Page 53 of Them

He rolled onto his other side, eyes still closed. Sleep fast approached, and he was nervous. Afraid. When his eyes opened tomorrow at dusk, he would be a different man. A real man, with a name and a soul and skin in this twisted game, while the shabby reflection faded back into the reptilian abyss.

But what if this callous cloak was all that was keeping him sane? What if the only way he could go on was if he had no name? Wasn’t that why he’d wanted to forget his in the first place? So that he might walk under the moon without the weight of his memories and joy and love and hope? Without the impending comparison of the endlessly present brawl?

Then that’s all right, thought the man. Because I’m tired. Thought I could hold it back, but grief and sadness and guilt and longing and wanting and desire all draw me to quarter. Need to cut them free and hop on for a ride, but only Tim knows the reins because it’s his heart, not mine. I’m a pantomime. A ghost fading. Don’t think I’m living. Haven’t been in a long time.

But at least Tim’s still here. I kept him safe, so that’s something.

At least I’m still here.

At least I’m… Tim.

I’m Tim.

Timothy Cassius Wheeler.

A lighthearted snort escaped his nostrils, almost like a chuckle.

That’s right. I’m me. Who else?

He rolled onto his back again, hands clasped over his stomach. Tears swelled through the gaps of his shut eyelids, escaping out the corners, trickling down his cheeks, and leaking behind his ears. Sleep was coming, but the man no longer felt fear. Foolish and ashamed, yes, but not afraid.

Because Tim wasn’t alone. He never had been.

He could see them again. The faces once forgotten, the ones he forced for so long to not appear in his mind’s eye. It had been too painful to mourn the sheer totality of what was lost. Who was lost. Bradley Dean and the whistlin’ gap between his two front teeth. James Kim’s wide smile and Messi haircut. Uncle Dwayne sitting on the tailgate of his beat-up Chevy, watching over the cookout like a family sentinel.

Amira’s hair blowing in the dense heat as She led Tim over abandoned rail tracks. The sound of Her laughter mixed with an old record spinning in the background, the scratches in the vinyl whispering through the speaker.

Mom’s eyes. Like fossilized amber. The smell of chocolate chip cookies billowing out from the kitchen. Sitting in her well-loved peach-colored recliner, a stack of Octavia E. Butler paperbacks on the side table. Her smile as she sees him, rushing to stand. Hands reaching out to hug him.

The man ran toward those dreaming memories, and they welcomed him with open arms. As if he’d never walked away at all.

Lane sat on a foldout chair before a foldout table, atop which sat a portable Coleman grill with a cherry-red hood. Propane flames flickered below a sizzling pan. A handful of large white eggs sat idly in a plate resting on the table. There were ornate salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of hot sauce with a surprisingly recent expiration date. Beside those, a glass of whiskey with no ice. The liquor bottle was on the floor, surrounded by strings of shredded paper.

He did not know when the young man would come to breakfast, nor if he would come at all. Perhaps he’d already left.

Not that I’d blame him, thought Lane. What reasons had he given the stranger to stay? What did he have to offer? Food, shelter, and firearms were plentiful. Whatever information he knew might as well be folklore by now. A creation myth. But neither the fox nor the hare had any need for fairy tales.

The stranger seemed sane, but Lane had no way of knowing where he’d come from or what he’d been through. The last two years had been quiet, so quiet. There was hardly anyone left in North America by Lane’s estimate. For all he knew, they might be the lone and final two. Even in the old days, that kind of isolation was dangerous. It may have been a miracle that Lane’s own mind had not totally bent and shattered, but he thought it more likely to be a punishment. The universe wanted him to face his crimes with a clear, conscious, crying mind.

Haven’t even told him why I’m here yet. Who I am. If the young man didn’t run for the hills at that moment, it would be a blessing. If he was furious, then it would be righteous.

Lane had no way of knowing if his housemate was still there, not unless he went back downstairs and checked every room. All fifty of them. Maybe later, when his knees weren’t so sore. The hike from the Appalachians had been hell on his body. The daily body-weight workouts of the past six years had done little to prepare his charred, aging lungs and dry, aching bones for those midnight inclines. If Interstate 66 hadn’t been there, he’d still be tripping over tree roots.

Lane pressed a cold palm to his warm forehead, elbow resting on the table. The veins and arteries around his heart were tangled, asphyxiated. He took a sip of his morning whiskey, swishing the liquor around before swallowing. Savoring the burn. It was the first drink he’d had in three years, since whenever his bunker booze ran out. Not that he’d needed it back then; the solitude had warped perception enough. Hadn’t bothered to stop by a—

“Lane,” a somewhat-familiar voice said from behind.

He whirled around to face the once-hidden staircase. In the open doorway stood the nameless young man who’d nearly left last night, but he looked… different. Posture straighter, standing taller. Scruffy chin held high. His hands were still covered in cuts and scabs and scars, but they seemed at ease. Thumbs casually stuffed in the pockets of his safe-room sweatpants as the other fingers rested over his thighs.

The unnamed man was neither smiling nor frowning, lips pursed as if waiting for some unknown cue to speak. Yesterday’s perpetual scowl had faded, making him appear at least five years younger. Even his breathing registered as more regular, his chest rising and falling in a relaxed rhythm, no longer heaving like cornered prey.

“Good morning, Nightwalker,” Lane said, unsure of how else to break the silence. What else to call someone who had no name in a world with no day?

But the man recoiled at the nickname; he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“What? What’s wrong, kid?”

He exhaled. “Nothing, just a coincidence… and… it’s Tim, all right?”