>>6327457You continue fussing over the piles, mostly for an excuse to talk. In the last two days, you’ve learned that Harper can work in total silence for hours. He only breaks it to point out something dangerous, or complain about the Terran Commonwealth – whichever happens first. Once or twice every thirty minutes. Three times if you’re lucky.
The silence between those moments is unbearable. Anything is preferable to the noises of the Strip, and the dying groans of the PRC as a whole…or the creeping fear that any metallic thump might be the cyberpsycho coming back.
“…so you really did just live off the grid?” you ask curiously, in an attempt to fill the silence. “What was it like?”
Harper glances over a crate of medkits, expression unreadable for a moment. “Quiet. Just me, a duffle bag’s worth of supplies, my Bible, and my hunting rifle.”
You tilt your head, trying to picture it. “No drones, cameras or corporations breathing down telling you to hydrate or consume.”
He snorts. “For the most part. Left me a lot of time to think and pray.”
“Sounds peaceful.” You lean against a crate, eyes drifting over the mess you’ve made. “…sounds lonely.”
“Lonely is a luxury if you know how to deal with it.” He shrugs one shoulder, rifling through a container of smallclothes and socks. “Beats pretending the world makes sense.”
You huff, nudging aside an empty can of beans with your boot. “You could’ve stayed out there forever. So…what made you come back? Back to the Commonwealth.”
Or what’s left of it. And the people of Norfolk/Hampton Roads. The 111th. Colonel Estevez’s death glare.
The answer doesn’t come immediately. He pauses, shifting his weight, eyes flickering to a cracked shelf. Not towards what you hope isn’t a decomposing body.
“…love,” he declares with finality, as if daring you to argue. “Love for my fellow men, women and children of the world. I can’t in good conscience let people suffer when I know I have the means to alleviate or lessen their burdens. That would make me a very uncharitable jerk.”
“Noblesse oblige?” you suggest.
He snorts. “More like <span class="mu-i">‘with great power’</span> comes exactly only a fancy laser pistol for my troubles. But it’s something.” His fingers brush the grip of said weapon.
“Besides…” the faintest hint of a grin. “After the Cataclysm, all the government records got vaporized. No more three-letter agencies and the lizards they employ chasing me with tax forms or warrants for a sawed-off shotgun.”
You laugh underneath your breath. For a moment, the strip doesn’t feel like a tomb.
>>The Next DayThe night passes. You and Harper hunker down in one of the vaults, triple-checking to make sure you can pop the electronic lock come the morning. Bereft of the safety and defenses of the Watchtower, it’s the only way to hope for a full night’s sleep in the Strip.
(cont.)
