Primal Gambit

Chapter 51: Doerrman and Uncle

Though society had become so devoid of life that people were called by their last names; at his uncle's table, Doerrman's name reverted to what it once was: Ridley. Calling people by their surnames categorized them, sanctioned them off into groups – ranks – classes. It had become the norm – no one questioned it and no one even remembered what it had been like before.

The night was particularly cold, considering the short distance of the wharf to the lake. The same empty eyes had fallen on the couple as they made their trek to the lake, the same hunger that could be felt, and the same sorrow that could be borne. The feeling of desperation in the squatters surrounding had multiplied since the couple's last journey. Their eyes reflected the dim torches whose flames danced in the night – appearing as beasts lurking just beyond the thicket. Some of them had been out there for so long that they could not remember what it was like to be living, breathing, moving – watching closely, confused by the movement.

The onset of winter combined with the unrelenting ash that seemed to fall with each passing day, many families would not survive. The open space, the vacant cardboard homes, would soon be occupied by a new set of squatters – void of placement or space to live in the city. Like rows of decayed teeth in the maw of an eras-old shark, when one set fell by the wayside, another would be forced to take its place.

The two sat within the cramped wooden shack. Heavy air rank with the odor of old fish and low tide began to set within Ridley's nose. He sat at the dingy, splintered table, sipping from a glass of scotch. The alcoholic nectar stung his lips; his eyes looked towards his uncle, who sat across from him, savoring the taste of his own. There was nothing else on the table aside from their folded arms. An old tube television flickered in the corner nearby – the connection struggling to maintain the image of a newscaster standing outside the building that was once Ridley's home. Apart from the crackling voice of the woman on the screen, silence engulfed the room.

"How's she doing?" Uncle whispered, not to rouse the sleeping visitors.

"Better than this morning," Ridley took a sip and swirled the liquid around, listening to the clinking ice, "I'm pretty sure she's got a slight concussion from the blast – her head hit the floor pretty hard. Her breathing has already improved, though. I tried not to let her breathe in too much smoke." The ex-soldier was rattled from the events that unfurled that morning.

"Good. I guess you brought Shuke here at the perfect time. How are you holding up?" The uncle had been there for Ridley ever since his parents had died. Besides Valerie, he was the only one the traumatized man could talk to.

"I, uh, I don't know. Just sucks that civilians had to be targeted so soon." He spoke quietly.

"Would you say the same thing if it hadn't happened so close?" Uncle probed his nephew's mind.

"Yeah, I would. Just wouldn't mean it to the same degree, y'know?" Ridley took a moment to respond, getting lost in the amber liquid in his hands.

"It was just getting to be too much. We couldn't live our lives with Shuke in our home. It had become too much of a risk." He spoke again.

"So you don't think the bombing was caused by terrorists." The uncle wanted to know the truth.

"Not for a second. It's more than just chance that our building had been the target of a terrorist attack. Guy probably has a massive bounty on his head now that he's been taken from Marcotte. There are people out there that'll turn a blind eye to offing one couple for such a lump sum of money. The whole thing has to do with the fact that Shuke was in our apartment. And not only that, but I think there was someone else in our apartment just after the bombing." His words chilled just beneath the uncle's flesh.