Molly - Part 4

Chapter 15

The fascists walked the streets as if they owned the place, and in a way this was true. Anders watched them from a healthy distance. One of them stopped, taking his machine gun and leaning it on his shoulder, his padded armor making him seem like a gigantic child.

"Move on, vagrant."

Anders started. He'd never been called that before.

He continued to keep that healthy distance as he winded around and followed the tail-end of the forward march. So many marches these days--if not the ragged meandering of the monsiuers then the ritualistic fervor of the sheep herders. Now, children walked the street, not those who hid in the sewers but the sons of fathers so destructive they set fire to an entire generation.

He was in the middle of the throng, not necessarily taking in the pleasantries but observing his flock, smiling as one of them came up and pointed down the street. Anders thought that perhaps they had seen him; instead Jesse the fascist laughed, tying the flag he had wrapped around his head a little tighter, the swastikas burning Anders to his soul.

He left them; he didn't want to look at them. Maybe revolutionaries saw a way out but all Anders could see were those two jagged lines.

***

He hugged his stomach and wept, sliding down the wall and putting his head down. There was nothing really left for him. He was done; he was done with the world, the systems, the numbers. So many variables he couldn't keep up with it anymore, so distracted he couldn't see more than a few feet in front of him.

A fascist stepped below him, the incline falling into the city, the bridge Anders found himself positioned just right so that if he wanted to he could take out his pistol and issue out righteous fury.

His hands became claws; he was determined to go down now. His mind became random screams, people telling him what to do.

Smother it.

The fascist didn't see him, wandering away, sniffing and rubbing his nose as he went into the next alleyway.

Anders ran. He didn't stop running until he was sure he would never see another fascist again.

***

He never stopped moving. Going from one place to the next. Names didn't mean anything to him. The streets dead in the center of his vision.

A band of fellow vagrants were going across what was probably once a city square now carved out by the bombs.

Anders approached with his hands raised.

"Oh shit, you scared me," one of them said, coming up and looking Anders up and down with his armed friend. "What's up? We're not really looking to take anyone in; too many mouths to feed as it is. You can take care of yourself, yeah?"

"How would you know that?"

The vagrant shrugged. "You've made it this long."

"He told you to go," said the vagrant's friend, wearing a hoodie. Bloodshot eyes. "Go."

Anders took a few steps back.

"Anders?"

He closed his eyes. Surely there was some god playing with him. The Devil himself preparing his fires.

He looked haggard. Older. There were a few cuts running up and down his right jawline and his hair had grown enough that he wore it down. Clothes a bit more faded. Eyes a little more wary. Anders could see that Jake was making the same observations.