The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide to Disillusionment

Homecoming

This journey has made me homesick. I don't usually think of Reverside as my home, since anywhere should be as good as anywhere else, but I miss it. I grew up there. The landscape and buildings are familiar. The people there are my family. Even with our constant communications, I miss the humble routine of life in my town. This tour has been extravagant and ambitious and I'm glad I could embark upon it, but I'm also glad that it is coming to a close. I look forward to resting in the arms of my community again.

– The Wakeful Wanderer's Guide, Vol. 2, line 1154

Barnabas was dropped off on the dock outside what was left of his old office by a boatman named Larry who was infuriatingly silent and never stopped eating. Larry had piloted the old fishing boat down from Staten Island after a short but terrifying trip across the expanded harbor in a tiny rowboat that was on the constant verge of capsizing.

Whatever fuel Larry used for his old fishing boat smelled just awful. The engine belched out thick black smoke constantly, and though the ship had a mast, he didn't seem interested in using a sail. The waters were choppy. Barnabas fought his urge to throw up as long as he could and then spent a few hours leaning over the railing of the boat, emptying his guts into the ocean. The trip took the better part of the day, Larry chewing and Barnabas puking. The boatman uttered not one word the entire trip.

It was dark as Barnabas staggered up the wooden stairs past a pile of clothes and some old shoes to gaze at the ruined husk of his former headquarters. The roof was gone; the walls were blackened fragments sticking up at odd intervals, like a ruined half crown outlining the circumference of the burnt building.

Immediately as he rounded the corner of his former office, Barnabas saw something that chilled his blood. The dirt roads of his town had been replaced by new, smooth surfaces. These were not the shiny gray roads he remembered from Reverside and Murray Hill, but hexagonal tiles, impossibly perfect in their design, connected by a kind of blue grout. It was impressive, beautiful, and frightening. This had been done by xombies, no doubt about it. Barnabas thought about turning around, running back to the dock and flagging down the pilot of the boat that had brought him here. He knew he would be too late. Could he hide out in the wreckage? Not for long, he thought. Gathering his courage, he walked further into his town.

New Atlantic was being rebuilt, but not as it was. Where once multi-story and single-family homes stood, there were now multiple white domes and cubes. It reminded Barnabas of the activity of ants rebuilding their trampled holes. Indeed, the dome structures looked like anthills with holes at the top admitting light. Most of the old buildings remained standing, but they seemed at odds with these new structures. He walked cautiously down the lane, expecting a swarm of giant insects to attack him. His guts were churning. He had to force his feet to take him further on.

Ahead he saw a group of his old townsfolk talking to each other, not noticing him. Some were carrying baskets of bread and vegetables, others were standing with their hands in their pockets. None of their names leapt to mind, but he knew their faces. He had seen them at church and in the streets from the days before he was captured. He froze. A woman in a blue-gray frock noticed him and nudged the man next to her. The man turned.

"Barnabas? Barnabas Yoniver? Is that you?" he said.

The rest turned to face him now. He took a deep breath and gathered his will to straighten up, raise his chin toward them. He was the master of this place. This was his town, no matter what the xombies had done to it. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He just stood there stiffly, trying hard to muster his command of these people.

"Barnabas!" the woman in the blue-gray dress shouted. "Where have you been? We thought you perished in the fires!" Now they were all walking toward him, their conversation forgotten. Barnabas wanted to run, but he forced himself to stand like a statue, ready for anything.