Homeless

A loud rumbling, like an approaching thunderstorm, woke Tyrone from a fitful sleep. Sirens and gunfire prevented him from getting some needed Z’s. He should have been used to it. Crime was not unusual, but the past three days had seen more activity. Again, the rumbling. “Garbage day,” he muttered. He needed to get moving before the garbage collectors arrived. He peered into the alley. Nobody. He lifted the heavy metal cover above his head, and propped it with a stick. The rusting hinges of the lid creaked slightly. To him, it was a bull horn. He threw out a small parcel and followed it landing on the concrete with a soft thud. Crouching beside the dumpster, he paused, listening intently. His eyes darted left, right, then up, checking the alley and rooftops.

Again, nobody. He gathered his goods from the ground. His nostrils flared as the smell of sulfur and burning oil engulfed him. The odors came with a bitter taste, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in days. He turned his gaze back to the dumpster which had sheltered him the past two nights. Overnight, new bags of trash had collected around it. He remembered cowering under some greasy cardboard when he heard people outside, but no one opened it. “Any safe port in a storm. Let’s see what’s for breakfast.”

He searched the contents of the smelly, black, plastic bags, placing trash on the left and food on a pizza box top on the right. He found several bruised apples, some orange juice, and, the grand prize, a whole T-bone steak! It was perfectly charred and even lightly coated in steak sauce. “Why would anyone throw this baby out?” he wondered. “Probably hit the ground.” His smile faded as he thought back to a time when he would have done the same. Now, a feast could be found in the garbage. He ate an apple and downed the juice, saving the rest for later. He picked up his pack and headed for the street. His eyes and mouth opened wide.

Cars were ablaze. Broken glass from hundreds of shattered windows glittered on the pavement. Bullet holes defaced buildings and red splotches decorated the streets. A tank rumbled through an intersection knocking down utility poles. A woman’s scream jerked his head to the left. Tyrone forced his body into the shadows as gunfire rattled close by. He saw the woman drop to the ground as uniformed soldiers stepped toward her. He melted even further into the shaded alley, pressing his back to the wall. Her screams trailed off as they snatched her into an abandoned building. Tyrone’s teeth were on the verge of crumbling as his jaws clenched tight. His right index finger squeezed an invisible trigger.

He recalled the soldiers’ sand-colored uniforms. “That was not US camo! Who are they? How did they get here? Where’s the cavalry?” His hopes of seeing a squad of avenging Marines died as reinforcing enemy troops showed up. “What happened? All this time, I thought there was some kind of riot or something. But this is…” He was about to say the word “war,” but it was stolen by a blinding flash of light, brighter than the sun. His eyes snapped shut. He spun in the opposite direction of the light. When he was sure he was facing into the alley, he opened his eyes and sprinted forward.

Disregarding the landing, he jumped over the side of his dumpster, snatching the prop stick on his way inside. The heavy lid slammed shut causing his ears to ring. It wasn’t enough to block the howling outside the metal container. A hurricane of wind and debris rocked his shelter. A mixture of anger and helplessness forced itself from his lungs. For the first time in years, he allowed tears to escape. As the ghost of death wailed outside, his body convulsed out of control.

An eternity later, a tomb-like silence followed. He wondered if it was safe to venture out. How close had the blast been? How big was the nuke? He had survived the explosion, but what about radiation? His mind raced through a list of things he immediately needed. He needed supplies, but not from the trash. He needed to know what was happening. He lifted the lid slightly and braved a peek outside. The surrounding buildings were intact, allowing him to sigh in relief. “Okay, so the blast was miles away or it wasn’t that powerful. Either way, it’s safe to go out.” He crawled out of the dumpster and marveled at the growing mushroom cloud in the distance. He walked in the opposite direction, leaving the protective alley.

He located the Army surplus store. Crouching beside an overturned mailbox, he scanned the street and the store for any signs of movement. Satisfied, he dashed across the street and stopped outside the store. He tried the door but it was locked. He turned his back to the door and watched the street as he knocked. No response. He knew what he must do, but he paused to reflect. He had been living on the streets for over a year. Resolving not to break the law, he survived on refuse, or he did without. The pain he felt as he broke the glass was not from the scrape on his elbow, but from the guilt of his first crime.

He entered and closed the broken door behind him. He stealthily made his way around, stuffing supplies into a rucksack. After filling it, he packed a smaller backpack. At the front counter, he took some knives, a sharpening stone, and a compass. A samurai sword was behind the counter. It was dull, mainly for show, but it would have to do for now.

He sandwiched himself between the pack on his back and the smaller bag across his chest. Several blocks away, was the next building on his list. He knew the doors would be unlocked so he pushed them open and stepped inside. The double doors closed behind him and he moved quietly forward. An emergency generator powered dim lights that barely illuminated the way. Finally, he found what he had been searching for. The sign before him read “Special Weapons and Tactics, S.W.A.T.” with two smaller signs below it. One marked “Offices” pointed right. The sign that pointed to the left read, “Authorized Personnel Only!” He proceeded left.

He stopped at a desk beside a metal door. Behind the desk, he flipped a switch. He dropped his bags and retrieved a bolt cutter from the large rucksack as the door clicked open. He went inside and breathed noisily as he inspected the weapons. He clipped the padlocks and grabbed a rifle, four pistols, a shotgun, ammo for each, and night vision goggles. He loaded the shotgun and several magazines for the other weapons and placed the extra mags into a tactical vest. After arming himself, he got the rest of his equipment and went into the locker room. There, he stripped his street clothes and took a long, hot shower.

He emerged in black fatigues, tactical vest, combat boots, rucksacks, and his arsenal. He moved silently towards the front double doors. A rustling sound closing in alerted him. He pointed the shotgun at the sound. He cursed as his eyes widened, struggling to see in the dark. The night vision goggles were packed away.

A voice gave him chills. His trigger finger tensed, as the muffled voice, closer, repeated itself. His finger eased but did not leave its home near the trigger. A faint, “Hello,” broke the silence.

“Advance to be recognized!” Tyrone barked.

“Huh?”

“Move forward,” he clarified. A kid’s face came into view. Tyrone lowered his weapon. It was a teenager. More important, he was unarmed. “How long have you been in here, Kid?”

“I’m Craig. I followed you in here. At least, I think it was you. You’ve got the same afro, but your clothes are different.”

“You followed me?” Tyrone could not believe he had been tracked by a kid.

“No, I wasn’t following you. I was across the street when I saw you go in here. I saw you holding a sword, wearing those old, dirty clothes, with an afro, so I knew you weren’t one of those soldiers. You looked like the samurai from that cartoon. I thought it might be safe to hook up with you.”

“Look, Kid, I’ll give you some weapons but then you’re on your own.” He gave him the smaller backpack, a knife, two pistols and ammo and quick lessons on how to use them. They went to the entrance and checked the streets. It was getting late. He spoke sternly. “I’m going this way,” he said, pointing left, “You go any other direction. Move quickly, quietly, over short distances. Stay hidden. Shoot only if you have to, then move out, before somebody follows the sound. Search for supplies. Any questions?”

“Yeah, why can’t I come with you?”

“I can’t be responsible for a kid.”

“I’m fifteen! You’re just a bum! I can help you!”

“I used to be a Marine. I don’t need help, Kid.”

“My name’s Craig!” He pulled on a chain beneath his shirt and produced a silver, heart-shaped locket. “This was my mom’s. If you let me come with you, you can have it.”

“No thanks!” With that, he was out the door, moving swiftly away. Craig watched him disappear then made his own way out of the building.

Hours after the sun went down, Tyrone heard a stone rattle against the pavement behind him. “Stop following me!”

“It’s a free country! Take me with you! You’re supposed to help people, you’re a Marine!”

“I used to be a Marine. Find another babysitter!”

“Babysitter? I don’t need you, Marine! Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re not a Marine, you’re just a bum! Fine! be by yourself!”

“Fine!”

“Whatever! I hate you, Bum!” The boy’s voice faded as he walked away. Tyrone was preparing to have a meal before going to sleep when a scream shattered the silence. “Marine!” The boy’s voice was like a splash of cold water. Instantly, he switched the rifle’s safety off and strapped his night vision goggles on. The landscape was suddenly bathed in pale, green light as he pressed “Power.”

Craig’s voice called out again, helping Tyrone pin down his location. “Marine! Help me!” Then came a garbled shriek followed by silence. Tyrone moved stealthily from one piece of cover to the next. Trying to avoid an ambush, he slowed down when he was certain he was close. He found a scene he was not prepared for.

The boy was lying on a pile of rubble. His unblinking eyes stared at three men retreating away from his stripped body. Even in the distorted green light, it was clear that Tyrone was too late to save the boy. Tyrone swallowed hard against the bile in his throat. Memories of fallen comrades from years past, flooded his mind.

When he was sure the soldiers were gone, he rushed over to Craig. He placed two fingers on his carotid artery. His skin was still warm, but there was no pulse. His weapons had been stolen, his shirt ripped half off, and the silver chain lay on the street. Tyrone wanted to inspect further but knew he must leave. He opened the boy’s locket and found a picture of Craig as a baby. He snapped it shut and gently closed Craig’s eyes.

He returned to his own campsite. His stomach cramped each time he thought about abandoning Craig. “Why did I push him away! Was I homeless so long, I forgot how to be human? Or have I always been this callous?” He vowed to search for others like Craig, others he could help. “Is there anybody else?” he wondered. Retrieving his packs, he began a cautious trek through the ruins of the city formerly known as Houston.