Page 50 of Them

When those amorphous minutes passed, the two found themselves once again at arm’s length. Dry tears stained on their cheeks. The hostility had been blown away by the breeze, along with the laughter and sadness. Neither knew what to say, and both felt quite embarrassed, despite the total dissolution of any society or culture or any sort of pressures that could have induced such a sensation. On the surface, they appeared as dismal as the world, slick with a ragged film of scabs and dirt.

Yet their eyes, two olive and two bronze, seemed to shine just a bit clearer.

L.B. broke the silence, reaching out his calloused hand. “I’m Lane. Lane Buxton.”

The man took it. “It’s good to meet you… Lane. I’m sorry again for before. For, well…”

“A little gunslinger diplomacy?” the old man named Lane asked, sounding almost chuffed about it. “Don’t be. I would’ve done the same in your shoes.”

“You didn’t.”

“No, but I’m not in your shoes…” Lane trailed off. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

His new ally raised an eyebrow, waiting for the man to continue. When he didn’t, Lane changed the subject. “Okay, well… what’d’ya say we head inside to catch our breath? Get a bit to eat. That little, er… emotional catharsis winded me. No offense.”

“None taken,” the man said, following him up the porch steps. He’d picked up the shotgun, and made sure to keep it pointed at the ground. “Has anyone else come?”

Lane shook his head. “Nah. You’re the only one. Whoever you are.”

“That’s what I used to think.”

“What’s that?”

“I used to think it was just me. That I was the last one. The only one. Then I saw… well, then I heard you on the radio, and I guess I knew better, y’know?”

L.B. bent over to pick up the gas lantern and adjusted a knob at the base of the handle, empowering the flame. “I think I always knew better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure, to be quite frank… I just… knew someone else was out there. Maybe I’ve gone crazy, probably we both have, but I felt it. It gave me a reason to keep goin’.”

The interior of the White House had been ransacked. Lane’s shimmering flame revealed golden embroidered curtains dancing through shattered panes of glass. Tables toppled and used as cover from gunfire. Portraits of Benjamin Franklin and John Quincy Adams were sprawled on the ground, stomped and torn, riddled with bullet holes. The lone survivor remaining on the wall was a painting of Independence Hall, Philadelphia. The beam of the man’s flashlight lingered on it for a moment.

“It’s a sad sight, I know,” Lane said, “but who can blame them? We were supposed to protect them, and we didn’t.”

“I saw tire tracks outside. Fences rammed down. It was us… people?”

“Sure was,” Lane said with a nod. “Not sure how much you saw on television or online, but after the central government announced its move to Denver, the East Coast just… collapsed. Total anarchy. Survival of the fittest and all that jazz, but the goddamn fittest were thirty feet tall and bulletproof. People were scared at first, and then they got angry. Real fucking angry. Turned on the few folks that did remain behind to protect them. The Scorpions came ’round eventually, of course, and tore through whoever was left. Sons-a-bitches didn’t stick around once the fighting was done, though. Seems like they prefer undeveloped land, if they can find it.”

The man thought back to his days in the bunker. The bunker he’d stolen. “I remember. Denver, yeah. That was the last big news before my internet went down. Did they make it to the Rockies? The president? Do we even still have a… a government?”

Lane grunted. “Oh, they made it to Denver, all right. Didn’t last very long, is all. Nobody did.”

“What about the evacuations?”

A grimace. “Ugly. Infrastructure wasn’t built to handle that degree of traffic. The Scorps had a field day picking apart the rubberneckers. I wager most folks eventually gave up and ran for it all on their own. Didn’t you see all the abandoned cars on your way here?”

The man nodded. “Yeah. I did.” He leaned over and examined a spray of bullet holes in the wall. “What about the ones who did get away?”

“There was no away. Not unless you counted space stations, though I’m sure that experience was a nightmare in its own right. People fled, sure… but the monsters always followed. There’s… I’m sorry to tell you this… there’s nothing left.”

“Anywhere?” the man asked, already knowing the answer.

Matter of fact. Not even a sigh. “Anywhere.”

“Right. I didn’t think so.”