Chapter 3

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” - Nelson Mandela

 

Chapter 3

 

A person must have been behind that wall, but why would they attempt to conceal their existence? I stopped walking as I considered a new possibility. It might be a girl. The thought made my heart soar, I wanted it so badly to be true. Was it worth the risk of finding out?    

Curiosity has always been a stronger motivator than fear so the next night I went back to investigate. At dusk I left the house wearing every weapon I could strap onto my body and walked to the mysterious residence. I felt equal parts fear and excitement as I climbed the steps leading to the front door. Before entering I took off my shoes so there wouldn’t be noise, then hid behind a cabinet ten feet from the entrance to the basement.

The fact that this might be a stupid idea penetrated my mind a few hours later. What if a large, mean man lived behind the wall? I might be putting myself in danger. My reckless curiosity bordered on insanity. Common sense dictated I leave immediately.

The debate going on inside my head didn’t prevent me from hearing the light footsteps of something coming up from the basement. When the person reached the top of the stairs, I pointed my gun while shining the flashlight.

“Who are you?” I asked in the most masculine voice I could conjure. 

The little person looked like a boy of ten dressed shabbily even by rural standards. He was too skinny with short brown hair and dirty like he hadn’t bathed in months. The boy ran under a table and held onto the leg as if it could provide protection. I could see his body shaking.   

“What do you want?” he asked in a barely audible voice.

“Who are you?” I repeated. The boy was too scared to answer immediately. I moved my flashlight out of his face, so he could see mine.  

“Who are you?” he asked. He looked down while speaking as if he didn’t want to acknowledge my presence.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“This is my house, what are you doing here?” he asked. That was a good question, but I didn’t have to explain the convoluted reasoning that had brought us to this point. I had a gun.  

“You look too young to be on your own”, I said.

“My father died recently. I haven’t been alone for long.”

“I saw him the other night," I said. "I’m sorry for your loss.” I stopped pointing the gun and put it in my coat pocket. Part of me felt instantly protective over the child. I knew what it was like to be alone and afraid.   

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. The house looked abandoned when I found it the other night. Then I saw a light through a hole in the wall and was curious.” It was a flimsy explanation for such a disturbing act, but the boy looked somewhat relieved.

“How are you getting food?” I asked.  

“We had a year supply when my dad died,” he said. “I have about six months left.”  

“What will you do when the food runs out?” I asked.

“I don’t know," he said sounding upset. "I’ve just been trying to get through the day. People like you come into the house sometimes to take what they want. I spend most of the day in a basement room.” The boy was barely holding his life together. I could see the weariness in his eyes as silent tears fell down his already tear lined face. 

"What's your name?"  I asked.

"Eshod,” he said wiping his nose. “What's yours?" 

"Hunter," I said. Hunter was my middle name. I made it my first name when I posed as a male.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“About two miles from here on the other side of town," I said.  I never felt fortunate to be in my situation until meeting Eshod. When winter came he would freeze or starve to death.  

“How old are you?" I asked.

"Fourteen," he said. Judging by his size, he could not have been fourteen. He looked more like nine or ten.

Eshod showed me the space where he lived. The room was about 8 x 10 feet with no windows. There was a solar powered lamp without a shade on a badly scratched end table. A twin mattress lay on the floor with ragged bedding that was so worn out, I couldn’t tell its original color. Cans of food lined the walls providing the only form of decoration. The space was depressing. I sighed and sat down next to the bed. 

“Life sure isn’t what it used to be,” I said. “I remember grocery stores with rows and rows of candy. There was school where children could learn and play with each other in the sunshine. Clean water would come out of a sink. If a person wants those things now they have to move to a city-state.”

“I remember some things,” Eshod said. “Like celebrating holidays and birthdays with my parents.” We reminisced for a while. Both of us desperately missed what we could never have. We never knew what life was like without the virus overshadowing everything. The virus took ten years to reach every country, state, city, village and home. The ten year span between when the virus appeared and the end of civilization was referred to as the cusp. Eshod and I were both born during the cusp.  

“The good life can still be found in books,” I said. That was where I found solace. I became so lost while reading that I began to believe I was the heroic character. I turned into a pirate or an astronaut. Sometimes I was a high paid attorney in New York litigating an important case, or a doctor saving the lives of children in third world countries. I could be anyone and everyone inside a book.     

“I have a few books,” he said. “But I’m getting tired of reading them over and over again.”

“You can borrow mine,” I said. “I broke into the library when it closed and brought hundreds of books home, so technically they belong to everyone in the community.”

I moved my head towards the light and Eshod gave me a strange look.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I can see fine.”

“Why are they two different colors?” he asked. My earliest memories were of people commenting on my eyes. One is light blue and the other light green. The contrast is vivid, people notice immediately.

There are strange stories concerning the nature and abilities of people with two different colored eyes. They have been called ghost eyes that can see into heaven and earth simultaneously. The eyes are supposed to make a person sensitive to supernatural experiences. European cultures associated the condition with witchcraft and the occult. 

“I was born this way,” I said. I didn’t want to scare Eshod with crazy stories, so I let the topic drop.

We talked through the night. Both of us missed being around people. After a few hours he visibly relaxed. Neither of us felt tired, we were too excited by the strange turn of events.

“How long has it been since you talked to another person?” I asked

“Almost six months,” he said. Eshod had a vacant expression on his face. The type of look people have when they’re searching for a reason to live. Should I take him home? Could I trust him with my secret? He could become an important ally and friend. I couldn’t just leave him here.    

"My home is in better condition than yours. It’s clean and I have water from a stream in the backyard. There is even electricity from solar panels most of the time. We could keep each other company, like a family. I live with my father, but he isn’t around much. Do you want to live with us?"

Eshod looked both hopeful and afraid as he considered the offer.

“If I wanted to hurt you I would have done it already,” I said.

That statement seemed to push the issue in my favor.  

“Okay,” he said hesitantly. Eshod put some objects into a bag and followed me home. We would come back for the food later.

When we arrived I looked at my house and realized it didn’t look like much, but it was enough to sustain our needs. 

Mother used to joke that our home was shabby chic, but in reality it was just shabby. The house was an averaged sized, split-level and old by anyone’s definition. The floors, doors and windows were creaky, and drafty. The paint peeled back everywhere and the roof sagged like wet clothing. I showed Eshod around.

“You have a television?” he asked excitedly.

Next I showed him the crawl space where I slept.

“This is better than being in a cold basement,” he said. That night I made an elaborate dinner including bread and meat. I wanted Eshod to feel welcome. After dinner we went to bed.

The next morning Eshod slept in and I went downstairs to make breakfast. My itronic beeped indicating a text. The message was sent from father’s itronic to all of the people in his contact list, but it wasn’t from him. I knew something was wrong and sat down on the couch. No one was able to use another person’s itronic unless…

“My name is Dr. Hanley, I work for Mercy Hospital in Chicago. David Aeron died in the Emergency Room from a shotgun wound a few hours ago. I’m sorry for your loss.”  

The news was sad. The saddest part being I didn’t feel much of anything. I waited for tears to come, but nothing happened. When did I stop loving father? It must have been around the time he stopped loving me.

I was prepared for that moment having lived it a thousand times in my head. Every time father went away something tragic could happen. The man lived like he wanted to die. He drank too much and wasn’t afraid to mess with the wrong people.  

When I thought of father all I remembered was a grouchy man who ordered me around and yelled a lot. I looked forward to his long trips away. At least I would have peace and quiet. Things weren’t always so bad.

Once upon a time we were a happy family. Father taught me how to play chess and ride a bike. The two of us would walk through the forest while he pointed out different plants and animals. Father taught me to love nature, it was a beautiful gift. There would be no more lessons in the forest, they stopped a long time ago. I already mourned the loss.

The dead are often deified and I would try to remember the good. But the endless struggle of the living makes the excessive mourning of the dead pointless. I deleted the message, then went into the kitchen to make breakfast.