Page 48 of Them

Denied what? But no answer came.

He neither raised nor lowered his shotgun as he scaled the stairs. He didn’t make his presence known or attempt to hide it. When the man finally stepped onto the grand porch that spread before the opulent doors, he appeared only as he was: ragged, exhausted, covered in scars and bandages.

A minute passed. Nothing happened. This isn’t smart. Not worth it. What was the best-case scenario? He and this doomsday John Doe join hands and sing “Kumbaya” all the way to Greenland, just like in the movies? Realistically, what the hell was there to gain by being here? Only made it this far because I’m alone. Because I stayed sane and everyone else didn’t.

Another minute. He considered turning and fleeing. He could be gone, out of sight, like he was never even here. It would only take a minute. Even if L.B. was trustworthy, what if someone who wasn’t heard the same message? And they were already here? Waiting for him? For anyone to wander into their web? This is nuts. I got rocks in my brain, just like the damn Scorpions. There’s nothing here. Not for me.

Another several moments went by. If his arms possessed the same spirit as his legs, he might’ve reached out and knocked on the great door. But that wasn’t the case, and so he never did.

The man turned away from the tall windows, their curtains fast closed, and spat some tobacco residue out over the railing before descending the staircase. Something welled in his eyes as he trotted down the slick steps, something old and forgotten and embarrass—

“Wait.”

He stopped cold in his tracks. The voice was familiar.

The man took another step forward. If he kept going, perhaps the voice would go away.

“Please. Don’t leave.”

Holding his breath, the man peered over his shoulder.

Standing in the open mouth of one of the glass doors was another, much older man. He carried no weapon in his open palms, though his broad shoulders and muscular build suggested he might not need one. Despite the stranger’s senior age, he was clearly a physical force. A kerosene lantern rested between his feet. Work pants and military boots adorned his lower half, while a dark olive jacket clothed the upper. His nose was jagged but short, broken once or twice in his younger years. Bagged and hollowed eyes, sunken with strain but bristling with a bronzed fire. Those pupils, wide and warm amid their burning irises, defied the tired face they were set upon. Defied the tired world.

“I’m not…” The stranger’s voice was the same voice from the radio. “I’m not armed. Swear it. I left all that inside.” It was really him. L.B.

The man at the foot of the stairs was in rough shape. His arms were covered in bandages and bruises, clothes filthy and torn as if he’d just crawled out of a dumpster. A Browning shotgun rested by his hip, but both hands were clasped tight around it, ready to strike. The knuckles on his right hand were fading white because of how hard he squeezed. Only half of his swollen, unshaven face could be seen in the flickering lantern light as he gazed over his shoulder.

My God, Lane Buxton thought from the White House doorway. How far have you come?

Lane stepped away from the door, hands reaching for the sky. He shrugged his shoulders, lifting his shirt above his waistline, and rotated in a slow circle.

“See?” he said as he let his shirt drop and gestured to the pistol clearly concealed in the ragged wanderer’s rear waistband. “Like I said, I’m not armed.”

The stranger, doused in dirt and loneliness, turned to face Lane, a blank, listless expression staring up at him. Without a word, the man reached down and pulled up his pant leg to reveal a concealed pocketknife. His eyes never broke from Lane’s.

Lane did the same with his own trousers, showing off nothing more than saggy socks and pale, hairy legs. He took another step forward, away from his lantern.

The voiceless man raised his shotgun.

“Easy,” Lane said, coming no closer. “Or did you journey all this way just to kill me?”

At first, it seemed that the visitor would remain silent, holding his own ground, but then he growled from beneath the dark tangle of hair. A feral voice, tone so guttural and armored that it gave both men momentary pause. The words were simple: “What do you want?”

Lane groped for a response and found none.

The man began to back down the staircase, his barrel still trained on the old man’s torso.

“Stop?” Lane said as if it were a question.

“Tell me.”

“I… I…”

The man pumped the shotgun and took another backward step.

Lane once again lifted his hands above his head. “It’s me… L.B. I don’t want to hurt you. I promise.”

“Then what?” the man asked.