For Their Blood Burns Wild

By Silas Barrow

In the vein of The Grapes of Wrath, For Their Blood Burns Wild is a story of abuse of power and corruption, prejudice, family, community and survival that is eerily prescient of today's political climate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543975758

Book preview

© Silas Barrow 2019

Print ISBN: 978-1-54397-574-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54397-575-8

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used

in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is coincidental.

Eugenics: The study of or belief in the possibility of improving the qualities of the human species or a human population, especially by such means as discouraging reproduction by persons having genetic defects or presumed to have inheritable undesirable traits (negative eugenics) or encouraging reproduction by persons presumed to have inheritable desirable traits (positive eugenics).

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

Chapter 1

A small campfire huddles against the underside of the double-arched stone bridge. A tiny pot of beans, its bottom burnt black from months of open-flame cooking, is perched precariously on the rocks forming the fire pit. The viscous brown mass splutters to a boil and the fire’s smoke crawls over the stone belly of the bridge, leaving the faintest trail of soot in its wake.

Noticing the boiling beans, a woman turns her attention from the baby she is caring for to stir the percolating pot. The woman’s black hair cascades past her shoulders, glistening in the glow of the flickering flames, a stark contrast to her porcelain skin. Longer than what is considered fashionable, the woman could not bring herself to cut her hair no more than she would cut off her own nose to spite her face. ‘Fashion be damned,’ was her thought.

From inside the beat-up baby carriage next to the fire come the squawks of an infant.

After stirring the beans with a bent and pitted spoon, the woman turns back to the emaciated girl wrapped in a threadbare pink blanket, picks her up and places an almost empty bottle back in the tiny baby’s mouth. A momentary pang of resentment towards the infant flares in the woman’s mind -- How I wish there was someone to coddle me, she thinks. But as quickly as it arrives, the thought is gone like smoke in the wind.

Ok, ok, I didn’t forget about you, the woman coos. But you’re not the only one that needs to eat around here.

Scattered along the ground where the earth and bridge meet, debris, refuse and dead leaves congregate like squatters until the next strong wind uproots them again. Occasionally, the leaves and garbage rustle as small nocturnal creatures flee the prying fingers of the campfire light.

The dusk sky is stained the color of murky coffee, and off in the distance thunder growls as obese raindrops begin to fall intermittently from pregnant clouds. On the bridge above, cars pass by sporadically, the chug of their engines lost in the rolling thunder. A wadded-up piece of newspaper, thrown from a car or kicked up in its wake glides gently down to the ground on a plume of exhaust.

Seeing the crumpled treasure, the woman rushes over to pick it up before it can get swept into the river by a sudden gust of wind. She tries her best to protect the infant from a wayward raindrop by holding her hand over the infant’s head. She had always loved the rain, loved its smell and how it seemed to wash the world, but that was in another life, another time. Now, forty days and forty nights couldn’t possibly begin to cleanse the filth of this new world.

With paper in hand she hurries back under the tunnel, places the baby back in the carriage, ignoring her squawking protestations, and smoothes out the page. She scans the headlines -- more out of habit than any desire to keep up with the day’s events; Just one more piece of normalcy she tries to hold onto as she and her family are swept away by this new world.

Above the fold, emblazoned in bold black type, is the headline Genetic Reclamation Act Turns Two. The woman begins to read through the story, rife with both hope and fear.

New York – It’s been 28 years since Theodore Roosevelt, former police commissioner for New York City, gave a rousing speech in Osawatomie, KS, that helped plant the seeds for the eugenics movement. While it may have taken almost 30 years, those seeds have finally started to bear fruit.

Roosevelt, bellowing from the bully pulpit, told the Osawatomie crowd it was their duty as Americans to prevent degenerates from forcing swarms of ill-bred citizens upon the masses.

Society has no business to permit degenerates to reproduce their kind, Roosevelt said. Someday we will realize that the prime duty, the inescapable duty, of the good citizen is to leave his or her blood behind him in the world, and that we have no business to permit the perpetuation of the citizens of the wrong type.

Following up on Roosevelt’s call to action, President Woodrow Wilson, with the help of the Republican controlled Congress, passed the Genetic Reclamation Act of 1936. In what has been dubbed The Purge by opponents, the act requires mandatory sterilizations for those deemed to possess traits that could taint the populous…

The fury the woman feels at reading even the first few paragraphs of the story catches her off guard. Her hands, gnarled from early onset arthritis, grip the paper so tightly her knuckles are white from lack of blood. She crumples the paper into knots and wrenches it in her grasp as if she is trying to choke the life from it. With hands blackened by ink, the woman feeds the twisted paper into the fire causing the small flames to flare. The beans respond to the sudden increase in heat and begin to boil more rapidly. Another car rumbles over the bridge.

To help take her mind off the news story, each time a car passes over the bridge the woman tries to determine what make and model it could be – a Plymouth Model PA Coupe like all the magazines are showing, or perhaps a Buick Eight, like all the gangsters are driving in Chicago. It’s a game she’s started playing with herself to help take her mind off everything, even if it is only for the briefest of moments. On good days she likes to think about the people driving in those cars and where they might be heading; perhaps to a picture show, or off on a road trip to some exotic locale. In the absence of a radio, she’s taken to creating her own serials in her mind; living vicariously through people she doesn’t even know. But the good days are getting few and far between and now when she thinks about those people in their cars all she feels is resentment. A resentment that digs into her so deep it has wound itself around her bones and threatens to consume her.

In another time, her husband used to drive a DeSoto but that was before things turned bad and life got hard. Well, harder, anyway, it has never been easy. Now, those cars passing by on the bridge and that DeSoto are as far away from her as the moon. The cars and people up on that bridge belong to a different world. A world she can no longer inhabit, and probably never will again. She is a stranger in a strange land even though she has lived here her entire life.

Near the edge of the dark water, a young boy leans out over the rusted railing that lines the cobblestone walkway. The boy, whose jet-black hair is almost as dark as the river, bends down and plucks a stone from the ground and throws it out into the abyss; with a small splash the darkness begins to swirl. Pride makes the woman try to convince herself that her son’s hair is slicked back by anything but filth, but there is no place for pride in this new world.

Hey Ma, do you think there are any fish still in the river? the boy shouts up to her.

I don’t know, Jack, the woman replies. Why don’t you come back up here? Supper’s almost ready, and your dad will be back soon.

I bet there are. I bet if I had a pole I could catch a fish for dinner, Jack says, either ignoring his mother’s request or oblivious to it in the way that young boys can be.

Jack, I’m pretty sure that if there were any fish in that river, they wouldn’t be safe to eat…No matter how hungry you are, she replies, although she knows that’s a lie; she knows hunger, hunger that twists your belly with an empty, aching hurt. Now do as you’re told, c’mon up here by the fire. Supper is almost ready, and I could use a hand.

Looking at the meager pot of beans and the half empty bottle in her daughter’s mouth she can’t help but pray that her husband will come back with something, anything, from the breadlines.

Jim will get food, he always comes back with something, she thinks. At this point anything will do. Even if she must chew it up and spit it into the baby’s mouth like a mother bird feeding her chick, she’ll do it.

The boy picks up another stone from the edge of the walkway and throws it into the river, a last small act of defiance, before begrudgingly trudging up to his mother and sister.

Could you stir those beans for me, honey? Your sister is awful fussy today and I just got her to be quiet.

Beans? Again? Jack asks, not bothering to hide his disgust. Beans for breakfast; beans for lunch; beans for supper. Aren’t we ever going to have anything but beans?

You should be happy that we have anything to eat at all, his mother replies a little too harshly. There are families that are starving, and kids going to bed hungry that would love to have even a spoonful of what you’re eating tonight. I bet they wouldn’t be complaining about having beans for supper.

Seeing the hurt flash across her son’s face she immediately regrets her tone. Just in the last month she has seen a change in her little boy, a hardened edge that is usually reserved for much older men – men that have been broken, bruised and battered by life -- and here it is scratched all over her nine-year-old son’s face. Those beautiful blue eyes, his father’s eyes, have seen so much in the last couple of months – his father losing his job, his parents forced from their home and being cast out like lepers. Those eyes belie the fact that he is just a child. She knew it was foolish to think that she’d be able to protect his innocence, but she can’t believe how quickly it fled. She just hopes it isn’t gone forever.

I’m sorry honey, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I guess I’m just fed up with having beans too, she says with a smile.

Yup I bet there are still plenty of fish in that river, the boy says looking down at the water slowly snaking by, clearly uncomfortable with any outward displays of emotion.

Well, maybe tomorrow, your dad can figure out a way to make a couple of fishing poles and you can see if you can catch some of those fish you’re so convinced are down in that water.

Yeah? You think so? the boy says, lighting up. If I catch one can we eat it?

Eat what? a slim man asks as he ambles around the curve in the path, in his hands a small package of bread, another can of beans and a bottle of milk, the sweat still on it.

Well Jim, Jack thinks there are fish in that river, and he wants to try catching one for supper tomorrow, she answers. And I volunteered you to teach him how to fish.

Uh…Rita, I don’t think there are any fish in that river, and if there are I don’t think we’d want to eat ’em, Jim responds with a dry chuckle. I don’t know about you, but I’m not that hungry yet.

Well, nevertheless, tomorrow you are going to teach your son to fish, Rita responds, shaking her head at how oblivious her husband can be sometimes. It’s like that saying, ‘Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, teach a man to fish and he’ll eat for a lifetime.

Jack anxiously watches the conversation volley back and forth. Seeing the hope in his son’s eyes, Jim relents.

Alright, sure, I’ll teach him to fish, Jim says, tussling his boy’s hair. But the two of you are on your own when it comes time to eat it. I’ll stick with the beans.

With the prospect of a break in the monotony that is every other day, Jack starts getting giddy, peppering his father with questions. Rita watches as her son slowly transforms back into the boy he is. If nothing else, at least for tonight and tomorrow he can be a boy again, even if it is fleeting.

How are we going to make the poles, Dad? Jack asks. What are we going to use for bait? Maybe we should dig up some worms.

Alright, alright, let’s eat supper first and then we can plan our attack, Jim says trying to calm the boy down.

Is that milk, Pop? Real milk? Jack asks noticing the bottle in his father’s arms, hope thick in his voice. Where’d you get real milk, Pop?

It is, and I got it down at the line today, Jim responds.

Could I have some of that with my supper?

Absolutely, you can have a little bit, but we got to save most of it for your sister, Jim says. We got to make sure she gets enough milk, so she doesn’t get sick.

Watching the banter between her husband and her son, Rita can’t help but think back to how their life used to be, back before The Purge, back before their house was taken from them and her husband was forced to leave his job. Back then, life was filled with simple pleasures. Now, however, her family’s days were spent trying to carve out some type of an existence. Poor Jack still remembers those days, and while she can already see the effect this life is having on him, she silently prays that it won’t change him too much. Hopefully this will all be over soon, she thinks, and maybe somehow her family can salvage some semblance of sanity from these insane times.

‘Just let me have my little boy a little longer Lord. Just a little longer,’ she recites to herself.

The baby, Esther, is young enough that she won’t remember the security of something as simple as a roof over her head. Maybe, if she’s lucky, things will change back to the way they used to be, and Esther will be able to grow up unencumbered by memories.

God, how did it get so bad, Rita thinks.

It wasn’t so long ago when her family had their own home. By no means was it much, not on what her husband made as a reporter, but it was their own and no one was going to take it from them, or so she thought. Her husband always said being a reporter was the most honorable job he’d ever had. It was a chance to speak truth to power, and he honestly believed that he was making a difference in the world. When they first met, Jim was terribly shy, and could barely look people in the eye when he was speaking to them. Oftentimes, people took it as a sign of being aloof or oblivious, or worse stupidity mixed with conceit, but what they failed to realize was that by underestimating him they were playing right into his hands. One thing is certain -- people only underestimated her husband once if they were smart. Over the years, however, as he honed his craft, Jim developed a confidence that is reserved for men that have found their true calling. Some of the politicians he covered dubbed him The Bulldog because once he sunk his teeth into a story nothing was going to make him let go.

Hon? Jim asks.

Huh? What? I’m sorry, my mind was wandering, Rita stammers.

I was asking if you wanted me to open this other can of beans.

We probably should, I don’t think there is enough for the three of us with what we have.

Well, I’m not really that hungry…

Jim, you have to eat, Rita almost pleads.

Jim leans in close to his wife, and kisses her cheek, his breath tickling her ear.

Don’t do this, Jim whispers. Not in front of Jack. I’ll eat tomorrow.

Jim…

Tomorrow, I promise.

Jim takes his daughter from his wife, quietly shocked at how little she weighs and how frail her tiny frame feels. Whenever he holds his daughter he is always careful to be delicate, like she is this fragile thing that would crumble like a dead leaf under the slightest pressure. He looks down into his daughter’s eyes, which dart back and forth in her sockets, seemingly unable to focus on anything. With one hand, he snaps his fingers towards the side of her head. Esther turns her head towards the sound, but her eyes keep constantly searching.

Their doctor said it was incredibly rare for a baby to be born blind. He tried his best to be optimistic for Jim and Rita. It was possible, the doctor said, that Esther’s eyesight may not be as bad as it seems, but they would have to wait until she was older to do more tests.

Prepare for the worst, and pray for the best, the doctor said. And right then Jim knew his daughter’s eyesight was never going to get better. When doctors start talking about praying there is no need to prepare for the worst; it’s already arrived.

Jack, get your plate and a spoon, Rita sighs in frustration, casting a glare at her husband that he pretends not to notice. Get a cup to so you can have a little milk.

Jim rocks back-and-forth on his feet speaking softly to Esther and gently takes the bottle out of her mouth. Her hands reach out searching for the bottle but can’t seem to find it even though it is right in front of her face. He puts the bottle back in her mouth when she starts to whine.

Looks like it’s going to be bad, Jim says, looking out to the horizon which occasionally flares with lightning.

Pray for the best, he scoffs to himself.

Chapter 2

Jim and Rita sit on opposite sides of the dying fire, Jack stretched out between them – his head cradled on his mother’s lap. Rita gently runs her fingers through the sleeping boy’s thick mane of filthy hair. Every so often, Jack’s leg twitches and his feet gently kick at Jim’s thigh. The carriage gently creaks under his daughter’s slight weight as Jim slowly rocks it with his hand. Outside, the heavens have opened-up and thick sheets of rain fall from the sky.

You didn’t get that milk down at the line today, did you? Rita asks in a whisper so as not to wake either of her children. She knows it’s a rhetorical question and she knows the answer even before the response leaves her husband’s mouth.

No.

Well, do you want to tell me where you got it from? she asks, sitting up slightly straighter and adjusting the worn blanket she has draped around her.

Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to, Rita.

You stole it? Rita says, turning to look at her husband for the first time since they started talking. Jim, we talked about this. We agreed that no matter how bad it got we wouldn’t resort to stealing.

Yeah, well that was before I knew it was going to get this bad.

What would have happened to us if you had been caught, Jim? Did you think about that? Did you think about the fact that if you had been caught I would have been left alone under this Godforsaken bridge by myself with two kids? Did you think about us, your family?

Goddamit Rita, that’s all I was thinking about, Jim hisses.

Between them, Jack’s sleep becomes restless.

We have a baby that would have been out of milk by tonight, Jim says, lowering his voice. She’s not getting enough to eat as it is. You know, every day since that fucking Purge I wake up and I see my family slowly starving to death and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I keep telling myself that it’s going to get better soon. It can’t keep going like this, right? And then the other day I was down on the breadline and there was this woman standing there by herself, holding a little baby, a boy, just about the same age as Esther. She had him all wrapped up in this filthy baby-blue blanket and she kept whispering to it. When she got up to the front of the line and got her rations I could see her taking a little bit of soup on the tip of her finger and running it over that little boy’s lips, trying to get him to suck on it, but he was dead. Dead a few days by the look of him, his belly so swollen it looked like it was going to burst right there on the sidewalk. Right then I knew it’s never going to get better, and I don’t know what to do… Was I thinking about my family? Yeah, yeah I was.

I’m sorry, Rita says, giving Jim’s hand a loving squeeze. I’m just scared.

Me too.

From one end of the bridge comes drunken cackling and the sound of shattering glass. Three silhouettes, illuminated by one of the few working lights lining the path, stumble under the bridge.

Jesus Billie, you just dropped it, one silhouette shouts at another with feigned outrage.

Ah, it was empty anyway, Billie retorts.

Give me that last bottle of whiskey. I didn’t want to break into it this soon, but since butterfingers here let it slip through his hands…

All three of them once again break out into drunken guffaws.

Just ignore them, Jim says to Rita. Pretend you’re asleep; Don’t say a word.

Rita pulls the blanket up around her head; careful to make sure that she will still be able to keep an eye on the drunken men as they approach.

Never, ever turn your back on the drink… Rita thinks to herself as she tries to make herself as small as she can.

The three forms shamble their way down the cobblestone path, passing a bottle between them. As they get closer, the fact that there is a family huddled up against the side of the bridge penetrates their whiskey haze.

The three men, boys actually; Jim thinks, couldn’t be more than 20, stop and stare at the family, their eyes dark and glassy.

Hey, would you look at that, looks like the zoo lost some of its monkeys from the monkey house, one of the boys, a blonde, says nudging one of his friends.

See if he wants a drink Tommy, a dark-haired boy with pockmarks on his face dares the blonde.

Good idea, I always wanted to see a drunken monkey, Tommy replies, sending Billie into another fit of laughter.

Tommy holds the bottle out to Jim.

Jim had been hoping the group would just pass his family by without so much as a glance. That’s how most people nowadays treated people like him and his family – a necessary ugliness that most wish would just fade into the backdrop of their lives. People can convince themselves that anything is right and just, no matter how vile and shameful it may be if they are never forced to witness the consequences of their actions. People like Jim and his family are a constant reminder to the seemingly righteous of what they are capable of; A mirror that forces them to look hard at themselves and what they have wrought on their friends, neighbors and fellow man.

What’s the matter? I’m offering you a drink. Tommy slurs so that it comes out like ‘Wassamattah…’ Our whisky ain’t good enough for ya? I bet if I was offering you money you’d have no problem taking that from me, would ya?

Look fellas, I just got my kids to sleep, and I’m not looking for any trouble, Jim stammers. I appreciate the offer, but…

You may not have been looking for trouble, but it sure found you pal, Tommy says loudly. I don’t give a shit about you and your kids. Got that? See, I don’t like being disrespected, especially by a piece of shit like you, and you being too good for me and my whiskey is disrespectful. Ain’t it Billie?

Sure is, Billie says, a sneer plastered onto his face.

What about you, Mouse? Tommy asks the gargantuan mass of flesh looming over the two boys. Ain’t it disrespectful to refuse a drink when it’s offered to you?

The giant gives an almost imperceptible nod of agreement.

As Jim watches the three boys, he tries to conjure up a way to diffuse the situation as quickly and as quietly as possible.

So ya see pal, Tommy continues, I think it’d be in your best interest to have a drink with me; then we’ll be on our way.

Just take the bottle, Jim thinks, do whatever the hell they want, just get them out of here before this spirals out of control.

Tommy, I was just kidding, don’t let him drink from that bottle, Billie whines. They ain’t like us, Tommy. They ain’t pure like us. That’s why they can’t have jobs, ‘cause of what they doing to us. That’s why they’re down here living like animals…If they ain’t fit to live with the rest of us, I sure as hell don’t want them drinking from my bottle

Shut up Billie; Take the goddamn bottle, Tommy says, thrusting it at Jim causing some of the amber alcohol to slosh out over the lip. Take it and take a drink.

Jim stops rocking the carriage, and immediately from inside comes a drowsy whimper from his daughter.

Jim? Rita says, sitting up and pulling the blanket back from over her head.

Hey, look at that Tommy, a female monkey, Billie guffaws, his sneer becoming even more pronounced. Not a half-bad looking one at that.

Hey! Jim says, more forceful than he would have liked, his anger starting to get the best of him. I’ll take a drink and then you’ll leave us alone, right?

That’s the deal, Tommy says with a shark-tooth smile.

Jim takes the bottle. It is slick with sweat, both from the rain and Tommy’s hand, and almost slips from his grasp. He’s surprised at how heavy the bottle feels.

Tomorrow, I’ve got to eat something tomorrow, Jim thinks, trying to remember the last time he had a proper meal, or what passes for a proper meal nowadays.

Alright, hurry up, Tommy says, leaning in so close Jim can smell the whiskey thick on his sour breath.

Jim slowly lifts the bottle up to his lips, the stinging scent of alcohol creeping up his nose and clearing out his sinuses. The burn of the whiskey is unmistakable as it starts to drown his tongue.

They may be assholes, but they have damn good whiskey, Jim thinks to himself.

He holds the liquor in his mouth for a moment, savoring its warmth, and lets it slowly start to trickle down his throat. With one last final swig from the bottle, Jim swallows another mouthful of amber alcohol and an unhealthy amount of pride. He can feel the fire started by the whiskey quickly spreading down his chest before exploding in his stomach. When he pulls the bottle away from his mouth he can’t help but let out a contented sigh.

Good, ain’t it? Tommy asks, before taking the bottle from Jim’s hand. Jim can only nod.

Tommy starts to hand the bottle back to Billie but stops before the transaction is completed. Tommy holds the bottle up to the diminishing campfire light like a jeweler inspect a gem stone, and notices a slight smudge, almost unnoticeable, around the rim of the bottle.

Goddamnit, Tommy shouts. Would you look at that? This filthy bastard put his mouth all over our bottle.

The shout rouses Jack from his slumber and he sits up groggily.

Dad? Jack asks, still half asleep.

You’re right, Billie chimes in, staring closer at the bottle. He slobbered all over it. Son of a bitch. You see that Mouse?

I see it, filthy fucking animal, Mouse mumbles in a deep baritone.

Jim? Rita asks, fear heavy in her voice.

Shut up bitch, Tommy shouts, prompting Jack to start whimpering. I ain’t talking to you just yet. We’ll get to you, and that bastard son of yours, in a minute.

I think you boys had a little too much to drink and better be moving along before you do something you’ll regret, Jim says, in a futile effort to ease the tension. We had a deal; I drank your whiskey, now you’re going to leave us alone.

That was the deal before you ruined our whiskey, Tommy responds. Now this whole bottle is no good and I expect to be compensated for my loss.

Look we don’t have any money; if we did we wouldn’t be sleeping under a bridge, Jim says.

Rita reaches over and pulls Jack, who is openly sobbing into her lap. From inside the carriage, Esther begins to wail. Jim looks over at his terrified wife and son and tries to corral the anger that is starting to run wild inside of him.

I don’t know what to tell you… Jim begins, but before he can finish Tommy slams the bottle into the side of his face, shattering the glass and dousing Jim in the pungent alcohol.

Briefly Jim’s world is filled with a screaming white-noise pain before the darkness comes rushing in.

Chapter 3

The caterwauling cries of children and drunken cackling mix with the mournful wails of a woman to fill the stairwell -- a violent symphony composed in Hell and conducted by the devil. The crescendo of violence ricochets off the bedrock walls and delves deeper into the tunnel before being drowned out by the bawl of the storm above.

Lazarus stands at the base of the bedrock stairs, one massive hand gripping the railing tight, a dented lantern with a tiny flickering flame in his other. His breath hangs in a thick mist in the chill air of the tunnel. Draped over his shoulders is a myriad of empty containers strung together like a junkman’s string of pearls. Rainwater seeps under the heavy iron door that leads back above ground. The water fills the crevices in the chiseled bedrock of each stair before cresting and spilling down the stairway, picking up small pieces of trash and carrying the discarded scraps of society along like ships trapped in a raging tempest.

Through the small, caged window in the door, Lazarus can see the foreboding sky, the murky cumulus clouds swirling together to form a writhing mass. A sudden flare of lightning almost blinds him, the light illuminating the road map of scars etched into his face, and he silently starts to count like his grandfather taught him.

One-one-thous… Lazarus counts before another whip crack of thunder interrupts him, the scent of spent ozone wafting down the stairwell.

Jesus, it’s on top of us, he thinks.

Several months ago, Lazarus found a spigot behind some overgrown shrubs lining the cobblestone walkway on the other side of the door on what’s he’s come to think of as his nocturnal jaunts. It was a farther walk than was necessary to get water, but the tiny excursion served as a soothing respite.

The first time he came down here to get water he wound up sitting by the edge of the river for what was supposed to be a short rest before heading back to the others. He spent the rest of the night there, just watching the dark water slowly flowing by, envious of its ability to leave this city and all it witnessed behind. When the sun started to peek over the horizon, its light glinted off the windows of the buildings lining the river, he picked up his jugs of water and returned below ground. Since then he’s been drawn to the river, drawn to its banks and the tranquility it offers – a Kurtzian urge he can’t ignore.

Not too long ago, Lazarus brought his friend Fredrick down here to try and show him what he found. Not the river, but the peace he found on its banks.

It was always Fredrick, never ‘Fred’ -- Fredrick hated the name ‘Fred.’ It was borne from commoners, he said, and he simply wouldn’t tolerate the common nomenclature. Sometimes when the old man was feeling particularly surly, Lazarus would call him Fred to get a rise out of him. It never failed to prompt a swearing rant that made everyone but the old man burst into fits of laughter. At first the rants were genuine anger, but Fredrick eventually caught on that it was all a ruse to get a rise out of him, even then he dutifully played his part in their poor man’s vaudeville routine.

Lazarus wasn’t sure where Fredrick came from, but judging by the way he carried himself, he probably belonged to high society; a world filled with dainty tea cups and fancy dinners with lines of polished forks. As curious as he was about Fredrick, Lazarus made a point of not asking the people he lived with about themselves -- partly because he expected the same courtesy in return, and partly because he hated seeing the pain those memories wrought.

Lazarus liked Fredrick despite his pretensions and uppity demeanor. He was clearly educated and proved to be surprisingly resourceful for his age. Oftentimes, he and the old man would discuss books or politics over a game of chess, and sometimes Lazarus would seek him out for counsel in matters relating to what those who lived there called "The