punch in the gut, felt fully but without knowing where the blow came from. Adrian didn¡¯t even have the slightest inclination to explore them. The grandest pain that he felt wasn¡¯t one hidden from his own memory, it was an omnipresent fact that every surrounding presence screamed silently at him. Alyssa was dead, killed while he was behind the wheel of the car. She no longer existed to this world or his¡­ and that stomped his heart into broken, tiny shards of glass and grinded them into a fine dust when he thought about it. She was the love of his life, and while he had questioned it earlier he definitely knew it now. Despite the differences and petty arguments, Adrian had never loved like he loved Alyssa. The amnesia he had gotten, a symptom of the concussion he had also received, had stretched back to around the time Alyssa had fallen asleep earlier in the evening of that fatal day, two days ago. He didn¡¯t remember her waking up, or why they were out driving. Adrian couldn¡¯t remember what their plan was, where they were going or why they would ever choose to drive in the backroads at night. The only person either of them knew out there was her ex¡¯s old friend, Emile Stoddard¡­ Several more graphic photographs blipped into and out of existence, Adrian tried desperately with his mind to snag one, to solve his curiosity as to why the name Emile Stoddard caused such anxiety to him right now. As he mentally wrestled for control, a swelling of dread arose, and the memory was wrested from him and repressed again. As it went, so did the feeling of oncoming dread. These fleeting thoughts that Adrian both wanted to relive and at the same time keep repressed were dividing him in half. With thick, pitiful sobs he cast his head into his hands and let fat tears stroll down his cheeks. He made to sit back down but forgot (what with the concussion, depression, and general disorientation from the traumatic past few days he has had) where he was standing, which was in front of the window and still five feet or more from the chair. Awkwardly he made to lay himself down, but having nothing underneath him left him fumbling and grasping backward until he fell on to his ass, and in a fit of frustration the tears came more steadily and accompanied with miserable sounding whimpers. Adrian sat there in front of his window until the tears stopped flowing. Ten minutes later, he was wiping his face with the bottoms of his palms and readjusting himself back into his leather chair. The comfort it provided had a phantom touch, existing to Adrian and even felt by him, but not how he used to feel such content. This was an awkward, distant and cold imitation left in its place. Dead and motionless his cellphone laid on a simple mahogany desk. It¡¯s sleek, black body lay flat and close to the corner. Adrian had been told that he was lucky that he hadn¡¯t brought his cellphone along; his other belongings had been water damaged or washed away. His wallet, packed with driver¡¯s license, bank cards, two hundred dollars in cash and also a sentimental photo of Adrian and Alyssa hadn¡¯t turned up at all, despite the search of the car when they had retrieved it from the water that the police had orchestrated, and the equally thorough search of the river. The black rectangle vibrated, and from Adrian¡¯s angle on the chair he could see the screen light up but not what was displayed on the screen itself. It was another glowing square and when Adrian closed his eyes it left glowing outlines on his retinas. He opened them, trying to escape the image and the thoughts it brung along. The attempt failed, only producing a negative afterimage of the glow wherever he cast his vision, which happened to be looking near the still-illuminated cellphone. He considered briefly who might be calling him. Who would call me right now? The police said they had everything, it shouldn¡¯t be them. Beyond the brief initial talks, I never made any arrangements with a lawyer. Adrian had had a few small talks with ameteur lawyers, whispering legal secrets in his ear that he let whistle out the other. Not one for law and its antics, he kept his head down and waited for the ¡°all clear¡± he had been hoping for. When Lieut. Barfield himself delivered it, Adrian shook his hand and shook off the lawyer¡¯s like a dog with a bad case of fleas. News reporters? I did have to wave off that one local newspaper journalist as I left the hospital. But a distinct feeling in his gut was telling him that it wasn¡¯t anyone with any sort of media looking to scope out the finer details of the fatal crash. The curiosity was only starting to thaw out the icy edges of his apathy when the light died out, the vibrating pattern that was starting to become rhythmic stopped suddenly. The contrast the silence provided, despite the apartment being as quiet as it has ever been before the phone rang, was awakening. Could that have been Mom or Dad? Maybe Douglas even¡­ he hasn¡¯t said a word to me yet. Not even a visit to the hospital. His parents, who had visited twice and with obvious worry and doubt in their eyes, had been avoiding his questions concerning Douglas and Felicia, Alyssa¡¯s sister. While their love for him was still clear and apparent, they did want to know why he was out on the backroads so late, and were skeptical about what could cause an accident on such a quiet night. Adrian¡¯s lack of information only made them leave the hospital room uneasily when they were ready to make their retreat, not before staying for an appropriate hour to discuss the event and other, smaller trivialities.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. When Adrian had asked about Douglas, his parents both awkwardly avoided his stare. They made mention of his¡­ ¡°concern¡± as it was put, and suggested subtly to avoid Douglas until Felicia had been consoled. When Douglas¡¯s life partner had been brought into question, the downward cast glances became glued to their shoes. She was an inconsolable mess, wanting absolutely nothing to do with Adrian. The word ¡°hate¡± wasn¡¯t stated out loud in reference to how she was currently viewing her lover¡¯s brother, but it was being heavily implied. Alyssa hadn¡¯t been a public alcoholic; as far as Adrian was aware, he might have been the only one to know about her binging problem. Her family knew her to be social and outgoing, and someone not afraid to enjoy alcohol, but it was obvious with how her side of the family was acting that they thought that alcohol never could have played a part in the car accident. There had been no alcohol in the car, and since Adrian had been the driver and had openly mentioned that Alyssa had been intoxicated (this he could remember, the expensive bottle of Russian vodka she had drank was in fact still at Alyssa¡¯s home), no one looked into it any further. Adrian was known to be straight-edge, and so far hadn¡¯t received an accusation for being at fault of the accident, even from Alyssa¡¯s visiting parents, MartinHaines who was tall and lean and TalithaHaines who was tall and wide, when he was in the hospital room. The poor things were walking shells of themselves, the ghost of Alyssa was looming right over their shoulders. They had meekly made conversation, said that they were glad for his health (and to their effort seemed honest and genuine), and then left after ten awkward and tense minutes. The phone buzzed again. A single buzz. Adrian blinked, a little bit taken by surprise as he deduced, from the previous call, that someone had left him a voicemail. The frozen corners of his lethargy melted at a quicker rate, and curiosity began to thrum a familiar chord inside of him. At the same time as he was curious as to who would call him, and undoubtedly there was a small list of people who that might be, he did not feel like talking to anyone and this provided an easy outlet to both problems. He felt like remaining comatose, lamenting the events of the past few days. Adrian hadn¡¯t spoken to anyone for a solid twenty-one hours and was only feeling worse as time ticked on. It wasn¡¯t healthy to sit. To stew in his own sorrow. But it was easier, and that was good enough for Adrian. But he was curious about the caller. He reached for his cell phone and pressed its side button to light up the screen. It took him some seconds to turn the phone around and properly find the button, his eyes hadn¡¯t adjusted to the focus he was trying to use, and his senses failed to cooperate on time. Finally he correctly prompted the screen to light up. VOICEMAIL (1): FELICIA SHEPHERD ¡°Shit.¡± he said tersely. The possibility that it had been his brother¡¯s wife had evaded him. Of course she would call. But what would she say? Would she possibly want to meet in person, to talk? Would she forgive him or would she never want to speak to him again? Alyssa and Felicia hadn¡¯t been twins like Adrian and Douglas, but their relationship was just as close as his own and Doug¡¯s. They were born a single year apart, Alyssa being the older and both of them being 2-3 years younger than both Adrian and Douglas. They were simple girls with big dreams, Alyssa was a secretary for a doctor¡¯s office, and Felicia was an accomplished interior designer. Douglas had fallen for Felicia, and it was Felicia who had introduced Alyssa to Adrian. What did she think of that decision now? The screen faded to black from inactivity. He noticed his hand was trembling and not trying to activate his phone again. Do I want to? He wasn¡¯t sure anymore. But he had to. That much was owed to Alyssa¡¯s family, to hear them out. Slowly and with a held breath, he listened to the voicemail: ¡°.........Adrian? It¡¯s as much that I could have guessed that you wouldn¡¯t pick up the phone tonight. You are probably lying alone in your shitty apartment, wasting your fucking life away. I called you to say something. We do not have any need, that is myself or Douglas, in seeing you again. After what your reckless driving has done, I can no longer stand the thought of you and need you to be erased from my life. Douglas, too, has come to the realization that while your murder was deemed an accident, you are still to blame and he thinks of you as guilty. ¡°On top of this, he has finally come to the realization that you are not the good and amazing role model of a brother that you have always made yourself out to be. He has told me numerously over the months that he has been growing tired of the way you have always looked down at him and treated him like a lesser. Adrian, Douglas is more of a man than you could ever be. You¡¯re a cheap, accidental fuck-up of human waste who killed my fucking SISTER!¡± There was a pause for a matter of seconds, in which Adrian could hear the gentle release of long stifled sobs. Composed, she returned and said: ¡°We hate you. We both hate you, and always will Adrian. I hope you die as ugly a death as Alyssa did. Have you even seen her body, Adrian? When Alyssa¡¯s ex was resting at the bridge during his jog, he pulled you out first. Do you know why he pulled you out, instead of someone he recognized Adrian? Because he didn¡¯t recognize her. He had seen the condition of her head and couldn¡¯t see that it was Alyssa. ¡°I wish he had left you¡­ it wouldn¡¯t bring Alyssa back but knowing that you were dead as well would bring some rest to this nightmare.¡± The phone¡¯s dial tone blared. Adrian thumbed the off button and sat it back down. He was still deep in a state of lethargy, to the point that the devastating phone call was just another grievance next to a growing list of problems. As if his mind had suppressed the emotional distress that had been building up, he felt a great wave of sadness crashing down from a distant place and rush up and around to consume him. Is this my fault? Am I to blame? Did I kill Alyssa? These thoughts that should have been wailing cries were merely inquisitive queries. Adrian could never have believed it that he could have intentionally wanted Alyssa to die, that simply was not a part of who he was. Adrian was not a barbarian. But could he have been the hand who was orchestrating it, unknowing or not? It had been Alyssa¡¯s birthday¡­ and she had been drunk. Although she was a pretty good driver who claimed to have exceptional drunk driving skills, Adrian had been the one that the jogging man (who, in a surely funny coincidence, turned out to be Alyssa¡¯s ex-boyfriend) retrieved first. He (whose name was Chucky) had recently turned his life around. Chucky was formerly a drinking buddy of Emile the bootlegger, and him and Alyssa met through their mutual hobbies. Apparently he had had an epiphany, quit the booze and became a health and fitness fanatic. Alyssa had mentioned him once or twice but it was comments that Adrian let sift in one ear and ease out of the other. Now the town of Beckley was heralding him as a hero while simultaneously mourning the loss of one of its own citizens. The reports that Chucky had made were not as informative as Adrian had been wishing for. He wanted answers, he wanted to know that he wasn¡¯t a guilty man so that his conscience might be clean. Apparently, Chucky had been at the other end of the bridge when he saw a car. Chucky was fond of jogging near midnight on the backroads because it was quiet and provided less traffic, normally none at all. He had noted when Adrian and Alyssa drove by but didn¡¯t recognize her car in the dark, nor when it was underwater. It wasn¡¯t until later that Chucky realized who the person he had pulled out of the water second was. When he saw the car coming across the bridge, he had intended to wait for it to pass before he started jogging back toward his home; Swimming Falls had been as far as he was going to run before going home for a shower and then sleep. The car, with blaring headlights outlined and surrounded by inky nighttime darkness that blocked the view of the windshield, veered to its right in a fashion that was sudden and did not appear deliberate. As he told the newspaper, he never wasted a second and didn¡¯t think twice about running down the rough slope of dirt, loose gravel and stone which was the embankment of the bridge. According to the article, the heroic son of a bitch hadn¡¯t even taken his shoes or his shirt off in his mad dash to save the sunken car¡¯s passengers. Adrian didn¡¯t know why he hated Chucky, but he did. Adrian wasn¡¯t so petty as to feel like a lesser man in comparison to him, during or after his relationship with Alyssa. But he hated Chucky now that he had saved his life. He saved my life¡­ but Alyssa should be here. None of this should have happened, and I can¡¯t shake that feeling. Stress laid heavily on his shoulders, a feeling of remorse and guilt mingled within. The sensation that he was to be blamed, that he had done something wrong and should feel bad about it. It gnawed endlessly at the fog and confusion that amnesia provided willingly. Something that Felicia had said came back to him. She mentioned that not only she but Douglas as well didn¡¯t want to see him again. That one comment had been especially barbed, and it prodded Adrian in tender spots in his heart to think about that being a possibility. What would I do without Douglas? He¡¯s my brother¡­ Adrian grabbed for his cell phone and went to his brother in the contact list. The photo that Adrian had stored for his profile, one of him and Doug covered in mud, the background was of a swamp and created as much confusion as their huge, laughing grins provided considering the environment and filth coating their faces. The dial tone rang, Adrian could have sworn that his heart beat as often as the tone came. The call dropped after eight low, buzzing drones. Adrian let go of his cell phone and cried, truly feeling the sorrow he had experienced now. Interlude IV Felicia hung up the phone, ending her rant that she had left for Adrian. Through her sobs she missed the table where she intended to put her device down, and instead threw it to the floor with unintended force. The smooth glass shattered on the limestone floor tiles, tiny pieces of it went flying and scattered around the scene. Her sobs turned into a piercing moan of woe, and angrily she grabbed fistfuls of her perfect chestnut brown hair and stomped her feet in criss-crossing repetition. She felt so¡­ lost. So violated and powerless. As if someone had sought her out personally to do irreparable damage and watch the shambles of her life as the walls caved in, and all familiarity and comfort were swept away. Her life partner, for as much as Douglas was her soul mate there were things that even he couldn''t understand or relate to, was gone. The bond that the two sisters shared was complete. Meaning that they fit each other like a pair of gloves. Moreso, they WERE like a pair of gloves. One was built to be with the other. It had been through long and thoughtful conversations with each other that they had decided upon their own career routes. Alyssa''s orderly conduct, attentiveness and ambitious attitude were a perfect match for a role as a medical secretary, and Felicia had been a natural at designing, as well as being creative, free-thinking and detail-oriented. Felicia truly believed that she would not be where she was today without her beloved sister. And what argument was there to be had against that notion? Hadn¡¯t Alyssa been the one to help Felicia through highschool, the awkward phase of her life where acne riddled her and kids too juvenile to do much else but search for reasons to be bullies tormented her, hadn¡¯t Alyssa been her protector, her role model? Felicia still clearly remembered one sunny afternoon, finishing up her last class and waiting for her mother to take her home. She had been sitting alone, on the same bench she normally sat on at this time of day. The two friends she had would walk instead of taking the bus, their homes were within a short range. So Felicia sat on a bench nearly everyday to wait for her mom, the exception being on the days that Felicia would call home in tears, her mother or father barely able to discern that she had had another experience with her bullies, a group of four girls that took great joy in reducing her to tears with verbal insults and nasty rumors. Among other things, they had spread the word that her facial blemishes, which were bountiful, were obvious side effects of an STD that they claimed she had. Ridiculous, cruel lies from the start, but they spread like struck matches to dry grass. Soon the whole school had been calling her, amongst other piercing names that she rather not recall right now, ¡°Free Fuck Felicia¡±. The fact of the matter was that Felicia, at the time and until her own prom party some years later, had never had sex. Nor a single passionate encounter with any boy. The first years of high school for Felicia had been rough, to put it lightly. Surrounding a colorful, bright, innovative yet unfortunately subdued personality was the skin of a human being going through the processes of puberty. Though not unattractive, she was plagued with several constellations comprised of pimples. It was a slow, waning slope that grew slippery very quickly. First puberty, followed by the acne. Chasing acne was the girls from her class, eager to boost their self esteem with the destruction of hers. With those walls crumbling invited in depression, therapy and then recommended antidepressant pills. All of the while, as a symptom of depression, the blemishes on her face worsened and reddened. As a side effect of the pills she was taking, a slight allergic reaction that wasn¡¯t recognized for a full year by her doctor brought on more pimples, which deepened the depression and on and on the wheel would turn. So it was on one sunny afternoon, one that Felicia could still remember crisply, that she had been sitting on a metal bench painted red with no back to it. It was 3:45, just about the time that her and Alyssa¡¯s mother would pick them up (if Alyssa wasn¡¯t going to her boyfriend¡¯s house as was her habit of late. Not Adrian, of course, they wouldn¡¯t meet for years yet). Felicia had had a rather good day, as it had been. The weather, fair as was her mood. Both Michelle and Mika, her friends, and herself had had a ¡°potluck¡± of whatever it was that their parents had packed for them that day. Divvied up ham, turkey and cheese sandwiches. Applesauce containers and fruit candies, juice boxes and cookies and carrot slices. No one had bothered her, and as she admired the fact outside of the front doors after school had finished, she had come to realize that this whole week had been rather peaceful. It was exactly as relaxing as it was nerve-wracking, the taunting she had been enduring for months at this point had hardened her defenses up and she consciously could not lower them without effort, or proof that it was safe to do so. Felicia raised herself as she sat, thinking the extra few inches would bring her mother¡¯s mini-van closer or make it go faster. Children around her were laughing, playing. Having fun. She was eager to get home. After a failed attempt to call her ride home over to her mentally, she slumped back down. As the corner of a thrown textbook hit the base of her neck, Felicia sprawled to the ground violently and awkwardly. With the coppery taste of blood on her tongue, and past the pain that was exploding through her spine and head she could hear the people around her growing silent. Tears swam to her eyes and spilled before she could stand up. She saw her own textbook lying flat right below where she had fallen, and the one that had been thrown at her was lying on the pavement past the sidewalk they were on, wide open with the pages facing down. She turned around slowly, not daring to pick up her own book. Like a scene in a horror film, she knew what frightening enemy she would see when she turned around. Except there were four. All four of the mean spirited girls who had not only (unknownst to Felicia) started the awful rumors about her, but also taken every chance they could to terrorize and ridicule her, were spread out in front of her. As they gained her attention they spread out into a wider formation and took steps in to get closer to her. ¡°How¡¯d that feel? You fucking whore!¡± one of them squawked, the others lost their own voices in a cacophony of giggles and screeches they made. ¡°Pick up my fucking book, Felicia!¡± another one cawed as she regained composure. She took a hands-on-hips stance and stopped fifteen feet away from her while the other three motioned in closer. All around them a crowd of twenty kids gathered in a more tightly knit half circle, keeping the hostile encounter well-contained inside. Felicia wiped away her tears and willed her bottom lip to stop quivering. Stand up for yourself, like mom tells you to do. The thought was strong but never left her brain, and as her courage never received the message, it dissolved and fizzled. Soon her whole body was trembling and the trio of girls were now five feet away from her. She found a safe spot when she closed her eyes, the pounding of her heart cut out all audio and if she concentrated real hard, it was possible to believe that Felicia was actually back in her bedroom, sitting cross legged and hunched under a blanket on her bed. A place where no one could hurt or bother her, and then her mother would come up to console her as she always did. Felicia truly loved her mother, she was an experienced woman who held all of her concern in her eyes, and when she looked at you, you immediately felt better. One of the girls grabbed Felicia by her hair, digging sharp nails into her scalp. Felicia screamed as she was starting to be dragged, half falling, half tripping to the ground.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°LET ME GO! LET ME GO! HELP ME SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE HELP ME!¡± she screamed in a wretched, desperate way. It was of no use. Though there were nearly two dozen onlookers, they all stood either in dumb silence or dumber acclamation. Not one made leave, either to rescue Felicia or seek help. As it was the end of the school day, all teachers were inside of the hallways and foyer, shepherding the kids out of the doors so that they might go back to their classrooms and grade papers, prepare lesson plans and rub their temples in frustration at the day they had spent teaching. Felicia was dragged until she was reduced to crawling along after the one girl who was leading her like she was a disobedient dog, or a wagon one would pull with a handle. All of the while she was screaming, pleading, begging the girls to let go, to leave her alone. As she was crawling, her hand landed and put out the smoldering butt of someone¡¯s cigarette they had tossed. The burn left a scar that would last for the rest of her life on the ball of her thumb. Then it was over. The hand that was pulling her let go and Felicia fell face first to the concrete below. Frightened, traumatized and now battered, Felicia blacked out momentarily. --- When she came to, the first thing she took in was loud voices. They were muddled by her coming back to consciousness and the time that that took lost a lot of the words. Soon the yelling stopped, a lot of voices grew distant. As Felicia opened her eyes, she was picked up by strong arms. Coddled like a baby, she looked across from the person holding her and saw Alyssa. Fresh tears, these of happiness, ran in freshly dried riverbeds. ¡°Those fucking brats, Felicia. Don¡¯t worry. Are you okay? Nod if you¡¯re okay Felicia.¡± Felicia nodded, vigorously. Knowing that her sister was here made her feel safe. ¡°Those BITCHES,¡± Alyssa yelled the slur so they could hear her as they ran ¡°are gone. Chucky got you away from them, and then they ran when they saw we weren¡¯t going to let them near you. You didn¡¯t tell me that they were bothering you. Does Mom or Dad know about this? Don¡¯t worry about them anymore¡­ me and my friends will let them know they¡¯re not to mess with the Haines.¡± as she said this, Felicia scrambled for a response. She had none, so she desperately flung her arms out to wrap them around her sister, her savior. Chucky, in surprise, caught her as she slipped from his grip and helped her to her feet. The two sisters embraced, a bond solidified was never formed more strongly for either girl than this. --- Reliving a cherished memory had been hard but rewarding for Felicia. In a way, she felt like she had said goodbye to Alyssa. Or maybe that she was more¡­ ready for the idea of it. She dabbed her watering eyes with a napkin, mascara that she had applied that morning came off in watery marks. How do I go on being strong, when she was the one I had drawn my strength from? The front door shut audibly and the sudden thunk made her jolt. Willing herself, she stopped crying and wiped the remainder of her tears away, a matter that took a small fraction of time but not one small enough to hide the scene from her husband, Douglas. Douglas rounded the corner from the entryway and stopped. A cell phone, Felicia¡¯s, was lying in a broken mess in front of her. She herself was trying to disguise the fact that she had been crying. It took only a second to put the clues together. He rushed over to his wife. ¡°Felicia, darling, it¡¯s okay. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m here for you.¡± he cooed. ¡°Don¡¯t say that¡­ I can¡¯t stand to hear that.¡± she replied, a new onslaught of tears fell over the brim of her eyes. Douglas, a little taken aback by this response, hugged her tightly while wearing a confused expression. ¡°Anything¡­ anything at all that I can do for you¡­ name it, and I will do it.¡± he said solemnly. She looked at him as he looked at her, and both knew the sincerity that his words were laced with. She breathed them in like a drug. ¡°It¡¯s Adrian! That¡­ that fucking murderer!¡± she yelled and fell deeper into his embrace, her strength left her and she became deadweight. To Douglas, Adrian would always be considered his brother. The two had shared their entire life together, Adrian had given him a backbone and without his advice, Douglas doubted that he would have found the courage to introduce himself to Felicia. They were brothers, they had had a lifetime of experiences together and held almost no secrets from each other. Surely that bond couldn¡¯t be broken? Or could it? Douglas wondered. When he heard of how his own flesh and blood had killed his love¡¯s sister, he had felt pity and sorrow for the loss, but relief for Adrian¡¯s survival. But as the past two days had drawn on, Douglas couldn¡¯t help but notice Felicia was descending. Despite his efforts, Felicia would not smile. Would not laugh, and would scarcely talk. Little at all had been said about the depth of how this tragedy was affecting her. This outburst on his brother was surprising for that matter, Douglas had thought that when her walls broke and she was ready to speak it would surely be about Alyssa, and the pain she felt in grieving for her. Never had he expected her to so bluntly accuse him of killing. Douglas couldn¡¯t see that still, but during this eruption he felt true unbridled hate for his brother. Always he had looked up to Adrian, followed his advice. And when will it end? When will I be my own man¡­ no, Adrian didn¡¯t kill Alyssa. But he has damaged my wife. He has hurt the woman I love, the one who looks up to ME for safety and comfort. And this was the final straw, dangling above a back-breaking load and tempting to overwhelm. To Felicia, Adrian had been a brother-in-law much before herself and Douglas were wed. Always he had treated her like family, and it was such an easy decision to suggest Alyssa for him and him for Alyssa. Were they not also a matching pair? Felicia thought she had recognized it. She rued it now. A terrible choice, to put anything beautiful in the hands of a creature who could whip and try to mold a gentleman like Douglas. To force him to play second fiddle when he ought to have taken the backseat himself. She saw this now, in hindsight and glasses tinted red with hate. Was it a lack of foresight into Adrian¡¯s life, his personality and ego? Was it possible to have prevented this? She thought not, ultimately. How could she know that Adrian was a monster in human skin? Douglas loved him¡­ but was it possible that love had been confused with a drug that was hard to pull away from? Felicia quickly looked into Douglas¡¯s eyes and saw sorrow mixed with understanding, and she knew. Felicia knew that Douglas couldn¡¯t hate Adrian. That bond was deep, maybe even deeper than her own and Alyssa¡¯s had been. But Douglas was blind, or addicted to this relationship¡­ and she could see it. Maybe¡­ Maybe I can end it, or twist it¡­ For Douglas¡¯s well-being. Do I have it in me, or am I still that scared little girl? ¡°Felicia¡­¡± Douglas interrupted her thought. He gestured to the broken phone and moved to gather up the remains. She stopped him by resting her hand on his. ¡°We need to talk. It¡¯s about Adrian¡­¡± she saw Douglas freeze and swallow a hard lump. She pressed on, talking nervously and through (now slightly forced) tears. ¡°He¡­ he called me. Adrian called me, and he was so overcome with guilt, Douglas. Oh, his wording was impressive, never actually saying he deliberately killed my sweet sister¡­ but if you could have read between the lines, Douglas! Adrian knows what he did, and he must have lied somehow, about something to the police! And now my poor¡­ gentle¡­¡± Felicia lost herself in a fresh batch of grief, Douglas was quick on the draw to console her. That was when the final straw joined the pile, and Douglas¡¯s metaphorical back had been broken. The pain that Adrian could cause not just one family, but two¡­ it was unmendable. And with what Felicia had just told him¡­ Douglas didn¡¯t think he could ever look at his brother again. Slowly, but with growing tenacity, a fiery rage began to bloom within Douglas. And he named it Adrian. 9: Untraveling The emboldened letters spelling LOS ANGELES came into focus, pulling Adrian out of his trance. As he relived the final moments of Alyssa''s life for the first time, unblocked by the side effects of a concussion, he felt his heart cinch shut. It was like experiencing the ordeal for the first time. He felt it again as the gravity shifted, the car lurched through the barriers and remembered his own and Alyssa¡¯s scream, which would be the last noise she made before the airbag inflated and damaged her beyond repair, the angle she took when she dove for the steering wheel was a wrong one to make and at the wrong time. The two hundred mile per hour bag of air took advantage of this and snapped several crucial bones and bent her out of position. It was then that Adrian fell unconscious, at the precise moment that Alyssa¡¯s car hit the water. As blackness was engulfing him, a powerful rush of bubbles rushed by. They rubbed against his skin, and with the multitude of air pockets rushing around, it felt like they scrubbed at him vigorously. He let go of the feeling and came back to reality. The road sign announcing Los Angeles went by, white text on blue backboard. Adrian recognized through tear-filled eyes that he was only five miles out from the city. That¡¯s¡­ really? The fact that Adrian had driven, as evidenced by the car¡¯s clock that was now displaying 5:52 PM, for forty-five minutes was flabbergasting. That¡¯s, no¡­ that¡¯s not right. Adrian could of swore he had only been lost inside of his past trauma for ten, maybe twenty minutes. There wasn¡¯t a single recollection of making any turns, noting any previous signs¡­ hell, Adrian didn¡¯t even remember driving through Santa Monica. The last memory he had of this voyage was of coasting on the Pacific Coast Highway, and then that fucking sensation of swimming. It was such an overpowering, consuming feeling that it must have pulled his conscious self from reality and left his body on autopilot. And hadn¡¯t I truly relived that moment, this time? Did I not feel the pain again? Now he gingerly touched his forehead, the spot that had throbbed with a constant ache for seven straight weeks, and even though it had long healed by now, it was flaring up again. It was calm, for now, but he could feel the phantom of its pain that had been revived forcibly through his flashback. Suddenly, nausea tempted his innards to react. The acidic taste of bile crept into his mouth, and the back of his throat began to burn along with a knot in his stomach that grew tighter and tighter. The road, which until this point hadn¡¯t required much of Adrian¡¯s attention at all, doubled and then tripled. These wiggling asphalt lines were blurring in and out of each other, becoming impossible to drive straight on. It was too much. Adrian put on the right-turn signal light (a habit yet unforgotten) and pulled off of all three of the roads and onto the gravelly dirt. With the car in park, the idle chug of the engine was deafening. Adrian¡¯s skin grew clammy once more, sweat coated his skin. Air. I need air. And the thought became an impulse. As if he had been trapped inside of the car for days, Adrian performed a messy combination of maneuvers in his scramble for the sweet smell of fresh air. The seatbelt unhitching and the door opening were executed well enough, but the strength he intended to use in his legs was misplaced and they sloppily lifted over the frame of the car¡¯s door as his left hip roared in response, already aggravated from the long drive spent sitting. The right foot snagged in its corner, and as his body was preparing to lift itself up and out, it instead rolled out and hit heavily onto the ground. The pain from his bullet wound was immediate and intense. His first thought was that someone had stabbed him with an icicle, but then the burning came and numbing cold was replaced with searing hot pressure. Adrian, without bothering yet to pull his leg out of the car fully, yakked out what he had inside of him, which was not much. The wind had a chill to it now, and a bit of strength. It whipped at his clothing and blew some of his vomit sideways. Clouds had rolled in, thick gray ones that promised rain. They were doing damage to the setting sunlight, but not enough to darken the world just yet. Adrian finished heaving out his innards and with them his anxiety, then wiped his mouth on a dirty sleeve and looked around. Nothing was familiar. Not even the faintest trace of recognition tickled him, the recollection of driving this highway eight months ago was just words now. Just a part of a story. What am I doing? Where am I going? The wind whistled in reply. He let his head sink, cradling his neck with the palms of his hands while his ankle still was stuck in the car¡¯s door frame. Vomit was only inches away from his scalp, but Adrian didn''t care. A glob of pure irritation plastered, coated and triumphed over any other emotion. This was becoming too much. The structure that society provided, that living in a home you owned and having a job that implied a schedule being included in your life¡­ these were things that Adrian didn''t realize at the time, but without them life itself was becoming almost unbearable. Wasn''t the monotony comforting? The boredom it provided, safe? Wasn''t life better when he could predict what it was? Sure, Adrian could fondly remember being stuck inside the hotel he worked at, wishing for an excuse to leave. Living dangerous and exciting fantasies within the safety of the figurative walls of his mind. Portrayed in the movies, the idea of an apocalypse was always so alluring. Only now, with firsthand experience, could Adrian see it for the sham that it was. Now the lack of routine was boring in its own way, and the lack of structure in society always had him on edge. It was a curious and discomforting feeling, and it was omnipresent. A sure fist rose up and then pummeled the ground, tiny rocks embedding into the earth and his hand. The shards of stone and loose pebbles and gravel drew blood that dripped onto the dirt to make a small amount of a sticky, muddy solution. The pain was set aside, even that of his grievous gun wound was in a different stream that ran parallel to the one Adrian drifted on. Instead he felt anguish. Pure emotional suffering. This was omnipotent, its power surged in all of his veins. It pumped out reminders of its own existence in the form of fresh waves of agony at every beat of his heart. How can this be happening, how is this... what happened to me? Adrian was lost in the throes of accepting a bitter defeat. The worst of it might have been that he had already survived the beginning of the apocalypse and endured months of its turmoil and aftermath. Or it might have been that maybe, maybe this could all be bearable if he had a companion. Someone with him to relate with, complain with. To talk to. Adrian had had his moment to sulk, and it passed. As he lay on the side of the highway, partly still in the car, the foolishness of the scenario came to him. The pain in this ever-throbbing left hip came back to him, too. It burned with a forge¡¯s intensity as the humility spread within him. Rosy cheeks were wiped of their sweat, and Adrian was finally able to free his ankle. Like the roar of the ocean before you arrive upon a beach, the car''s engine rumbled with a dull persistence. Without getting in the car, and without doing further damage to his hip Adrian turned the keys and shut the vehicle down. Now the night was silent and growing dark. Though the job was done, his hand still rested on the key. The other was planted around the edge of the roof, suspending his weight. Letting go of the crisp pain that had been brought back to him by the thought of Alyssa wasn¡¯t possible, but he tried. With no success he closed his eyes and thought of anything but his deceased girlfriend. To think of anything else just left a nagging spot in the back of his mind; the echo of the flashback he had just had moments ago still bounced around inside of him, causing chaos with its lingering memory. The longer he closed his eyes, the more that the sickening, daunting sensation of swimming would creep back until, abruptly, he opened his eyes for retreat. Sweat again glazed his skin, soaking through his t-shirt. The first thing he saw was Kevin. For the span of two seconds, he was sure that the animal was dead. But then he saw the shallow dip of his chest, exposing the outline of a rib cage that should be hidden behind thick skin and muscle. And it¡¯s my fault, he thought to himself guiltily. A thought that rung as true as a bell. He stood upright and looked at the semi-cupped palms of his hands. He had already killed one person with these murderous appendages, and a second living creature might soon be at its end, too, with only Adrian to thank for its sorrowful last few days spent in suffering. How many more would he kill, before he couldn¡¯t take it anymore? The contrast of who he was now in this fucked up after-society life, compared to who he had been just a year ago¡­ it unsettled the foundation of who he was at his core. Even if the world came back together, all of the pieces fitted back into place and civilization creeped out of all of the caves and holes it had been hiding in, Adrian would never be someone right for that world again. He knew that now. I¡¯ve killed someone¡­ yet living today is harder than those days after Alyssa died. Now, it¡¯s like she has died again, along with Douglas. Life with Douglas hating him had been much more tolerable than life without Douglas at all. Adrian realized that he would have spent his life in solitude if it meant escaping this waking hell he walked and slept through. Even if it meant that those that he loved would hate him still. But he could never go back to being that way, even if the opportunity were to present itself. Sure, he had spent most of the year cramped inside of someone else¡¯s home. But even with the comforts of modern civilization at his fingertips, he couldn''t help but look through grey-tinted glasses. Dilapidated buildings no longer looked like they just needed a paint job, they looked haunted and decrepit and in need of being torn down. There was no light at the end of this metaphorical tunnel, one of the many realizations Adrian would make for that day. He was truly lost in the dark, and the universe seemingly expected him to make the best of it. And the notion he perceived chewed at his innards, leaving bubbling spite to brew potently. The disbelief, the shock, the sheer effort that Adrian had been putting in just to stay alive had gotten him nowhere. Though he fled to the other side of the country, no escape was found. This world was bleak, and that was what Adrian could hope for at best, every morning upon waking up. The wind was picking up. Fat, puffy white clouds rolled by overhead. The day was losing its glamour and shine, the final curvature of the sun was about to dip below the western horizon. Adrian only grew hotter, bitter red rage refused to cool down even as night claimed life around him. Won''t it just lead to another tomorrow?Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. A fist, the same as before but this one not so sure in its actions, rose up and made a tight ball. Fingertips dug down into his palm. At the pinnacle of his hands uplift, Adrian knew a pang of regret. Despite it, and maybe because Adrian had known too much regret this year, the fist came down with thundering quality. A flesh-covered meteorite struck the hood of the vehicle, leaving a hand sized crater in its wake. The pain was real and immediate, Adrian no longer protected by a numbing layer of anguish. As a dull metallic thunk emitted from the car, Adrian gripped his right wrist with his left hand. The pain was bone deep and shot up to his elbow. With effort and through discomfort he flexed his fingers and self-diagnosed that none of his bones were broken. Even with that good news, his anger only flared higher. Kevin gave a soft wrelp, barely audible over the wind and Adrian''s inner thoughts. As he gathered his attention toward the animal, a simple snap of the neck at the sound it made, Adrian saw Kevin''s ear lift up and lower back down, a small and subtle movement but the first that Adrian had seen since he had knocked the rather large creature down. Adrian''s sudden temper was channeled and pushed out, before he knew what he was going to say, Adrian found his mouth opened and was surprised that he was speaking at all. ¡°This is your fault¡­ this is your FAULT! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT YOUR FAULT!¡± his eyes bulged with the ferocity of the emotion packed behind each word. He paused for a breath and continued. ¡°Why did you attack me? I gave you every goddamned opportunity I could have, to have you NOT attack me, why didn''t you back up? You stupid idiot. You idiot dog. This is YOUR fault! You did this to yourself.¡± the words were flying out, leaving Adrian panting. A vein pressed noticeably against his temple. He began to pace, limping and cradling his throbbing hand. ¡°Motherfucker¡­ WHY!? Why is this how this HAPPENED!?¡± the last word reverberated in the open area around him, a bird shook from its roost and left the area of presumed danger. Adrian walked over to Kevin''s side of the car and opened the door. A furious snarl opened for an intake of air, his brain was scrabbling for the next tirade of words. But Adrian couldn''t. The words, the momentum, the flare of anger all fell flat. Adrian stared into the barely opened eye of Kevin. Slowly, it blinked closed and then opened back to the narrow slit it was before. He had chocolate brown irises, and his chest heaved slowly. ¡°Kevin¡­?¡± Adrian murmured. Kevin''s ear perked again, just an inch. The single eye he could see flickered to look up at the man who had attacked him. ¡°...Kevin?¡± Adrian repeated, moreso to himself, in a low and hushed voice. He was astonished, how was this possible? Wide-open eyes narrowed to skeptical slits, and then back to wide disbelief. Kevin was still looking directly at Adrian, and though his fatigue was obvious, there was an intensity that Adrian met in his stare. They shared a moment, perhaps two, and then Kevin shut his eyes. There was a gentle shift in his breathing; a soft wheeze left the animal''s gullet. Soon another one passed as well, the sound was especially silly compared to the scene. To reassure himself, Adrian stroked the creature''s backside and felt the slow thump¡­¡­ thump¡­¡­ of his little dog heart. Adrian shut the car door gently, turned and leaned against it. He tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose, blowing out a steady stream of air. If the poor thing lived, Adrian expected a bigger flood of relief than what he was feeling now. After all, he had made the choice to be Kevin¡¯s caregiver not long ago. So, why did the animal¡¯s awakening concern him so heavily? Perhaps, Adrian contemplated, he hadn¡¯t actually wanted to take responsibility of the animal, but appreciated the dopamine rush that accompanied the thought. But then why would he be feeling any relief at all? No, he was sure that looking after Kevin was a true want, a true desire and not just a self help tactic. He checked on him again, but Kevin was sound asleep. Then he knew, it was the sudden knowing that he would remain responsible for a while longer, when he had not had any responsibilities for so long. With his head rushing, hand throbbing and the daylight fading, Adrian gazed west to watch the remaining sliver of sun. It was a thin crescent, filling the sky with purples and blues and oranges. Off of the verge of the road was a shallow pool of water spanning four feet in length. It was murky and more brown than clear, but Adrian walked to it. He knelt to the knee on his good leg and dipped his sore and swelling hand in, and found the water pleasantly cool and refreshing. The injury panged as the cold water sent a brief shock through his system. Within three minutes, however, the pain and throbbing had gone down monumentally. Without thinking, he lapped up a double cupped handful and splashed his face. He spat out random debris from his mouth that had been floating in the water, and then wiped off the remainder of it with his hands. Kevin is alive¡­ Kevin is going to live. Glee was seeping in to eradicate the worry and resentment that he had been feeling. Maybe this was a good thing. After all, now he wasn¡¯t truly traveling alone. He had someone he could talk to, and even though the shouting he had done was now regretted, it had done Adrian some good to get those feelings out. To raise his voice in anger against someone without any repercussion. He would remember not to make a habit out of it. As the water dripped from his eyelashes, Adrian looked up from his squatting position. He saw the corner of a building that had previously been concealed by hills and tree. Well hello there¡­ the temptation was welling within. The sun was setting, and Adrian needed to find somewhere safe to stay or risk traveling the highway at night, an idea that did not tempt Adrian in the least. It¡¯s got to be near, I think I can recall a dirt road banking to the right just a short distance back down the highway. But I don¡¯t even know what this building is. The thought didn¡¯t carry much weight, his survival instincts were currently bearing that. It was a chance, at the very least. And if it wasn¡¯t one worth the risk, he was only back where he was right here. With a lot more energy and optimism than he was used to, Adrian got back behind the wheel of the white hatchback that didn¡¯t belong to him, turned the ignition (while turning off the right-hand blinker that had been on this whole time), and performed a u-turn to begin scoping out the road that could possibly lead him to a safe night¡¯s rest. A prick of homesickness joined him as he thought one more time about the Croteau¡¯s, and the time he had spent there. --- First it was his hip, the bullet wound. The sitting position only aggravated it, and that was the first thing that began to gnaw at him. Then, it was the fade of adrenaline after seeing a possible salvation, only to have the all too familiar feeling of dread remain. Next, it was the duration of the drive, it gave him time to think. Time for his mind to wander. Last, it was seeing the dirt road up ahead that he only barely recalled. In the moment he was passing it earlier, he was recalling his history with Alyssa and barely registered it. All of these reasons chewed at his quickly dissolving resolve to go to this building. He knew nothing about it, except that it had one of its corners intact. It could just be a warehouse. Maybe it¡¯s an office building, or a shipping yard for trucks. What in the hell am I doing? What else was there to do? The fact had already crossed his mind. If this building turned out to be a dud, or dangerous, he was only back where he started. Minus both of the drive¡¯s ten minutes worth of gas to get there and back, which was a precious commodity nowadays. He glanced briefly at the rearview mirror. Then again. Maybe I should turn around. Again, he thought of what Douglas would do. Surely, he¡¯d be in a proper set up. Nothing as makeshift and hazardous as what Adrian was doing. Yes, Adrian could envision his brother finding a house in a hole in the wall, tied off from the cities. Tied off from humanity. Perhaps he¡¯d have found a cabin by a lake, or hiked off into the woods and made a living in some habitable area, if he somehow made it on the radius of the bombs. Adrian had only ran, and it was his first instinct, too. Safety had appealed to him from getting to a designated zone, but abandoning everything behind¡­ maybe that hadn¡¯t been so much of a reflex, but an impulse. Maybe even a secret desire for an escape from the crushing guilt and the lurking hatred that made up his everyday life. There were no fresh tire tracks on the dirt, that was the first thing he noticed as he made a left turn across the pavement and took the small bump that accompanied changing roads. It had been a ten minute drive back, and he suspected it would take fifteen, maybe twenty to get back to the stealthily-placed building. Driving fast on a dirt road was a noisy and hazardous idea, and not one Adrian was inclined to pursue. --- The drive to the building, which coincidentally enough turned out to be a hotel, was uneventful but scenic. The foliage had been abundant, but no wildlife was among it. Adrian had seen little of animals over the past two-thirds of a year. Seagulls, and rats on some voyages for gasoline. Some other birds he didn¡¯t recognize. And Kevin. He had swallowed a gulp and looked in the rearview mirror, but he couldn¡¯t tell if the dog was awake or asleep. As he pulled up to the hotel, a small and quaint thing with four stories to it, and three windows to a side on its front, the first thing that he noticed was that his was the only car there. Although there was a parking lot with space for forty, there wasn¡¯t another vehicle in sight. The sun had completely dematerialized and with it so had its light. Darkness brought an ominous feeling to the windows which were also devoid of light, as did the emotion flow from the hardwood doors that were shut and in suspiciously good condition, and oddly enough, the flagpole that now flew no flag at all with the hoist lowered to the bottom. The building seemed to scream ¡°vacant¡± and ¡°occupied¡± at the same time. Adrian looked at the clock on the car. It read 6:47 PM. Not late enough in the day to sleep exactly, but not the ample time that he would wish for if he was to go and scout a dark building. One that the existence of he had only known of for thirty minutes. He quickly scoured the car; he rummaged in the glove compartment, rifled under the front seats and also looked all around the back of the car. He had no luck, there was no flashlights in the car. From this angle, Adrian could see that the building went back several rooms, six, seven or eight maybe. He couldn¡¯t quite see. The hotel that he worked at had been bigger, several stories bigger. Do I go in¡­ or leave? The thought brought anxiety to the decision making process. Adrian did not want to be on the road at night, something about having that fast black mustang driving around and scouting still gave him a bad feeling. But this building was not guaranteed to be safe. He also had Kevin to think of now. And his hip. That might of been the final mark in the decision he made. Adrian would not do anymore driving tonight. He turned the car off, and put his hand on the door¡¯s handle. Well¡­ that doesn¡¯t mean that I have to go in just now, either. Instead, he locked the doors and killed the headlights. Something he regretted not thinking of before he pulled into the parking lot. Resigning his night to scouting and resting, he shifted about for his duffel bag and pulled out a supper of dried meat and canned fruit, washed down with a water bottle that he drained in three long swallows. That was how he spent his night, eating and drinking in peace as he kept a watchful eye on the hotel in front of. Without realizing he had fallen asleep, Adrian awoke the next morning as the sun cast light on his closed eyelids. 10: Show & Hotel Despite his initial onslaught of worry, sleeping outside these days was usually akin to asking for trouble, the sun broke the peaceful sleep he had been having and revealed that all had remained exactly the same as it had been the night before. A fine supper, fine as any that Adrian had had recently, lay in the pits of his stomach. His mouth called for water, to which he obliged. During the night the cooling temperature had affected the bottle, and he enjoyed the crispness of the liquid. The plastic crunched and squeaked as he inhaled the last drops, then he tossed the bottle to the empty passenger seat on his left. Yawning, he performed a rudimentary check on his furry companion in the backseat; Kevin had not moved a solid inch beside the now-expected rise and fall of his breathing chest. It was good, he realized, to look back and know that he would see Kevin alive and breathing. The mystery and uncertainty of his condition had been its own stress on Adrian¡¯s life, but for now at least that seemed to be a thing of the past. Adrian made to pat the dog on its head, he could see that the swelling around the injury had gone down. As he put his arm in motion, aiming to reach Kevin who was to his right and behind his back in the rear seat, without moving out of his own, a momentary lapse of memory was paid for. As his left hip lifted off of the seat, the skin around it overlapped and folded. Adrian felt dried blood and forming scabs grate away at the seams of his pants. He let out silent screams of pain that were easily comparable to someone gasping for air. Wincing, he made to check the wound. Something that should have been done last night, but that price was paid for now. His belt was unlatched with hands that were groggy with sleep, the brown leather of the strap was worn and torn. Then he undid the button, unzipped and shimmied the waistline of his pants and underwear halfway down his thigh. The dried blood clung to the fabric of his underwear as he peeled it away. As slow as he tried to take the process, it still felt more like he was ripping it off and the sensation of fresh blood was beginning to well up there. His left hip welcomed the cool air, it breathed easily with no constraints. The wound itself was red and beginning to sprout thin, deep-blue veins. It didn¡¯t look infected, it didn¡¯t look necessarily bad just yet, but to Adrian it looked terrifying. It''s infected. It''s getting infected. The thought was pandemonium inside of his mind, and as it wore down he was able to diagnose himself a little more correctly. Maybe it wasn''t infected, but it was definitely getting to that point. Antibiotics would be a good idea, if he had any. Or even if he knew where to find them. Instead, he covered the injury up again with a bandage from the medkit and then put his pants back on. Following a routine he was yet unfamiliar with, he fiddled about for the multivitamins. He took two for himself with a swig from the canteen he had found at Reggie¡¯s, ground up another with the keys to the car and lapped the fine dust into Kevin''s mouth using water, a bit of effort to get the animal to cautiously swallow the mixture, and an additional slice of pain that all of this seated bending brought to his hip. Kevin was not awake today, he noticed. His wound was healing much better than Adrian¡¯s was, the split skin was starting to heal back together. A crude cluster of scabs was forming, a thick line that ran across the egg-shaped lump on the top of his head. Adrian let a weary sigh out, repositioned himself to a better angle and then stared out of the windshield. The day was clear, the light of morning was just now chasing the last of the nighttime darkness away. Clear blue skies greeted him, the sun was slinking out from behind the treeline to the east. The hotel in front of him looked a lot more pleasant and welcoming than it had last night. He could even see the sign pronouncing its name now, black text reading The Wandering Sheppard Resort & Inn on a long and slender wooden board that was placed between the main door and the second floor windows. It added a countrified touch to the dull, muddy-pink building. Almost pulling off an amiable if not presently lonely atmosphere. He could envision the hotel in its prime, a bustling display of intertwining humans. Business men and women in suits and dresses running here and there, talking incessantly to their cell phones or to the employees with their questions and complaints, the partiers settling down for the evening (and by that he meant scurrying to their rented rooms with alcohol and chips, noise complaints were likely to follow). The name of the building, of course, struck an eery and haunting chord within Adrian. And although the metaphor was blatant and surprising, Adrian didn¡¯t feel the shock he might of once initially expected he would. He nonchalantly lifted his eyebrows as if in amusement, let out a slow puff of air that unintentionally left as a whistle between his moist, pursed lips. Not feeling a trace of shock throughout his system was the shock itself. Since when had he become adapted to the new world, in a manner that took the brisk sting out of that which came with the revelation of what exactly a waking day in hell could bring? Only two days ago he had seen the first spray painted image of an ¡°X¡±, and this had unsettled him just as he thought this new and labeled oddity would. But today as he stared at The Wandering Sheppard he felt not much beside a meek curiosity and the usual, constant and strong sense of impending tragedy. The latter sensation had become so much a regular part of Adrian that in order to remember it was an omnipresent feeling and not the basis of who he was and how he naturally felt every day, he had to think about what tragedies could unfold, and then as the feeling grew he could recognize it. The worry fed that constant apprehension like a wind to fire would, and brought clarity that this persistent feeling wasn¡¯t a normality but just something that loomed over Adrian. Adrian even began to think that perhaps he was a part of a cruel comedy. A long, worn out and unwelcome reality TV show. He could see it in his mind now, a camera crew that had been following him and any minute now they would jump out of the trees, the hotel and even from the road behind him to tell him just how pranked he was. In this daydream, he even saw Douglas running up with the rest of the family, to announce just exactly how well they had all gotten him. He sighed as the warmth from such a fantasy left. Even a heartless act such as that would erase all doubt, fear and anger if it came to pass now. Adrian wasn¡¯t one to take a joke lightly, but the relief¡­ He gripped the handle to the car door, and yanked it. There was no real time to sit and fantasize about what the ¡°what might have been¡¯s¡± were. Cool autumn air whipped and whistled in and around the car, revealing a windy day. Looking back a final time before stepping out, he saw the gentle twitch of Kevin¡¯s ear as his body responded to the sudden drop in temperature. ¡°You lucky fuck,¡± Adrian cursed. He wasn''t sure if he meant to say it lightly and in jest or if he was serious. What luck had this creature had lately beside the unfortunate bad luck of Adrian stumbling upon him mid-meal? The muscles in his legs, back and shoulders felt as stiff as a board as they swung out of the car and performed the rudimentary task of standing up. While gauging the inn that was in front of him he decided to take a leisurely five minute warm up to massage and slowly stretch some elasticity back into his limbs and back. The hard calluses of his fingertips pressed deeply into the muscles, feeling the tense knots that had developed long ago and settled in to claim his body as home. Soon the relieving pressure made it difficult for Adrian to focus and put his strength to use behind his fingers. His eyes closed automatically before snapping back, wide open. This is not a safe place to be doing this, came the thought laced heavily with regret and shame. The soothing sensation faded as his hands dropped by his side, but now he felt a bit more limber. Hopefully tonight''s sleep will be on a bed. Adrian cast a nervous glance up at the building again. Nothing had changed, he thought, no one had seen him. The inn was surprisingly in good condition. There was no spray paint, broken windows or fire damage unlike on other buildings he had seen (although to say that the weather beaten walls could use a new coat was an understatement). Behind every window was total blackness, but Adrian couldn''t see if that was on the part of dark rooms or drawn window blinds. Looking at the position of the sun he could see that it was not inclined to lend him any assistance. Not a single window had any shutters, ledges or decor which struck the hospitality side of Adrian as odd. It gave the building a very flat and untextured appearance, complemented only by the roof¡¯s snow-white border design, an intricate and (to Adrian¡¯s perspective at least; the woodworking was rather impressively cut) handcrafted series of designs that followed the slow slope of the roof up and met at the peak, giving the top of the building an appearance of a tablecloth that had been draped over the top. Adrian suddenly felt like he was brought back in the past, and in his mind¡¯s eye he could see again the small tables in the Croteau¡¯s that held either vases or kettles and the tablecloths that had laid under them, all coated in dust. For just that brief moment Adrian had felt a pronounced terror about his current situation, and the feeling of dread and doubt lingered after it as he returned to the present. In the back of his mind was the unanswerable question of ¡°what lies ahead of me?¡± Glancing at his gear inside of the car: his backpack, cane and animal, he knew it was time to make his move. It was time to go inside and face his fear. Time to, whether he was ready or not, answer that question he couldn¡¯t answer on this side of the walls. He imagined what it was going to be like. Adrian saw himself walking up to The Wandering Sheppard, pulling open the door and getting a glimpse of what was inside. In his mind, he saw a brightly lit chandelier dangling above a small foyer, employees in uncomfortable uniforms running about. The incessant drone of people talking, amplified as only open and welcoming foyers such as the one he would find inside can produce. Except¡­ it wouldn''t be like that. That was only the scene of a hotel that Adrian was familiar with. In reality, as he envisioned it again, he would walk up to the door, full of fright and nerves. It would squeak loudly, having been neglected of any maintenance for so long, and the sound would echo inside the now revealing and defenseless foyer. A sitting duck in motion, he would walk straight into a mess cluttered, stinking and for all other matters empty lobby. Except, maybe there would be another family in there. Killed by some lunatic with a gun and a desire for alcohol and chips. Maybe that same lunatic would again have a gun pointed at Adrian. Luck probably wouldn''t abide for a second gunshot. He gulped a nervous lump back down his throat with no success. His heart, he noticed, was palpitating against his chest heavily. Covering his gun wound and feeling a small warmth emanating from it, he recognized that the uncertainty of what was behind the doors in front of him was certainly more terrorizing than another encounter where a maniac would propel himself out and take advantage of the situation. Adrian thought he might even be prepared this time around, knowing what he knew about the people that survived alongside him now. It dawned on him that that old man who shot him had been Adrian¡¯s first social interaction since he left West Virginia, not including Kevin. The thought was not brightening his mood. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Ok, now it''s time to go in. I''ll just grab my gear. He had never used a gun before but all of a sudden he wished he had one. The unfamiliar feel of steel in his hand would at least relax some of his nerves. Adrian limped to the passenger''s side of the car, putting a lot of weight on the hood as he walked around. Once again, he appreciated the fact that he found this cane. It not only proved its use as a weapon, but taking the load off of his bum leg was so relieving that the joy brought water to his eyes. Adrian pulled the door open and stared at his meager stash. I should organize and tally what I have here. Yes. Then I''ll go inside. And so he began the tedious task of rifling through his backpack and duffel bag. It provided an easy escape from the stress, as he normally felt when he dove into a chore such as this. Monotony and being meticulous was boring. Boring was safe. All in all, Adrian had his cane that he had laid against the car during his rummaging, six bottles and two jugs of water, with a total of three canteens to accompany them. Two of the three canteens were full. There was the medkit, and upon opening it Adrian frowned at its already depleting store of supplies. Aside from these items, Adrian also had toilet paper, soaps and sanitizer, and the small inventory of canned and dried foods. Neatly it was organized, and all but the jugs of water fit inside of the duffel bag. These he put on the floor of the front seat to be out of the sun¡¯s rays for much of the day, and the empty backpack was put in the back, crudely stuffed into a pocket attached to the backside of the front seats, to await a future purpose. Accounting for and stowing his items away properly had eased his nerves about the task ahead of him, banishing them to the back of his mind. But as he looked up and saw the looming three-story structure it became a reality again, and no longer a background thought. The fear, he found, had never left. Only placed aside. I''m stalling. I''m too afraid to go in so I''m stalling. The truth seeped into his mind, and at first he thought the idea of it was absurd, but it was impossible to deny. Adrian was too afraid to enter the building. Maybe it was the connection of its name and his own, or maybe it was the recent encounter with the psychotic old man, but fear was weighing too heavy for Adrian to lift his legs. He lowered his head in an expression of resignation. He looked at the cane, still leaning against the car. For a second he found the courage he required. Once more in his imagination he saw himself gripping the cane and walking defiantly up to the resort. Without hesitation he opened its main door and¡­ And what? Adrian had no idea. A lack of certainty brought questions, and his courage began to flee from them. The brief moment of bravery he felt was passed. He sighed, and put the cane back in the car so that it touched the floor by the duffel bag and leaned against the seat. Quickly he closed the door so it wouldn''t slide out and fall to the ground. With wounded hip and pride, he limped back to the driver''s side of the car and got in. The lack of the winds chill was welcome, but inside of the car there was an uncomfortable silence. Kevin woofed and it lapsed. Adrian leaned back awkwardly, trying to avoid hip pain, and gave Kevin a few gentle pats along his body. Why did he feel like he was failing him? He was just a dog. But he was Adrian¡¯s dog now. That was why. Adrian no longer provided for one, he provided for two. Perhaps it was just now that the gravity of what that meant was falling on him. Adrian found the key to the car and felt the grooves on its extended end. He fingered over the imprinted lines on its side. The metal was cold to his touch. Why was it such a difficult task to simply move and make a decision? Adrian wondered for another minute but couldn''t come to any conclusion, over the question or for his dilemma. He was finding it equally as intimidating to jam the key in the ignition and turn it, feel the car come alive once again and leave. Leave this place as quick as he could, hopefully avoiding some awful catastrophe that awaited him inside. But what if there was just another catastrophe on the road? He had already encountered and barely managed to avoid the detection of two people while travelling, and while he had succeeded in that, it did not make him feel compelled to get back out on the road. Through association and his recent revelations about her, he found himself daydreaming about Alyssa again. If she were here, she would have wanted to explore and investigate. She''d have known that there was an equal amount of risk to going inside the resort as there was to being back out on the road, but being back on the road not only provided danger, it was a drain on a depleting resource that truthfully would not last much longer: gasoline. It would be gone much quicker if Adrian continued to drive, but was that risk worth the potential reward? There was simply too much uncertainty. Adrian was not a fan of being placed in scenarios with little information being given, and then asked to solve them. It seemed unfair, and he felt the stubborn depression of that sentiment as a child would. It barely helped to imagine himself in anyone else¡¯s point of view, analyzing the situation, be it Douglas or Alyssa or someone else. In the end it was coming down to the decisions that he made and no matter who¡¯s persona he stole from, it still made that decision his. So what is that decision? Am I going in or not? What would Adrian do¡­ the thought provoked old gears in his head that had not only grown dust but quickly rusted. They spun and small sparks formed in his brain, and despite his pain, for the first time in a long time he felt relatively healthy. What would Adrian do¡­ and it was easy to know. Adrian was the sort of person to turn around when turning around is necessary. Like I tried to do with Alyssa, but¡­ I also know when a destination is worth reaching. Had I been stayed in West Virginia I would be dead. Blown away. But I followed my instinct, I took what I had to work with and made the best choice that I could. And judging by what I have here¡­ Just what was that? He pondered on it. A car, with a decent amount of gas left in it. He could easily drive for another two or four hours with no worries, the sun was still low in its rising which meant ample time to be travelling. But wasn¡¯t that a reason to not go, as others would be on the road? On the other hand, this resort was in front of him now, required no travel, and so far had seemed empty. Adrian had slept all night and had not been disturbed. No car had driven up this dirt lane, although it was not a hidden one. Yes¡­ he was convinced. Exploring The Wandering Sheppard Resort & Inn was the least dangerous option to take. And the longer he waited, the more risk he took. He glanced back at Kevin and saw his one eye that faced Adrian was closed. Asleep and dreaming, he hoped. Adrian felt aglow with the pride he felt in taking on the responsibility to provide for someone other than himself. His actions would impact another creature for the first time in eight months. That meant something, and gave him a personal drive in his step as he got out of the car with his cane in hand. He looked up at the towering building ahead of him and admittedly felt a shred of regret mixed with a bundle of fear. But he swallowed it down and began his march toward The Wandering Sheppard Resort & Inn. --- Each step up to the roasted-brown double doors felt like its own personal challenge and accomplishment as he made his way there. Adrian strained his ears, willing them to work better and hoping it provided a better result. The wind whistled, the only sound. One of the first and weirdest things that Adrian noticed was that no matter how close he got to the building he could not see into the windows. All that was there was pitch black. As he got closer he thought he would at least be able to see the familiar color and pattern of boards, but even as he approached the doorway with its small, red awning that the wind had battered holes into he could only see blackness. He thought about going to peek inside a window, before quickly discarding that idea as unsafe. Adrian didn¡¯t think there was anyone inside, after all no one had came out while he had slept, but he wasn¡¯t about to rule it out as a possibility. The inside of his mouth was dry, but his skin glistened with sweat. He wiped his brow before decisively grabbing both of the brass handles (he noted that they were polished brass handles) and threw back the doors to reveal the interior. Now there was no going back. A waft reached Adrian¡¯s nose, a putridly fragrant smell. It was an aroma like a mix of strong body odor, human waste and some kind of chemical. A cleaning chemical, he assumed. It was pungent and brought tears to his eyes. The smell hit him at the same time as an odd sight struck him, an especially odd sight to Adrian. He was so used to the decor that flourished a lobby. The lack of it, the lack of any furniture or item was so discombobulating that Adrian stood dumbfounded, head tilted and breathing wretched smelling air through his nose. Tepidly he began to walk in, the light behind him caught a quick reflection of a bright golden shine from somewhere within. There was a concierge desk in front of him, maybe twenty feet away. Adrian guessed that that would have been taken away, too, had it not been built into the floor. Behind this desk there was a staircase on either side that led up to the second floor, and in the center of the room was an opening where the second and, Adrian assumed, third floor interior balconies could look down. He noted that the side of the building opposite of the entrance did not have access to looking down, due to the staircases that must have went all of the way up. For all of its smells, Adrian could tell that this place had been kept clean. He bent to rub the tiled floors, and not a trace of dust was left on his fingers. As he stood back up and took a more meticulous look around, Adrian noticed the only item he had seen in the lobby so far. A brass bell on the concierge desk, with a small white rectangle in front of it. Using his cane he quickly made his way to inspect it. The rectangle, as it turned out, was a slip of paper leaning against the bell. He could see that the bell had as well been polished, but the paper was yellowing and curling at its edges. The paper read in a bold computer font ¡°RING¡±. Adrian picked the paper up, turned it over but saw nothing on its other side. What is going on. This is bad. Anxiety started to grow within the pits of his stomach. He turned around quickly, not using his cane to move. The price was a sharp, fiery hot shot of pain from his hip. He barked out a shout, closing his eyes and letting go of the cane to cup the wound with both hands. Shock opened his eyes as he felt a thick web fall upon him. His vision was reduced to green, squared holes. As he made to move his hands to get rid of the obstruction in his vision, he felt the movement of something laced on his hands. The thin green rope got caught between his fingers, and as Adrian thrashed within the net he fell over. The gunshot wound erupted, and he felt blood trickling down his leg and dripping off onto the inside of his pant leg. As he resigned moving, a red spot grew where most of the blood was collecting. After a moment, someone grabbed Adrian by his shoulders and began to drag him. 11: Invitation Shortly after the dragging started it stopped. A dark colored sack or a bag was pulled over Adrian¡¯s head by strong fingers that moved quickly and nimbly. It made him feel extremely claustrophobic to have the net pressed against his face. One strand of string was pulling awkwardly against his nose. The person who had been dragging him let go and dropped his head, which bounced painfully and with a sick smack that Adrian was certain was very audible. The dragging resumed, two hands with powerful grips cupped under Adrian¡¯s armpits from behind and started pulling. His ass was scooting along, and Adrian tried to favor his right side while attempting to convey to this person that what he was doing hurt Adrian so badly that it felt much more like a ripping sensation than anything else. All that came out was mumbled mush, mania stealing sensible words. Whether they were listening or not, the person abducting him did not seem to care about his immediate well being. They crossed a bump in the floor as the abductor made a series of quick turns. First right, then right again, and then a left turn. On this left turn Adrian hit the bump with minimal effect to his injuries other than a freshening of the pain, and felt the floor transition from smooth, cold tile to the rough bristle of carpet. Now as he was hauled along the floor there was a constant, soft scraping noise. As if someone was gently shushing him the whole way, until Adrian was hoisted and left in a position that was vaguely like sitting. The chair he was in had sides, he could feel, and arm rests. It''s seat was well cushioned; all things considered it was rather comfortable. There was a soft padding that was leading away, Adrian recognized it as footsteps. Something wooden creaked, and then there was the sound of dragging again. Moments later it stopped, but not before Adrian recognized that whatever was happening, it was being brought to him. His heart leapt upward and out of his chest and plummeted back down at every pass of its pulse. There was a moment where Adrian felt genuine terror, the kind that overwhelmed thoughts, and the familiar sensation of a churning stomach was developing. His throat dried as his mouth watered with excess saliva. Not a man of faith, Adrian had an urgent thought: Lord above, do not let me puke inside of this net and bag. And as swiftly and shockingly as it all began, it all grew too silent. All that Adrian could see was black. He couldn''t even define the criss-cross pattern of the net lying on his face. The silence and time passing brought the realization that, throughout this ordeal, Adrian had given up struggling, had barely bothered to reason with this person. Or to speak at all. ¡°Listen. Whoever¡­ listen. Just listen, ok? There is no¡­ no need for this. Ok? I-I-I just came by to look for help. I-I-I-I don''t mean you any harm. I don''t want your hotel. Let me go, please.¡± Adrian let his words fall heavy, each one a thought out decision that needed to fight through a sturdy wall of nerves to escape his lips. The silence after them was an extra, suffocating layer that tightened over Adrian with every passing second. Soon half of a minute had passed with no response, and it was beginning to be hard to sit still. His fingers wanted to twitch and clench, his back and shoulders wanted to squirm. There wasn''t a moment in Adrian¡¯s life that he had ever felt more claustrophobic, a fear that he didn''t think that he had owned. To fill the silence, or maybe to distract the itch that was the need to move, he spoke again. ¡°I know you''re there. Take this mask off of me, p-please.¡± There was a slight echo when he talked that added to the fearful atmosphere provided for him. ¡°Is it¡­ do you¡­ do you want my things? My supplies? Listen, I don''t have much. It''s yours. It''s out there in the car I drove here.¡± Adrian paused again, but there was still no response, so he tried to fill the silent void again. ¡°I''ve got¡­ food, a bit of food. There-there-there¡¯s¡­ um¡­ water. I have a lot of water. The tank is half full, too. Just let me go and I''ll walk away!¡± He grew more frantic as he talked, his voice started out stuttered and quick but the last statement was crystal clear and hard. It didn''t sound like a plea as much as it sounded like a desperate reminder that this was all a decision that could be undone at a moment''s notice. Adrian offered his belongings, everything he owned, as if they were a night¡¯s worth of gambling chips. If he got to leave this resort, he knew he would need more than luck. He hoped that within his small store of supplies there would be what he needed. The silence was stretching. Adrian was surprised at how quickly this setup was bringing him to madness. The nothingness in the black that he saw met the nothingness in the silence around him with warm gestures. If not for the physical ability to feel the smooth wood of the armrest, Adrian thought he could have quickly lost touch with reality. He spoke again, now to confirm with himself that he was there, this was happening, and it was not a dream. ¡°I have a dog. A pet. Kevin. I f-f-found him, and he''s hurt. He''s depending on me, I need to help him.¡± But within himself Adrian was already resigning. Resigning to whoever had him trapped and whatever they would do. What would happen next? The thought immediately followed his spoken words. Should I say something else? Nothing is happening, but- The thought was cut off by someone clearing phlegm from their throat, the sound of someone who had decided to speak. Suddenly, the sack over his head was rolled up, pulled up over his lips. The air was nurturing his clammy skin and the nauseous sensation in his gut. ¡°Your name.¡± The voice was stony, dry and low in pitch. It commanded authority without using volume or specific tone. Adrian wasn''t asked for his name, but was offered the opportunity to provide it. Just the sound of this voice against the dead silence inspired fear. There was age to it, but it aged with qualities like a good whiskey was supposed to, with strength and vitality and darkness. Adrian could imagine hearing this person narrate a documentary about haunted houses or serial killers. ¡°Aid¡­ Adrian. My name is Adrian.¡± His own voice sounded weak in comparison. Shrill and frail, filled with stutters, but more clear now that his mouth wasn''t muffled. ¡°Hmmmm,¡± came the response. Although Adrian couldn''t decipher if the man was contemplating his answer or acknowledging what he had said. Oddly, now that the man was talking, Adrian couldn''t think of what to say. The flow of words that ran like a river, briefly dammed while being dragged, was now bone dry. Nervously he fidgeted in his seat, the anxiety a live wire inside of him. ¡°Hmmmm,¡± he said once more, letting a noisy puff of air out of his nostrils as he did. ¡°Hm, hmm, hmmmm,¡± as if he just ate something rather tasty. Each ¡°hmm¡± was being pronounced sharply. ¡°Adrian,¡± he tested the word. He repeated it again, sounding the syllables out as if they were a new food he was about to sample. ¡°Ai-dree-in," he said it phonetically. And then more quiet. It was not a peaceful quiet but one filled with dread and suspense. Adrian could hear only his own breath as it left his nose and hit the boundaries of the bag he was wearing, heating his face. It was hard to know what to think right now. Adrian was overcome with shock, the madness of the situation not giving him access to his proper flow of his thoughts. He felt like he was watching a movie, waiting for the events to portray themselves. At the same time he was afraid. His vision shrouded, all around his personal space felt like the walls of a battered home in a particularly strong storm. He felt prone. Prone to danger. As if at any moment this person could drag him some more, or do worse. ¡°Adrian. Tell me who you are.¡± His voice was mesmerizing, Adrian found. It sounded grandfatherly yet it was too stern, too healthy to be quite so old and sweet. ¡°I¡­ sir, I don''t understand. My name is Adrian.¡± he said blindly. What did this strange man want? He knew who he was, Adrian had told him already, it was Adrian who didn''t know things right now. It crossed his mind to ask who it was that was speaking, but before the courage arrived the man before him spoke again. ¡°No. Adrian is your name. Tell me who you are.¡± he said firmly. A hint of¡­ anger, or agitation lay in that tone. The terrible part now is that Adrian still didn''t know what he meant. Did he want a life story? Did he want to know if Adrian was a good person, the kind of guy to stop and pick up a dropped belonging or return a lost wallet? Or did he want to know who Adrian was before the apocalypse began? A banquets manager back in West Virginia who had the guilt of murdering his own girlfriend. ¡°My name is Adrian Shepherd. I''m from West Virginia but I came here when I learned about the bombs, a week or so before the attacks. Ever since I got here, I''ve been living in someone else''s abandoned house a little bit up the Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Monica. I''ve been holed up in there until recently when my building was marked to be looted. I packed my things and my dog and drove, this was where I stopped.¡± He realized that he had started to ramble. Another realization came: as brief as it was, this was the first time he had said any of his experiences out loud. To another person. When the words left his lips he felt them leave the heavy burden he carried, as well. As if acknowledging it broke the tension. It felt surprisingly good. A thin, barely audible but certainly noticeable sigh was pushed out. A simple huff and heave of the upper body. Adrian thought there would be an even greater hesitation before one of them spoke, but the man came back promptly. ¡°You learned of the bombing before it happened? And you say there was more than the one?¡± Adrian was caught off guard, it wasn''t the question he expected. Everyone alive in America must have known about the bombs, why would this person focus on that instead of the man he was interrogating? And¡­ oh, of course. Of course not everyone would know that the initial disaster was more than one bomb. Adrian considered for the first time that he might be one of the few remaining people who know that fact. ¡°Yes. There were seven of them. I saw the plans, a warning, a little bit before it all happened. About a week before. It''s how I knew to drive toward Santa Monica.¡± Adrian replied. The images on the agent''s phone still as clear as if it was in his hands now. ¡°So, it''s true. It''s all of America, then. It must be.¡± came the utterly let down voice of this stranger. A hollow sorrow resonated in those chords. ¡°I should have expected it, but it still pains me to have these suspicions confirmed. Why else wouldn''t the government have fixed this by now?¡± he muttered something else that Adrian couldn''t decipher and then momentarily placed a palm to his forehead. And then the silence. It came crawling back like cold frost growing on a window pane, and it overwhelmed him with a similar icy grip. Adrian wondered if it was his turn, if he was supposed to talk. Truth be told, Adrian wasn''t sure how the structure of a conversation worked any more. He remembered countless, endless, mind numbing conversations at work. At the grocery store. At home. On the street. There never seemed to be any effort with those, the memories brought back a supposed ease Adrian once had with talking. What was he supposed to do now? Ask for his name? The very notion of that seemed like insanity, but so didn''t this man asking Adrian for his. So didn''t any of this. Adrian ran out of time again, the man piped up. ¡°Who are you here with, Adrian? Who joined this road trip of yours?¡± it was such a casual statement. One Adrian could have made, and probably did, while working at the hotel back in West Virginia. But it was out of place here. It didn''t fit in with the net draped over Adrian¡¯s body or the environment of two chairs, two strangers in a mysterious room. ¡°Uh¡­ I drove here alone. I''m not here with anyone.¡± ¡°Except for Kevin.¡± ¡°N-no, I picked Kevin up here in Santa Monica. Two days ago. No, three.¡± At this the man made a thinking ¡°hmm¡± noise, and then the noiseless curtain fell again. A few seconds passed, and it had been a long time since Adrian was sat down. The literal pain in his ass was being a metaphorical pain in his ass. He twitched, shifted and then moved his hand to adjust his pants. A small attempt at relief, really. Adrian felt the warmth of his hand, first. Next it was the strength of his grip on his wrist. He hadn''t heard the man stand or move, but here he was, grabbing Adrian¡¯s arm. Eyes weren''t necessary to know that he was at a physical disadvantage. The grip hardened, Adrian¡¯s arm was pulled back slowly. He had put his hand under his waistband to fidget with the bandage, hoping to align his body and the injury in a way that stopped this chair from driving wooden edges into it. When his last fingertip left the confines of his pants the pulling stopped abruptly. The air around his hand felt cool. ¡°You''re bleeding.¡± came the voice. Still as unsurprised, unquestioning and unconcerned as it had been. As casual as the blood on Adrian¡¯s fingers was mentioned, he might have as well been pointing out his untied shoes or undone zipper on his jeans. ¡°I was shot the other day,¡± it felt like an insane lie to say it. He had been shot. Simple Adrian, who had never so much as shaken a stick at someone while having violent intentions. The gun he saw yesterday had been the first gun he had ever seen. ¡°Before, during, or after you met Kevin?¡± it was the first time Adrian detected curiosity, and the thought that came to him was a primal reaction. I might not die today. He sucked in a breath of cool air and blew it back out of his mouth. One instant after he tried to cautiously regain control of his arm, Adrian was reprimanded. The man twisted his wrist until a sharp snap of pain arose, riding his arm all of the way up to his elbow. All of the bleeding and suffering from his gunshot wound was temporarily forgotten. ¡°You are not to move unless I say so, Adrian. You have invaded my home, been captured, and currently are my prisoner. Although I lack the shackles, never lose the focus of what this is. This is the classic prisoner and sheriff scene in the movie. The one where they talk and try to strike a bargain. So, do you want to strike a bargain?¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. With every word there was a small blast of air bouncing off of the sack on Adrian¡¯s head, signifying just how close the man had gotten. Adrian, lacking the eyesight to see it for himself, imagined his captors appearance. He saw a grim, stubbled face that featured wrinkles like a statue features blemishes. A black cowboys hat sat ridiculously upon his brow, where a long mane of jet black hair descended. He had donned a black jean jacket with a dark colored undershirt that rested comfortably on a large physique, tucked into well fitted jeans that featured a black leather belt. The man was fear, and despair, and pain. ¡°Yes. I do.¡± Adrian said meekly. ¡°Then tell me. Were you shot before, during, or after you met Kevin?¡± the curiosity was gone, his tone was all business again. ¡°I was shot after I met Kevin. I found him... he was¡­ he was bleeding, so I brought him back to the house I''ve been living in. The next day I went out for supplies. I went back in to Santa Monica, the first time since I drove through it eight months ago. There, in a grocery store, I was shot by a drunk.¡± It came out quickly, scattered and shaky. Adrian hoped the man wouldn''t be able to detect the lie he had told. A gut feeling had told him that declaring himself as Kevin''s attacker wouldn''t be perceived how Adrian needed it to be perceived. Another expanse of quiet time passed, and then the man let go of his grip. The thick fingers were like constricting ropes being pulled off, and Adrian was certain that there were imprinted finger grooves on his skin, where the blood was now flowing back in. ¡°My name is George. George Christopher Barnes.¡± Adrian wasn''t sure, but thought that George might be waiting for a response. ¡°The pleasure is mine.¡± He squeaked. An attempt at a joke, ruined by a display of anxiety. The joke obviously didn''t land well, either. Other than the sounds of George settling back in to his own chair, there was no response. ¡°Your mistake,¡± he began, ¡°was going back into Santa Monica. It has become a festering hole for criminals and idiots.¡± he stopped to audibly take a couple swallows of something. Adrian imagined it was water and became aware of how parched he was himself. He stopped himself from licking his lips to moisten them. ¡°You would have gone up, further north a few klicks I imagine, and found small convenience stores. Abandoned houses. Community halls that sheltered civilians early on. Are there no boats up that way? There are prime fishing spots if you are someone eager to look for them.¡± Again, another lapse in their conversation. Was he supposed to respond? What was the appropriate thing to say? Adrian¡¯s mind kept drawing blanks, and his jaw went slack. He stayed silent. ¡°What is your full name?¡± George asked in an investigative way, not one that supported curiosity or amiability. ¡°It''s, uh, it''s Adrian Conrad Shepherd.¡± and the reaction went about as well as he could have expected. ¡°Son, there is no need in lying. There is nothing I can do with your identity beside ponder it. What is your real surname?¡± between the lines George was heavily laying hints to Adrian that he should cut the bullshit. ¡°That''s it. Really. It''s Adrian Shepherd, Shepherd is my real last name.¡± he spat out quickly. He only realized he was cringing away when he felt his muscles protest the straining they were doing. ¡°No shit?¡± George said uncharacteristically, ¡°still have your license? I have to say it is a little hard to believe.¡± ¡°My what?¡± Adrian hadn''t thought of his wallet or its contents in months. He had left it back somewhere in the Croteau¡¯s, he thought. ¡°Your license. Your driver''s license. Your identification card.¡± he spelled it out as if he was tutoring Adrian, not as if he was belittling him or speaking to a child. Adrian couldn''t quite place a finger on what kind of person this George Barnes was. ¡°Oh¡­ no. I set my wallet down a long time ago and haven''t picked it up since.¡± More silence. It ticked on. Soon a full minute had passed without it breaking. Then two. Adrian estimated it had been ten, maybe fifteen minutes since he lost his sight. The flares of hot pain in his hip was now a constant torrent of fire, but he didn''t dare complain over it. ¡°Alright. We will call you Adrian Shepherd, if that is how you will have it.¡± Adrian thought about stubbornly retorting about his honesty, but George carried on. ¡°Tell me about the injuries you have. And Kevin, his too.¡± It was becoming too much. George had all of the cards in his hands, but Adrian wasn''t even sure of what game they were playing. He didn''t think that he would last another five minutes being blinded and unable to move, all of the while enduring the pain of jagged wood piercing the hole left by a bullet. ¡°Listen. You''ve got to take this bag off of my head and let me adjust my hip,¡± Adrian didn''t want to show his desperation, but he added: ¡°please.¡± He heard in response a chortle. It was by what Adrian¡¯s mind defined a chortle, and it might have been the first time he had heard anyone chortle. It would have been repetitive puffs of air had it not had a low, resonating hum to each puff. And then there was a dim light. George had pulled the bag (and now Adrian could see it truly was a random cloth-material bag) off of his head and revealed a large, vast banquet hall. Immediately he knew it was a banquet hall, despite there only being the two lavishly decorated wooden chairs that they sat on, and two long tables tilted to lean against the wall by the main double doors that Adrian deduced they had entered from. ¡°Go ahead. Tell me about your injuries.¡± Adrian could see, now, that his earlier depiction of George had been all wrong. He looked gentle. This was a man you would see coaching a child''s soccer team on the weekends. It went so far as to produce a flutter of relief, before he remembered where he was and what George had already said to him. George Barnes was easily as tall as Adrian with a salt-and-pepper hair-and-beard combo, that contained more salt than pepper. He was unnaturally (for the time they were in) well kept and clean, and it made Adrian wonder how he looked in comparison. Spectacles that hung loosely on his nose had yellowed rims around the glass, and Adrian could see a small crack in the left lens. It ran from the bottom to the top, just to the left of where the eye would predominantly see from. Despite having a full beard he had a strong and definable jaw line that met at a squared chin. His squat, round nose was only matched by his physique. George was barrel-chested, with thick arms. It was the body of a man disciplined from hard work, like chopping wood or laboring heavily on a farm. ¡°Son, I will not say it again. What hurts, and where?¡± he spat out before beginning to adjust the collar and sleeve cuffs of his blue-and-white plaid dress shirt. Irritation. Anger. His face was in a scowl, and Adrian wasn''t sure yet if it was natural or if it had been set that way recently. The lighting was dim and easy to adjust to. With every second that passed, details became clearer. He could make out the wall¡¯s decorated chocolate-brown wooden panels that rose a quarter way up the wall before a creamy-yellow vinyl wallpaper took over. The back end of the room, to Adrian¡¯s left, once had two giant windows that overlooked the backside of the resort, but were now covered with sheets of thin wood that had been painted black. George had finished fiddling with his shirt, took a drink from a metallic-silver colored water bottle, and cast a stony, emerald-green eyed stare at Adrian. Adrian noticed his eyes looked alive with electricity, and that his body didn''t show that same energy. ¡°I was shot¡­¡± he began. ¡°You have said that already. Where exactly is the wound, is the bullet lodged inside still or was it a clean puncture, and what has the healing process been like?¡± he rolled each point off of the tip of a finger as if he was reciting the days chores and errands. ¡°It''s, um¡­ I was shot in my hip. The meaty part of my hip. The bulle-" Adrian was cut off by an abrupt burst of laughter, not at all a chortle but a full-out horselaugh. It nearly scared the shit out of Adrian. ¡°You-A HA HA HA! You mean to say, son, you were shot in the REAR?!¡± George actually wiped a tear from his cheek as it rolled down. ¡°...Yes. I was shot in the ass.¡± Adrian replied curtly and with humility. In some light, yes, he could see the humor in his situation. But in the ramifications of it he was not prone to partake in its comedic value. George''s smile slowly waned from a grin to an uplifted line, and then back down to a resting horizontal line. ¡°I apologize. There is a lack in entertainment of any form, these days. Please, continue. How long has the bullet been there?¡± Adrian wetted his lips and took a moment to readjust his body, taking note of whether or not George would take hold of him again. When he was more comfortable (more accurately, in a position that didn''t prod his sensitive wound), he continued. ¡°It''s out. Someone took it out.¡± ¡°Someone? Who? Did Kevin take it out?¡± he chortled again. ¡°The man who shot me took it out,¡± and when George''s expression went from amused to confused, Adrian added, ¡°it''s a long story.¡± ¡°We have some time. Please. Tell me about the drunken man who shot you and then stitched you back up.¡± George piped back, checking and adjusting an imaginary watch. Adrian sighed. ¡°I went to Santa Monica to get food. Like I said. When I got there, there was a man eating chips in the store¡¯s doorway. I froze. He saw me, and from there things escalated quickly. He shot me when he thought I wanted to raid the store, the store he had just raided himself, and I woke up the next morning to a note. It said that he felt guilty, took the bullet out and cauterized the wound. He was gone when I came to.¡± George crossed one ankle over the other leg, forming the space of a triangle in his lap. He scratched his beard as he thought. ¡°It does make about as much sense as anything else I have seen during the past year. You were lucky, kid.¡± he motioned with his hand during the last sentence. A playful swatting, a gesture to say ¡°no biggie¡±. ¡°And Kevin?¡± George fixed his shining green eyes in a pointed stare, his eyebrows into a slanting furrow. ¡°Head-" Adrian paused to cough phlegm from his throat, ¡°a head injury. He had a head injury when I found him, and then I carried him home. The whole time I''ve had him he''s been unconscious, but yesterday he opened an eye.¡± Adrian had to pause again. He wasn''t initially aware of how emotionally attached he was to Kevin, but now it was starting to become obvious. In his own eye there was a tear to be wiped. George sat motionlessly for a span of time. Boring green-eyed holes into Adrian, who awkwardly fidgeted, made and turned away eye contact as if it was routine and waited. ¡°You¡­ found him.¡± George croaked, and then cocked his head to ask for reassurance. ¡°Y-yes. I found him. I picked him up and ran two blocks home. I''ve been force feeding him water, and I crush up multivitamins and put the powder in sometimes. He hasn''t ate since.¡± Adrian was shaking, convulsing with nerves. He hoped it wasn''t noticeable. He wasn''t a good liar. ¡°Understood. He is a lucky creature, too, then.¡± he put both hands on his knees and leaned forward, ¡°I have one last set of questions for you before we get matters underway. What did you come in here, this lonely, off-of-the-path, beaten down resort, for exactly? What were your intentions? And, maybe most importantly, why did you wait the night out?¡± Of course he knew I was out there. I had my headlights blaring for minutes. He probably assumed I was staking him out. What does ¡°getting matters underway¡± mean? ¡°My house,¡± he began, ¡°I mean, the house I¡¯ve been staying in was tagged¡­ marked to be looted.¡± ¡°How do you know the mark meant that you were to be looted?¡± George interjected. ¡°I saw two of the taggers. I overheard them. They more or less said that they use a color-code system to tell each other whether a building is lootable or not.¡± Adrian¡¯s heart hammered harder at the memory of jamming himself awkwardly in a watercooler box. ¡°And what were the colors?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°What colors did they use?¡± ¡°Why?¡± Adrian thought this was a trivial question at the moment, it didn¡¯t pertain to himself at all. ¡°Why won¡¯t you answer?¡± George cocked his head again, now looking down at Adrian. ¡°Well¡­ because, wh-why,¡± Adrian stammered, sighed, and then restarted, ¡°they sprayed a building red if they wanted it to be looted by a couple of guys with a truck. They sprayed it pink if it was looked at and not considered worth their time.¡± ¡°Very well. Continue on.¡± George said without hesitation. ¡°What?¡± Adrian said. ¡°Continue on¡­ you were explaining why you came here?¡± ¡°Oh¡­ the place I was staying at was marked. I had been there for months. I stole a car from a neighbor, poured what gas I had left in it and then loaded my belongings in it. And Kevin. Then I drove. By the time I felt safe¡­ I noticed this place.¡± Adrian had to stop. He had glossed over the lucid memories of Alyssa. George didn¡¯t need to know about her, but having her name that close to the surface again stirred emotions. ¡°I see.¡± George said with no tone or emotion. He had used little inflection in his voice at all, aside from the one time he had laughed¡­ ¡°Tell me the rest. Why wait all night, and then waltz in here with¡­ can I assume you had no plan?¡± George chortled again. ¡°I waited because I didn¡¯t want to enter while someone was sleeping. I came in because I have nowhere to go. My only other option was to go back out on the road. You¡¯re right¡­ I¡¯ve had no plan. How could I have planned for this?¡± Adrian did allow a small bit of hysteria to slip out. George didn¡¯t respond. The only sound was his tapping foot, that moved to no rhythm at all. Adrian found the continued silence returning unbearable, and could only endure half a minute of anxiety before piping up. ¡°List-¡± he began. ¡°I will be right back, Adrian. Don¡¯t go anywhere.¡± And then, as if he was getting up to change the temperature, George stood and left the room without casting a single glance back. Adrian heard the two doors shut, and then the rattle of chains. George is locking me in. --- George was gone for a total of thirty minutes, and in that time Adrian was obedient. He was told not to go anywhere, and he didn''t. Ever since the bombs had dropped, no, ever since he had learned that the bombs would drop he had been afraid. But it was a general fear, a non-specific fear. A bad feeling in his stomach, as if he was dreading rain to cancel his plan for tomorrow. But this was a direct, specific fear. It literally had a face. It had intentions, questions. And it had a name. And this made it much harder to turn away from. Now Adrian could imagine the possibilities, and could imagine what might go wrong. The walls were closing in, his unanswered questions coming to clarity. That is mostly why Adrian didn''t move from his seat. Why he didn''t bolt through the fire exit at the back wall as soon as George stood, left through the front door and then locked it. After ten minutes of consideration, Adrian decided George had likely planned for something so simple, anyway. Another reason why he didn''t leave was because he didn''t know if he didn''t trust George. Didn''t know if he was a good or bad guy. Adrian had felt like he was being toyed with, slightly, but what if that was just... hazing? An entrance exam? Why would George ask for his medical condition unless he intended to help? To drive the point home further, why ask about Kevin? If George wasn¡¯t keen on him being here, why would he let Adrian be here at all? Adrian had spent the latter fifteen minutes contemplating that. In the end he couldn''t think of a proper reason. The whole situation was too unpredictable to latch on to a theory that made any sense. As much as his still being here was a sign of something good, it pointed to other signs as well. What if, for example, George just wanted to know how alone Adrian truly was, and Adrian had delivered himself bow-tied to have whatever fate George could cook up forced upon him? He was considering that exact question when he heard the metallic scratch of a key in a lock. Chains jangled heavily and then fell, the double doors were pulled open. Behind George the lobby was bright. Brighter than it had been when Adrian entered, and he pondered that for a moment before George slowly made his way to his chair again and spoke. A skylight, maybe? ¡°Adrian,¡± he started, displaying a handsome smile, ¡°I would like to invite you to be our guest at The Wandering Sheppard: Resort and Inn.¡± 12: Appetizers Adrian blinked. To be more specific, Adrian felt his eyelids lower by their own accord. He saw the scope of what he was seeing lessen, narrow and then turn to black. And then he felt his eyelids rise, revealing George once more. Only now he was slowly taking steps back into the banquet room, hands displayed at the sides of his torso, palms up. Adrian was studying the words George had said last. I would like you to be our guest¡­ as if¡­ as if this place was still functioning, taking in guests from every corner of the globe. As if George would just tap a few keys on a computer''s keyboard, book his reservation and ask if he wanted complimentary water or a verbal tour of Los Angeles. And did he say ¡°our¡± guest? George clapped his hands and gave a ¡°how about it?¡± look with another calculated cock of his head and a winning smile. He was still walking cautiously and had entered all of six feet into the room. Adrian thought he could momentarily see a tiny flash or glare of something reflective and small, sticking out of the front pocket of his crinkled black dress pants. When he had apparently decided that Adrian wasn''t going to respond, George dropped his hands to his sides and wore a defeated expression. Is he offended? What does he want? Adrian was sure his face was scrunching up with confusion more and more every second, but he was not processing these events as quick as he needed to. As quick as George was moving them. George stopped moving at the end of the light let it in by the opened doorway. He put his hands on his hips and stared at Adrian from approximately twenty-five feet away. ¡°I admit. Out of all of the reactions to these palavers that I have had, yours is the least¡­ notable. Which, to me, makes it the most notable. And it is an unexpected reaction, also. May I sit again? I suspect that we need to have a longer chat.¡± To this Adrian nodded slowly, cleared his throat and then replied as George made his way back to his seat. ¡°I don''t know how to react. I don''t know what you mean.¡± Now it was George''s turn to have his face scrunch. As he settled into his chair, he tapped a robotically-moving finger thoughtfully against the armrest. All of George¡¯s movements seemed ¡°robotic¡± in nature, Adrian realized. Every muscle pulling, every thought process acted out was like a typewriter''s button being pressed. A singular decision that was seen through flawlessly to its finish. ¡°What I said was exactly what I meant. There are no hidden connotations. We would like you and Kevin to, if you would, be our guests here. You do know what this building is, right son? It''s an inn. A type of hotel.¡± George smiled wolfishly at his condescending joke, displaying double rows of straight teeth, stained to a smoker¡¯s yellow. ¡°I''ve worked at a hotel for seven years¡­ that''s not what I don''t understand.¡± ¡°Then make it plain. You make a simple introduction into an interrogation.¡± Adrian felt his eyes grow wide, saw George''s lips curve and then quickly peel back from a smile, a failed attempt to hide it. He was turning things into an interrogation? Adrian had been the one bound, dragged, blinded and questioned. Yes, Adrian thought, maybe I did turn this into an interrogation, if only by existing have I morphed this. He was fuming with the disbelief he had, the insanity of everything before him. What about this predicament made it look like things were going the way Adrian turned them? Nothing! And then Adrian blinked. Am I being¡­ is he fucking with me? He asked himself silently. ¡°That was a joke.¡± Adrian said out loud. He didn''t ask, he pulled the knowledge out of George''s telling expression and announced it. ¡°A bit of sarcasm, more specifically.¡± George cheerfully added and then resumed the silence. All of the while he was watching Adrian. ¡°I don''t understand what you mean by asking me to be your guest. The last man I spoke with shot me, and now I''m being offered hospitality by the next.¡± Adrian raised his hands, saying ¡°what am I supposed to do?¡± with a defeated gesture. George seemed to be mulling this over for a few moments, then he nodded. ¡°Yes. Yes. I understand that. When you make it so plain and simple as that, I would have a hard time trusting strangers, too,¡± George made himself more comfortable, ¡°so I suppose you''ll be wanting to hear my story now, is that it?¡± That hadn''t actually been ¡°it¡±. Adrian didn''t know what ¡°it¡± was exactly, but he had been offered a lead and he took it. He wasn''t so sure if living with this man, sleeping under the same roof as him, was a good idea. More knowledge here would be powerful. ¡°Yes, please. If you would.¡± Adrian said politely. Despite not wanting to show it, Adrian was curious about who George was. He was strong and smart and alert. Adrian had walked straight into his trap like a rat would. But despite being held in the center of his palm, George didn''t seem to be toying with him. There was no lunacy is his crow-footed eyes. There was no underlying motive to gain resonating in his voice. And even though he was rough, he hadn''t been overly violent. Yet, anyway. George cleared his throat before he began. ¡°Quite proud of this one, I have got a lot of war stories but this one is quite the tale to tell. Almost makes for a movie script,¡± he laughed, stroked his chin, continued, ¡°back a year ago, when they dropped those bombs on us-" ¡°Eight months.¡± Adrian interjected without realizing. ¡°...pardon me?¡± George scowled. ¡°It''s been eight months¡­ not a year.¡± and when George said nothing, ¡°I''ve been keeping count.¡± ¡°Right¡­ anyhow. Eight months ago, when they dropped those ever-loving bombs on us, I was at work. The first sign was the growing unrest in my patients, the thick pot of chaos beginning to stir. Next, you could see it. Thick dark clouds in the east, in the north. A surge of wind rattled the world like an above ground earthquake, and then it was calm. The eye of the storm. Soon, all hell broke loose. People tossed chairs out of windows. I was mugged for the money in my wallet on my way to get my wife and child. Got this from the fellows ring on his hand,¡± George pointed to the crack in his glasses before proceeding, ¡°I left work early. I worked at a pet clinic as the head veterinarian, by the way. And yes, before you interrupt again, I will take a look at Kevin. I saw that spark in your eye.¡± George shook his head disapprovingly, then gave a lighthearted chortle. ¡°I picked up my daughter from elementary school, on the way I called my wife and relayed the plan to her. She was to stay at the inn until I got there with Candy. The children were singing hymns, shepherded in to a pen made of cafeteria tables and televisions that at that point were only blaring emergency alerts, by their teachers. Their fucking teachers penned them. Most of whom, by the way, were not sober. I could not for the life of me tell you how I think that two or three dozen adults became so intoxicated so quickly around so many children. But they were. Sitting in round circles, passing a flask or a bottle. All while two or three others comforted the children shuddered against the walls, scared, singing. I took Candy, my little girl Candace, and we ran for the car. The fool that I am, I left the keys in the ignition. My car was gone. We had a twenty minute drive yet to get to my wife, who was here in this building we sit in, working.¡± Adrian hadn''t realized how intently he had been listening until George paused. The older man took a long drink from his water bottle and sat it down. Adrian also realized how thirsty he was, and was about to ask for a drink before George chimed in again. ¡°So I looked at my daughter, a statue of fright, and asked her. I asked her if she knew what was happening. She shook her head. I asked her if she was scared. She shook her head, the most obvious lie I had ever seen. Tears spilled as she moved her head, and I took her in my arms. I said, ¡°Candy, do not worry. Daddy knows what to do.¡± he said with finality, taking another sip. When he didn¡¯t continue, which Adrian was beginning to take as social cues, Adrian inquired. ¡°What did you do?¡± ¡°Would you believe that I called a cab, Adrian? I did,¡± he chuckled, ¡°I called a cab and what more is to it, the cab got to the schoolyard in fifteen minutes. Fifteen. Have you ever called a cab that arrived so fast?¡± This time it was Adrian¡¯s turn to use silence as a prompt. ¡°We got in the cab. The cabbie barely spoke a word of English. He knew something had happened, something big but he could not find the words to ask, and I could not find the words to tell him. But he did know Los Angeles like the back of his hand. Along the way I tried to call my wife again but the reception was down. I asked the cabbie for his phone, same deal. It was around that point I think that he started to understand what was happening. You could see it in his face then. Anyway, I was here with my wife in forty-five minutes. Traffic was chaotic going toward the highway, you see. It was then that I remembered that I had been mugged not an hour and a half earlier. How was I meant to pay?¡± he stopped to reflect, cough, and drain the remains out of his bottle. ¡°I didn''t think at the time about how obsolete paper money would become. No. I was thinking that I owed this man a debt, someone who risked all to take me to my loved one, and he didn''t even know what he was risking until it was too late. And so, I did some tense, quick thinking. There had not been much destruction or vandalism at this point, still too early. But to see clearly down the future¡¯s road, and what life could possibly be like, you did not need to be a fortune reader anymore. No crystal ball, no. You could see it like a ship on the horizon, only a black speck. The details sharpened and made up by your brain. But you knew it was there, and coming. ¡°So this man looks at me, he doesn''t say a word. I am not saying anything either, only looking back at him with what must have been empty and pleading eyes. From the distance of the front seat to the back, there was miles of uncertainty. I say to him, ¡°where are you going now?¡± and he says to me, ¡°I do not know,¡± and we are finally making social progress now. He starts to weep, and then he bawls. Which makes my daughter cry again, and now I am the only human in the car not needing to be consoled. So to tie up the water works I put my hand on the cabbie¡¯s shoulder. He stops, just enough to take note of what I am saying. I say, ¡°stay here?¡± and I point to the inn. He looks at me as if I was a wall. So I unbuckled my seatbelt, reached over and turned the key in his ignition, the car went off. I said, ¡°stay here, come inside,¡± and when nothing on his face surrendered his understanding, I added ¡°home,¡± and then he understood. It took a small bit of back and forth, but five minutes later I was inside of these walls with him and my daughter. And back in the early days, this place was hell. When we first walked in, the lobby could have been confused for penny day at a thrift store. Clothes, towels, shampoos. Perfume bottles, alcohol bottles, cans of cleaning chemical. Sheets, loose pets and curtains. All over every inch of floor. You could not take a flat step on the ground. Isn''t it interesting how quickly the world went to shit, Adrian?¡± Adrian had been caught off guard. He had been sitting with has back leaned forward, elbows on knees with his head in one hand while the other rested horizontally. There was something about human contact that was addictive, now. Or maybe it just had addictive tendencies. Whatever it was, Adrian had often found himself craving conversation. Even the spat with the crazy old man in Reggie¡¯s had scratched a particular itch. It was killing curiosity. The words, people''s voices were harmonious after such solitary confinement he had self imposed, but what he truly needed without ever consciously recognizing was to know how other people were doing. How anyone else had fared out during this shit. So it was easy for him to get enwrapped in a story as enticing as George''s. At the very mention of cab drivers, Adrians mind had salivated with a flush of memories. ¡°Yeah. I mean, yes. It is.¡± Adrian replied. Even though he desired such small things like conversation, he found it to be a near inability to express or articulate himself. Every syllable was pulling tightly wound muscles with rusty hinges attached in his jaw. Every response was fished randomly from a swift running river of thoughts. And it had, in a way, been interesting just how quickly the world went to shit. It had changed like the world changes to autumn. Slowly, at first. It built up, cars dashed to scattered locations. People were scared. Then they disappeared, fleeing like leaves from trees. It grew quiet, and those who remained hid or helped the decay spread. Buildings were destroyed, smoke filled the skies, people were dying. And then it became quiet again.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°My wife ran up to me. Heather is her name. She worked here for years, now she runs it. She ran up to us and we rejoiced. From the look on her face, you would have thought that she never expected to see her daughter again. They embraced, we all embraced, and then I introduced the guest we had with us. His name was Harishchandra Aoun, but we called him Harish. It was a lot easier on our American tongues. Heather was distrustful at first, you have to understand that this mayhem wreaked havoc heaviest on her. She had had a close call with a guest who in one hour was pleasant, cordial and otherwise unnoticeable and in the next, when the shutters flew open and we all saw the apocalypse coming, was a threatening, thieving fucking PIG!¡± and as he let out the outburst he threw his water bottle, making muffled ting-ting-ting noises as it bounced along the carpet. Veins quickly dominated his forehead. George looked discombobulated, but clarity came back as he wiped his face. He let out a long, whistling sigh and then looked, if you ignored the past fifteen seconds, as he always had. Calm. Calculated. Watchful. ¡°But she was ok. We were all ok. Harish was ok. No one was sure how long he would stay, I think even for him it was a moment-by-moment basis. But we were glad to house him, he carried his own weight two-fold. Along with him, and after we kicked all of the former checked in guests to the curb, we were a group of seven. A motley group we were, too. My family, and Harish. Dillan Dolliver, who was a businessman here on¡­ vacation, with a¡­ lady of the evening. If you will.¡± ¡°A hooker?¡± Adrian inquired, mostly out of shock but there wasn''t anything masking the confusion on his face. ¡°A hooker, if you will, then. And wipe that disrespectful look off of your face. Undoubtedly, Miranda was of the biggest help to our survival. We almost kept her on. She could sew, she could tie knots, she could keep after herself and was a fast learner. She not only knew of some valuable commodities stashed away in little known areas, her knowledge of this area''s terrain rivaled that of Harish.¡± George spoke quickly, with the air of the offended. Another pause followed, and Adrian knew what was being prompted this time. ¡°No, I¡­ I didn''t mean anything like that. Anything offensive. I was just surprised that you had a sex worker live with you. I know everyone has their pros and cons, but you have a family here.¡± ¡°Adrian. Hookers are people, too. Like you and me. Like you and me.¡± ¡°That''s not what I''m saying. I''m sorry. I just meant¡­ look, it was surprising, alright? I would act the same if you had said she was a¡­¡± Adrian tried to think, but he drew blanks. ¡°No, Adrian, you were just shocked to learn a common hooker could have some merit to her. Their stereotype works against them, largely. And you know what? I do not think that''s wrong of you. As long as you learn from it.¡± George eyed Adrian carefully. ¡°...yes. You are right, George. I was surprised to learn that you let a hooker stay here, and surprised even more to learn she was a top asset, as you said. But not in an offended or disgusted way¡­ it was a welcome surprise, I swear.¡± the anxiety in Adrian had climbed back up his spine as if it had wings, with strong hands they reclaimed a familiar spot around his throat, cutting proper and confident flow. ¡°Relax, friend,¡± George laughed, ¡°no need to be on edge. We are just two guys, sitting in an inn, shooting the shit.¡± he pronounced the ¡°t" in ¡°shit¡± sharply. ¡°The last fellow we had with us, was poor eighty year old Harold. A birdkeeper and watcher. Tragic story, out here to escape the noise of home after his wife died three years back. Plane crash, got a lot of money out of the insurance and all, but you knew as soon as you spoke to him that it was not the money he wanted. I had him, since he knew all of the popular spots, be our hunter and game master, if you will.¡± ¡°You had the birdkeeper shoot the birds?¡± ¡°He was inclined to! Sure! It took some convincing, some¡­ some passing of insight. But he wanted to, I tell you. He wanted to get rid of the noise, I believe.¡± George tapped his temple with his index finger, then nodded knowingly. But Adrian had noticed, barely picked up on the slight stutter George had never before shown. What was that about? ¡°Where are they now?¡± Adrian asked dubiously. ¡°We had¡­ a disagreement.¡± and didn''t seem inclined to say anything further. ¡°A disagreement?¡± Adrian probed. ¡°A falling out.¡± George answered. ¡°May I ask over what?¡± ¡°I''d rather you didn''t. It''s not important.¡± George dismissed it with a grimace, waving his hand. ¡°It¡­ um, it sort of is. To me. Since we''re talking about whether or not I would stay here, I think I''d like to know what happened to, um¡­ the previous tenants.¡± Adrian was being as timid as he could, the ice felt thin. George appeared as if he was thinking things over. ¡°I can understand that. That is rational. Alright. Ok. I will tell you. It''s not a long story. After two months of comfortable survival they all started to turn their noses up at me and my wife and kid. Thought there were too many mouths to feed, that they''d be fine on their own. So I turned the tables when I noticed the signs, sent them packing and now we run this joint all by ourselves. It''s pretty comfy.¡± George relaxed in his chair as he finished his story. He eyed Adrian again, watchfully. Always watchfully. Now what? Adrian thought. Was this the point where he accepted or rejected the initial offer? What should he say after a story like that? Once again, Adrian was unsure. The past hour had just been so strange, so bizarre. George had went from kidnapping him to inviting him to live here. And having George on his team definitely seemed like an asset. The question was whether or not Adrian could trust him. George had just told him that he threw out the initial group of people he started with. But I haven''t crossed him like those people have. A flimsy argument. Adrian looked up at George, who had not moved an inch. His face was currently friendly, short brown hair bent backwards. Possibly combed recently. Adrian started to wonder what Douglas would do, but cut the thought of short. It was only hurting him to think of that. Another good question was, what would he do if he answered no? Adrian suspected George would let him walk away if he agreed to cause no trouble, but was that the smartest idea? What was out there for him? More chaos, more looters and shooters. George, at least, was offering him a safe haven. ¡°Ok. Ok. Me and Kevin will stay here with you.¡± --- George had taken the silver cardkey out of his pocket and handed it to Adrian. They shook hands, George had welcomed him warmly, and they walked out into the lobby. It was beautifully blue outside, Adrian saw through the skylight. Eight big panes of glass that took up most of the room on the ceiling. He was led upstairs, hobbling his way through two flights on his cane that George kindly retrieved for him. He also apologized for the fiasco Adrian endured. ¡°It is necessary though. Otherwise, someone would have taken over this place by now. It''s not a bad location, although we have had a few people before you trying to just their way in. Up to no good.¡± ¡°How many?¡± Adrian asked. ¡°You mark the seventeenth person to come in those doors seeking refuge or resources or what have you.¡± ¡°You''ve turned out sixteen people?¡± ¡°Well, mind you, they do not come as individuals all of the time. Sometimes there''s a family, sometimes a young couple.¡± George said innocently. ¡°How have you not been overtaken? You''re¡­ you''re just one man and woman, plus a child.¡± ¡°We have our resources,¡± George chuckled, ¡°I own a gun. The gun I let Harold loan so he could hunt for us. Most people willingly walk away when they are offered that option or a bullet. My wife not only has a great knowledge of this hotel, which we have put to good use, but she grew up on a horse farm. For shits and giggles she was taught how to use a lasso, and it has come in handy once or twice, believe it or not.¡± They stopped on the third floor, the door right by the stairs. Marked as 3-1. Glancing to his right, he saw his neighbour was 3-2. George made a sweeping ¡°after you¡± gesture with his hands, and Adrian slid the cardkey he was given into the doors battery-powered lock. As he pulled it out, he heard a click and saw a green light envelop the brass handle around it. He swung the door open. Inside was a moderate one-bed-one-bath hotel room. The sheets were white, the wallpaper tan and wavy. The smooth tile of the hallway gave away again to carpet, this room''s was colored a calm gray. Outside of the window, which was not covered or blackened, there was only dense forest. It encroached closer to the building than Adrian would have assumed at first glimpse, the first trees rooted approximately fifty feet away. The room had a chair and a desk, a T.V. stand that was also a bureau drawer, lacking an accompanying television. A bible laid next to a lamp on a bedside table. Out of fondness for the memory he flicked it on. Nothing happened. ¡°Oh, that''s right. Power. I am going to go turn that on for you right now.¡± and George turned to leave. Adrian was left alone inside of The Wandering Sheppard. --- Adrian had been alone for possibly five minutes. He had been examining the integrity of the room, how well it had held up over time. Before he worked in banquets, Adrian had been a special member of the housekeeping team. He would go in to select vacant rooms and strip them down. Flipping the beds over, removing drawers, checking on the tops of dressers. He examined the crevices of bathrooms and tested to make sure every faucet, flush and fixture was customer-perfect. It was a job that required a keen eye for detail. This room had held up well. There was mold in the corners of the showers ceiling, but he knew that that was not uncommon. The grout in the tiles had been scrubbed cleaned. Back in the bedroom everything seemed in immaculate condition, if not covered in a thick layer of dust. ¡°Don''t get your hopes up.¡± came a shrill, feminine voice from the doorway. Adrian turned to see a wiry woman with long, silky smoke-gray hair staring daggers into him. Noticeably she wore a gun holstered on her jeans. Her thin, pursed lips opened again as she laid one hand on her gun¡¯s handle. ¡°Just because George thinks you have something that can benefit us, doesn''t mean you will be here long. We are doing just fine on our own and we don''t need any outsiders here. You''re dirty. You look like you''ve been living in a sewer. You''re untrustworthy and you best keep your distance from both me and my daughter.¡± and with that she turned and slammed the door shut. There was a quick thunk, followed by a sharp click. ¡°Did¡­?¡± Adrian walked to the door and pulled down on its handle and pushed. It wouldn''t budge. ¡°Are you fucking serious?¡± Adrians panic was instant, wild and chaotic. Like a fire born by arsonists with flamethrowers. He rattled the door knob with no success. Angrily, he pounded on the door. After several moments of this, and having no one respond to him, he gave up and resigned to his bedroom. What now? He was trapped. Caught, again. For the second time these Barnes¡¯s have ensnared him. Where is Kevin? What about his things? Would they give him his belongings back, or was he a prisoner here now? His thoughts wasn''t easing his anxiety. Adrian went directly up to the window and looked down. Roughly thirty feet¡­ it had to be. Down below he saw an oil tank. It looked tiny from up here. He knew it was perspective, but it was also perspective gained in his decision to jump. Make use of your surroundings, and after a few seconds he also thought, tear this room apart. And so he began. He tilted the bed upward and leaned it on the adjacent wall, removing the pillows but knowing he would need to remake the bed and apply the bedskirt to the box spring. Under the bed he found a dollar. In the box spring he found an 80¡¯s porn magazine and a half-spent book of matches. In the bathroom was nothing of note. A tank full of water in the toilet, but there was none running from the faucets. He tapped or knocked on every surface he could think of. The vanity, the tiles of the ceiling and floor, every single tile. It appeared to be a regular bathroom. He looked behind the curtains and in the closet. Under the chair and under the desk. He tested the edges of the carpet, but it was firmly intact. He pulled open every drawer but found nothing inside. The closet was empty. The pillows weren''t hiding anything. The paintings on the wall were firmly glued and he flipped through every page of the bible. Adrian gave up, and began to put the bed back together. He thought he remembered the layout of the sheets, how they were tucked and folded. A strange feeling began forming in his gut. Like he had left something unfinished. Once the bed was horizontal and neatly made, he stood with his hands on his hips. He breathed a slow puff of air out of his nose and went to put the drawers back in. But he paused, a lightbulb forming in his brain. He grabbed every drawer and flipped them, revealing their undersides. All four were comprised of wood, painted the same dark brown as the dresser. Adrian stuck his hand inside of the dresser and immediately felt something cold and hard. It was a recognizable shape. He carefully gripped it, pulled downward until he heard the tear of tape. From under the dresser, Adrian pulled out a handgun, the first he had ever held. 13-A: First Course Adrian stared in awe, slack jawed and wide-eyed. The steel of the weapon he was holding was cold, bone-chillingly cold. I am holding a gun he thought, without any feeling any emotion at all. Then, alarm. I am holding¡­ a fucking gun. It was surprisingly heavy, he had almost dropped it when the tapes grip gave way. His ring finger was resting snugly on the trigger. Adrian pulled it off like it was hot. While recalculating his handle on the contraption, he was able to decipher that it''s safety was on. The gun looked sleek and was colored black. It''s grip was smooth, except for two symmetrical strips on either side that felt like metal Velcro. Adrian didn''t dare to finger many of the components of it. He treated it like a sleeping wolf that might bite at the wrong poke or prod. But a fucking gun! He had found a gun. Surely George nor Heather knew of its existence, Adrian didn''t believe he would be left in this room otherwise. As he did when he was a teenager fearing his parents, Adrian stole a sideways glance at the door to his room. Still closed. But I''m sitting here with half of the room torn apart. And if George is as watchful as I think he is, he''s gonna notice all of the dust that''s been blown around. At that moment the lightbulb in his lamp flickered with an electric tinkling noise before becoming bright with life. The bible lying open on the table, slightly over its edge as a result of Adrian¡¯s panic-induced shakedown of the room cast long shadows on the floor. Adrian wasn''t unaccustomed to light. He had had the generator at the Croteau''s, and enjoyed a couple of evenings a week with a lamp in the attic and a book to read. The Croteau''s had coffee, too, that had set the mood for these evenings. His last pot had been half of a year ago. Still, seeing this lamp come alive provided the small flutter in his heart that he always felt when electricity was around. A feeling of relief. This lamp could produce a hidden fantasy world for him if he let himself get absorbed by it. And so, shaking his head of these fantasies, Adrian began to reorganize the room. The legs of tables and his one chair were brought back to rest in the grooves that time and gravity had embedded them in, while he quickly erased the fresh prints they made with his hands. It was not that long of a while before Adrian thought of his gun wound, but not before he had most of the room had set back to the nearest replica that his imagination could recreate. It didn''t hurt much, which was at first a sign of relief. But as he slid out of his trousers, there was a great sensation on the leg opposite that of the wound. As his jeans came off of his waist, leaving him to stand only in boxer shorts, he greatly felt them leave his waist on that side. He palmed it, but it felt normal. It was his healthy leg, as normal as it had been. He palmed his other leg, the wounded one¡­ And felt nothing. There was a momentary shock reaction from the pain he had expected. Then, a microscopic burst of relief before the terrifying realization of his numbed leg came flooding in with the harsh truth. I can''t feel my leg. It''s gone numb. He was seized with a tidal wave of worries that crashed and froze, solidifying inside of him as each breath became a strained pull. After a series of attempts to rally his own bravery that only failed, Adrian slipped down the side of his boxers, exposing his hip that now featured a hole in it in one brisk movement. Blood. Blood had stuck to his boxers and had been running for some time. A wide, smeared trail covered half of his thigh. Adrian did not have a weak stomach, but he was not accustomed to seeing so much blood as he had been seeing this week. First Kevin, now this¡­ it had been a lot. Too much. Adrian hobbled to the nearby trash bin that laid by the T.V. stand and began to retch. Maybe he wasn¡¯t able to produce anything, or maybe his stomach was too empty, but the bout of gagging passed. He was able to limp to the bathroom when he recovered, and remove the top of the toilet bowls tank and begin to clean the blood, after fully removing his boxers, off of his thigh. He was careful not to get any of the water in the wound itself, which he covered with a tightly folded face cloth he had found on the vanity. Its white material quickly became blood-red. As he sat awkwardly on the open tank of the toilet while leaning on his good leg for support, the water rolled off of his bad leg and began to turn the rest of its source from inside of the tank from crystal clear to a murky red-pink color. A lot of water dripped on to the floor, ran down the rest of his leg and splashed on the toilet. It cleaned up reasonably well with one of the two towels he had been left with. On the back of the bathroom door he saw a robe made of comfortable looking material. The power has been on for ten minutes and George hasn''t come back. I think he and Heather might plan to leave me in here. He finished cleaning up, changed out of his dirty clothes and put on the robe. It felt like heaven, and allowed his leg to breathe. Adrian gently prodded around the numbed area of his wound (which was now sporting thicker and longer blue veins than before) and found the area to be about as wide as the palm of his hand, with the cauterized bullet hole being the center. None of this was helping lower the war-mongering pace of his heart, but knowing the full description of his ailments let him feel some slight return of control. After making sure the bathroom was customer-ready as it was before, except for one towel that now hung over the shower rod, Adrian walked back into the bedroom area... To see the gun, lying on the floor where he had left it. Such a foolish thing to do, but he had nearly forgotten it during his third panic of the day. Not inclined to think lightly of the situation or go easy on himself, Adrian gave another boyish look toward the wooden door that imprisoned him as he reapplied the tape to the gun, hiding it securely back where he had found it. And then it dropped. The heavy thunk it produced was so sudden that Adrian jumped. He put a shaky hand on his pitifully mistreated heart and checked the drawers again. The gun lay square in the middle of its cubby, the words ¡°SPRINGFIELD ARMORY¡± were written across its side, a strip of black tape dangling directly above it. What if I kept it on me? I would be safe then. Adrian tried to imagine himself, gun wound on one leg and an actual gun on the other. Tucked in to his jeans, or something. He didn''t have a holster for it like Heather was wearing. Already he could see his unnatural walking gait from a third-person perspective as he tried to suppress both his nerves and the uncanny bulge protruding from his waist, under his shirt. George would immediately point and say, ¡°what have you got there, friend?¡± and Adrian would sputter, ¡°I¡­ uh¡­ it''s¡­¡± So Adrian put the hand gun within the box spring of the bed. It took a little maneuvering, but he was able to lay down, rip off a proportionate section of the dust cover, and stuff the handgun on top of one of the supporting beams. There it balanced, but to add reinforcement against his doubts he took the old piece of tape from the drawers of the T.V. stand and fumbled it on top of the gun, this time taping it down instead of up. Adrian even went back to grope about and discover the second piece of tape that was stuck further under, just to keep himself reassured that the gun would stay where he intended it to. All of the while he was reliving the shock, excitement and dismay of having found the thing. As much as he knew it wouldn''t be a part of his character, Adrian couldn''t help imagining himself if he had had this weapon before hand. He saw himself amidst depleted shelves, in a classic cowboy standoff with the old man from Reggie¡¯s. Adrian wouldn''t have had the strength to shoot someone, let alone a lonely old man, but even the striking figure he''d impose would be a hidden trick card up his sleeve. Maybe he could have walked away from Reggie¡¯s instead of hobbled. He saw himself in the burnt up shack on the Pacific Coast Highway, back against the main door like a soldier waiting to breach. The two men would walk in unaware and unprepared, to Adrian¡¯s advantage. But even here, comfortably inside of a hotel room, a day and some miles away he could not see himself pulling the trigger. Instantly he was brought back to Kevin''s ragdoll-body as it spun out from his defensive strike. His act of violence. The guilt inside of him rolled back and doubled down. How could I do that, to a human or animal? How? And Adrian, unable to answer, began to sob in his nearly reconstructed room. --- It was a long while before anything stirred. For an hour Adrian had sulked and cried, mentally telling the universe just how unfair this all was for him and pleading to it for help. When no one answered him, and when the begging began to tell that it would not heal him, Adrian had stopped spent another hour thinking. Thinking about his crazy week. Has it been a week? Doing some mental math he discovered it had only been three full days, with the sun (as he saw it out of his window) currently making its move to the western side of the sky on this fourth day. Three days? That''s¡­ absurd. And it was. In these three days, Adrian had experienced more trials and difficulties than he had in the entire previous eight months combined, save the drive over. Only, then it hadn''t seemed so easy. In the moment, and in ways he could barely fathom now that he was passed them, simply entering the wide open door of the Croteau''s and making sure it was safe had been stressful. It had been its own impossible task. In hindsight, Adrian didn''t think he felt any different now than he did then. Which was not relieving anything from Adrian, but did provide a feeling of progress, a feeling that he had kept himself above water this entire time. That he had been surviving. Adrian also thought about his current predicament. He knew Heather would not, could not be on his side. But there was possibilities that he could find a friend inside of George. Wasn''t there? He had seemed indifferent enough, and jumped on the opportunity to have Adrian as an ally. Even when he had kicked a considerable number of potential survivors to the curb¡­ And why was that? Why Adrian over sixteen others? Heather had said that George thought he saw something in Adrian, or possessed a talent or otherwise had some value. Was it his previous hotel knowledge? Admittedly Adrian had come in here with little else beside the clothes on his back. Or maybe it was something in Adrian¡¯s story that attracted George''s attention. Not everyone gets shot and mended by the same human, or decides to take care of an animal they had hurt. Not in these days, Adrian knew most people were different now. Maybe George did, too, and thought he had found a fresh apple among a bushel of rotten ones? Wondering at it, while fixing up the last of his mess he had made, was doing him no good. He fingered the numb area underneath of his robe after putting back in the last drawer. The bleeding had stopped during his staunching of the wound, but the lack of feeling remained. He poked the skin around his wound, giving it a wide berth of two or three inches and could only feel the sensation of it on his fingertip. Suddenly, there was a fast and heavy rapping at the door. Adrian covered himself, as he heard a thunk, clack, click as the door finally swung out and open. George was in the doorway beyond the swing of the door, looking in watchfully like a hawk. Each hand was planted firmly on a hip, the left was purposefully placed to avoid the gun and holster that George was now wearing, the very same that Heather had been before. ¡°Ah¡­ that is much better with the light on, yes?¡± George said casually as he stepped inside. ¡°I brought you your things from your car, Kevin is resting in the room beside mine. We''ve used it before as an infirmary. Poor fellow, what a trial he is going through.¡± George set down Adrian¡¯s possessions at the front of the room. ¡°You cleaned up, too. A lot less dust in here. Why are you in a robe?¡± Adrian didn''t reply. The casual tone failed to soothe the spiked nerves George had generated with his presence. George glimpsed in the bathroom as he walked by on his way to Adrian. A momentary swivel that was done with calculated swiftness. Please don¡¯t get suspicious. He was consciously aware of where the gun was located, and both wanted to do his best to cover it more and draw as little attention to it as possible. ¡°That towel is stained and wet. Are you still bleeding?¡± his tone still had an insane tinge of normalcy in it, as if this chat would soon lead in to a debate about last night''s football game. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°Yes. I''ve gone numb,¡± and Adrian placed his palm over the bullet hole, over top of the robe, ¡°Here. My leg is going numb.¡± George gave a thoughtful ¡°hmmm¡± that, to his credit, legitimately carried a note of worry. ¡°And the robe relieves the pressure on the wound, yes.¡± he added thoughtfully. Adrian began nodding his head, but stopped to properly listen to George as he began again. ¡°How have you been treating it, since¡­ when did you say this happened?¡± ¡°It happened two days ago. I¡­ I haven''t been treating it. I don''t know how to treat it.¡± Adrian replied. ¡°I thought as much,¡± and he sighed, ¡°I can help you, Adrian. I am a doctor, you know.¡± ¡°You told me that. But, how? Does a veterinarian get trained to take care of bullet holes?¡± Adrian asked. George barked back with laughter. ¡°Good one. Yes,¡± and then as his smile faded, ¡°yes, they do teach that at veterinarian school. They also, however, teach it during the sixteen weeks you spend training to be a military medic.¡± George popping Adrian¡¯s eyes open wide was quickly becoming a trend. Everything he said seemed to come out of left field, so to speak. Where luck had been taunting him, it now seemed to be teasing him. Before, it kept him above the line of sanity and survival, carefully swooping in when Adrian dipped too low. Now, it was opening previously hidden doors that could lead him out. So why does this moment feel so¡­ bad? There was gloom within Adrian. But he couldn''t locate and cut off its source. ¡°You''re¡­ a combat medic? Like, in the wars and stuff? But you said you had been head veterinarian-" ¡°And I had been,¡± George cut in, ¡°after I was a combat medic. What do you think happens to the veterans, Adrian? They get put back into storage until next Remembrance Day?¡± A joke, Adrian was certain. But neither of them laughed, George only smiled wolfishly and sighed when the humor seemed to only go one way. ¡°You''ll want that story, too, I imagine. Listen well, you have chatted me down to the wires today.¡± Adrian took in air, readying a defense for himself. Actually, none of this was on my agenda today¡­ But he let out his breath wordlessly as he saw the sparkle in George''s eye, the slight twist of the end of his lips. Jokes. We''re just two people joking. Somehow the thought didn''t take him off edge. ¡°My father was a businessman, an oil tycoon. Truth be told, the Barnes family was an extremely wealthy family. I had several homes and vacation homes growing up. Cars purchased for me before I was sixteen. But me and my father did not see eye to eye, we constantly argued from the time I was a teenager and he an aging man with a legacy. Naturally, he thought, I would step in and fill his wealthy, self-appreciating shoes. Only I had different thoughts. Thoughts like ¡°why put his shoes on, when mine fit damn well enough?¡±. So at the age of twenty-six, on the long track to becoming an established businessman, I turned tail and ran. I devoted my youth to America, I served for her. Six good years of my life. And when I was done I lost the taste for fighting, but I kept the love for defending. For mending. For healing.¡± George looked stern but distant, and after a span of time he flinched, snapping out of his daze. ¡°Plus I''ve always loved animals. Heather, too. She grew up on a horse farm, should get her to tell you all about that later. Anyway, Adrian. Let''s get you downstairs, I have a running shower in my room you can use. And then I will take a look and see if your wound is healing.¡± --- When George had first said he had a ¡°running shower¡±, Adrian hadn''t acknowledged it. The words simply blew right by him. As he was led down stairs, still dressed in a bathrobe, George made sure he understood with vivid discussion. ¡°...so after we got those rusted pipes replaced, I managed to rig the system up again. Limited use. The Wandering Shepherd has a private well to use in case of severe droughts and what have you, but as you might imagine it has been faithfully low. We take one shower each every two weeks, timed for five minutes. But even now that we''re just three people,limiting ourselves as we have has only helped the drain marginally. Every week there is less and less water, and have you noticed that rain has become even more of a rarity? Even so, the temperature this summer was much cooler. Why do you think that is Adrian?¡± Adrian had been engrossed in George''s story, a simple telling of the remedy of plumbing problems now seemed to be able to captivate him. He shook his head, momentarily pulling back in clarity. ¡°Umm¡­ I don''t know. I hadn''t noticed, honestly. I can only think that the bombings are to blame, all of the¡­ the chemicals, I guess, affecting the air. The atmosphere. I don''t know.¡± and he honestly didn''t, or had even thought about it. Adrian had been hermited for months, after all. ¡°Yes, I suspect that, too. Remember last year? The record amount of rainfall we had?¡± George paused, shook his head, ¡°I forget, you are from West Virginia, not California. Of course you wouldn''t know.¡± ¡°I heard, actually. It was big on the news for a day last autumn, I remember. There was so much rain they worried about flooding.¡± ¡°And is that not just devilishly humorous? Every year we''re pleading for the sun to go away, not the rain.¡± Adrian didn''t see the humor in that fact, and let the conversation die as they arrived at George''s front door. George pulled his room key, which was attached to a retractable string that was attached to his hip. He dunked it in to the door¡¯s reader and opened it, pushing in to reveal a room that was certainly more shabby than Adrian¡¯s. All of the furniture that made up the room could be counted on one hand, and Adrian thought that George might only possess a dozen or so items, total. Adrian immediately saw a bed with unmade sheets, a small square table with a desk lamp, and a rolling computer chair with armrests and leather back. As they moved inward, Adrian noticed a mechanical pencil neatly lined up to be parallel with a closed, brown notebook on the table. George''s window, which should be portraying a view of the parking lot Adrian had stopped in, was darkened out by a large sheet of plywood that had been painted black and nailed to the frame. ¡°The pressure dies quickly, and it is slow to build back up. That is why we limit ourselves to five minutes. I would not drink the water, not until it has been boiled and deemed safe.¡± Adrian suddenly remembered the water, now back in his room, and the parched throat he possessed. He wished he brought some water with him, but now he would have to wait. ¡°Anything else, or should I let you get to it?¡± George asked. ¡°No, I have things covered. Thank you, George.¡± ¡°Alright. I will be over there, writing.¡± and with that George turned around and walked to his table, sat, and began to write. Adrian turned about and went in to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. This bathroom was similar to his own, of course. The only difference of any interest was the safety rail placed diagonally above the bathtub, and a vertical one beside the toilet. He eyed the shower anxiously, now fully realizing what was about to happen. I haven''t showered since¡­ since West Virginia. He had gotten accustomed to sponge baths with room temperature water. They were humiliating at first, despite the necessity and lack of people to observe. Adrian would be naked and huddled in a bathtub, holding a sponge in one hand, a bar of soap in the other and a bottle of water nearby. This shower was pristine porcelain and chrome. It was clean, and on closer inspection as Adrian began to (literally) disrobe, he could see that despite bi-weekly use there were no dried water stains anywhere. A white towel was hung on the shower rod. He couldn''t wait, the anticipation was growing. The robe fell to his ankles, and as the fabric grazed his injury a mulled stab of pain reminded him of something important. ¡°George,¡± Adrian asked timidly after prying the door open a crack, ¡°I need a favor.¡± ¡°Yes?¡± the reply was neutral sounding enough, Adrian ventured on. ¡°I can''t get this wet¡­ my uh, my wound. In my bag upstairs I have a couple of bandages. Would you grab them for me?¡± Adrian tried not to sound as helpless as he thought he was appearing. George didn''t reply at first, but Adrian could hear the scuffing of chair legs. ¡°Hold on, I can do you one better.¡± Adrian heard the sound of footsteps grow, pass in front of him, and then fade as they distanced themselves from him. There was a click from George''s door as it closed shut. I could search his room now, the thought was so sudden he questioned if it was really his. It wouldn''t be right, to rifle through another man''s belongings. Although, George really hadn''t refrained from gathering his things up in his car. My stolen car, but the point still stands. No doubt George searched his bookbag to make sure Adrian was as harmless as he said he was. Before Adrian could turn these thoughts away, he had heard another, more distant click. A muffled vibration sound came from the bathroom wall opposite of the door, the one against the next room over. Adrian hobbled over and put his ear to it. What he could hear now was just a better, clearer version of the muffled vibrating noise, identifiably a voice but the words themselves were lost between the walls. The penetrating, rhythmic thuds of footsteps, growing closer, further, closer, and then further again. Adrian could gather that George was now walking back from the room next door. George entered his own room again, rapped twice on the bathroom door, and stuck one hand inside. There was a palm-sized, white, thin package between his index and middle fingers. It¡¯s from the infirmary, he thought as he made to grab the bandage George had brought. ¡°It¡¯s waterproof, and it¡¯s the last I have. Do not let the adhesive get wet, we will need to reapply it when I am done inspecting your injury.¡± ¡°Yes. Thank you, George. For everything.¡± Adrian felt his own sincerity as a pang bounced off the walls of his heart. When had he last been so grateful? ¡°Don¡¯t mention it.¡± George¡¯s tone was expressionless. Adrian took the bandage, unwrapped it and placed it on his wound. It stung, with great intensity. Most of the skin around his hip was warm to the touch, but the morbid fact that pain was returning must be a good sign, he hoped. Fully naked, Adrian unevenly worked his way into the tub. He stood up, facing the shower head and faucet, the two taps. On a small, built-in ledge on the wall was a plastic wrapped, square bar of soap. He opened it, placing the wrapper on the floor outside of the tub. As he looked up, he saw himself in the mirror that was above the vanity on the adjacent wall. There certainly was grime on him. Dirt and dried stains of blood crowned his forehead and cheeks. A beard was beginning to grow in, setting shadows to the lower portion of his face. His torso was sparsely lined with new, healing, and old scars. Some he must of got during one of his recent falls, but he didn''t remember how he got them by appearance. His shoulder that he had crashed into the side view mirror of a car was bruised, but already beginning to yellow around its edge. Adrian thought he looked like shit. Like someone who had the hell kicked out of them. No longer wanting to look at his reflection and perhaps in anticipation of the sight, Adrian turned, pulled the shower curtain to divide himself away from the rest of the room, and reached for the faucets. --- It was a little more than cold water slowly falling down and out through the shower head, but the great feeling of nostalgia for this kind of thing made it comfortable. Enjoyable. For a few, small seconds Adrian could close his eyes and envision that outside of this curtain was normalcy. Structure. Society. That he was back in West Virginia, even, in his own shower. The soap was vanilla scented, and he scrubbed everywhere vigorously, all of the while protecting his bandaged area as best as he could. Even with the caution and holding the bar for assistance, he had to sit down on the side of the tub for the last two minutes. It turned out to be a treat, as the hot water kicked in just then. He adjusted the knobs until he found a warmer setting and let the water soak him, running in streams across the back of his head until George knocked on the door. ¡°Time is up, Adrian. Please turn the water off.¡± the foreboding words Adrian had been willfully ignoring the existence of this entire time. The shower was a wet paradise that he didn''t want to end. There is no way that that was five minutes¡­ four and a half, maybe, he stubbornly thought. But he did shut the water off as requested, enjoyed the last of its warmth as it ran around his feet, and watched it disappear down the drain with a rumbling gurgle. Adrian double-palmed the top of his head and flung the excess water in to the tub. An old habit that was going to die hard, it seemed. He wasn''t quite ready to leave yet. The floor of the bathtub was still warm, the air trapped behind the curtain still steamy and moist. The drain gave a secondary gurgle based from deeper within its system, perhaps reminding Adrian that this was goodbye. He sighed in response, and told himself that now was the time to get up. Now he had to move on from the comfort he was in. But he couldn''t. Even knowing that, gradually, his seat would get colder, the warmth would disappear and that his ass would ache before long. Showering after eight months of going without had been a euphoric experience, or maybe something more than that. It had been an awakening, a swapping of his rusty, dirty body with a clean, new one. Everything inside of him felt much the same, depression reverberated in his every heartbeat, confusion and anger lay ready to attack any thought the flowed innocently by. But damn his body felt better. And he was enjoying how it felt. He slowly bent his arms up and down to feel how smoothly his limbs bent and how soft his skin felt, twisted his neck until he heard a satisfying crunch as the gases left their joints. Adrian grabbed the towel that was hanging on the shower rod. It, too, was warm and the material was fluffier than the towel Adrian had used earlier. As he draped it over his head, he could smell its scent. He was pretty certain that his own towel didn''t smell, but this one smelled like vanilla. Like the soap. The towel felt excellent as he rubbed it therapeutically against his head. As he heard a noise, he stopped. When he heard it definitively he froze. ¡°Adrian, are you coming out anytime soon?¡± came the unmistakable voice of Alyssa Haines. Interlude V ¡°Adrian, are you coming out anytime soon?¡± Alyssa said cheerfully, expectantly. The quick interruption along with her rapid knocking on the bathroom door startled Adrian, and he nicked the underside of his chin while shaving. The foamy white cream further down his neck tinged red as drops of blood trickled down. He quickly grabbed a couple squares of toilet paper, which he haphazardly flipped in half until it was fingertip sized. ¡°Give me another couple of minutes, babe, I''m nearly done.¡± ¡°It''s 8:30, and I told Vicki that we''d be there half an hour ago. And we still need to go to the liquor store.¡± Adrian sighed. He and Alyssa had only been dating for a month at this point, and he still hadn''t fully accepted how much Alyssa liked to drink. He reflected on how their first two weeks together were spent sober, without a single whiff of alcohol, but as they began to spend more and more evenings with one another, she began to find excuses or reasons to drink. Celebrations, friends returning, weekends, parties, long and tiring days, cravings. Some evenings she said it was to relax, even though they were the same evenings they spent laying in bed watching movies in their underwear. Adrian couldn''t understand her desire, but he did find it funny how Alyssa looked when he had said that he had never had a drop, nor intended to. She wore shock, denial, and the slight tinge of pity that Adrian wasn''t unfamiliar with seeing when he told people these things. She had wholeheartedly accepted it, albeit after some convincing, and only brought it up when she was deep in her spirits. During the last hours of night or the wee hours of morning. Tonight there was a party. A birthday party for a friend that Adrian didn''t know, who he hadn''t heard mention of before the announcement of this party, actually, but when he asked Alyssa she made it seem like they were two sisters who had been separated. They apparently knew each other quite well, ¡°from a work event from a different job¡±, and she assured him it was a must-attend event for her. Adrian wasn''t particularly anxious about going, but he agreed to for Alyssa. All of her friends and possible invites were preoccupied, and he knew that a different form of socializing besides that at work would benefit him. Still, he thought, a better evening for himself would consist of the continuation of his X-Files binge-watch, accompanied by a coffee brewed to perfection. Adrian found anytime at all to be an acceptable time to enjoy caffeine. After he finished shaving and toweling off his damp body, he donned the new set of clothes he had brought to Alyssa¡¯s and laid out for himself. The fog that had formed on the bathroom mirror hadn''t dissipated yet, and even after wiping the surface there was a wet residue that distorted his image. Even as he watched, the opauge cloudiness was reclaiming the mirror¡¯s surface. He could still recognize the shapes of himself well enough to determine that he was ready to exit the bathroom for a final examination by his girlfriend. --- ¡°The shirt is perfect! But dress pants? Why are you wearing dress pants?¡± Alyssa pondered while nursing a glass of something Adrian hadn''t seen her pour. She must have fixed herself a drink while he was showering. ¡°What? Isn''t this a party? Aren''t dress pants... appropriate?¡± Adrian inquired. ¡°Not that kind of a party. It''s not a work party, it''s more like¡­ a house party. Of former work colleagues.¡± Adrian was wearing a pastel-blue long-sleeved, button-up shirt. It featured thin vertical stripes that gave a white contrast to the light blue beside it. His pants were black, and rounded off with a nice, black pair of dress shoes. During any usual outing that Adrian would attend, he would wear an ensemble similar to this. ¡°Well, I guess... I mean, the only other thing I have to wear are the jeans I took off before I showered. Would that be ok?¡± Adrian asked. She thought about it while tapping her glass with her index finger, then gave a brief nod of her head. Adrian quickly excused himself once more and went back into the bathroom to remove his nice dress pants, fold them into a neat square, and put on the creased jeans that he had been wearing all day. He gave them a rudimentary sniff, found them to still smell laundry-fresh, and pulled each of his legs through their respective holes. He eyed himself up in the mirror again, and now that a bit of the steam had evaporated he was able to see his own features a little more clearly now. Where he had nicked himself on his neck had clotted already, but he missed a small patch of hair at the height of his jawbone. Alyssa must not have noticed it, but Adrian was thankful that he did. He hated going out into public if his appearance wasn''t properly groomed and maintained. It made him feel shoddy.Grabbing his razor blade again and removing the plastic safety cap, he glided its sharp edges along the straggling hairs and soon enough his face was smooth all over. In the mirror he created an enthusiastic smile for himself that successfully coated his outer appearance with happiness and positivity, but failed to replace the sinking feeling in his stomach. The one that was not pleasant or positive, but wished to stay at home. To stay in his comfort zone. Adrian could recall the amount of parties that contained alcohol that he had been to without needing to tally them in his head. He had been to two. One was Douglas¡¯s bachelor party, and the other was his brother¡¯s wedding. And both times Adrian easily passed on the beer or the champagne that was going around, flowing freely into the mouths of his friends. And sure, working at a hotel frequently meant that the social events hosted by his workplace contained alcohol, but at those times he was an employee, and everyone else a customer. The guests drinking in a banquet hall always paid to attend that specific event, and this made it much easier for Adrian to socialize. The only expected of him was merely to babysit, make chit-chat and supply casual information. Outside of that setting, he was uncomfortable. He felt as if his sobriety was noticeable and put him out of place. Not a single person had ever intently pressured or chastised him over it, but it was a prevalent thought that blared in his thoughts at parties. It reminded him of how he was different, of the ways he didn''t fit in. Adrian watched the smile slide from his face. ¡°Adrian? What''s taking so long? We need to go, I don¡¯t know when the store closes.¡± Alyssa announced through her bathroom door, rapping on it with no pattern during the entire time she talked. Adrian remembered already seeing a bottle of tequila in her fridge earlier, three-quarters full, but didn''t put much thought into Alyssa¡¯s query beyond that. She''s said she didn''t have a problem with alcohol, right? And Adrian trusted her. --- Alyssa and Adrian left through liquor store''s automatic doors, after having spent ten minutes browsing the aisles of assorted glass bottles. While Alyssa browsed, and Adrian waited, to be completely accurate. She was now sporting a brown paper bag that curved around the bottle of vodka she had purchased, choosing to hold it by its wrapped neck instead of placing it in her purse. Adrian had went a little wide-eyed when he saw her pick up one bottle (a ¡°pint", Alyssa had explained to him on an earlier shopping trip), only to put it down and pick up a bigger one (this he learned was called a ¡°quart¡±). Is that how much a tiny girl like her is supposed to drink? That doesn''t seem proportionate¡­ But the look on Alyssa¡¯s face was blissful. As she got into the passenger seat of his car, she turned and flashed him a cheerful smile over the car''s top. She didn¡¯t notice that he wasn¡¯t returning the gesture, however. Adrian slid into the driver''s seat as Alyssa finished buckling up, bouncing around much like a child on their way to an amusement park. ¡°That was close. I almost forgot. Could you imagine if we arrived at the party, and didn¡¯t have anything to drink?¡± Alyssa asked, bewildered. ¡°Yeah, I think I could.¡± he replied neutrally. Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.¡°It would have SUCKED.¡± and her body dramatically lurched on the end of that sentence. She put herself upright, giggling all of the while and fixing her perfectly straight beach blonde hair. ¡°You ready?¡± Adrian asked, a bad feeling gnawing in his gut. ¡°Yes!¡± Alyssa excitedly exclaimed. Adrian brought the car back to life and begrudgingly shifted it into drive. He pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the main road. They were nearing the outskirts of the town of Beckley, soon they''d leave its limits. Only street lights graced them with any ability at all to see through the murky darkness. Homes and small local businesses were beginning to wind down, but chain restaurants and convenience stores were still dotting the roadside with neon welcome signs. Someone was hanging out of their window in a small apartment building they passed by, fanning a white sheet into the night time breeze. A burly woman, Adrian realized, and as Adrian shifted his view of her from his peripherals to glances in his rearview mirrors, he saw her lose her grip of the sheet to a fierce gust of wind. It lifted gently at first, its edges pulled outward by invisible hands, and then a second gust stole it further away into the night, making an ugly tangle of it that descended until it came to lie lifelessly on the pavement Adrian had just drove over seconds ago. It ignited a spark in his brain. ¡°We should stop. We should turn around.¡± he said dryly, not completely focusing on the conversation he was attempting to have but on the sheet that was behind him. Alyssa, who was energetically dancing and incorrectly singing to some pop song on the radio that Adrian didn¡¯t recognize, came to an abrupt pause. ¡°...what? Why? We¡¯re almost there.¡± she said, confusion dripped from every word. ¡°Well, I¡­ uh, back there. A woman lost her sheet, she was trying to air it out and the wind took it. We should, um, we should help¡­¡± Adrian said. He tried to contain the anxiety that was building within him, but he already felt the bubbly sensation rising to take advantage of his vocal cords. A quick glance to his right revealed a very deep-in-thought Alyssa, with a furled scowl written across her face. ¡°Say that again. I don¡¯t get it.¡± she said with no emotion. ¡°What? What part didn¡¯t you get?¡± Adrian asked. He thought he had been pretty clear¡­ ¡°The part where you want to go back for a fucking sheet, Adrian. I mean, why would we? It¡¯s not our fault. No. No, no, no. I don¡¯t get it.¡± and with that she folded her arms, the bottle rolling carelessly to the floor of the car. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­ well, wouldn¡¯t you want the help? If you had just lost you-¡± ¡°No. I wouldn¡¯t have lost it, I would have had a better grip on it. We¡¯re not wasting our time on that, when we are already running late. Are we? Do you seriously want to go back for that?¡± Alyssa was beginning to put a lot of drunken emphasis on her words: a telltale sign that she was smashed. She should be driving away from the party, not to it¡­ ¡°Are we?¡± she asked again. Adrian blinked. ¡°No¡­ no. You¡¯re right. She can get the sheet. I was, just¡­ ok. Ok. Look, I¡¯m having anxiety issues about going to this party¡­¡± he let his voice trail off, hoping she would pick up where he lulled. When she never, he continued. ¡°There will be a bunch of people there, none of whom, beside you, I have ever met. In an environment I¡¯m not used to-¡± ¡°But Adrian, don¡¯t you work around drunk people?¡± she asked suspiciously. ¡°Huh? No, no I don¡¯t. People don¡¯t get quite so drunk, in quite the same way when they¡¯re in the banquet halls. It¡¯s different, and I¡¯m in work mode-¡± ¡°So be in work mode tonight. Be in work mode. What is it¡­ network! Do some networking tonight. It will be fun, I promise.¡± Alyssa bent down to retrieve her brown-bagged bottle of vodka. When she pulled herself back up, the scowl that once dressed her face was now a juvenile smile, blossoming. It emanated with the feelings of joy and relaxation. She casually slipped off the paper bag, revealing a sleek and clear bottle with a clear liquid inside of it. Adrian remembered the smell of it, and the inflammatory feeling that invaded his nose and all of the way to the back of his throat. The phantom memory of it made him shudder, again. Now with hurried motions, Alyssa began to unscrew the bottle¡¯s candy-red cap. ¡°Um¡­¡± Adrian began. Alyssa apparently didn''t hear him. ¡°Um¡­ shouldn''t you wait, Alyssa?¡± he finished. This, Alyssa did hear. ¡°Why?¡± she replied, as quick as a whip. ¡°Well, you know the law. You can''t drink while I''m driving.¡± ¡°Adrian, stop. You''re being foolish, now. You know how easy the cops are here. Some people at work even say that they smell whiskey on the cops breath when they''ve been pulled over before.¡± she paused to finally remove the cap and take a small, fast swig of vodka. Adrian grimaced. Alyssa did not. ¡°Besides, it''s legal to have open alcohol in the car¡­ there''s, like, no chance that a cop will see me drinking. I''ll drink below the window, I promise. Ok, baby?¡± she looked over at him amicably, as if they had just made a compromise. ¡°I¡­ fine. Just promise me you''ll drink below the windows, ok? This is a hot spot for the police, I see them parked on the side of the road here all of the time.¡± Adrian warned. ¡°No, not anymore. I think they moved on to a new spot recently.¡± ¡°Where did you hear that?¡± Adrian asked. He had remembered seeing a police car parked somewhere nearby on his way over to Alyssa¡¯s, just today. ¡°I saw one-" ¡°A friend from work,¡± she interjected, ¡°she said she sees them all of the time by her place. On the other side of town. But yes, I promise I''ll drink below the- oh crap!¡± she sputtered. ¡°What?¡± Adrian said, already putting his foot on the brake. ¡°The time! It''s 9:14! Let''s go, Adrian! We''re getting close, why are you slowing down?¡± and with that, Alyssa turned up the volume on the radio and began to groove to the music, nursing occasionally from her bottle. --- The red and blue lights took turns doing their revolving dance inside of Adrian¡¯s car. His open window let in chilly autumn air and revealed an uncomfortable silence now that he had let his car''s engine stop. The officer, who had just finished a very thorough interrogation about Adrian¡¯s sobriety, was now finishing up a much shorter and friendlier chat with Alyssa. It turns out that, despite Adrian¡¯s initial and repeated warnings, Alyssa was caught stealing sips from her bottle. Since the moment he heard the sirens he had been shaking as if death was freezing him over. Passing the sobriety tests did little to take away the tension, and how little Alyssa seemed to care only drove more fear into him. Like he had taken her share of the stress along with his own. ¡°Ok officer¡­ yes officer¡­ uh huh, yes¡­ I won''t. You''re right. Yes. Ok.... thank you.¡± Alyssa apparently was bored with the scolding she was getting, giving non-committing replies like she would if the police officer was her parent. Adrian saw him jotting rapidly on a wide notepad. ¡°...a lot of you think that these lax laws in West Virginia mean that you can run right over the rest of the laws we have. I catch one of you cruising by, speeding no less and drinking like you''re at home, at least three times a week. Well, I''ll say it to you like I say it to the rest of them: West Virginia law states that you cannot drink inside of a vehicle, ma''am. You must wait until you arrive at your destination and get inside before you drink.¡± Alyssa was nodding, but as the man continued his monologue and writing she began to noticeably lose more and more of her focus. When he finished, she wasn''t looking at him anymore, but at her hands as she fiddled with a bit of ripped off paper bag. Adrian was sitting straight and devoting all of his attention to Alyssa¡¯s scolding as if it was his own, despite already receiving a much more stern verbal lashing just minutes ago. Finally, and with dramatic flair, the officer ripped a double set of sheets from his pad: one yellow and one white. The yellow was on the back, which he separated, folded and tucked in his pocket. The white was given to Alyssa, and as she stared at it Adrian was able to steal a glimpse at the part he was most curious about: AMOUNT OWED: $98.89. Adrian¡¯s breath caught in his throat. Nearly $100 dollars! That''s insane, he thought as the police officer wrapped up what he was saying and walked back to his squad car. ¡°Alyssa?¡± Adrian asked, immediately. No response. ¡°Alyssa? We have to talk. That was bad, you-" ¡°ADRIAN?¡± George shouted from beyond the car Adrian was sitting in. ¡°ADRIAN, OPEN THIS DOOR.¡± --- 13-B: Second Course ¡°Adrian, are you coming out anytime soon?¡± George protruded in a joking, chiding manner. Several moments passed, and then after no response... ¡°ADRIAN? ADRIAN, OPEN THIS DOOR.¡± George hollered, sounding mostly grounded but not able to completely hide being a bit on the edge. The bathroom door shuttered thrice as a fist hammered it anxiously. Then three more times after a short, dramatic pause. Adrian, slack jawed and dewy eyed, blinked slowly. The warmth of the car¡¯s heater left suddenly; not instantly, but rapidly. He felt the chill of the tiles under his feet return. A thick fog between his ears dissipated and he blinked again. Loneliness, and the memories of Alyssa painfully clung inside him. The robe he was wearing five minutes ago was just in front of him, disheveled on the floor. Adrian was so lost in the moment that he reached for the doorknob to let George in, before realizing that he was standing stark naked, except for a towel draped around his head. ¡°A-a mo¡­¡± Adrian paused to clear his throat and tried again. ¡°A moment, George,¡± he said more clearly, ¡°to check my bandage.¡± There was a silence that stretched uncomfortably long, then, ¡°Ok. I will be out here. Ready when you are.¡± Then there was the sound of retreating footsteps, muffled yet foreboding. They stopped near the back of George¡¯s hotel room. He bent to pick up the robe when a flare of pain pulsed from his hip; a spectacular explosive feeling that raced outward and roared with intense heat. It nearly sent him to the floor but he was able to catch himself in a kneeling position. Grimacing, he waited out the worst of the pain and when he felt comfortable enough again to do so he checked out his injury. The bandage was damp but still in place, with a blotch of ruby-red for a centerpiece. One strand of blood trickled down below the bottom. ¡°Dammit.¡± he muttered. The aching was subsiding substantially now, enough that Adrian felt that he could stand. The motion caused the droplet of blood to race further down his thigh. Looking about, Adrian noticed a roll of toilet paper placed on the holder. He grabbed a couple of squares, haphazardly flipping them in half until he had a small, thick square to mop up the mess with. Content (or enough to face a medical check up, at least), Adrian disposed of the toilet paper in the small trash bin beside the toilet and donned his robe once again. It was incredibly hard to turn away and impossible not to give the shower a look of yearning, both reflecting and wondering over the experience. The moment passed; an anxiety crept back in, reminding Adrian of an impatient and waiting George. Slowly, he opened and left the bathroom, leaving the warmth of the shower mist behind. --- ¡°There you are, I was wondering what was holding you up.¡± George prompted as Adrian closed the door and made his way across over. He noticed that all of the sheets on the bed had been tossed aside to the floor, crumpled against the wall. The lamp that was on the desk now stood beside it, on the floor as well. Instead, a metallic-silver tray with various tools lay on its surface. On the bed, only the dingy white fitted sheet remained. George was looking at Adrian with an expectant stare. ¡°My leg is still numb. It bled during the shower, too. Sometimes when I move it I''ll feel a surge of pain.¡± Adrian said. The shower had done a lot to ease his nerves despite¡­ whatever had just transpired over Alyssa. George glanced down to Adrian¡¯s hip, saw nothing but robe, and returned his stare to meet Adrian¡¯s. ¡°Well, there is no use beating around the bush. Lie down, get comfortable. It is a clean sheet, but try not to bloody it¡­ resources are limited.¡± George turned his back to Adrian and diverted his attention to the tool tray, examining a tiny pair of scissors that made Adrian grimace again. These were set down, and a small magnifying glass was picked up. George looked through it with his left eye, fixated on seemingly nothing. ¡°You can set the robe on the floor. There is a lack of coat-racks and hat-hooks in here. Lie down on the bed, if you would.¡± The realization hit Adrian like a slap to the face. He was going to have to strip naked in front of this man. This complete stranger, who he only met hours ago. It''s normal, it''s how these things are done. Blood was draining from his face, quickly, and he began to feel light-headed. George still wasn¡¯t looking his way, perhaps offering¡­ privacy? But he felt too uncomfortable, not being able to remember the proper social graces or if, in this day and age, any were necessary. ¡°I, uh, I-¡± he tried. ¡°Do you want me to give you the room for a minute?¡± George asked without looking, without implying any tone or interest in what he was saying. The instant relief was felt as warmth returning to Adrian¡¯s cheeks. He let loose a tense breath. ¡°Yes, please. Thank you.¡± George set down the mirror utensil, swiveled with his hips and walked out. When Adrian heard the door shut, he determined that George had only closed himself in the bathroom and didn''t completely leave him alone. The uncomfortable feeling in Adrian¡¯s gut didn''t leave, but the internal debate he had about it was pretty one-sided. It was either do this, or face the wound infecting. He feared that it might be starting to, already. With that in mind he had resigned himself to take the robe off gingerly and rest it on the floor. When it folded in on itself, Adrian could see a fresh blood stain. Lying down on a bed was much more difficult for Adrian than it initially sounded. The mattress was waist high and for him to get properly positioned he would have to drag his body. So, awkwardly, slowly and naked, Adrian leaned and rested the weight of his body on the mattress. A lack of tension on his feet and legs was peaceful, but the way his skin moved and folded was grating against his bandage. He wondered how opened his cauterized wound was, and how bad of a state it was in. As he finally shifted into the correct spot, he collapsed with a sigh. ¡°OK, George, I''m ready.¡± Adrian spoke loudly to make sure he was heard. The bathroom door clicked open and closed. George walked back out into the bedroom section of his hotel room. A flush rapidly spread across Adrian¡¯s face, heat permeating from his cheeks. He was lying undressed on a hotel bed, in front of a strange man. Too uncomfortable, too intimate of a scenario¡­ Imagine you¡¯re in a hospital. Just imagine that you¡¯re in a hospital, and this is Doctor Barnes. Thinking about that did bring slight relief. The realization sunk in that, obviously, they weren¡¯t here as two lovers and that he might have been stressing out over something small. Nonetheless, Adrian felt embarrassed at being exposed in this way. George cleared his throat, and Adrian¡¯s breath caught in his. ¡°Ok, Adrian. The last patient I had, had four legs and they were all covered in fur. That, and I was there to snip his testicles,¡± George said, and then chortled, ¡°and the last human I serviced was¡­ by God, thirty years ago, now. You believe that?¡± He had made his way to the tray of medical tools and Adrian could see him shaking his head slowly in disbelief at how quickly time flies. ¡°But do not stress yourself. Back at the clinic I worked at, besides my expertise in medical practises, I was most noted for my excellent memory. Do you want to know what that clinic was called, by the way?¡± Adrian understood that he was trying to make small talk as he began to finger through the several instruments in front of him, finally picking up a scalpel and the mirror from before. As George walked behind him, he felt his tongue go dry and numb, his muscles tensed. ¡°...PAWZ FOR EFFECT. With a ¡®Z¡¯. Get it?¡± George waited a moment, ¡°Ah. It does get a laugh about half of the time.¡± Adrian heard him walk around to the other side of the bed, the side that Adrian was hurt on. ¡°OK, let us get to business, now. I¡¯m going to take the bandage off.¡± George said as he audibly strapped on two rubber gloves. He set one hand mid-way up Adrian¡¯s spine and the other hand slowly peeled the bandage back. ¡°Adrian, I can tell you now from looking that you were quite lucky. Whoever cauterized your wound did not do a sloppy job. You said it was the same person who shot you?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Adrian''s answer was muted through the bed sheets, so he repeated himself after turning his head up to make sure he was heard. He saw George in his peripheral vision, uncomfortably close to his lower half. ¡°And this¡­ drunk. Could you paint this picture a little more clearly for me? Describe what happened, how the same man who decided to shoot a bullet in to you also decided to pick it out and cover you back up? While drunk, nonetheless!¡± George gave a dry cackle after exclaiming. A bewildered amusement. ¡°Well, I was-" Adrian began. ¡°One second, OK?¡± George interrupted, ¡°Before you begin, I need to warn you that this might hurt a bit. Some skin here is rotting and needs to be cut. Talk to take your mind off of what I''m doing. Go on.¡± ¡°Uhh¡­¡± Adrian tried to interject but found himself overwhelmed as the cold blade of a scalpel came to press against his own skin. With no time to think, he decided to go with George''s suggestion. ¡°Well, you see. I had been planning to go and stock up on supplies for a few days when I found Kevin. Finding him sort of¡­ solidified the need for things that I didn''t have. Medicine, namely, but food as well. What I found in storage was nearly gone, so it was getting¡­ necessary¡­¡± Adrian lost his train of thought as a thin blade made a cut one-inch in length along an already tender part of skin. What was numb one minute ago was now alive with electric fire. Next came a pressure as George pressed a cloth against the area. ¡°I know, friend. I know. It hurts. You are doing well. You said you had found a storage of supplies?¡± George kept his hand firmly pressed against Adrian¡¯s flank. He couldn''t decide if it made the pain worse or lessened it. ¡°I¡­ uh, yes. They had abandoned their house for some reason. When I found it empty, I moved in. I waited a week before I looked through their things-" ¡°Who are ¡®they¡¯?¡± George interjected. ¡°Oh. Uh. ¡®They¡¯ are the Croteau''s. I never met them, but they were an elderly couple who lived together. I don''t know where they went, when they left. But they left behind two huge pantry cabinets and quite a few shelves filled with food. I took that... and occasionally I would find extra food outside while searching for gasoline. It lasted me for about the entire eight months-¡± George pulled the cloth off of Adrian, poured a cool liquid over his injury, and then covered it up again. ¡°What was that?¡± Adrian asked. ¡°A saline solution. I can tell that you have not cleaned this yet, and that might be what is causing the numbing. It might not be. Seeing as there are no real doctors here with us we have to go by my own diagnosis, which is built on speculation and not experience. Do you mean to tell me that you have spent most of the duration of this apocalypse inside of one house?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°That is absurd.¡± George replied. This made Adrian mentally halt. Absurd? What was absurd about that? It seemed like the absolute sanest thing that he could do given the circumstances. ¡°It''s a wonder that you were not ransacked and looted.¡± George pondered. ¡°That''s why I left. The spray paint that I mentioned earlier. When I saw that the Croteau¡¯s had been marked, I packed everything and drove.¡± Adrian explained. ¡°Of course.¡± George lifted the cloth again, letting the wound breathe now. ¡°So, go on. You are out of food, need medicine for Kevin, and then¡­¡± ¡°Then I walk to Santa Monica-¡± ¡°Walk?¡± George interrupted again as he audibly picked up another medical tool. ¡°Huh?,¡± he said, then a second later, ¡°Oh. Yes, I walked.¡± ¡°Why not drive? You drove here, did you not?¡± George asked. ¡°Well¡­ I- I,¡± Adrian stopped, swallowed and then cleared his throat and tried again, ¡°I thought that I would have an easier time spotting and avoiding people on foot. I thought that being in a car would lead me to being chased by someone else who might have been driving.¡± George didn¡¯t respond. Instead, he silently cut another inch or more of dying skin off. Unaware and unprepared, Adrian bit his bottom lip in reaction to the hot pain. He struggled to keep his bottom half still. ¡°You make a good point. We are almost done here, I¡¯m just going to clean and cover it again¡­¡± and as he spoke he did just that, staunching the small flow of blood that Adrian felt. ¡°Please, continue. You walked to Santa Monica, where at in the city did you go?¡± George asked nonchalantly. ¡°To¡­ Reggie¡¯s. A place called Reggie¡¯s.¡± Adrian was still grimacing at the torment coursing in his thigh. ¡°And this is where you met the drunk.¡± George stated. ¡°Yes. I saw him inside as I was approaching the store. This was before I saw he had a gun. So I flipped a coin-¡± ¡°You flipped a coin?¡± George barked a sharp laugh. ¡°Yes. I mean. Well, I had no way of knowing how he was going to respond. This was my first interaction I¡¯ve had with a human since before the bombs-¡± ¡°You are shitting me!¡± George bursted. ¡°What?¡± Adrian asked. This situation was getting more and more strange. All of a sudden he wished it to be over. ¡°So that makes me the second person you have spoken to since this shit began?¡± he sounded exasperated, in disbelief. ¡°Yes¡­¡± Adrian, himself, sounded a little in disbelief. But not for the same reason as George. ¡°That is astounding, and I thought that I had hardly seen anyone. That would drive me mad, the isolation, I think. But you seem perfectly fine, do you enjoy being on your own?¡± ¡°Yes, I do. Not quite that much, as much as I have been spending, but after a certain amount of time I started to¡­ not care.¡± Adrian paused to reflect on the total length of time he had spent in solitude. How did it pass by so¡­ uneventfully, fast and unnoticed? ¡°To each their own, then.¡± George lifted the cloth once more, dabbed gently, and then picked up, presumably, the scalpel again. ¡°So you have flipped a coin, its decision points you in toward the store, where the drunk becomes disgruntled. Correct?¡± "More or less, yeah. I tried to reason with him. To explain myself, but shortly into that conversation I was whacked on the head. I woke up, tied. He was more drunk than I¡¯ve ever seen¡­¡± Adrian lost his train of thought, as he was momentarily brought back to the flashback he had experienced in the bathroom. Alyssa¡¯s face and perfectly straight blonde hair flashed in front of his eyes in another world¡­ ¡°Ever seen, what?¡± George interrupted the daydream. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°He was drunker than you¡¯ve ever seen... what?¡± ¡°Oh¡­ just, he was really drunk. Nearly as drunk as I¡¯ve ever seen anyone be.¡± Adrian said. There was a short moment that passed before George replied. ¡°Hmm. So. Then what? This is the climax. You are tied up, now what? How do you survive against those odds?¡± George wasn¡¯t able to contain the excitement in his voice any longer. ¡°Uh¡­¡± Adrian started, ¡°well. I told him why I was there. That I meant no harm, needed food, had flipped a fucking coin to decide to enter. That¡¯s when he pulled out his revolver, said it was half loaded and he pointed out the coincidence of both of our 50/50 odds, and then he spun the chamber. He shot, I struggled. The next thing I remember is waking up with a roaring pain in my leg.¡± As Adrian concluded his story, George made a third and final slice through a decaying portion of skin. Larger than the prior two. As the blade parted his flesh, tears were drawn to Adrian¡¯s eyes. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and had to mentally stop himself from writhing and crying out. ¡°That''s it. That is the last one. I am going to staunch it one more time, but otherwise we are done here, Adrian.¡± George held the cloth against Adrian¡¯s skin. It was over. Even as pressure was continuously applied Adrian felt the tension he had been feeling inside dissipate. He no longer felt quite so worried about the uncertainty of his leg, or about the question of George¡¯s character. Out of all of the possibilities of where I could have ended up when I left the Croteau¡¯s¡­ never would I have predicted what I¡¯ve fallen into. And the solemn understanding that he had already lost home as a definition for the Croteau¡¯s hit him like a punch in the gut. As short lived as it was, the feeling that Adrian had a place where he belonged was tough to lose. George lifted the cloth for a final time after a passage of thirty seconds. Adrian looked back, but all he could see was reddened skin from the release of applied pressure and smeared bloodstains from George¡¯s rag. The veteran and former veterinarian began to meticulously dry and clean the area around the wound using the cloth in one hand. In his other was the bandage, bloodstained but otherwise in usable shape. Once again, he wished that this degrading situation was simply over. --- While donning the robe after having his wound re-covered, George once again had entered the bathroom to offer Adrian privacy. Having had things calm down allowed Adrian to gather a level head. He noticed that the notebook George was writing in before his shower was gone. Curiosity was beginning to whittle at his restraint. He is a secretive man¡­ that is for sure. But he just saved my life, I think. The bathroom door cracked open. ¡°All good?¡± George prodded, forcing Adrian to snap out of this thoughts. ¡°Yes. Just dressed now.¡± He replied. The door opened fully and George walked back to his bedroom again. ¡°So? How are you? Feeling better?¡± ¡°Yes, thank you. A lot. I don¡¯t know how I can repay you¡­¡± Adrian began. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, it¡¯s settled.¡± George said with a warm smile. A silence began to brew, but Adrian interrupted it. ¡°Oh. Could I see Kevin? It¡¯s been a while and I¡¯d like to make sure he¡¯s doing good.¡± ¡°Not right now, friend. Heather would have a fit, trust me. She barely tolerated what we''re doing now without hooting and hollering. As much as I like to think that I got out of the old ball and chain when this mess started, I never really did.¡± George grinned. ¡°But¡­ he''s my dog.¡± ¡°Yes, and he is being cared for. He is in good hands now, I promise you. My daughter will be babysitting him, she''s been asking about the pup since I told her you had him in the car. I will personally patch him up. But for now he needs rest, and for now we need you to be back in your room. Before Heather decides that providing medical attention is too much of a kindness.¡± George gave a sympathetic look. ¡°...For how long? How long will I be locked up for?¡± Adrian wasn¡¯t sure what he would do, but he didn¡¯t exactly plan to be kept here as a prisoner. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.¡°I wouldn¡¯t say you are ¡®locked up¡¯, Adrian. You are a guest, in our home. Our place of business. But times have changed and we need to be thorough with who we bring in. But to answer your question directly, not much longer. Give me the rest of today.¡± ¡°For what?¡± Adrian asked. ¡°I was going to come by in an hour or so and ask you when I had officially gotten Heather¡¯s consent, but I am fairly certain that I have it in the bag. So, why not?¡± George said, and after he cleared his throat. Then he asked something of Adrian that he never would have expected. ¡°Adrian, the Barnes¡¯ family would invite you to be our guest at dinner tonight. Will you please join my wife, daughter and I in the banquet halls for a home cooked meal?¡± --- Back in his designated room after a tiring and hobbled walk upstairs, Adrian shed his bathrobe to put on underwear and socks, jeans, a belt and a dark navy t-shirt. Thoughts of George¡¯s dinner invitation that he had accepted were sprouting like springtime weeds. Indeed, he couldn''t think of the last time that he himself had had a meal worthy of being called dinner. And there was much less of a memory of having had an invitation to any social outing. All of it brought up a plethora of tangled emotions. Despite having had medical work performed by the dinner host, Adrian still felt firm distrust between them. If I was visiting a doctor a year ago, before this, I wouldn''t have this apprehension. Can I trust anyone, am I capable of it anymore? The thought scared him, he wasn''t certain. Every person that he had encountered so far had been violent and untrustable, except for the Barnes¡¯. On the other hand, the solid fact that George had not only looked at and taken care of his wound but also used his own supplies on Adrian had to be a mark in a theoretical pro column. Now he was going a step further and offering this meal. With warm food, at a dinner table. With people. Running with the notion of a pro and con list, Adrian tried hard to keep his head level and to think of any definable factors that would possibly fit in the cons column. One instantly came to mind, another shortly after. How about the fact that I¡¯m locked in a room, like a prisoner? If you were George, wouldn¡¯t you lock a new comer away until you could deem him as safe? The counterargument presented itself to Adrian as a knee-jerk reaction from a compartment in the back of his brain. But the more he thought about it the more it seemed like common sense. Locking away a stranger when they come unannounced to the place you and your family are residing in was logical. How about being unallowed to see my own dog? Even though George gave a reason for keeping Kevin isolated and resting, Adrian still had a gnawing in his guts that was proving itself as persistent. Although truthfully, he wasn''t sure what condition Kevin was in, even when he saw those chocolate-brown eyes open for the first time. The gash his cane created was gruesome, and didn''t show as many signs of healing as Adrian would have hoped for during the days along their way to here. Perhaps George was right, and Kevin just needed to be alone and to rest. He was the veterinarian, after all. No, no. George has been good to me so far, and he¡¯s done what is within his power to help me. I don¡¯t have any reason not to trust him. Still, the gnawing persisted. Maybe this is how I¡¯ll always feel toward others. Maybe I¡¯ll always live in fear. Since his room was bare and had little to do, Adrian decided to lay down on his bed and rest. His things lay unpacked, bundled close to the locked doorway. The sheets were dust-laden, and somehow the color white looked like it had began to fade from them as he pulled the top sheet back and gently stretched out on the bed¡¯s surface. The lack of tension on his lower half was soothing to his throbbing wound and his muscles he had been straining. It had taken George merely five minutes to examine, cut and clean him. Glancing toward the window, Adrian could see that there was still an ample amount of daylight left. A couple hours, perhaps. The dinner wouldn''t begin until the evening arrived. I could take a nap. He had grown accustomed to taking those. They were an excellent way to pass time, conserve food, and block thoughts. A considerable amount of time had been passed while sleeping at the Croteau''s. Adrian thought back to the stiff, musty mattress he had gotten acquainted with, and the stranger''s bedroom that became more and more familiar to him over time, but never became his. But as he laid down on the hotel-quality mattress and sheets, a nap was ironically just a distant dream. The flutter of his eyelids was seldom, and not weighted with sleep as he wished. Adrian tossed and turned in the sweltering heat, organized the pillows that were supporting him to be straddled on top, underneath and then beside him. There was no compromise to be made; this wasn''t a matter of comfort but of energy, which Adrian still felt in droves. Despite what his body had gone through over the span of the last few days, getting any more rest apparently wasn¡¯t necessary. It wasn¡¯t long before he abandoned the attempt altogether, whipping the sheets off and slowly moving his broken torso upright. Sweat was beginning to glisten from Adrian¡¯s body. He wiped his face, the air was humid and the sun over California was roasting hot to boot. When it set it would bring a welcome retreat. He had always found the heat to be implausibly irritating, and currently found it no better with or without the bedsheet on. Taking another glance toward the window, he suddenly had the realization that during his initial shake-down of his room, he had stopped after finding the hidden firearm (where he told himself it would stay until he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it), and hadn''t fully inspected it or the view that he was allowed. As he made his way over, he heavily favored his injured leg. Though he knew what George had done for him was good, it had left him tender and sensitive. The three steps he made on it, plus the initial action of standing were painful enough to cause Adrian to involuntarily grit his teeth. Looking out of the pane of glass, passed the dried dirt stains on the other side, he could see traces of the setting sun. Though directly in front of him remained clear and blue, to either side the sky leisurely darkened with a gentle purple. It must be around 5 o¡¯clock. And as he thought on that, a gurgle in his stomach interrupted him. Supper time, he concluded. It felt too good to be true. Adrian again daydreamed of the meal, his first family-style, warm meal in close to a year. George hadn¡¯t offered the details, and Adrian hadn¡¯t asked. Out of sheer bewilderment of the invitation he had barely been able to squeak out the pitiful pleasantries he had managed. Whuh¡­ I mean, yes. Yes. Th-th-thank you so much! When had he become such a social trainwreck? When had he needed to rely upon those skills last? An excellent question. The answer was probably the same to ¡®When did you last have a home cooked meal?¡¯. And he had never been completely extroverted, even on his most affable day. In truth, he had started to rely upon the borrowed confidence from seeing Alyssa be able to constantly, flawlessly, carelessly speak at her whim. She had the gift of the gab that any aspiring radio host would pray for. In fact, it was on that borrowed confidence that he made the decision to go to that party in the first place. He had relied on her reaffirming his doubts, his changes of heart. Not only in that instance, but in so many others before she had bolstered his own ability to suppress his initial fears and allow him to speak easily. To get things done without focusing too intently on the potential consequences and derailing, a trait that was embedded in Adrian. Watching the sky dim, he contemplated how he would be able to cope and rebuild himself. ¡°Adrian, are you coming out-¡± Alyssa broke his concentration after some time, from behind. His breath caught. There was no conceivable way that he had heard that voice again, but he had. After realizing he hadn¡¯t been, he blinked. He felt the beating of his heart strongly in his chest, but for all other matters he felt disassociated from his body. The glamourless hotel room was eerily silent now, and although the door was locked and he knew, absolutely knew there was no way Alyssa was behind him¡­ he couldn¡¯t quickly find the willpower to turn around and confront that reality. For several long seconds he gazed out of the window but saw nothing beyond the glass. Then in an instance he whirled about. And saw nothing new. It was unsettling how unchanged the room remained, as if even in his disbelief of hearing his deceased girlfriend he still expected to see something when he turned around. He hobbled to the bathroom, the sound of his footsteps on the tiled floor were piercingly sharp. ¡°...Alyssa?¡± Adrian called out as he rounded the corner of the bathroom, a small flutter in his heart. It too remained the same as it had before his doctor¡¯s appointment. The towel that was on the floor was still sodden and bloody, and he saw a few dried drops of red-stained water that had ran down the side of the toilet that he had missed before while cleaning. He felt foolish for the wishful thinking. But it sounded like she was right across the room from me¡­ Adrian left the bathroom, distraught and confused. Rounding the corner again he took notice of the small pile of his belongings that George had brought up from the car. A peculiar feeling came over him when he saw the easel. A small desire that he hadn¡¯t felt in what seemed like forever but was truthfully only a few days. I¡¯m going to paint. And why not? What else was there to do, where else to go? --- There, he thought as he set the last of five small paint containers down on the bedside table, beside a jar of water he had taken from the tank of the toilet. Each container contained its own color: navy-blue, green, brown, white and red. The easel was set with his last fresh piece of canvas, his paint-stained brush and empty palette lay on the bed. Though setting up the materials bothered his injured leg, the process was familiar and felt uplifting. As he started it, he even had the image he wanted to create come to mind almost immediately: the apple tree he had discovered while driving across America. During the early months of the aftermath of the bombings, there would be some mornings at the Croteau¡¯s where Adrian would wake up and, under the guise of disorientation, have a few, brief moments without stress. He would forget not only the destruction that had occurred and the threat that persisted, but the very place he was occupying. For a few moments, he had that bliss. When he painted, he felt a tiny sliver of that same feeling. Other than that, the last moment of true, untainted peace he had felt was at that apple tree. A strange dust had covered the fruit; had covered mostly everything yet unaffected by rain. Once washed and peeled he couldn¡¯t resist eating it, even in spite of the risk. As he sat down with the easel in front of him and began to pour paint, his taste memory produced the flavor of the apples. --- As it did while he was painting, a slight feeling of satisfaction had eased over him again. On the canvas there was a fully formed tree centered in front of a dark navy-and-green background. No apples hung from the branches yet, those he would paint last. Flaring near Adrian¡¯s buttocks was his aggravated wound, not inclined to being sat on as much as it had been. It was a growing annoyance but a considerable trade-off. He could have used the chair instead of sitting on the bed, then he wouldn¡¯t be bending about as much, but the chair was not cushioned and Adrian knew he wouldn¡¯t last long before needing to relieve the pressure. He paused to reflect on the status of his artwork, and then decidedly rinsed off his brush in the jar of water (which was now a murky dark gray that was turning darker), drying it off on a rag he always kept tucked within his painting supplies. Looking briefly at the window he was astonished to see how much darker it had gotten. What he had thought was twenty minutes spent in front of his easel must have been an hour, maybe an hour and a half. George would undoubtedly come and knock to announce the supper when it was ready and lead him to it, but Adrian hadn¡¯t meant to let so much time pass while unaware. ¡°Are you stopping?¡± came the small voice of a girl, not far behind Adrian at all. He leapt up in shock and turned to whoever was addressing him. Hot, explosive pain nearly drove him to his knee, but he was able to grasp the bedside table for support. The water jar was precariously close to falling over the edge. Gaining awareness as he gained his breath back, he realized that a child had been standing right behind him. She looked bewildered, unblinking as she stared at Adrian bent over and supporting himself with a table. He flicked his eyes toward the door - the one that should have been locked and separating him from the others. It was wide open, he could see a bit of the banister in the hallway. ¡°Uh,¡± Adrian began without knowing where to start, ¡°hello. Are you Candace?¡± In a normal world Adrian never considered himself to be that great with children. He failed to capture their attention. In this world Adrian was relieved. He hadn''t encountered many people lately, but this by far was the least horrifying encounter of them. ¡°Yeah,¡± Candace replied meekly, ¡°are you Adrian?¡± she gripped the hem of her bubblegum-pink ¡°I ? AUNTIE¡± t-shirt. Adrian thought that she was rather short. George had mentioned that she was in elementary school when this began, and so he expected her to be small, but right now he found himself to be confused over the matter. Was she a child barely into school, or someone nearing their pre-teen years. The myriad of freckles adorning her face helped conceal her age. 6 years? No¡­ 10. At least 10. But she¡¯s so small¡­ maybe 8? Her hair (although disheveled) was curlier than any that he thought that he had seen before, and so richly brown that it shone bronze, falling in tight coils above her shoulders that bounced with her as she moved her head. She stood with her shoulders hunched forward, and even though she needed to look way up with her hazel colored eyes to meet Adrian¡¯s, she kept her head lowered and habitually picked at loose threads from her shirt or her equally pink pair of jeans that she wore. He felt a pang of pity for her. She had been taken from the normal world much too young. ¡°Yes¡­ I¡¯m Adrian. How did you¡­¡± he gave an inquisitive look toward the open door and then back to Candace. She remained still and unresponsive, as if she hadn¡¯t heard him. ¡°Er¡­,¡± maybe she didn¡¯t understand me¡­ he thought, ¡°How did you open the door? Your dad locked it up, didn¡¯t he?¡± after he finished he was certain she had understood him that time. She looked toward the door, then reached into her pocket and produced a small silver key. ¡°I took it from daddy. He doesn¡¯t know, I¡¯m not supposed to have it.¡± Candace blurted quickly, putting the key back in her pocket. She eyed the door very frequently now. ¡°How come you did?¡± he asked innocently. She was nervous and clearly didn¡¯t want to get in trouble with her parents, but Adrian couldn¡¯t resist prying a little further into this matter at hand. ¡°I, um¡­ well, I saw my dad bring in your stuff, and then he dropped one of your paints by accident. The red one.¡± she stopped to stare at her sandals and pull at the hem of her shirt again. ¡°You like painting?¡± Adrian tried. Candace¡¯s head lifted straight up. ¡°Yes! Do I? Yes, so much!¡± she raised her voice loud, but Adrian believed it might not of carried passed the door. ¡°What do you like to paint?¡± He didn¡¯t know why he asked her that. Or why he was still talking to her, if George or Heather saw her here it would be very bad. Moreover¡­ the door was now open. ¡°Oh¡­ I don¡¯t get to paint anymore, not since I stopped going to school.¡± she dragged a foot across the floor, watching it go as she did. Now is my chance. If I¡¯m going to go, I should go. He looked at the open door again for a very long moment that felt more like a minute. In that moment, the more forward thinking part of him responded. Where? A good question. Where would he go, with a bum leg and all of his supplies up three flight of stairs? That wasn¡¯t even mentioning the two dangerous and armed parents of the child who he was standing in front of. He didn¡¯t think that escape would be made easy, and the more he thought about it, he wasn¡¯t sure if he wanted to attempt it after all. So far he was safer in here than he had been anywhere outside, bar the Croteau¡¯s. And if he missed out on a warm meal, he thought he might regret that for months to come. After a bit of silence had stretched, Candace looked back up at Adrian. ¡°Oh. Sorry. You don¡¯t have any paints here?¡± He asked. Candace shook her head slowly, not taking her eyes off of Adrian¡¯s. He glanced at his last canvas with the incomplete apple tree memory, considered for a moment, then gave a half hearted shrug. ¡°Would you want to paint right now? This is my last canvas, but you can help me finish it. I started to make-¡± Adrian was going to explain what the painting was going to be, but when he saw Candace break into a brilliant grin he stopped. She began to shake up and down, making soft squeals of excitement. He chuckled, for the first time in a long time. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s paint.¡± she sat down where he had been sitting, looking from the canvas, to the palette, to the brush, to Adrian. ¡°You¡¯re going to have an easier time than me,¡± he said as he handed her the brush and set the palette of paints near her, ¡°my back was getting sore from all of that bending over.¡± Candace was wordless as she took the brush. The light outside was fading by the passing minute. George could come by at any moment to collect him for their supper. But if he hadn¡¯t come yet there was a chance he wouldn¡¯t still for a good amount of time still. How easily could you cook a meal for four these days, anyway? And after some thought Adrian considered that George might understand that he meant no harm, if he was to interrupt. Perhaps, while the opportunity presented itself, he could learn some things about his captors and hosts. And Kevin, too. ¡°What should I paint?¡± Candace chimed in. She hadn¡¯t moved a muscle since she got the brush. Adrian knew the troubles of having the artist¡¯s version of ¡°writer¡¯s block¡± very well. ¡°Well, what do you like? I¡¯ve already started with a tree.¡± ¡°It¡¯s really nice.¡± Candace said. ¡°Thank you. It¡¯s from a nice memory that I have. Maybe you could paint something from a memory that you have?¡± Candace looked toward the ceiling as she thought, and began to bang the heel of her foot on the bed frame. It took a couple of seconds before Adrian realized exactly where she was kicking. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t kick that please,¡± he said politely, ¡°the bed frame is loose.¡± ¡°Sorry,¡± she replied as she caught her foot before it hit the bed a final time, ¡°oh, I know what I could paint. A horse!¡± ¡°A horse is a great idea, we¡¯ve got the brown paint all ready. You must like animals?¡± Candace scooped a glob of brown paint onto the brush, nodding as Adrian asked his question. ¡°Me too, especially Kevin. He¡¯s my dog.¡± he said. Candace paused short of making her second goopy brush stride. ¡°Kevin? I saw Kevin earlier. I like him.¡± she said, then promptly continued to paint her horse. ¡°You did? How is he? I miss him.¡± at first she didn¡¯t respond, and Adrian had to repeat his question after he got her attention again. ¡°Oh, he¡¯s good. I think. He didn¡¯t get up but he has a big scar on his head. Dad wouldn¡¯t tell me what was wrong with him, and he kept him penned up. He said that he needed to ¡®get him used to people again¡¯. What does that mean? Dogs love people.¡± she paused to look at Adrian. It was plain to him that she was beginning to trust him. ¡°Kevin was¡­ lost from his family. I think your father is right. He might need time to get used to being around people again. He¡¯s been outdoors for a long time, I think.¡± after he finished, Candace seemed to think about what he had said for a bit. ¡°That makes sense, I guess. I bet he¡¯ll get used to everyone really soon, we have an old box of dog treats around somewhere, I remember. Dad said after you¡¯re gone-¡± ¡°CANDACE!¡± the bellowing boom of Heather¡¯s interruption made both Adrian and Candace jump. The brush fell to the floor. Before Adrian could react, Heather stomped across his room and put both of her hands on Candace¡¯s shoulders, spinning her around. ¡°What are you doing!?¡± Heather cried out. ¡°I was, we were- painting! I opened his door! He didn¡¯t mind!¡± Candace was already beginning to cry. ¡°Heather, listen. I should have yelled for one of you-¡± Adrian tried. "Stay out of this. I¡¯m going to talk to George, don¡¯t get comfortable. Come on, Candace.¡± Heather turned abruptly, keeping one hand on her daughter¡¯s shoulder. As she stormed back out of his room Candace was pulled along. Both of them turned as they exited, the mother with a look of fiery hatred and the daughter with eyes full of tears. Heather slammed the door, and through it Adrian could hear her ask for the key. After a moment, the lock switched shut. He didn¡¯t even bother to try it, and instead began to clean up the room. ---