(Survival) Chapter Seven: Strategy

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There is a sudden hissing in the darkness as the radio turns on. I’m not sure why I bother anymore - I haven’t heard a human voice from that thing in forever. The radio is old and battered, military grade from when the military still graded things. Its camo pattern is still visible, although it’s so dark now that all I can see are the barest glints of metal from where the paint has been scraped off.

I’m standing in the ruins of the library, the musty smell of old, mildewed books all around me. On the ground nearby, the large bag - camo, again - I liberated from my old bunker earlier lies in a heap, somehow managing to draw my eye even in the gloom. I think of all the times I swore I would never be desperate enough to use the weapons inside. Even now, I am unsure. What am I doing fighting Lionel Banks by stooping to his level? No. We need this advantage if we are to defeat him. I can't stick to outdated morals in a changed world. I turn my back to the bag and glance at the dark space around me.

The library was not a place that I frequented before. Before. Before the world turned on its head. Before the sun set on this skeleton kingdom. Before our lives were worth less than a good pair of boots.

But the library is somewhere I have found solace in. It is one of the few places not stripped to the ground, because who needs books? Several hundred were taken in the first year or so after the disaster, until the buildings became too damp and the books too degraded to make the trip for firewood worth it. So now what’s left are dark lines of shelves with books fused shut and more often than not stuck down with mold, slowly crumbling into piles of debris. Maybe that’s the other reason I come to libraries whenever I can. To remind myself of what we’ve lost. What we’ve taken from ourselves.

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The radio crackling knocks me out of my reverie, and I realize that I’ve been standing here in the dark for some length of time I don’t want to contemplate. Everyone is relying on me, so what am I doing staring off into space? This is not the sort of thing I can let myself fall into the habit of doing. But the Marines seem so long ago, and I’m not getting any younger. I click the radio off and the sudden silence settles over me like a thick blanket. God, I need one of those.

I force myself to take a step forwards, and then another. Although I do go to libraries often, this time I’m looking for something specific. I feel my way carefully along the aisles, watching closely for stepping stools and other obstructions. The only light shines from a staircase window high above me, so everything around is clothed in shadows. Concentrate. I need to get upstairs, although how I’ll manage that I have no idea. The closer I get to the staircase, the brighter it is and the clearer I can see the damage ten years of neglect have wrought upon it. The ballustrade - an obsolete word if I ever saw one - is missing in several places, and the stairs themselves don’t look like they can support much weight.

Something shifts in the darkness and I tense immediately, every muscle ready to fight. If the Marines taught me one thing, it was how to respond to a sudden attack. Part one: pinpoint location. The shift came in a shadow by the back of the library, where I’d come in from. Probably a recent arrival, trying to be quiet. I curse in my head as I realize that the assailant is between me and the weapons bag - I'm going to need to get that back somehow. Part two: mark exits/exit strategies. This one is trickier, the only exit I know of aside from the window - two stories up - is effectively blocked by the assailant. If I tip over a bookshelf though, I could loop around enough that I would be reasonably safe unless the assailant doubles back as well, which is unlikely. That way I can pick up the bag as I leave as well. The other option is to use my firearm, but the limited supply of ammo makes that a last-resort strategy. Part three: understand assailant. They are still hiding, unwilling to show themselves. They might be someone just looking for somewhere out of the wind to sleep, and scared witless by the armed ex-army type haunting the building. Or they could be one of Lionel Banks’ crew, looking to gain some extra points by taking me out. Another Marine training kicked in - assume the worst - and I began to move towards one of the bookshelves. Push over the bookshelf to block the path, move around to the other side of the room, grab the bag and exit through the back of the library. Simple enough, and the commotion with the bookcase should draw the assailant’s attention away from my other activites.

When I move, I move fast. I had already knocked over the bookshelf and started running when I heard a scream and a surprised voice behind me.

“Sergeant Kirkland, is that you?”

I pause, because I know that voice. I’d have thought he was back at camp by now.

“Felix?”

He steps carefully out from behind the overturned bookcase. His hair and eyebrows are completely covered in the sticky dust kicked up by the commotion, giving him a comically surprised expression. “Sergeant! I’m so glad I found you.”

“Felix. What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you. You’ve been gone a long time. I got back to the camp with the rest of them, but... ”

I supress a sigh. “But you figured I might need help.”

He looks awkwardly at his torn and ratty sneakers. “Well, yes. It’s like you said. We’re all worth more than a bunch of rubble, and you’re for sure worth more than whatever you’re looking for. We need you alive if we’re going to face Banks and his gang.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that you’re looking out for your teammates - that’s what we should all be doing. But I don’t need help. That’s not how I operate.” I turn away.

“You want to get up those stairs and you don’t need help?” I can’t see him, but Felix’s tone is laced with disbelief and goddammit, he’s right. I do need the help. Felix could get up to the second floor in a heartbeat, whereas my climb could take hours. And by that time, it might be too late.

I turn back to Felix and say, “Okay. You want to help? Up on that floor is an atlas section with a big table. I heard - never mind how” I add as he opens his mouth to ask, “that there’s a book up there we can use. The title is Historical Sketches of the L.A. Area. It was one of the rarer ones, so it should be protected in a glass case. Get the book, get back down, and we get out as quickly as possible. Got it?”

Felix’s eyes are shining and I start to wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. “Of course Sergeant! I’ll be right back.” And he is away, scrambling up a bookcase by the side of the room.

I carefully lean back against the wall, wincing as I flex my shoulder. It must have turned the wrong way when I pushed that bookcase over. Felix has made it halfway up to the second floor, carefully pulling himself up hand over hand. Even in normal times he would be slim, but the hardship of surviving has made him practically invisible sideways. He would have been thirteen when the disaster struck, about to encounter high school for the first time. Grand dreams of-

"Felix?" I call up to him. "What did you want to major in?"

He looks down. "Space technology. I was going to send people to Mars."

The matter-of-fact way he said was going to broke my heart. To have to give up on your dreams at thirteen, to throw away everything you were told would happen. His voice is so hollow, so realistic. I shake my head. All of this and he still came back to help an old man because he believed it was right. For a moment I see me through his eyes. Nearly twice his age, twice his weight, with guarded blue eyes and experiences that he can't comprehend. Sandy hair cut short in respect to an organization long since defunct.

Would he even know what to think of my tours in Afghanistan? My silver star? These things are of a past so distant, even I sometimes forget what they used to mean. I suppose all he sees is a battered, scarred old man with an ancient history. I've heard the younger ones whispering at night - it makes me laugh every time they tell another story about how I got my scars. An assasination attempt. A fight to the death at sea. Sometimes even I can't remember which are real.

But every time I see his storm-grey eyes looking at me with hope I remember why I'm doing this. Why I fight. First chance I get, I'll have to give him some lessons on sneaking up on people.

“Be careful Felix,” I mutter under my breath. “Someday your generation will inherit the world. I’d rather you be around to experience it.”