I’d just dropped our last crusty marshmallow into my hot chocolate when I heard my father’s voice from the living room.

“Silas, come here for a minute.” I did as I was told and found him struggling to hold up a board with his knee while simultaneously trying to hammer a nail into it. “Take this for me, will you?” he asked, nodding to the board. I held it steady for him as he pounded it into place over the window and then went back to my drink. My father sat down on the unfamiliar couch and looked around the room with pride. Just as with every other house we “borrowed,” he’d covered every window with either 2x4’s or cardboard before lighting our lantern, opening a bottle of liquor, and playing a game of solitaire. I always tried not to pay too close attention to our various homes. Each one was filled with portraits of families I knew were dead. I cautiously sipped the barely-flavored water and listened to the radio I’d found crackle quietly on the kitchen counter. Gunshots echoed in the distance and somewhere a pack of feral dogs began to howl.

That was mostly what I remembered of my early childhood, long walks through abandoned towns and long nights spent listening to the death throes of a civilization I had missed by a matter of seconds. “You came out just as the ground began to shake,” my father always loved to say. “One wailing little drop of life in a crashing sea of unspeakable death.” Sometimes we happened to find a generator that still had enough fuel to watch some of the baseball game recordings or lovably awful movies that my father hauled in a squeaky shopping cart. But most of our time was spent wrapped in the awkward quiet that always accompanies sleeping in another person’s bed.

“Have I ever told you the story of Prometheus?” I clicked the radio off and went back into the living room.

“No,” I said with hopeful interest. “Was he someone you used to work with like Griffin or Whitewater?” He laughed and set my cocoa water on the table before pulling me up onto his lap and wrapping his arms around my chest.

“It’s one of my favorite myths,” he began before clearing his throat. “Before mankind had discovered the word of God, they believed that there were many gods. But these gods were neither just nor righteous, and in fact, they were petty, childish things that squabbled amongst each other and polluted the earth with their faults. Chief among these gods was Zeus, lord of thunder, and amongst Zeus’s host lived the titan Prometheus.”

“What’s a titan?” I asked.

“Titans were the beings that ruled earth before the Olympian gods imprisoned them for eternity.”

“So then why wasn’t Prometheus put in jail too?” I asked.

“It wasn’t really a jail, more of a fortress of judgment at the heart of Mount Olympus. Anyway, Zeus tasked Prometheus and another titan named Epimetheus with the creation of living things on earth. Prometheus sculpted man out of clay while Epimetheus endowed all the other creatures with the different qualities that would make them unique. However, when he had finished, he realized that they had used up all of the good qualities and none were left for mankind. Thus Prometheus made them stand on two legs just as the gods did and gave them the gift of fire so that they wouldn’t be killed off by all the lions and tiger and bears that Epimetheus had made oh so delightfully deadly. And since man was his favorite, he also had a goddess named Athena breathe life into them and endow them with reason. When Zeus saw how superior man was to the other animals, he decreed that man must make animal sacrifices to the gods, and that a portion of each offering must go to him personally. But Prometheus still harbored bitterness towards the gods for imprisoning his fellow titans, and so he made two piles of offerings. He made one pile out of bones wrapped in succulent fat and another pile out of the best meat wrapped in the rotting hides. Naturally, when Zeus made his choice, he picked the pile with the fat on it, but once Prometheus’s ruse was discovered, he became very angry.” He paused to take a swig from his bottle and my nose wrinkled as the fresh alcohol stained his breath.

“If Zeus is smart enough to put the titans in jail and rule over heaven, why can’t he look at a couple of piles and decide which one is actually better?” I asked.

“First of all,” he said, his arms tightening around my chest, “it was not a jail. Second, because he is a god and has lots of things to do. He can’t be bothered to carefully examine every single offering that comes his way.”

“Well then why did he get so angry when he found out that Prometheus had tricked him?” I asked.

“Anyway,” my father hissed. “As punishment for tricking him, Zeus took fire away from mankind and banished them to live forever in the dark. But Prometheus had grown attached to his creations and could not bear to see them suffer; so he took a torch and lit it with the sun and then returned fire back to man.” He took another swig. “His brazen defiance cost him dearly however, for once Zeus saw man playing with fire again, he had the smith god Hephaestus craft a being of unimaginable beauty and grace, and to this being Hermes gave the gifts of deception and guile. The being’s name was Pandora, the first woman, and to her Zeus gave a box which she was told to never open. She was sent down to Epimetheus where he was frolicking with mankind, and though Prometheus had warned him not to accept any gifts from Zeus, Epimetheus was so stricken with Pandora’s beauty that he gladly let her stay.” He took another swig. “But eventually the temptation of the box became too much and she opened it, releasing the plagues of mankind—sorrow, fear, greed, hope—all across the land.”

“So life was happy and wonderful and then a woman came along and messed it up for everyone?” I asked. He laughed and ruffled my hair.

“Basically, yes, but don’t ever tell a girl that. Not only did Zeus poison Prometheus’s greatest work, he decided to exact terrible vengeance on the titan himself. He bade his servants Force and Violence to abduct Prometheus and chain him to a rock until the end of time, left to the elements and unable to defend himself when an eagle comes day after day to tear at his liver.”

“That was a very sad story,” I said.

“The stories worth learning from don’t have happy endings,” my father said with finality. I sat on his lap in silence for a while, wishing I’d been allowed to drink my hot chocolate before it got cold.

“I don’t think I understand why you love that story so much,” I finally stated, the motors in my developing brain straining to make connections that I was not even sure existed.

“We are all just ghosts of our fathers,” he said with a sigh, obviously disappointed by my ignorance. I disappointed my father often. “Just as Prometheus molded man from the primordial clay, I hewed you from the clay of my own being and sculpted your form with genetic precision.”

“So you think you’re Prometheus?” I asked skeptically.

“No, I am Prometheus,” he answered with no small degree of pride. “Your mother would be so proud to see the lovely little statue you have become, Silas. So very proud…”

“But I’ve never seen an eagle take a bite out of your liver,” I continued, unable to grasp the metaphorical concepts he was casting into the water as though speaking to a fellow philosopher.

“Oh believe me,” he chuckled, swishing the contents of his bottle around in a vortex of abandoned dreams, “there are plenty of eagles that feast on my liver.”

“But…” He pushed me off his lap and groaned with frustration.

“Silas, you are thinking far too literally about this entire concept.” He took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes with unblinking fervor, begging my adolescent brain to understand. “We have once more been left in the dark. We had the light; we held it in our fists and thought ourselves masters of our fate. And then, in one single flash, God took back what was rightfully his and left us sputtering, only able to keep our heads above water by clinging to the same self-doubt that we had spent two thousand years trying to repress. We must accept that we are imperfect and realize that those imperfections can very easily get us killed. But you, my son, you are different. You are my gift to mankind, the fire I have carried from the scorched surface of the sun. We are in the dark, but you will lead us into the light by proving what a single flame is able to accomplish. You will find an Athena who will breathe meaning into your life. You will find a Pandora who will unleash all the terrors of hell upon your soul. And through your glory, I shall become immortal. For just as we are all just ghosts of our fathers, we are all trapped in the shadows of our sons.”

“But why can’t you become immortal on your own?” I asked as tears began to droop from my lashes. The full weight of his expectations had plummeted onto my shoulders from the blue and I could already feel my confidence begin to buckle. He looked behind him as though making sure he wasn’t still being followed by something and whispered,

“Because I have already failed. I made my lunge at greatness and I fell short. And now it is too late, too much of my life has been fed to Father Time. It’s almost all gone, but yours is not.” He looked at his watch and rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. “But I think that is enough doom and gloom for one evening! Time for bed.” He kissed my forehead and led me towards the stairs. I looked back at my hot chocolate and wanted nothing more than to gulp it down and try to feel like more of a kid than I had any right to. I fell asleep that night wondering what kind of life awaited me on the other side of tomorrow.

By the third set of stairs, I gave killing myself serious consideration. Pain was now my constant companion, a long lost lover whose arms I had fallen into. She had been cruel in the past, but now that we were together until death wrenched us apart, she was a downright bitch. The serrated edges of my ribs rattled against each other with every step and any but the shallowest breaths threatened to cause my entire chest cavity to collapse. Every few minutes, I had to stop and spit out the blood that was continuously pooling in my lungs.

He was right where I’d last seen him. He had given up trying to fix the gash that tore him open like a grisly smile, but I took the fact that his frame no longer shook with sobbing breaths to mean that he was doing at least somewhat better. I fell to my knees in front of him and began to earnestly shovel his intestines back into his belly. He did not cry out in pain or beg me to stop, and so I forced my friend back together one loop at a time until I could unzip my parka, wrap it tight around his bulging entrails, and secure the shoddy dressing with all the duct tape I had.

“I’m sorry, Pavel,” I finally croaked. I took his sallow face in my hands and pressed my forehead against his. Tears splattered his lap as I finally allowed my emotions to surface. “I’m so sorry. I never should have let you go alone. I should have been faster; I should have known what to do.” My hands slid down his face and began to straighten his equipment. My crimson handprints glared at me from his cheeks so his glassy eyes could remain focused on the ceiling. “But it’s going to be fine. I promise, Pavel. I promise that we’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine, I’m going to be fine, and we are going home. Do you hear me, Pavel? We’re going home. We aren’t going to die in this God forsaken shithole, I am going to keep you safe, and then you are going to be just fine. You have to be…”

I stood back up and grabbed him by the shoulders. Lifting him caused me to scream louder than I thought possible, but eventually we were both upright. Pavel was conserving his strength so I didn’t resent him for making me support his entire weight. His head lolled onto my shoulder, his feet dragged across the floor, but we left that hellish room together. I took the stairs one tentative foot at a time, sucking in a breath as each tiny fall hit me like a battering ram to the chest. A sickening thump sounded every few seconds as I dragged Pavel behind me. To his credit, he did not once complain. He did not fight my inhumane method of transporting him; he suffered in stoic silence and accepted that I had his best interests at heart. I apologized through the filters of my gas mask as I dragged him through the muck of the first floor. Before I opened the door, I asked him if he wanted something to cover his eyes so they wouldn’t be blinded by the sun. He pointedly looked everywhere but at me and I felt a twinge of shame at my insult to his masculinity as I pulled him out onto the street.

“Don’t look,” I ordered, turning away myself so I would not have to see the pair of corpses that decorated the pavement.

To be honest, there isn’t much to say about our journey home. I spent six days clinging to my friend’s wrist as I limped down one stretch of cracked pavement after another. Shady Brook Road became Garfield Court which turned into Iroquois Street and on and on until I had given up on direction and instead wandered aimlessly in hope of seeing the little green placard with Riverside Avenue that would guide us home. Before long, Pavel’s extra weight ceased to be an inconvenience and became an extension of my body, a muted growth whose company was the only thing that kept me going. I’d promised to get him home, and I would gladly die before allowing it to be said that Silas Connelly was a liar. I was still in far too much shock to even try and reign in my brain’s random firing.

On the first day, as the sun began to dip below the skyline, I found a bicycle shop with an unlocked door and dragged my friend inside. Hundreds of bicycles with drooping tires stood in rows along every wall, each one casting a spindly shadow against the fading light. Our own shadows traversed the web with jittering motions, pushing deeper and deeper into the store until I found a corner that had an unobstructed view of the entrance. I moved several bicycles out of the way and leaned Pavel against the wall so he could watch my back as I searched the rest of the building. He was tired and so I had to turn his head towards the front door for him. Both of our automatic weapons were back at the apartment complex where I had forgotten them in my single-minded determination, and so the comparatively light weight of my M1911 against my palm would have to suffice. But even then I knew that, in my failing condition, a strong gust of wind would be enough to kill me, let alone an irradiated predator.

The back room was shrouded in darkness except for the square of sunlight allowed inside by the door I opened. Bicycle parts and various tools were strewn across the floor beneath a thin layer of dust. Nothing leapt from the gloom to rip out my jugular. I locked the door anyway and moved to the small office that jutted from the side of the building like a tumor. Empty pots sit in front of a sad little window that lets in just enough light to look over most of the sad little room. The desk was a neat assortment of untouched pens and blank order forms. The computer’s keys still had fresh, unscuffed letters printed on them. The trash can was overflowing with paper airplanes and crumpled coffee cups. Apparently everyone had been too busy vomiting out their internal organs to buy bicycles. I returned to Pavel as the last rays of light finally began to die.

“I’ll take first watch,” I told him as I slowly lowered my broken skeleton to the floor and laid my pistol across my lap. Pavel stubbornly refused to go to sleep and so I closed his eyes for him. His skin was frigidly cold and so I took off my parka and draped it over his shoulders. After what I assumed was a decent number of hours, I reopened my friend’s eyes for him and wrapped his fingers around my pistol. “Goodnight,” I told him as I laid my head against my pack and finally let my muscles relax.

On the second day, it rained all day long. I took the opportunity to rest and listened to the soothing rhythm of raindrops against glass. Through the storefront window, the symbol of our first covenant with God arched between the clouds, mocking me with both its radiant colors and its promise of timeless joy. Over the course of the day, I built up a tremendous hatred towards Adam. Eve was excused my ire solely because she was made from a rib bone, and as I had recently discovered, ribs were far from trustworthy under pressure. But Adam, Adam had been the first of our kind. He had listened to the word of God, been given responsibilities of much greater importance than any other animal, and then he had broken literally the only rule in the entire universe. And now, thousands or millions of years later depending on who you asked, I was sitting in an abandoned bicycle shop with a chest cavity full of bone fragments, an injured comrade who refused to even talk to me, and no one to blame but myself. I should have been smarter. I should have reacted faster. I should have kept my shit together.

I pulled myself to my feet and looked through Pavel’s pack in an attempt to hold my guilt at bay. His stark silence was starting to really get on my nerves, and so I refused to ask for permission before I rummaged through his things. Inside, among a respectable haul of valuables, I found a can of spam with rust on only one of its rims. The lid came free with a dry squelch and I poured the contents down my throat before I could reconsider. The small amount of nourishment I received from the rancid meat was not worth the agonizing dry heaves that nearly caused me to black out.

On the third day, we found a hospital. Well, according to the red neon letters, we’d found a “HOPTL.” As I have said before, signs are habitual liars. I left Pavel to watch the street and forced the doors open to discover a flurry of panicked activity. Hundreds of human beings mulled around the lobby like cattle, each trying to avoid touching those nearest to them as used Kleenexes fell gently to the floor like morning snow. Doctors with thinning hair and black-rimmed eyes rushed back and forth between reception desks and a set of swinging doors. Blood and vomit ran down their coats as they forced their way through the masses. Frightened-looking nurses cowered behind their identification cards, repeating again and again how everyone needed to just calm down and wait for their name to be called. No names were being called. I was jostled more than a dozen times as I walked towards the receptionist, and by the time I was next in line, my patience was at its end. The monstrously obese man ahead of me finally waddled away to be alone with his sweat stains and I stepped forward.

“Name?” she snapped. Her fingers continued punishing her keyboard as she looked up at me expectantly.

“I’m not here for me,” I said as politely as my hoarse throat would allow. “My friend Pavel is in critical condition and he needs to see a doctor right away.”

“You can’t sign for someone else!” she barked with what I assumed was months of pent up exasperation, her eyes already shifting to the next person in line as she tapped a paper sign that confirmed her statement. “Please move along so I can assist patients who aren’t trying to waste my time.”

A large hand shoved me out of the way and my vision fluttered at the pain that coursed through my chest. I turned, pistol already halfway from its holster as I prepared to blow the brains out of whoever had dared to touch me. One look confirmed that he needed a doctor more than Pavel. His left eye was already gone, though the right still boasted flecks of amber. His filthy t-shirt hung from the points of his shoulders and oily pus oozed from the sores that were just visible beneath his sleeves. I backed away from him and was soon trapped amidst a cluster of diseased citizens. A row of nearly empty seats looked inviting, but the reason for their vacancy became quickly apparent. An elderly woman cradled a little girl whose eyes were completely white. Even as I watched, the girl vomited another stream of red and black into the already brimming seats, causing some of the liquid to slosh onto the floor. I stood on my tiptoes and managed to catch a glimpse of activity through the double doors at the end of the lobby as a doctor threw them open without breaking stride.

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Machines and IV bags of colored liquids were rushed down the hallway by disheveled nurses. A pair of orderlies struggled to strap a man down to a gurney as he screamed for help that even he knew would never come. Doctors patted weeping family members on the shoulder and had the decency to turn around before striking the names from their clipboards.

Heads around me began to turn back towards the main entrance and I turned with them. It was obvious that I would find no help for Pavel there and so we needed to move on as soon as possible. A man walked into the hospital and looked around proudly, hands on hips, as though examining a well-tended garden. He was a tall, lanky man in a smart black suit and bright red tie. A military gasmask covered his face and sent spikes of black hair up between the straps. His shoes gleamed. A dozen soldiers in full combat gear filed in behind him. Each bore the American flag on his shoulder and a gasmask identical to the man in the suit.

“Hello,” he said warmly. He pulled a wallet from his pocket and displayed a golden badge for all to see as though reenacting a fifties cop drama. “I am special agent Joseph Connelly of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention.” He gestured to the men behind him. “There are my friends from the United States Marine Corps. I regret to inform you that the area surrounding this hospital has been declared a quarantine zone by my superiors, and with that in mind, I would like to ask you all to come with me. I am also legally required to inform you that compliance with my orders is optional. However, disobedience does naturally come with punishments, such as my friends here shooting you in the head. So, everyone who does not wish to be shot in the head, please follow me through that set of doors over there.”

Men and women who had moments before been on the verge of collapse now parted for the agent more smoothly than the Red Sea. He nodded to many of them as he passed, occasionally adding a friendly hello. The soldiers urged the crowd after him with threatening movements and swift strikes from their rifle butts. I found myself carried along by the crush of bodies, close enough to the front to watch the agent’s back as he jauntily strolled into the whitewashed hall. I thought I heard him humming a tune between the muttered confusion of those around me. He opened the doors to several closets and offices as we progressed through the building. Each time he clucked his tongue and slammed the door back closed as though punishing them for failing to meet his standards. The herd had fallen silent, all their worries whispered away until nothing remained but the instinctual need to stay ahead of their faceless shepherds. Several hallways and half a dozen doors later, the agent whistled as he stuck his head into a storage room. From my place at the head of the crowd, I could see a few boxes of medical supplies neatly organized into stacks. Most of the room was pointedly empty.

“File in,” he ordered. We filed in. Once our bodies were so tightly packed that multiple breaths lapped against my neck, the agent ordered a halt. “The rest of you, come with me please.” I watched the parade of eyes look sadly back at me as they left us behind. The breathing on my neck became faster, heavier, panicked. I have never understood the reaction most people have to the unknown. Everything is unknown until it happens, and therefore I have always subscribed to the theory of waiting before action… quickly followed by swift and decisive action. I didn’t have to wait long. A soldier stepped into the doorway—foreboding silhouette between the pleading mass of flesh and the shining light of salvation—cylinders in his shaking hands.

“May God have mercy on my soul,” he stammered. His thumbs twitched and pins snapped away from the grenades with a metallic ping.

“Amen,” I smirked as he rolled his payload into the storage room and slammed the door shut. Dozens of fists immediately began to pound against the synthetic wood. Even above the sobs, above the screaming, above the hopeful promises, I could hear the hiss of toxic gas leaving its tubes. Since I had been at the front of the crowd, I was naturally among the farthest from the door, a fact which only heightened the horror of my surroundings as death crept ever closer. Racking coughs split the air like gunshots. Garbled prayers for deliverance fled from collapsing throats just before their owners hit the floor. Several people around me sucked in as much oxygen as possible, somehow convinced that they could hold their breath until help arrived. I smelled something foul and then immediately felt my lungs begin to burn. Bundles of alveoli exploded like overcooked popcorn, splashing blood against the walls of my bronchial tubes. The gas dissolved my respiratory system with military precision and I doubled over as my body rejected what had already happened. The first cough showered the floor with most of my teeth and what remained of my tongue. The second cough emptied my abdomen of its organs.

I looked around the room at almost a hundred crumpled skeletons. Some of the skulls bore bullet holes like badges of honor, proof that they had survived long enough to be disposed of personally. Piles of rat carcasses showed how an easy meal really was always too good to be true. I left the storage room and closed the door behind me. I knew that there would be no point to delving any further into the hospital. There had been painfully few supplies to begin with, let alone after almost two decades of nationwide scavenging. I pushed the double doors open and almost choked as my heart leapt into my throat. Pavel had refused to abandon his post, and as I watched, a pack of feral dogs tore at his limp body like he was nothing more than a slab of meat.

“Get the hell away from him!” I screamed, drawing my pistol as I stumbled through the lobby as quickly as I could. Malnutrition almost caused me to trip over my own feet. Dehydration kept my aim from staying still long enough to get a clean shot. I fell against a row of chairs and my finger spasmed against the trigger. Five retorts bellowed my frustration and the dogs bolted. One of them yelped as a bullet tore through its back leg and several others ripped the limbs from my friend’s body before loping off with their prizes. I ran to Pavel and hugged him tight against my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I sobbed into his hair. “I never should have left you alone, Pavel; I should have given you the gun before I went inside. This never should have happened.” Tufts of hair came loose in my fingers as I finally let him go and tried to get a sense of how much damage had been done. Both legs and his left arm were gone, ripped out of their sockets, leaving only tattered grey skin and shriveled muscle behind. “They’ll fix you up right as rain when we get home,” I promised him. “But right now we have to keep moving.” I was concerned for his health, but to be completely honest, I appreciated how much lighter he had become.

On the fourth day, I walked in circles around the same fast food restaurant for over an hour, making the same lame joke about the mascot every time we passed the poster. Twice I shot at windows I swore we were being watched from. I missed both times.

On the fifth day, we found Riverside Avenue and I almost wept with joy. I told Pavel stories of when it had just been my father and I, before that first day of school when I’d punched him in the face and broken his glasses.

On the sixth day, the bloated shadow of the Ascension emerged from the fog. People rushed to greet us and I collapsed into their arms.

“You’re Valkyries,” I told them. “Valkyries come to take us home.”

“But what did the police do?” I asked.

“They protected people,” my father answered.

“But why didn’t people just defend themselves like you do? Why did they need the police to do it for them?” I asked.

“Because people used to be weak,” he answered with no small degree of venom. “They depended on others to guarantee their safety because they felt helpless to defend it themselves. Mankind lost the animal part of them, the part that knows, at some point, you will fight or you will have nothing.” He smiled at me fondly. “I’m glad we are finally beginning to realize that we cannot prosper without every part of our being.”

I hopped from one rock to another with practiced skill. My father pushed his cart beside me, unconcerned with our slow pace as he gazed happily at the buildings on our right. The river provided soothing background music to our trek, fizzling waves against weathered concrete, gentle splashes as fish snatched unsuspecting insects from the surface. It hadn’t rained in over a week and even the wind had politely excused itself. My only complaint was that one of the back wheels on my father’s cart squeaked with every rotation. I grabbed the side of the cart and stepped up onto the undercarriage so I could rifle through the food bags. My father slapped my hand away and snapped,

“Silas, I’ve told you a thousand times not to ride on the cart. I’m barely keeping it together as it is without you treating it like your personal jungle gym.”

“Sorry,” I grumbled, pretending to hang my head and cross my arms in shame so I could slip the piece of candy up into my sleeve.

“And you know the rules,” he continued slyly. “Candy is something you have to earn.” I instantly regretted my decision. “Now, I’ll start you off with an easy one. What is seven times eight?”

“Fifty-six,” I answered in what I thought was a remarkably short time.

“What is twelve times forty-nine?” I stopped and swept my finger through the air, each motion burning a line into my imagination as I struggled over the problem.

“Five hundred and… seventy… no, five hundred and eighty eight,” I said uncertainly. He nodded mechanically.

“Who was Andrew Jackson and what was he famous for?”

“Andrew Jackson was a United States president who hated Indians and defeated the British at the Battle of New Orleans,” I recited, knowing full well that I had forgotten almost everything.

“Which president was he?”

“The best one!” I said in as adorable a way as I could muster. He scoffed and shook his head.

“Cute… but cute is not an excuse for ignorance. What was his nickname?”

“Long Knife,” I answered with relish. Oddities like that had always seemed infinitely more important to me than factual certainties. What did it matter that the long-dead tyrant of a ruined nation had been the seventh president? History had already come to a sudden, grinding halt. All that remained were the details, the delicious details that would always be worth remembering.

“What is a molecule?” he asked.

“Little things made out of protons and neutrons and electrons that fit together to make big things,” I answered. He laughed and flicked my ear.

“Good enough, I guess. Alright, Silas, one last question. What are the rules of survival?” He always ended with the same question, and though it had already been hammered into my brain, he refused to let a single day go by without having me repeat his stupid rules.

“Always put family first,” I sighed, making it as clear as possible that I was tired of his repetition.

“Why?”

“Because blood will always be thicker than water.” My father had more than his share of eccentricities, and predominant among them was his love for the romantic. He treated every monotonous day as a new adventure, every story he told as a new opportunity to embellish truth into climax. That was one of the things I love most about him. Despite all the drunken fits of rage, the unbridled criticism of my every fault, the endless teaching of events and concepts I had no hope of putting into context—he refused to let our mundane existence become boring.

“Next,” he pressed. I always left a perceivable gap between my first answer and the others, just to scare him into thinking he wasn’t nearly the teacher he thought he was.

”Never fall in love,” I continued.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because every rose has thorns.”

“And finally?” he breathed. The last rule had always been his favorite.

“Always be a hero,” I said dutifully.

“Why?” I gulped before I answered; readying my spine for the shiver that always accompanied the last words.

“Because heroes never die.”

My father closed his eyes and enjoyed his own poeticism. At the time, I had just assumed that he was a regular father trying to teach his son everything he needed to survive in a hostile environment. Now I know that, just like everything my father said or did, it was almost exclusively for his benefit. I needed a parent to keep me safe and fed, but he needed a companion to help stave off the effects of his failing sanity. He did not teach me history, mathematics, physics, culture, language, philosophy, or any of our other topics because he wanted me to be an intelligent, well-informed member of society, but rather so that he would have a son who knew the things he knew, shared the interests he shared. In the rich fantasy he called home, it was ever only going to be me and him, father and son finding happiness against all odds. And that’s certainly how our lives would have progressed had we not stumbled upon an enormous boat somewhere along Riverside Avenue.

He left the cart and cautiously approached the ship. I walked behind him, wrapped in the comforting embrace of his shadow, eyes wide with awe at the sheer size of the water-bound fortress. A steel bulwark ran around the entire edge, shielding the top deck from the waves that no longer assailed it. A bridge gazed proudly from the vessel’s stern, bristling with antennas and lengths of metal I could not even begin to guess the purpose of. A series of cranes jutted from the deck at regular intervals, their cargo hooks swinging back and forth like an honor guard on parade. A sturdy wooden plank extended from the hull to the sidewalk. My father placed one foot onto it, and as though he had set off some invisible tripwire, a curse sounded from above and a man suddenly rose into view. He wore a dirty waterproof jacket and a wool cap that was the exact same shade of brown as the beard that spilled down his chest. I would eventually come to know him as Travis Earnhardt, a former pilot who led a patrol of his own. He and Kroffman would often make bets on who would bring back the most loot. But in that moment, he was simply the scruffy man aiming a rifle at my father’s center of mass.

“Don’t move!” he called, rapidly blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Just… just stay right there and don’t give me an excuse to put a bullet through you.” My father lifted his hands and placed them on top of his head.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. “That’s a nice boat you’ve got there.”

“Shut up,” the man barked in response. He gestured with his weapon towards my father’s shadow. “Who’s that you’ve got with you there?” My father looked over his shoulder and winked at me before turning back towards the ship.

“That’s my son Silas. I promise that he won’t cause any trouble. Say hello to the nice man, Silas.”

“Hello,” I said as I waved at him and smiled nervously. He waved back. My other hand was stuffed into my pocket, thumb pressed against the quick release of my switchblade.

“We were just passing through and happened upon your boat. That’s our cart right over there.” He took one of his hands off his head long enough to point at the cart. “I am terribly sorry that we disturbed you. We’ll just be going before anyone makes a decision they’ll regret.”

“No,” the man stated with what I’m sure was more authority than he felt. “Protocol dictates I have to relieve you of your weapons and bring you and your boy in for questioning.”

“Now why would you want to do a silly thing like that?” my father asked.

“Those are the rules.

“I understand,” my father sighed. “The rules are the rules and the rules must be followed. For without rules, we are as the beasts of the field and the fowl of the air and all the creeping things upon the earth, breathing bodies without a soul to make them real.” The man gave my father a strange look and his beard twitched with thought as he advanced down the gangplank, rifle still decidedly raised.

“Uh… sure. Yeah. Tell me what weapons you have on you so we can get this over with as quickly and peaceably as possible.” My father looked down and silently counted.

“There’s a .38 caliber revolver in my right boot, a Colt M1911 in a holster under my arm, and twenty or so knives in my belt arranged from least kills to most. Please keep them in order for the duration of our stay.”

The man lowered his rifle and lifted my father’s shirt to reveal the row of wooden handles and polymer grips. To his credit, he managed to squeeze off a single shot before my father wrenched the gun from his hands, wrapped an arm around his throat, and pressed the aforementioned M1911 against his temple. He tried to yell for help but my father clenched the sound into a gargle of distress.

“Shhh…” he whispered into his captive’s ear. “I told you to let us go before someone did something they would regret.” My ears were still ringing from the gun’s retort and I fought the urge to curl up and close my eyes. Above the piercing sound, I heard the distinctive stomp of boots against metal. Eight or nine heads suddenly popped up above the bulwark. They carried an assortment of weapons, all of them trained squarely at their comrade’s chest. My father clearly assumed that these men valued their friend enough to not shoot through him. I wasn’t so sure. Some of those same men would become my father’s closest friends—Sampson Pescelli, Arthur Metrois (deceased), Martin Freemont, Daniel Zemka (deceased), Benny Kennedy, Doctor Holiday. Another man passed between the two rows of firearms and walked down the gangplank. He did not look afraid. He did not even look angry. He opened his arms to us.

“We are all rational men here, no?” he asked in a heavy accent. “There is no need for such violence. Why do you and the child not come aboard and let us talk this out like rational men?”

“As a rational man,” my father said loud enough for all to hear, “you must know that another, equally rational man would never allow himself to be disarmed and taken to an unknown location by unknown people.”

“True, a rational man would never allow such a thing. Allow me to alleviate your concerns. I am Nikolai Strevko, and this is the Ascension. She is our home, and as you can see, we guard her quite jealously.”

“Nikolai Strevko,” my father repeated, rolling the syllables around his mouth.

“If you prefer, you may call me captain. That was not my rank when I served in the Russian army, but this ship belongs to me, and—”

“And every ship needs a captain,” my father interrupted. Captain Nikolai Strevko smiled.

“Exactly. Now, Mr.…”

“Connelly.”

“Mr. Connelly, we find ourselves at a crossroads. Down one road lies friendship, and to reach friendship, you must let Travis go free and join me aboard my ship for a conversation about who you are and why you are here. In return, I will allow you to keep your weapons. That is the cause of all this unpleasantness, yes?” My father nodded and asked,

“What happens if we decide to take the other road?”

“In that case,” Captain Nikolai Strevko answered sadly, “I will be forced to spend this evening explaining to Travis’s widow that he was killed in a shootout with a pair of outsiders who refused to listen to reason.”

‘Ah,” my father responded flatly. “Very good then.” Without further pause, he let go of his human shield, stepped back, and holstered his pistol. Captain Nikolai Strevko strode forward and shook his hand warmly.

“I am glad that rational men were able to come to a rational consensus this day, Mr. Connelly.” He turned to me and bent down onto one knee, his hand held out. I shook it just as my father had. He looked so young then, so eager to meet whatever challenges lay ahead. His eyes glistened like orbs of melting ice. His cheekbones caved into deep valleys that combined in a prominent chin. The stubble on that chin was just beginning to turn grey.

“And what is your name, young man?” he asked with genuine humility.

“Silas,” I replied in far quieter a voice than I had intended.

“Well, Silas,” he chuckled, “I hope you aren’t planning to stick me with that knife in your pocket.” My hand immediately whipped out of my coat and fell to my side as my cheeks burned with embarrassment—not because I had previously intended to stab him in the gut, but because I had done such a poor job of disguising those intentions. “Tell me, Silas, are you part of a larger group, or is it just you and your father?”

“It’s just the two of us,” I answered without breaking eye contact.

“I see,” he said. “Where are you from?” I stared at him blankly, unsure of how to answer his question. My father took me by the shoulders and pulled me away from the captain, wrapping his arms protectively around my chest.

“I think you should tell your men to stop pointing their guns at me,” he said. Captain Nikolai Strevko looked back towards his ship and laughed.

“Too true, my new friend!” He waved to his comrades and roared, “It’s alright, they have decided to come aboard!” he turned back to me and said with a smile, “You know, Silas, I’m sure the other children would love to meet you while your father and I talk.” I had never met another child in my entire life.

After speaking to some of the people who lived on the Ascension, my father finally agreed that we would stay until morning. One night in a bed I could call my own made me beg him to let us stay. After several hours of wailing and tears, he relented. We joined nearly fifty other families who already lived within the Ascension’s voluptuous form, and after two short weeks of bliss, I started school. It took me more than a month to make friends. Philip Three Fingers, the class clown who no one found the least bit funny, was the first to talk to me. Jeremy helped me understand the complexities of politics and loved to say that he was destined to become the next president of the United States before his skull was broken open by a gang of bandits while out on patrol. David was still alive and so was Connor. Andrew died when the second story floor of a house gave way underneath him. Pavel liked to tag along wherever we went, and though we always considered him to be a child, we treated him as one of our own. And of course there is Natalie Pescelli, the most emotional girl I have ever met, the girl who fell in love with my unkept black hair and melancholy eyes.

My father quickly became the group’s spiritual confidant as well as a trusted leader. I quickly became known as the smart boy who liked to fight. The Ascension became our home and its people became our family.