The Passing

Chapter One[updated]

Empty the chamber. Remove the slide, spring and barrel. Clean. Reassemble. Repeat. A thousand times, I've done this now, and a thousand more I will — if I'm lucky. My technique is precise, after all these years of repetition. A dirty gun may shoot, but it won't take down your target. I no longer spend the afternoons picking residue from under my nails, I've grown to like it. The potent scent of gunpowder and oil no longer fazes me, it's more of a token than when I am home. It all reminds me of Dad. That is something that I don't think will ever change.

Unload and reload, the steps flow naturally from my hands. The long line of firearms quickly shortens as freshly cleaned weapons line the opposite side of the table. All ready to be equipped and used to protect sacred life.

The last gun lingers beneath my fingers. I don't have to check the log to know who's gun this is — or was. For a moment, I hesitate to restart my process for the last time today. Pulling back the hammer, I spin the cylinder with my thumb, and empty each of the six chambers into an open palm. A smile flashes across my lips as I visit the initials sloppily engraved in the backstrap; E.W.. Faded images of his memory dance behind dark silken sheets in my mind, for time has granted nothing but the fading of my memory. He was the only comfort I wanted, the lesson I needed, and the only person who didn't treat me any differently after mom died. He was the peace that stitched together the darkest corners. The only constant I could count on until I couldn't.

The RV door creaks open and immediately the air is filled by the smell of moss and soil. Without needing to take a glance, I know who saunters to the small kitchenette — his routine is merely clockwork. Wiping mindlessly at dampened cheeks, I jump seamlessly back into rhythm as if the piece in my hand carried no meaning to me.

"Mornin'" my uncle greets me, pouring himself a cup of stale coffee left in the pot from this morning. Gliding over to me, James rests one elbow against the back of my chair as he examines part of my day's work. Raising one brow, I tilt my chin up at him with a playful scowl.

"You know, we are well into the afternoon. I'd sure hope you got your chores done." flicking the cylinder back into place, I set the reassembled revolver at the end of the line. A flutter in my chest, and I hide the painful smile that resonates on my lips. All I can do is move forward; ignore the pain, and keep going. That's what keeps people from getting killed.

"I'll mind mine, if you mind yours. How 'bout it?" he chuckles, flashing his gap-toothed smile, and I try my best to return it. James unclips the utility belt that hangs at his hip, tossing it onto the bench as he settles himself across from me. "Now, there's something I wanna show you." We eye the table full of metal, but I am the first to move when clearing up some space for him. Loading the bin with our camps freshly cleaned weapons, I hoist it up with a gulp of air and carry it to the front of the bus.

Later someone would come by and pick it up— taking it from the table to the steps is enough progress for me. Months ago, I wouldn't have been able to move it at all after filling it up. But, James told me he wanted me to start helping out with some of the bigger jobs that I had not been allowed to do before. Scavenging and hunting were still off limits, but at least he was letting me do something. Yet, the added responsibility has only worsened my anxiety.

On the fresh clear table, James unfolds a dusty thick paper and flattens it down. With large flat palms, he smooths out each wrinkle and crease, making the image much clearer. Leaning forward on my elbows, I squint at the unfamiliar markings and patterns. Unlike the ones I have seen before, this one didn't have a single trace of smudged ink, no x's marking dangerous places. No outlines of tattered buildings or broken homes. Every marking, every note, is one with the paper.

"It's what I think it is, right?" I huff, shaking my head as I try to focus on different areas. Things were obviously labeled, but with numbers and not a single landmark. Whoever this belonged to, how on earth could they find their way around?