As I’m certain I’ve felt the endless sorrows of a life lived poorly, I’m certain too that Gemma was right in saying that I was a pitiable man—pitiful might be the better word in that regard but I catch the drift of her meaning. How long can a man live a life and wallow in sadness? What life is that? What life is that to the one that I love? There is nothing for me that way—if I’d had the sense then I would have thrown myself from a tall building a long time ago. If I intended to live worthlessly, why didn’t I instead die worthlessly?

The hum of the oil-driven wagon consumed the day, and it was hot and even in the heat, it began to rain and though it had not been so long ago that I’d wished for rain, it only made me more pitiable. It came in a medium wave that lasted the better part of an hour and I kept the wizard hat which Ish had given me pulled tightly over my head and the rain spilled off the brim and I wished that the wagon had some overhang, but the seat was open and I sat in the rain and listened to the engine beneath the steady droplets and I felt awful. Water from the sky—riches given straight from God and there I was squandering it, abstracting the rain as a metaphor, and feeling like it shouldn’t have rained at all.

Shouldn’t it have been better if I was one of the heroes from the books? If I was a swashbuckling protagonist? If I had the heart of a true hero? I spent most of my life wishing that I was anyone that I wasn’t, and it left me so that I wasn’t fit to be anybody; if I was a character of fiction, I could be saved by the fact of having an audience. No, my life is not entertaining enough, my body doesn’t carry the heart of a hero, and I’d hate to read a book about me. Too pitiable, too pitiful.

The first night that I’d pushed on from Alexandria, I pulled the wagon to the side of the road (I-40), made camp, cooked rice, ate light, watched into the darkness, searched for the dead tree Gemma had taken me to in my bad stupor; it couldn’t be seen. The wagon, affixed with a chamber on the back only large enough for me to lie down in, had a large metal shutter, and I slumped into the coffin-like compartment—shelves lined the wall above my head, and I placed a lantern there. Through a sliding peephole over mesh, I could look out onto the anterior of the wagon where I’d sit to drive and it was all black out there, quiet. I kept the peephole shut, tried to read by the light, and could not. I smoked, thought of Suzanne.

When I awoke, I found myself pushed deep into the wizard hat so that the brim was pulled well under my nose, and I was blind on waking; the object smelled like them—the urge to head back was its strongest then.

The trunk which the wizards supplied me with was stocked well with rations and water and although I wasn’t particular about coffee, something in the fog made me want to sharpen my senses. Two cups of joe had me wired enough to believe the next few inches of fog would reveal a monster, but none would come; I sat uneasy at the wheel, back arched over it like I’d propel myself from the seat at the smallest provocation.

Midday offered a reprieve from the fog, and I sped the wagon and made better time.

Knowing I should confront Maron didn’t mean that I knew what exactly I should confront him about; all I really wanted to do was shake him. Was there a way to reason with him? It was doubtful—I’d tried that early on. A long-long time ago. There weren’t any discussions to be had, there wasn’t a dinner me and him could have together where I’d ask for my brother back; Billy was gone. No, I had known for years that the creature in that body was meant to die. I had to do it. I’d wished—prayed really—that he’d slip and fall from that high perch on the wall and then I wouldn’t have to think about it. I’d remained in Golgotha, left, and stayed again, and it was always because I wanted Billy back.

That was not to mention the number of people I’d led to the sacrificial altars of many a demon. How easily they spoke to me and tempted me. I’d always consoled myself into believing that I did it for some greater good, but it was simple; I was on the wrong side of things. It was seeing what becomes of true heroes when they stand up to the evils of the world that made me the way that I was. Heroes often sacrifice themselves or die for being known for their good deeds. Heroes fall, but perhaps that was the reason for them in the first place. Perhaps the sacrifice of a hero is necessary? I could kill to be a hero, but I don’t think I was ever ready to die for being one. Plain self-preservation. I guess my suicidal desires were a way to draw the coward out.

Out west on plains, nomadics once followed herds of animals, or so books say. Before the deluge. People are an abhorrent bunch; a person can be the very best. I wonder if the nomadics I lived with when I was a boy are what spurs on this idea of heroics? Is it a more honest way of life? What population necessitates violence? This is a hopeful thought; far too optometristic. I do not believe there was ever a time where people were not cruel. There is no hopeful yesterday. Gemma said I was living in the past, fixed on it. I was. I had never been so lost—there’s an ache that I could sleep away forever. I did not wish to die, not in the heat of combat, but to gently pass in sleep might’ve be nice. That is not enough; I wish to know it in passing. I want to close my eyes in the death throes of a slow disease and watch the world pass on in front of me. I want it to be a sleep over the horizon, and on my journey there I want it to be like I was half-asleep all along. I want to drift into nothing. A death of tiredness, of lethargic milieu, a frozen death which takes so long that I forget I am and when I do finally go, I want it to come in such sluggishness that it surprises me that I’ve come to pass.

I was tired.

The coffee from the morning did not last long and the road was long, and I yawned often, unable to focus appropriately. On the horizon I witnessed a fiend and killed the engine and hunkered by the side of the wheels and lifted my binoculars to my face and watched it pass the road and move southbound through open dead fields of yellow-sick grass and I stayed there by the wheels for a time, partially to let the thing go without interference and partially to allow myself a break.

The anatomy of melancholy seemed infinite.

I broke for a light lunch of hardtack and ate them as crackers with some sauce the wizards packed away in the trunk.

Billy died the same night as my family; whatever thing which moved as him wasn’t and did not deserve the speculation. The deals I’ve made will never leave me; most of all Mephisto’s.

Though the wagon moved slowly, I did not sweat so harshly or fear bodily fatigue.

There were times in those darkest nights that I wished for the hordes to fall on me; luck or whatever mark kept them away.

I travelled and I broke often and slept early; there was no great hurry. My days were like this on the trail eastward.

Even with my slow approach, the concrete skyscrapers came into view on the horizon almost like a surprise and I decided to camp in the Plainfield rest area.

The solitude made me wish for even the mutt’s companionship and though I did not speak to myself exactly, quick and obvious utterances came from me whenever I found myself doing any particularly menial task if only to pierce the silence.

There should’ve been an easier way for all of it. It shouldn’t have been me, a scared child, that spoke with the demon Mephisto—of course, he’d shown himself when it was most important, I’m sure.

That night, in the Plainfield rest area, I slept poorly and propped myself against a wall and stared into the darkness and thought about switching on a lantern but left it black. I closed my eyes in the dark and even on opening them, I couldn’t be sure of the shadows; I felt totally mad and sweaty and awfully anxious.

I wept for Aggie, and I wept for Philippe, and I wept for Sam and all the others I’d led to their deaths; there were so many, and each had a time and I’d taken their name, their personhood, traded them for food, for water, for a Boss, or for myself. The temptation of power was a terrible thing. Though I could say I didn’t see them as humans, that I’d been traumatized as I was, that I simply saw them as far away creatures, like any demon on the horizon, that couldn’t be true. I’d spoken to them and as humans do, they’d easily offered their dreams, beliefs, the things that made them so. I could’ve traded Andrew. I could’ve perhaps given Gemma away. Would demons trade for a dog? I’d never tried. My mind ran over from the misery I’d brought upon the world.

I set out so early that it was still deep blue out and figured come what may.

Rounding the city once known as Indianapolis, the dead city of high tombstones, I looked for the northern passage through that the wizards took, and I watched the stars that were out on the sky and paid no heed to the shadows; the sun would meet me soon and I had no desire to fight sleeplessness.

The wagon carried on; its chassis protested metal-like with the more difficult terrain of strewn rubbish as me and the inanimate object met the relative ease of Lafayette, and the high buildings grew around us and the sun began to push through the slits between as it crested the horizon. I watched the sky for dragons and watched the doorless doorways which lined either side of the street as though someone might come out to greet me.

There was a moment, as I pushed through to where the buildings began to give way and I could begin to see the open field around Golgotha that I spied a pair of glowing eyes looking down at me from way high in a brutalist structure to the left and I lifted the shotgun from where it sat beside me in the seat and put it across my lap; I was unbothered by whatever had seen me, and quickly enough, I came to the field, killed the engine and pulled the dramedy mask over my face then replaced the wizard hat there. The headgear was fine, but the robes they’d given me were something I could not care about; they snagged or caught with every step, it seemed.

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I turned the engine over, it came to life, and I lifted a metallic foil flag over my head as I pushed across the open field towards Golgotha. Whatever snipers saw me, did not fire and as I drew closer, I could see the people there on the wall, pressed against the parapets, lackadaisical. The surface of the wall was cracked in places, mishappen as though the foundation had erupted, and I remembered Dave’s mission and smiled beneath the mask; he’d made it to the underground and put some damage to the Bosses and that was good. In the places where the cracks of the wall grew wide, workers undoubtedly had sought to repair it with whatever was on hand: caked concrete, poor metal sheeting. Even still, the layers of titanium beneath the rock-like surface showed warping.

Once I’d rounded the wall and met the entrance, it was almost noon by the sun, and there at the big door, I looked on at the horror that awaited me. Dead horses were overturned on their sides just outside the gate; they’d been killed with bullet wounds and the pickings from their skin showed they’d been dead for many days. The smell was poor and fat birds pushed into the bloated infected bellies of the horses, came away with string bits of intestines or organs, snapped their beaks and choked back their meal.

The mechanical door shifted open.

Wall men greeted me there, ushered me in, and I pulled into the town and parked alongside where they kept a few live mares; the horses stirred lightly at the noises of the wagon.

Only moments within the walls, I could feel the oppressiveness of the place, the stink of unwashed people; and there seemed to be many more people than usual. The streets seemed so cram-packed with poorly dressed folks that they even spilled into the front square, and I scanned the crowd, the buildings, the erected stage where the Bosses enjoyed in lording over, but I did not see Maron, and my jaw loosened, and my shoulder eased.

Upon closer inspection of those I passed or those that passed me, I saw the marks of skitterbugs, blotchy red skin, deep wounds where those infected clawed too far in to relieve themselves of the itch.

A wall man pulled me aside as the big door closed, and he looked sickly, but perhaps it was from fear alone because he did not have the tell-tale signs of the infection. “Trade?” he asked.

I nodded, afraid to speak in case of the recognition in voice, and then I thought better and spoke anyway in hopes that the mask would muffle me, “Are you all full up?” I nodded the brim of my hat to the general overpopulation.

“Refugees,” shrugged the wall man, “Pittsburgh’s gone under, and we took what was left. The ocean swallowed it whole. So said the ones that came in from the east. Said it was broke off into the water. They came in infected. You saw the horses out front?” He nodded to the big door.

“Yeah.”

“Sick. Full of skitterbugs. Even if they weren’t, it wasn’t like we had the feed for them.” He paused, frowned while glancing over my attire. “You wouldn’t happen to be here with a cure?”

I shook my head, “Only light trade.” Then I thought to add, for the sake of authenticity, “I’ll put word home that it’s gotten so poorly on my way back.”

Seemingly comforted by this, the wall man turned away and I examined his compatriots which walked overhead upon the parapets and wondered if the skitterbug infestation had spread to them. Or the Bosses. Perhaps if Maron was riddled with the bugs and dead already, I could turn back. A moment of sick relief rose in my belly, but I then pushed off from the wagon, locking the shotgun in the back hatch of the wagon, hoping to operate some light reconnaissance in the streets.

Some had lost their eyes already; itchy eyes were a common symptom among the infected—the itch would be so bad that people dug in till they bled and then more. The injuries were gruesome. Skitterbugs were multilimbed creatures, the size of miniscule roaches, that burrowed under the musculature of a living host, in the extremities of the body. As the digits atrophied, as the limbs of the host curled into hardened black masses, the skitterbugs burrowed deeper; the hosts did not last longer than a few weeks at best.

Already, many of those I passed in the narrow alleys of Golgotha looked stunned in the grip of the disease—many sat against walls in overturned postures and examined their deadened fingers, whispering to themselves, willing their hands to do anything. Others, those more unfortunate perhaps, stared from their place with empty eye sockets, scrubbing into their skin with their nails till their bodies became bulged with infection. It was a sorry sight and I remembered what Suzanne had told me about the wizards trying to help Pittsburgh. About how the city would be underwater by the end of the year. They were right.

The refugees were a sorry sight, but even those faces I recognized from my time in Golgotha were not much better. The infestation was fast in leaping from host to host; I pulled the robes closer around myself and was glad for the mask.

I pushed through the crowded streets, trying not to bump into any passerby—the whole foundation of the city was changed. There were deep thin divots in the ground like the soil had given in and it gave taller structures a lopsided look; those buildings had been reinforced with opposing leaning rods. The explosions caused by Dave in the underground surely were significant.

The streets were filthy, but that wasn’t new and the sad looks on the people I passed weren’t new, but the quantity of misery is something I didn’t know could be concentrated in such a way. The narrow pathways through Golgotha were made even more so with the piles of bodies, some sleeping sidelong or else. Catwalks overhead, which connected one structure to the next with those skinny balconies cut the shadows longer still and by the time I met the opening where the hydro towers were, I was not at all surprised by the fact that Felina’s was no more. The shipping containers which made up the makeshift structure remained, but there were bullet holes in the walls of the place—so many that it couldn’t be called anything but overkill, so many that the bullet trails met so greatly that one could push their face into the openings which remained. Felina was dead, if I guessed; I wondered what happened to the working women, but only for a moment as I caught the tune of an old song I hadn’t heard since my childhood.

Some stranger amidst the languishing crowds sat atop an old plastic crate and blew “Óró, Sé Do Bheatha 'bhaile” into a wooden flute; the gentleman there on the crate stared at the ground, seemingly unaffected by his surroundings, skin as plain and unscathed as anyone healthy. His long straw-colored hair remained off his face by a cord he’d fastened it by. The eyes of the stranger were solemn and far away and I almost believed I remembered him.

A hand grabbed my elbow, and I threw myself in the opposite direction of the hand, taking a few steps away. It was a wall man and he looked just as confused I was.

“You’re the wizard trader, yeah?” asked the wall man.

We stood there in the square, in the tall shadows of the hydro towers and I tried to speak, but it wouldn’t come. I coughed and he winced and then I tried, “Yeah.”

“The Bosses want to see you. I’m gonna’ escort you there.”

“What for?”

“They wanted an audience with any of you that stopped in. You all were the ones fighting the infestation in Pittsburgh.” In a moment, it came to me. I knew this man. This soldier. He was young and handsome and had a kind face. The night of our escape, I’d run into a young wall man, he’d lifted his gun to me, and instead of killing me, he’d let me go. His demeanor did not show that he recognized me—how could he?

I straightened the hat on my head and nodded. “Take me.”

My chaperone was quiet, and it left the ears for the town which ached, the wails of dying infected, the shouts of militiamen commanding the less fortunate. Welcome home. The sky was clear and blue, and the sun was full-on out. We came to the hall of the Bosses and I briefly remembered the fight I had at the foot of those steps and I wondered again if Dave lived; such a silly thought. Or was it a hope?

I pushed on into the hall with the wall man by my side and he shut the door behind me while he remained outside. The chamber was largely unchanged since my last visit, a long dining hall with a broad and far table. Firelights lined the walls and though it was normally cooler than the outside, the place felt incredibly warm like a wound.

The place had a wet odor and the men at the long table took me by surprise. Harold sat there at the head of them, an assisted-breathing apparatus was strapped to his nose and mouth and his eyes drooped long like he was on the verge of tears all the time and along each side of the table were his brothers and nearest me was my brother and I was frozen there.

Maron tipped his cowboy hat to me; his left eye showed he’d been touched by the skitterbug infestation—yellowy liquid perpetuated down his cheek there, but that nasty grin remained. “Howdy wizard man!” said the Boss Sheriff.

Feeling ridiculous, I offered a quick bow. Boss Harold, Maron, Frank, Paul, there was Brash and Matt too. Each of the bosses watched me there at the end of the table and I scanned the room. There were the servants, awaiting whatever command, but it seemed they’d been strapped with weapons—sidearms but some of them kept long knives on their belts even if their uniforms seemed more akin to that of a ragged peasant. The Bosses were in a bad way, paranoid.

Boss Harold attempted to speak, but choked, touched his throat and as he rocked back in his chair to catch his breath, I saw that whatever Gemma had done to him had been partially remedied; a pink horizontal line was traced there across his neck. Boss Paul sat nearest Harold and touched his brother on the shoulder, patting him while Harold caught his breath. When the man did speak, he lifted the apparatus to the side of his face so the straps that kept it on his head shifted the plastic bits to hang off the side of his face. His voice was a gruff whisper, “Have you got any news from the west? Are the wizards sending aid?” He shook his head. “Should have killed those freeloaders at our stoop. What’s Pittsburgh done for us?”

Frank spoke then, “Steelsmithing is what. There’s skilled labor there.”

Harold shook his head again as if to exaggerate his point, “No manual laboring will cure Golgotha of the curse they’ve brought us. Foul! They are foul!”

“You should rest,” Frank said to his brother, “In your condition, there’s no reason to rile yourself.”

“I’m riled,” Harold nodded.

Maron dug into his eye with his index finger, put his elbow on the table, cocked his head to look me over. “Well?” asked the sheriff. “You a mute or what?”

“No,” I said it plainly in hopes that the mask muffled my voice.

Maron raised his eyebrows. “You ain’t a mute then? Good! What’ve you gotta’ say about it then?”

“About?”

“Christ,” Maron splayed his hands, “The predicament we’re in.”

“Surely,” interjected Harold, heaving out his words like a chore, “Surely, you and yours have found a cure? These skitter-bug things. It’s eating our citizenry inside out.”

Brash (a quiet lesser brother) leaned over the table. “The docs say it’s bad news. If you were to ask me, I’d imagine it won’t be long before a mutant attack sends us over the edge. The wall men are already showing signs of fatigue—half are afflicted already.”

Maron slapped his hands on the table, “Nah, I wouldn’t worry about my men. They’re as ready as ever for—well for anything.”

Brash crossed his arms. “What’s the wizard say?”

They once more turned to me.

“I ain’t—I’m not here for diplomacy,” I said, “Just trade.”

Maron squinted at my words and stared at the table. “Maybe we be needin’ a court wizard?” he asked the other men. He laughed; no one else did.

Harold sighed. “Then send the message to your people. Whatever the price—anything I beg—send your best doctors. We are in dire need. Will you do that for us?”

I nodded.

They waved me out and it was only once I stood at the foot of the hall, looking back at the high structure that I realized I was shaking from the encounter.

The wall man which had escorted me there remained at the steps and looked me over as I exited the hall.

“Will you help?” he asked; there was a plea in his manner. There were people suffering and I was worried about revenge.

“I’ll try,” I lied.

That night, I went to Felina’s in the dark, stood in the shadows, removed my mask, and smoked. The blue night was cool, and I tilted into the dilapidated structure. There was a family crowded there in the darkness like scared mice—it may well have been an amalgam of people, but I’d like to believe it was a family weathering their misfortune together. The people crowded around a small portable stove and gibbered to one another until they were startled at my arrival, and I waved them goodbye, apologized for the intrusion, and stepped back into the night and felt overwhelmed by what would come next.