The Fence Mender

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Xander woke up to the same sound he awoke to every morning: the white noise emanating from a ham radio that rested on his desk. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he sat on the side of his bed. The sun was just beginning to rise, a small amount of light flooding into the one-room loft. His decorating style—if it could be called that—was sparse. The stone walls were littered with random photos from magazines and newspaper headlines tacked into the grout that held them together. The floors were covered in books, stacks of them tucked into every corner. Never had a room been so in need of shelves, but Xander had no use for organization. He had read most of them and would no doubt read them again. Shelves were for those looking to show things off, and Xander had no one to show anything to.

The only thing that looked new in the room was the radio, a large gunmetal grey box with a large frequency counter at the center and two ornate knobs, one on each side. It took up a good portion of the desk, covering a great deal of the particle board that sat atop the government issue metal frame. Xander made his way to the desk, picking up a pair of headphones that sat atop the radio. He put them on, adjusted the microphone on the right side, and turned the frequency to 135.5.

"Fawcett City checking in," he said before slumping into the chair. There was a pause filled with crackling static and then the sound of another voice.

"Liberty City checking in," said a female voice.

"Aberdeen checking in," said a male voice.

"Cade Valley checking in," said the husky baritone.

"Good to hear your voices," Xander said. "We'll talk soon."

"Xander," said a voice, "go to secure frequency four please."

He reached down to the dial and turned it to the left, changing the frequency.

"On secure channel four," he said, too tired to even bother wondering what was waiting for him on the other end.

"Partial perimeter breach at Checkpoint Eight," said the deep, expressionless voice of the Communications Officer. "Repairs are required."

"Acknowledged," he said with a sigh before taking off the headphones and carefully placing them back on top of the radio. From his window, he could see the entire city, but he had little interest in it. The glorious sunrise beaming through his window went all but unnoticed as he slipped on his clothes. Once dressed, he reached down to a latch on the floor and pulled it open, revealing a ladder leading downstairs.

The abandoned church that housed Xander was a visage to a bygone era. Its stone façade had faded greatly over the years. There were no shutters over the open windows, and the large wooden doors leading inside were practically hanging from the rusty hinges. Even in its dilapidated state, it was something to behold. Its only detriment was being located on the outskirts, far removed from the more social center of the city. To Xander, that was part of its charm. He slung a large black duffel bag over his shoulder and headed towards the city, taking the narrow path that led up a steep hill. The center of the city was brimming with activity. Every table in the square was filled with conversation: the old men talking politics and literature, the women sipping on tea as they traded small stories and what little gossip there was to parlay. He would pick up bits and pieces as he passed, never paying much attention to them.

"Another attack last night," one said.

"How long since the last one?"

"Haven't heard anything official—not that we're going to."

The words slipped in and out of his ears. None of it was his concern, and he was happy to let the others debate the issues. He had made efforts in the past to integrate with the locals, but he never felt a connection to them or found any interest in their small conversations and the minutia they talked about to pass the time. There were days where he wished he had something to share with them but found their presence daunting, and the crowds that gathered in the square made him uncomfortable. The only place he felt at ease was in the silence of the perimeter and the conversations he had on his radio.