To say the man walks along the stretch would be gracious wording. He more aptly lumbers, raising his knees just enough to allow his limp feet to loll from his ankles. And he whispers to himself. Hurried and sharpened, the words hold spite, but not sense. Even in the muted afternoon glow, I can make out his misshapen posture. Limping, his back is coiled over like a taut spring, violently twisting his neck to stare toward the debris ahead.
As I trail behind his withering silhouette, ten-paces parallel, I notice myself continuously critical of him. His mannerisms, his demeanor, they tear me from the barren atmosphere that chokes us. I break focus and glance around, noting that the highway suspending us is less of a road and more of a lesion in the earth, a scar mocking its original purpose. The debris lessens as we round the bend of the felled highway, but the ruined cars grow denser; the corroded husks forced the road to its knees over time. Rocks and roots protrude through crusted chunks of asphalt, as nature proves itself relentless in reclaiming its territory.
We continue forward, my attention contested by both the stranger and the stretch in front of me, coating all other thoughts. It’s now that I realize I’m unsure where we’re going, and as the sun shelters itself further and further behind the horizon, I assume the man in front of me isn’t sure either. Pallid unease chokes the air. I don’t recognize our surroundings, but I somehow know to continue onward. Intrigued by the vague familiarity of the pale road lines, my gaze follows them as they brokenly repeat across fissured lanes, until a segment of piping lodges itself beneath my foot and causes me to trip. As I stumble, I instinctively reach to my side, expecting something to meet me there. But of course, nothing does. We’re alone out here.
Consequently, I slam to my knees. The pain doesn’t register; I’m too focused on the empty space beside me. I glare to my side, waiting for something to reveal itself. The emerging moonlight and droning cicadas seem curious too, reflecting off rusted car frames in the distance, but to no avail. Turning back, the man in front has mimicked my position. Collapsed to his hands and knees, staring to his side, he’s persistently muttering as usual. It wasn’t him I was reaching for, I know that much. Something about the idea of touching him forces me to stand again, which he mirrors, reluctantly heaving himself to his feet. Our shadows elongate as we trudge forward. Granted, we remain ten-paces apart, and something in me knows that’s deliberate.
I can’t help but feel disoriented. Unsure why we are walking but unable to stop. I occasionally check to my right, playing peekaboo with my delusions. Still, nothing appears. The man and I seem to walk at the same pace, but our movements are far from synced. He scrapes the tips of his sneakers against the rubble as he stumbles, cowering as if even his clothes are too heavy on his frame.
Eventually, one of his mutterings finds its way to me: “…shouldn’t have left you. Sil…”
Although it’s hard to understand him, I feel pity for him. Despite his revolting form, his flaccid limbs, and disheartening stance, it’s clear this world has been unkind to him. His hateful posture and vitriolic speech suggest much of it was his own fault, but he doesn’t seem like an immoral person. With this thought, I close a portion of the gap between us, nine-paces parallel.
“I’m so sorry.” I can hear him whimpering now. “I don’t deserve it, but I will plead your forgiveness until the last echo peels from my arid tongue.” He returns to a murmur, his erratic movement knocking a small tin off the roof of an abandoned car, at which we both flinch. The cracking thud reverberates through the road, sound bouncing from each desolate remnant of a vehicle. My hand gravitates to my side once again, but still, there’s no one there. All I can muster is to ask, who, and as I do, the man cracks his neck to the side and responds.
“Silas,” he mewls softly, his mouth unfurling with sorrow.
Step. Eight-paces parallel.
I see clearer once he says that name, and I flick my head sideways again. My vision fractures, turning to see the dust-choked highway shed gone, replaced by a verdant clearing. It’s a peaceful afternoon there, the blades of grass gently wavering in the subtle wind, and a familiar hand grasps mine from the side.
Helping me to my feet, a casual voice asks, “Ready to go?” Silas.
Memories pour back through me—a cup trying to hold a river. I’m paralyzed by their return. Making helpless eye contact with him, a slight grin crawls up his face from my stunned expression. “…Oli?” he asks, humbly. It’s something to do with the way he says my name, I think, but I snap out of it.
“Yeah—yes, sorry. I’m uh, I’m ready,” I respond timidly, sharing a slight chuckle over my stuttering.
He slowly releases my hand, and we begin to walk. Hesitantly, I shift my eyes back to the dismal road and disgusting man ahead, as we begin to walk together now as well, seven-paces parallel. The comparison between these two places makes me shudder. I find comfort in the clearing, but candor in the highway. I want to go back, and thankfully, Silas’ voice soon draws me there.
“We could try up here?” he suggests, motioning to a run-down pharmacy across the street, and I start to remember our goal. We hustle over to it, kicking in the fraying door, the sunlight purifying long-settled shadows within. Silas works quickly, meticulously rummaging through packets and shelves. In the meantime, I examine the counters, running my hand along the dust-caked surfaces. I try to ground myself, but the shadowed road whispers to me.
Another glance forward delivers me to the highway once more. I take my hand off the corroding bus window at my side, the dust caking that also. The man ahead still limps along, and the lanes remain littered with rubble. In a way, this place is peaceful too, but it’s famished, empty. It aches. The man stumbles, and I gain a stride toward him, six-paces parallel.
Returning to the pharmacy, I pry open a loosely locked drawer, the springs wailing out in protest. I wipe a few labels clean. Eventually, a promising name peaks out. I move back over to Silas, who is shoulder deep in the cabinets out back.
“Hey,” I call, handing him the small box. It takes him a moment to examine both sides of the packaging, but then he throws himself at me, clinging to me. He says nothing, nor does he have to. As we step outside, I realize the daylight has begun to leave us. Stuck by the doorway, I watch as Silas hurriedly pulls the zipper of his pack closed, ready to depart.
“Si,” I protest, to which he holds my eyes, confused.
“Aren’t you coming?” he asks.
“We shouldn’t travel while it’s dark, you know that.”
At this point, he’s poised by the curb, itching to leave. “What? We’ve done it before.” He turns his body to face me.
“This is different. Most of them travel at night, and we have precious cargo. Plus, we’ll make better time with some rest,” I rebut.
He taps his foot, uncertain. Eventually, he rolls his eyes and walks back up to me. “Tomorrow morning.” He grits his teeth. A piece of gravel pops under his boot as we secure the door behind us.
Back on the road, I manage another step closer, five-paces parallel.
We set up behind the main counter, our packs tucked out of sight and our sleeping bags with little divide. Finding the medicine eased our usually tense demeanors, and we find ourselves reminiscing throughout the night. We discuss our lives before, our old situations and struggles, and try not to think about our new ones. If we weren’t so comfortable, we wouldn’t have both nodded off.
Awoken in the night by the alarming sound of a lock being picked, we shoot up, twisting the lantern off and listening attentively.
A latch clicks open, and the hinges warn a quiet creak, the raiders as disciplined as we were warned they would be. Footsteps bring them closer. I can’t help but recall when I demanded we stay, trying to keep us from danger. Yet, we were only in this situation because of me. Four-paces parallel.
In sync, and silently, we stay low to the ground and curve the sides of our feet, moving through the aisles as they make their way into the pharmacy. I count three, then four, as we cross the final gap to the back storeroom. He tries the backdoor and it doesn’t budge. We share a look of loosely contained panic. I look down at a small, jagged opening in the door, clearly torn open by some animal as desperate as we are. Silas’ eyes catch mine, then he glances down too.
“No,” he mouths, but the illumination of a flashlight glides terrifyingly close to us. We stay unseen, but it’s a hell of a reminder.
I crouch down and start my way through, but I can’t fit with my pack on. Silas helps me slip it off, and I squeeze myself through the narrow exit. I turn and watch, expecting to see him scurry through immediately afterwards. Holding up some of the flaps of plaster for him, I stare at the spot in wait. After a moment or so of no movement, I peek through to see him furiously rifling through his bag.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, but it sounds like a scream in the echoing night air.
“The medicine,” he plainly whispers back.
“Don’t be an idiot.” The man in front of me barks, and I’m heaved back to the freeway. I study the man for a moment, still silhouetted by the moon. He’s blinking more, stumbling less. It’s like he’s listening to me but holding something back.
Three-paces parallel.
“Don’t be an idiot,” I whisper, returning to the pharmacy’s back door.
“She needs it!” he pleads, as quietly as he can, finally locating the small packet I handed him earlier today. His hand surges through the door, quickly finding mine to safely deposit the medicine into. I grab it, and him, almost yanking him through the exit.
“C’mon,” I grunt, desperate. I knew his shoulders were broader than mine, but as they slam into the thick wooden frame, my heart races.
“Oli,” he speaks up, noticeably worried, the warm sound of his voice pouring through the narrow gap. I continue to grunt and pull. “Oli,” he says again, more tense than before.
“It’s okay,” I grunt back, pulling regardless, aware of what he’s trying to convey. I see his face appear as he lies looking out of the exit. The distant flashlight glares closer and closer. “Get up,” I demand, pressure mounting behind my eyes, unable to regulate my volume.
“Oliver,” he says, strangely calm. Our fingers grow cold together in the night air. “It’s okay.” The pain in his voice seeps through, and he takes some time before speaking again. “I um, I love you, Oli,” he stammers. I open my mouth to respond, but all sound evades me. No matter how much I try to force my voice, I can’t speak. Tears glide to my chin.
“Oli?” he asks, almost pleading, his hand squeezing mine tighter.
“I –” his arm is ripped back through the exit. Slamming erupts from the small room as I stare at the plastic flap, helpless. There’s a yell, then the back door pulses toward me slightly, throbbing as somebody is thrown against it. The commotion continues as another flashlight enters the room. Underlying choking sounds become all that echoes through to me, until there is no sound at all.
I just listen. Two-paces parallel.
Muted gunshots fly through the decaying back window, my location no longer secret. I start running. Sprinting. One tags me in the calf, but I can’t stop. Hundreds of meters later, I’m leaping over the barrier onto the highway. I’m not even sure when I moved from running to walking; it wasn’t conscious, I can say that.
The foul man ahead of me is close enough to hear now, his begging and spluttering clearer than ever. “I’m sorry,” he says, repeatedly, guilt dripping from his frame. And for the first time, I understand him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, joining him, imagining telling Silas’ mother. The medicine packet bends around my grip. I envision saying to her that I said it back, or that I fought by his side. But I can’t. I loved him, that’s what I could tell her. Despite the fear that overcame me, he was everything to me.
One-pace parallel.
Looking up, my vision is mostly comprised of the horrid man’s bent shoulder. I push forward, closing the remaining step, and I latch my palm steadily on his wilting shirt. As I do, the sensation echoes, and I feel a presence behind me, clutching the back of my shirt.
To say I didn’t feel hope as I spun around would be a lie, but as I gaze at the stretch behind me, it’s empty. Only my footsteps linger in the dew. I spin forward—empty also. Not even a trace of the man I’ve been following all this time. The night-dwelling birds snicker at my confusion like an enthused audience.
I try to halt for a moment, but something quickly keeps me walking. I look down at the medicine packet crumbled in my hand, flashes of Silas assaulting my brain once again. The more I think of him, the more I allow fatigue its rightful place over me. Every step grows cumbersome.
I start to lumber, raising my knees just enough to allow my limp feet to loll from my ankles. And I whisper things to myself. Hurried and sharpened, my words hold spite, but not sense. Limping, I try to uphold my posture but cannot. My back coils over, taut like a spring, my neck twisting violently to stare down the debris-covered path ahead.
The more I give in, the more I remember him.
“I shouldn’t have left you, Silas,” I croon, the words instinctual. “I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve it, but I will plead your forgiveness until the last echo peels from my arid tongue.”
I weep softly as my bones start giving out, everything close to me darkening. The medicine packet separates from my hand, hitting the bitumen as do drops of salt water from my eyes. I remember where I’m going, yet I have seconds left.
“I can’t make it, my love,” I say to the dimming sky, “may I dream of you instead?”
Recently graduated with a BFA in Film, Screen and New Media, and with a minor in Creative Writing, Fynn is an up and coming creative talent. He has always loved stories, no matter the context, whether they’re his creation, he assists them in being created, or he’s just appreciating them as a viewer. Based in Brisbane, Australia, his writing demonstrates a focus on grand, rich tales used as intricate metaphors for painfully realistic themes. Something that has readers pondering, sitting forward and dwelling on after it’s finished.
Featured image by Ian Taylor on Unsplash.
