A long equation of letters.

“Okay.” The medic said. He continued to stare out the window at the city. The empty city. The quiet city. The somber city with its glass and concrete fingers that reached desperately up into the sky. He couldn’t tell if the sun had started to set. It was dark. Every day was dark. It was always dark.

“I’ve heard enough.”

“And, uh,” the man said, stifling a cough. “It’s like I was saying. We’re just looking to stay for the night. A couple days at most. Just until, you know.” He nodded toward the sleeping boy in the corner. The man looked tired. Frail in the candlelight. His thinning hair and the bags under his eyes made him look so much older than he was. Or probably was.

Actually, the medic thought, he’s probably pretty old. He looked over the father again.

The man wrung his hands silently. His eyelids dropped and he shook himself awake. The last couple of weeks had not been easy on him. He looked so tired just sitting there, as if the effort of sitting up and staying awake came at a tremendous cost to his body. He was exhausted. So tired. So pale.

So sick.

The medic watched him, hefting the pistol in his hand. Cradling. Contemplating.

“And, uh, I don’t remember if I told you or not,” the man said, extending his hand across the table. “But I’m Roger. And my boy is Taylor.” He held his hand out for a while before setting it back down on the table. His eyes dropped.

“I know who you are.” The medic said.

The man seemed genuine. His story was consistent. He was eager to join in and help. Eager to survive. The light flickered and danced on the table with every breath the men took. The medic leaned back in his chair, shooting a quick glance at the woman. She leaned against the wall, watching from the shadows.

Her hand rested comfortably on her hip, a finger’s length away from the pistol that hung from her belt.

The medic looked over at the boy, huddled under a pile of jackets and blankets. Shivering. With fever. The boy and the father had nothing with them save for the blanket they carried. They had no supplies. No water, no food, no medicine.

No weapons.

The medic stood from his chair and took a deep breath. He looked down at the man. Into his desperate eyes. He forced a smile.

The father sighed, relieved. “Oh thank you.” He said. “We’ll—“

“No,” the medic said. “You can’t come with us.” Behind him, the woman stepped away from the wall, hands disappearing in the dark. He raised his pistol. “Show me your arm.”

The man stared at him, eyes flicking around the room. “What? Why?”

“Now.” The gun clicked as he released the safety.

The man began to push away from the table. The chair squeaked against the floor. “Please,” he begged. “Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean to. We’ll just go. We’ll leave now.”

The medic stepped around the table. “Show me your arm.”

The man cowered on his chair, tears streaming down his ashen face as he pulled up his sleeve. His forearm was discolored with subtle shades of purple and blue and red. He dropped his sleeve down again without revealing the full extent of his wound. His head fell into his hands and he sobbed. “I’m so sorry. Please let us go.”

“Isaac,” the woman whispered, stepping away from the table. Her bony fingers wrapped around the pistol comfortably.

“I know.” The medic said.

There was a flash of light and a loud retort as he pulled the trigger. The pistol shuddered in his hand with a confident pop and a brass shell clattered away. The man slumped over without a sound. It’s not worth a follow up, Isaac thought. The medic stepped over the body and made his way to the corner. Each step was deliberate. Each boot step echoed with a dull thud, and the rubble beneath his feet crackled quietly. The boy had not moved from his position. In fact, the boy wasn’t moving anymore. Isaac kicked away the pile of clothes to reveal the child.

“Lillian,” he said, motioning for her to come.

As she approached him, the medic lifted the boy’s shirt, revealing a large festering wound—a gash across the young boy’s belly. Torn, Isaac thought. And bitten. And not well bandaged. He looked up at the woman, who stared down with her hand over her mouth.

“Both of them,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” He said.

“Both of them.” She turned away, zipping up her jacket again. “No more, Isaac. No more people.” She paused at the top of the stairs and waited for him to join her.

He stood slowly and raised his pistol again. Another one. He squeezed off the shot and holstered the gun. He lingered for a moment. Blood began to seep through the blankets and curled around his feet like crimson tendrils. It wasn’t fair.

“No more people.” He muttered.

There was blood on his shoes. There was always blood on his shoes.