Chapter 1
1
A cold, half-drank cup of ambootia snowmist sat on his nightstand. He likes it warm before bed and cold when he rises.
Straffe, in the dark, sat at the foot of his bed. Up early for he knew this day would come. His lips pursed, feeling older with each passing second as he ran his fingers across his wrinkling skin then through his thinning hair. It wasn’t necessarily his nerves that uneased him, just the thought of not knowing if his pending relief would be granted through life or death. Regardless, the pains of truth were real. Not eager to rise for he knew the sun wouldn’t ascend for another twenty seven minutes. Ascending over the same tree and above the same courtyard where he’s been living for the past fifteen years. No rush, for he knew, in order to see it, he had to draw the curtains, remove the panels, and peel back the tint from his bullet-proof windows, and that thought brought back the memory as to why he Fort Knox-ed his condo in the first place.
His blood gelled as he listened to the young boy’s screams, he recalled, wincing his eyes with disgust as the bigger but still little boy methodically carved out his guts with no fear of consequence. For months, he watched as nibble by nibble wild animals fed off the dead boy’s flesh until ultimately just a bloodstain remained. It blackened over time then was hidden by curtains, panels, and tint.
Snapping back to the present, his life played slowly before his eyes as he painstakingly sat ready for its final act.
Through the vastness of his bedroom, he focused on his dresser. Scanning the cast iron legs, then the Peruvian curves that accented the drawers. Then the brass handles, sculptured in Italy, that contrasted nicely with the dark Ghanaian mahogany. Then the marble top with its grandness delicately offering the final letter that has him up so early. The invitation. “He’s gone,” it read, he being the son of one of his former students. His best student in fact. A prodigy of a prodigy. Straffe finally stood and stretched.
Purchased specifically for this occasion and still boxed, he finally removed his new fedora. He smoothed the crease and perfected its dimples before gingerly placing it next to the letter. New socks too, which he unwrapped and treated with the same delicacy. Straffe had his new suit dry cleaned once just so he could savor the moment of removing it from the plastic. Soon dressed and inspecting himself in the mirror, he wiggled his socked toes, a reminder that his ensemble was yet complete. But unlike everything else and contrary to his personality, his choice of footwear had yet to be decided. He eyed his new wingtips but knew they’d be troublesome for the twelve block walk. Or, for practicality, he stared at his worn sneakers knowing that they would get the job done. However, today was distinct he concluded, hence the dilemma, but he knew the primary goal was a safe arrival, so he slipped on those old sneakers in conclusion.
He ventured to the curtains then drew them aside. His drill removed the screws effortlessly; the whizzing masked the plunks as they crashed to the floor. The panels, all four of them, were light and were disengaged easily as he placed them away. The tint, having had been there for years, gave him the most concern, but with ease it glided off, revealing the rising sun, the world, and the future he sought. He basked in its glory since it had been fifteen years since this view struck his face. Once again he sat back on his bed, but this time on the side near his nightstand where he reached and retrieved the final pieces that would complete his wardrobe. A colt forty-five for ease and comfort and his sawed off shotgun to show he meant business.
* * *
The world was filthy. Sewage and garbage dominated the streets, and the destruction of national borders left every man and family fending for themselves in complete anarchy and complete dysfunction. The last operational government was abandoned just over a decade ago and already a shell of its former self, it finally disbanded and surrendered to the new reality, the last vestige whose demise reactivated everyone’s survival instinct with a reminder that humans are animals in a world now run by maliciousness. Hunters versus prey, survival of the fittest, and the gurgling cries of not just that young boy but many others, murdered, raped, tortured, and or drugged had become too much to bear for Straffe. When it first began, he instinctively tried to intervene, but like throwing pebbles into the sea, there were thousands more, so he soon retreated like the waves only venturing out for just enough groceries to last him for years. In addition to bulletproofing his windows, he soundproofed his place. He now walked because his car, vandalized frequently, became too much of a burden. Fed up one day, he beat any and all future vandalizers to the punch. He torched it, watched it burn and enjoyed it, knowing no one else could ever wreak havoc on his ride or his soul again. Hence the sneakers not the wingtips chosen not by him but by the destruction of civilization.
He pocketed the forty-five and double gripped the shotgun, for any potential assailant must see the deterrent, necessitating any potential threat and at this dawn hour he’ll blend in with the brave few that take public transport heading to work, each leery of the few night trolls still eager for a quick crime before the day fully begins. He stepped out into his vestibule and was immediately enveloped by the sirens, the yelling, the screaming and the smells. Blood, puke and urine mixed with decadence. Adding in the memories he hated, he gags, triggering “why the devoid” since his last venture outdoors. He breathes deep through his handkerchief before exiting, soon spotting that familiar bloodstain, all that’s left in remembrance of that young soul. How black, he thought, before heading north toward freedom.
