The Wandering Lost

When I woke up, and it was dark again, I knew the world had flipped itself completely upside down. I lay on the earth looking up at the few stars I could see. The only sound my breathing, as I held my hand against the mound of earth my friend was buried under.

How many more would I have to put in the ground before this nightmare ended? The loved, and the unknown? It felt strange to be working the night shift, as my Dad would say. Disorienting. I had to wait for the moon to break the mountains before I had enough light to see. I stood at the foot of Scott's grave, and slapped my forehead.

Only I would know who was buried here. I had to make a marker of some kind. I looked around. Tie two sticks in a cross . . . no. Hang something in the tree? I slapped my pockets. Just ammo. Gun. Crap. Nothing to fix anything with . . . wait.

I dug around my pockets, and found it. The pocketknife. Scotty's knife. I unfolded the blade, and tested its sharpness. It felt sharp. I picked up a couple of sticks, and went in search of something to tie them together with, make a sort of dreamcatcher thing. Digging around the brush, it hit me.

I turned and went to the head of his grave, and began carving in the tree. It wasn't easy, and it probably looked like crap but I attempted to carve - Scott Redwyn, 18 yrs old, CC, Ut. I didn't want to explain his death, or that he was a Zed when he was laid to rest. Some information you just don't want to pass on. I rose, and stood again at his feet.

"So long, pal." I said, "May angels lead you in, my friend." Lips trembled, tears welled up in my eyes. I sank onto my haunches, "Dammit Scott. Dammit. If you'd have just stayed with us, you'd have been fine. Why'd you have to go? Huh?" I was yelling, "Why'd you have to chase after that . . . that . . . her! Man! She was dead where she . . ."

I held my face in my hand. There was no point chiding the kid. He'd been gone a few days already. You can't fight the past. Linear time. What's done is done. I straightened up, folded up the pocket knife and slipped it into my pocket. I patted my back pocket to make sure I still had the note. Then I began walking.

Toward home. At first.

But home seemed . . . uninviting. The whole world, in an instant, felt full of stupidity, and ignorance, and the basest of human feelings. I wasn't ready to go back to that, yet. Not to say mom and dad and Beth were . . .  maybe I was just feeling that way myself. The whole wide hell of a world, and I was powerless to do anything about it. That was it.

Powerlessness.

Parowan is where I was headed when I left home, Parowan now seemed the right place to go. So I went. I did an about face, and headed north. Having acted carelessly in Summit (not the first time, is it?) I decided to be cautious. I stayed on the high ground, as much as I could navigate it. For the first time in a long time I was absolutely unaware of what time it was. I have usually just been able to feel it. But I felt nothing. It could have been 10 PM or 4 AM. I didn't know.

In that confusion, and in the darkness I came upon a curiosity. It was a fire, obviously, permeating the dark ahead. The shuffling of feet put me off, as you can imagine. Whispers carried up the draw. Distinct words: family, shelter, safety, lost. Lost. As I got closer to the fire, I could see shapes. People walking here and there. An apparent confusion of people meandering by the fire. I approached the edge of a dusty clearing, and watched. One man sat near the fire, absently warming his hands. He was shaggy, and thin. I could not see his face, but his posture was one of deep contentedness. Around him, behind him, by him people walked. Just walked.

One would appear from the surrounding scrub, a lost look in their eyes. Then. Then. Then they would walk. Sometimes around the fire. Sometimes straight through, paying no heed to one another, and no attention to where they might be headed. One nearly stepped on me as she made her way back into the night. I watched the bob of her head as she disappeared around a bend.

When I looked back the man at the fire was facing me. Still unsure I hid.

"It's alright, young man." he said. His voice, deep, and soothing, carried so well it felt like he was at my side. "Come on out."

He must be talking to me. I rose, and stepped into the dusty clearing. I waited, and watched. Living people, these were. Not Zeds. They would emerge, do a round or two, then leave. I dusted off my pants, and walked toward the fire. The man smiled to see me, and, as I approached the fire, he held out his hand. I took it. It was cold.

"My name's Petros." he said.
"Martin." I answered.
"Pleased to meet you Martin."
I nodded. "What's, uh . . ." I twirled a finger in the air, "What's going on here?"
"Oh, they've come for days and days. From all over, really. Always living, never Zed. The disease seems averse to this place."

I watched the people walking. Tried to make eye contact, but failed.

"They're dead enough." I said.
"Aye. They may be." he answered.
That made me scowl.
"Death, after all," he said, "Occurs at so many different levels." He began to point at the people, "Lost a husband, lost three children." He pointed at a man whose clothes were at one time, beautiful and expensive, "Lost his reason for breathing." Petros sighed and looked at Martin, "And yet, he still breathes."
"How do you know this?"
Petros shrugged, "I fancy my ability to read people. Ask them yourself, if you like. You'll find I'm never wrong."
I smiled a half-smile. "Alright."
I stepped away from the fire, and drew up next to the woman who had lost her children.

"Excuse me," I muttered. She kept walking, barely giving me a glimpse. "Ma'am." I said, "Did you . . ." How do you ask this question? I walked with her for a minute. I couldn't think of anything to say. I fumbled with some muttering, and a hand gesture or two.
"I'm uh . . . I'm sorry for your losses." I said. I put my hands in my pockets and walked back to the man. The woman disappeared into the brush.

"What are they?" I asked, "What is this place."
"Just somewhere they are drawn." he answered, "Have you ever felt drawn to a place, a thing, or a time period?"
"Yeah." I said, "The Norman Invasion drives me crazy."
Petros chuckled a bit to himself, his head bobbing on his thin shoulders. "Understandable." he said, "Events like those, the ones that really throw a wrench into the cogs of history have a lasting effect. It is said that, as a result of Guillaume's little spat with Harold, that the English language adopted a large amount of French words. The idea of inheritance of thrones was introduced, which ultimately led to several revolutions including our own. In a day England became a foreign land to its natives. The ideas behind modern justice permeated Anglo-Saxon culture, leading to modern law theories. Just to name a few rippling effects."
I raised my eyebrows, "Yeah." I said, "Just a few."

As we spoke new faces emerged, walked the dry earth, and disappeared again. "All lost." I said, mostly to myself, "All looking for somewhere to go."

Petros smiled. 
"And you must go, too."
I nodded, eager to leave. I didn't want to follow anyone out, so I waited until a calm in the traffic. I shook Petros' hand. Even though he had been warming it over the flames, it was as cold as it had been when first we clasped hands.
"Petros." I said, "May we meet again under better circumstances."
"Oh I doubt that." he smiled, and uncovered a nasty wound beneath his sleeve. It had an unmistakable shape.
"Once I get these hands warm, I'll vanish into the brush." he said, "And take a spill into a welcoming chasm."
I felt a lump rise in my throat. "And what did you lose?"
He shook his grizzled head, and a tear fell immediately from his eye, "The greatest man I have ever known. And the greatest friend." He looked up at me, pleading in his eyes, "Understand Martin. When we accept this world, we accept this truth - it's all an illusion."
He looked back into the fire, hands outstretched, and continued his efforts to absorb the heat. He did not look at me again. I walked across the dust, and when I came to the wilderness edge I stepped into it, and rounded a draw.

Something told me strongly, not to go back, to stay on course. I heeded that call. The sky turned pink again as I trudged through the brush. When at last I crested the hill I could see Parowan below.

Sweeping the valley I saw no sign of Zed. I approached cautiously. It took some time to clear the last hill into the city. I had hit Main Street by some miracle of navigation. I walked up it just a couple blocks. Saw a church. It looked barricaded.

Just then, as I was deciding whether or not to approach the church something in my head, my heart, and my gut told me to turn around, and go home. I stood stone still on the spot. I tried to take a step forward. 

I was walking south, and didn't even recall taking the first step. Fast walking. Like urgent. That feeling consumed me, "Get the hell out, Martin." it screamed, "Get out."

I-15 loomed ahead. It wasn't the route I wanted to take. So I stood and stared at it for a long time. The urge to flee had left me, but the command to get back home sat throbbing in the back of my mind. It was time to go. I smiled, and squinted in the sun. 

For all those lost people back there, I wondered why. Why did they meander so? Why was their compass broken? 

And most importantly - why did I have a direction.