Almawt Virus Series (Book 2): Days Since...Xavier [Day 853]

by Wilson, Robert

  I found a pallet of unlabeled cans in the back of a box truck today. Found it abandoned in the middle of the woods on some service road I guess no one knew about. I’m going to have to make several trips to get it all, but it will be worth it. I now have a safe place to store a bunch of stuff like that.

  In the immediate future, I need to build a smoker and start a garden. Once I get the smoker finished, I’ll be able to hunt for deer. Any squirrel or rabbit I can eat in one meal, but a deer would be way too much. I’ll try my hand at a garden again. I’ll need to find a greenhouse or Home Depot or whatever to find some seeds. It may be difficult this late in the game. It’s possible a lot of that stuff has already been grabbed up.

  The last entry.

  Entry 664

  Downed a deer today but was unable to retrieve it. I was really excited and became careless trying to go for it. Walked right out in the middle of the field. Very stupid. I heard the cracks from the wood line. Got shot in the arm and ran. Saw two people dressed in all black chasing after me. Wrapped my arm up tight, so they couldn't track me. I lost them in the woods and made my way back home.

  I tried to clean myself up in the basement. Used a bit of bleach on the outside of the wound. It was very diluted, but still burned like hell. I didn’t have anything else though. The shot went through and through. I can still feel everything okay. Just need to keep it clean, and it should heal. If not, I might have to go to the school for help. I can’t stitch it up myself. I’ve never done them any harm. Ran into them here and there, but it’s always been good.

  I’m more worried about the folks that came after me today. Never seen them before. They were dressed in all black. The two of them seemed more concerned with hunting me than taking the deer. I would have just let them have it if that's what they wanted. I hope they don't find me. I'm not trying to start a war. Not sure I have it in me to kill someone. I just want to live in peace.

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

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

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

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

  Sweet Teddy,

  For a memory of better times.

  Always,

  Sheila

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

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

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

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

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

  Upstairs again.

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

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

  Chapter Eight

  A loud banging of metal woke him with a start. Xavier grasped the revolver from underneath his pillow and knocked the nightstand over in the process. He peeped over the headboard. Had someone found him? It was still a bit before dawn, and most of the neighborhood looked a dark gray, not nearly enough light to see well. Again, the metal banged, clearly it came from outside.

  In a frenzy, he scanned, focusing his eyes the best he could, but it was no use. The street was full of blurry figures against a backdrop of nothingness. If something was there, he couldn’t know it. His hand patted around the turned over nightstand, searching for his glasses. They weren’t there. I’ll be safer downstairs. He tucked the gun back under the pillow and grabbed the rifle.

  Careening through the unfamiliar darkness of the house, he made his way down the stairs, bumping into most everything along the way. He lightened his steps. He couldn’t remember the exact layout. Slow down. The peepholes were barely enough. Still unable to identify much of his surroundings, he listened. The same banging—fairly consistent—from just down the street.

  He looked again, almost the perfect angle. Xavier could just make out an aluminum trash can crunching from grass to sidewalk to grass and back. Its rolling stopped, and out crawled a hunched figure that hobbled off into the darkened yards. Xavier sighed. Just a raccoon. It was nothing to be concerned with on this morning. He returned to the bed, relieved, laughing along the way. He lay back down, his eyes wide. His
chest gradually slowed, but his heart continued its racing.

  The night had not been kind. Every branch scratching against the house and every piece of rubbish that tumbled down the sidewalk kept Xavier turning in bed. He could have used the remaining twilight to sleep but didn't. Preoccupied with his planned return to River's Edge, he stayed awake. He needed to figure the best way to go about it. Getting in wouldn't be the trouble, they would be expecting him. The potential trouble would be everything afterward.

  He had a good story and knew Grant would've already laid the foundation for it. All he would have to do was keep it simple and vague under any scrutiny. Explain that they were attacked, that Simon—I'll have to keep calling him that—had died, and they ran. Simple. Of course the pack and the letter had to be hidden. That hole in the side of the creek’s bank would do well to conceal the contraband. Again, simple. The tricky part was the matter of finding Sam and convincing him of the greater good—the risk of moving forward against the Second Alliance. Once he did, they could return later to retrieve the bundle. The revolution was about to begin. It had to. The plan ran through his mind on a loop. Xavier couldn’t shake it.

  Once the light clearly indicated morning, he rolled from the bed, his toes curling into the cool wooden floor, creaking again from his weight. The jumbled mess of his filthy maintenance outfit was slid to the side, revealing his glasses that were lost within the pile. He placed them back onto his nose then sorted through Simon's clothing hanging in the wardrobe. He made his choice. A simple gray t-shirt and blue jeans. They were a bit large, but he would make do. His old clothes had made it far enough, and these felt soft and new.

  The mirror hanging on the inside of the wardrobe’s door gave Xavier his first full look at himself in what had to be at least a year and a half. He was taller, older. He was starting to look like his dad. Matching brown hair. The blue eyes. Even his smile had the same bend to it. He was certainly Larry's kid. There was no denying it. We got this, Dad. I won’t let you down. I won’t let them take it without a fight. Xavier stared for a while longer then swung the door closed.

  He made one last pass through the house, collecting a few cans of food, ammunition, the journal, and a minimal amount of hygiene and medical supplies. The stock that Simon had amassed was impressive and unexpected. It's no wonder he took offense when questioned. He certainly had survival down to a science—his only mistake being the one that cost him his life. And now, through some sort of sick progression of time, Xavier was again taking from him. Someday, I’ll make this right. Make your death worth something. I know you didn't want to do what you did. I know you were forced.

  Although it had taken longer than planned, he couldn’t complain about this slight detour. The medical supplies were a definite bonus, and another gun alone made the trip well worth it. The three firearms (two pistols and a rifle) were the beginnings of a small arsenal. Now, Xavier at least had more to offer than simply the truth. He only needed to recruit more hands to put them in.

  He crammed the small Raven pistol along with the other supplies into the pack, adjusted the newly found revolver comfortably on his right hip within its holster, and slid underneath the stalled garage door. Come on! He struggled to bring the overstuffed pack from the garage, pulling, straining to edge it from below the door. Finally!

  Xavier blinked hard, trying to bring the yard into focus, his eyes working to adjust from the darkness he crawled out from. The bag dangled from his hand as he carried it to the end of the driveway's retaining wall. He set it to the ground, his arm beginning to burn from the weight of it.

  It was early, and the heat was already starting to build. Another sweat was certainly on its way. He looked for relief. A rain barrel showed slightly above the tall grass. The gutters had poured yesterday's storm within it. The water looked fresh—smelled fresh. This will definitely do. His hands brought the water into his mouth. He drank until satisfied, but his stomach still had a deep ache—the memory of the tuna from yesterday had long left it. Xavier knew it best that he ate breakfast before he set out.

  He looked for anything of substance. Wanting to eat, but not willing to resort to the canned food just yet, he meandered through the unmown lawn touched with the morning dew. It wetted his lower half. His boots collected the seeds of dandelions as he kicked about, scattering the blades of grass and weeds away from his path. Nothing—no garden, no fruit trees, only Simon's smoker pushed up against the side of a shed.

  The smoker was poorly built, barely held in place smooshed between stacks of firewood. The black potbelly stove with a large wooden box fitted upon its stack pipe was missing a leg, propped level with an old dictionary. He didn't care as long as it served its purpose. No luck. The wooden box contained no more than a few hooks hanging from a bar—no meat, not even scraps.

  That was it. All the yard had to offer. With no other choice, he unbuckled the top flap to the bag and unloaded two tins. One contained pears and the other, baked beans. Not exactly the best choice for breakfast, but Xavier welcomed them both, tipping the cans and drinking as he sat on the retaining wall. The syrup from the pears was thick and lukewarm, delicious, almost a dessert. Baked beans had once been his favorite at summer cookouts. Now, anything could be his favorite depending on how hungry he was.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and bowled the cans under the garage door. They clattered and rolled about for a moment. He then lifted his pack and carried it to the fence line, heaving it to the other side. Xavier followed, but took a few minutes to view the old neighborhood before lifting the bag onto his shoulders.

  There it was—his chimney stack. The thought of entering his home hadn't crossed his mind. It would be too much—his mother leaving, his sister's death, the horrors of the gangs. He knew he didn't want to relive those things, and besides, it was empty. It had been cleared out completely before they had left. Good-bye. He turned from it, knowing better than to hang on to the past.

  It wasn't long before Xavier's boots were wet, standing in the creek while stuffing the trash bags full. The den in the side of the embankment was deep but filled quickly. He pushed the bags, oddly-shaped and stubborn as they were, further and further into the wall of the creek. At least now his findings would be waterproof as they sat waiting for him.

  Xavier clumped the dirt together over the hole, concealing the bags, then scattered the remaining soil in the water. It was no secret what had been done here. An obvious patch job. If anyone were to come along, they would pocket all his hard work.

  He touched it up with some branches, making them look like roots from a nearby tree, and with a few more rocks and leaves, it looked more natural—not so obvious. Xavier checked his pockets one last time. There was nothing compromising. It had all been buried. He only took the binoculars and pocketknife. He climbed the root ladder and took the overgrown path back to the school.

  …

  The thick line of trees across from River's Edge gave him ample cover while he lay there observing the town. Business as usual it seemed. Two Sentries in the outposts by the gate. The goats were grazing in the field. It looked like Matt patching an outer portion of the wall, but he couldn't tell. Xavier removed the binoculars from its pouch and glassed the school, running his eyes along its hard lines.

  There weren’t any extras, just two Sentries in the outposts and one Guard with the shepherd. It was Matt on the outside. He looked for Jenny, but didn't see her. They always work together. Then he remembered. Remembered that he was supposed to meet her last night. Damn. She probably got caught past curfew, and it was his fault. Why else wouldn't she be there? He had failed her, unintentionally, but still it happened. She would understand, or so he hoped. If he had time to make it right, he would. He would explain it to her. She would have to forgive him once given the truth. Hopefully, she would decide to join.

  Xavier put the binoculars away, and he simply observed the activity from afar. Doesn't feel like home anymore. Knowing the Second Alliance was there with their dark
secrets cast the town in a different light. The brick building. The large metal wall. The barbed wire. None of it represented security any longer. No, it was something much different. A prison. A place where freedom and morality no longer existed. A place no longer needing protection from the world. The threat lived inside the walls.

  Quietly, he waited for the right moment to approach the gate. It could end poorly if he wasn’t recognized and a Sentry decided to fire a few rounds his way. He couldn’t risk it. Patience is all he could rely upon. It would be best if he had someone escort him to the gate. He needed to get to Matt, but there was too much working against him—the Sentries, the goats, the distance, but then, as if the world had read his thoughts, the Sentries stepped down from their towers.

  Without hesitating, Xavier pushed back from the ground—away from the field—withdrawing into the trees. He moved. Branches. Bushes. Trees. His arms shielded him from the snapping twigs and brush as he ran as softly as he could toward the other side. Matt would only be twenty yards away from that point. Xavier could get his attention without alerting anyone else. He took sharp glances toward the towers when he could. Still no Sentries. Then, an iron screech stopped him dead in his tracks. The door was opening.

  He hurried to the edge of the trees and hunkered down into a position where he could see. The heavy doors crept open, and the Sentries stood at the ends of each one—their rifles scanning. They motioned for something within the town, but nothing came. Xavier waited, his eyes focused solely on the opening in the city walls. Still nothing. What’s happening? Why would they leave it open for so long? Xavier took out his binoculars and watched over the area. Are they taking something in? There was nothing except for the goats, but they were still eating, paying no attention to the town.