Volume 1: Theo's Story

THE HOST FROM THE SOUTH

Theo’s Story

It had been a transient town, a slum cityscape bordering the city proper. On the west side, where the university was located, sat the youthful ghetto. Living in carved up relics of the American Dream built post-war, collegiates intermingled with the working class who fled their hometowns in hopes of siphoning a little of their peers’ experience. Yet after spending a few years in chaotic freedom, the two groups would look on the destruction they had wrought and feel disgust at the state of affairs in the town they’d never felt responsible for. It was then another mass exodus: those moving onwards and upwards, those returning home and those going to reestablish themselves in another suburb not unlike the one they had originally shunned. Afterwards, the landowners would descend from their ivory towers downtown or their hidden developments, the location known only to them, to repair as little as possible and sell to the optimistic and newly freed youth. The cycle would restart.

Even with the constant upheaval in populace, a few souls found hearth and home in this town. One group were the remnants of the generation that had built the town, as much and as little relics as their churches and businesses and homes. Time was not on their side, however, and the landowners waited with greedy anticipation for their passing. But another group existed, one of youthful enterprise who saw this town for what it was and what it could be and felt a necessity in seeing its revitalization. One of these few, a man of humble greatness, was Theo.

Theo was rich, it was his defining characteristic as well as his greatest burden. While rich is a relative term, Theo was the undeniably wealthy type. He grew up seeing his last name on street signs, buildings and during congressional hearings. His father was an important businessman and a politician’s politician: unseen by the public, renowned to those in the know, and content in the smoky backrooms. Theo’s life was played out before he was even born. His schooling was built on the foundations of generations of power and his playmates were carefully chosen among those destined to be movers and shakers in the world.

That control placed on his life led to his inevitable rebellion the moment the opportunity arose. It was at public school, the state university (bitter words to his parents) where he finally found what he had been looking for.

His father, also a Theodore, who considered himself of a more liberal mindset than his peers, acknowledged and even encouraged his son’s rebellious attitude. He firmly believed that in letting the leftist streak run its course, his son would eventually find more sensibility in conservative thought, or at least a more moderate one. His elder sister Sarah would secretly chime in that it was not sense that would be his downfall; disillusionment kills the idealist.

Wherever his path may lead, Theo took comfort in his faith that the forces that drove him were righteous and selfless. It would take the apocalypse to shake his beliefs. He spoke those words in jest, but they rang true as the end approached. For he could not find confidence in any of his new “friends” or, as father would say, his new-age, fair-weather societal climbers. The only eyes he could truly look upon were the snarled, cynical ones of Greg.

To describe Greg as an old friend would be misleading. They had shared a friendship at the start of their new lives, two young kids from similar backgrounds, just enough to satiate loneliness but not enough to foster lasting companionship. Time and choices had led them apart, yet the hour of their doom brought them together again. Some things could only be shared within the same society.

Greg took a long draw on his cigarette before starting, “When did they leave?”

“Two days ago.”

“Not invited?”

“No, no, I was, but I’m not going. This is more my home than ‘home’ ever was.”

“I guess. I understand, I do, but I still think you are a damn fool for not going.”

“Yea? What about you? Why aren‘t you on the way to paradise?”

“Oh, but I am. I figure I’ve got a good two weeks in me before I’m chatting up St. Peter.”

“Hilarious. In all seriousness though, where’d your family get relocated to?”

“Some island or other in the Caribbean, I really don’t know or care.”

“Not invited?”

“I was, but call me a cynic, I don’t trust the government to take care of us. The way I see it, they’re running off to die in a nicer place than this, which I guess I get, but…I don’t know. I figure people here have more… fight in them.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Greg paused and chuckled. “Sorry, man, that I cannot say.”

“Secrets, secrets are no fun.”

“Again, I’m sorry. All I can offer you is good luck.”

“You too.” They shook hands and parted, Greg to his friends and Theo to his.

***

Maybe he didn‘t know the city as well as he thought, Theo brooded. He looked out at the host before him and not one face was familiar. Granted they were rotten, mutilated and otherwise disfigured, but he hoped that at least one would bear some memory, some spark to enable pleasant rumination. The outside offered little beyond disgust, so Theo returned to the inside of the house that was not his.

How he had obtained this particular address, Theo couldn’t say. In fact, his first memory after surviving the initial night was waking in pain, curled in a ball and covered in his own vomit in unfamiliar surroundings. Who the owner might have been wasn’t Theo’s immediate concern. In fact, many of the things that should have been of concern were forgotten. Instead, he hunted for cleaning supplies to remove the sizable impression laid upon the carpet. In Theo’s mind, when this unfortunate situation inevitably came to an end, the previous occupant would perfectly understand him living there, but that was no excuse for messiness.

The owner had left that morning with what Theo perceived as the last clean pair of clothes in the house. Rifling through the rooms eventually led Theo to a closet housing two winter coats and a suit. The suit itself was stylish, tasteful, expensive and was only slightly on the large side. Theo dressed in anticipation for his own demise, which was not nearly as melancholy an affair as it would seem.

Mixing himself a martini and stumbling upon a box of fine cigars, Theo pulled a comfortable chair onto the second floor balcony, which overlooked the main street, and got properly sloshed while waiting for the army or whoever to come save him. Days passed and no one came. Theo’s hope dwindled in proportion to his alcohol. Yet, at the juncture where despair is imminent, fortune generally favors the disheartened and so it was for Theo.

Their approach was heralded by music, and what sweet music it was. What followed next was a surreal parade scaling the rooftops across the street with practiced skill. With makeshift bridges and ladders, timely jumps, and careful planning, the group crossed with ease and swiftness. It was an wondrous sight.

Recovering from his initial awe, Theo burst out of his chair and tried to draw the crowds attention. Finally, a man who was a little worse for wear turned to Theo. He had a rifle strung over his shoulder.

Theo giddily waved. “Am I glad to see you!”

“And why’s that?”

It was an odd response but, undeterred, Theo responded. “Because you’re alive!”

The man patted himself down. “Why yes. Yes I am. Are you?” He leveled his gun at Theo. The conversation was sharply spiraling downwards.

An older female rushed forward and moved the gunner along. In his place, an aged gentleman stepped forward.

“I need to apologize for my compatriot here, he‘s never been much of a people person.” He had an amiable laugh that set Theo at ease. “I, on the other hand, have always considered myself a gregarious individual.”

Theo happily introduced himself and noticed the man was dressed in all black, but with an unmistakable white accessory. “Are you a priest?”

The man laughed again and responded, “Well, I imagine it depends on your definition of a priest.” It was an evasive answer, but the man had such an affable nature it was almost impossible to find him untrustworthy.

“A man of God,” Theo responded firmly.

“Well, I am certainly a man of God, so yes, I guess I am.” He spun around, proudly displaying the white cross painted across that back of his coat. He bowed down and introduced himself. “My name is Thomas, Father Thomas to you, leader of this ragged band.”

“It is truly a pleasure sir. I was just about to give up hope.”

Father Thomas shook his head in understanding. “Hope is our greatest commodity in a time like this. What were you losing hope of exactly?”

“Rescue, of course!”

Father Thomas winced, it wasn’t a good sign. “I’m sorry, I will not be able to help you.”

Theo‘s heart sank. “But, you have guns! Give me time to come over to you!”

“It is true we have plenty of guns, but bullets we lack. I guess hope isn’t the only thing in short supply.” He gave a warm smile to ease Theo. It didn’t work.

“You have plenty of people!”

“I cannot risk the lives of the people who put their trust in me. You must understand.”

“But..”

He turned to walk away.

“What do I do now?”

Father Thomas turned back and pointed to the sky. “Have faith and keep up hope. I’ll pray for you.” Without any further delay, he turned and continued with his people. Soon they were all out of sight.

Prayer. Theo slumped back in his chair. It was time to break out the tequila.

***

Theo slowly drifted back into consciousness. Daylight was on the wane, but it was still far too bright out to be awake. Someone was yelling at him from across the street, but that didn’t make much sense, so Theo turned face downwards in his chair and once again passed out.

A sharp pain pierced his backside, almost like a bee sting. He leapt out of the chair with a yelp and turned to see three men on the roof across the way. The two that Theo did not recognize were waving at him. The third was the gunman who was shooed away earlier. He was sitting huddled on the roof.

The one on the right, brandishing a small rifle, yelled out, “Relax its just a BB. Had to get you up somehow.”

“What the fuck do you want?” It was harsh, but Theo was in no mood to deal with anyone at the moment.

The man on the left addressed the question. “We’ve been trying to get your attention for a couple hours now. We need your help.”

Theo decided to hear them out. “What happened to the rest of your group?”

The man with the BB gun spoke again. “Kid, it’s a long story that we just don’t have time for.”

His friend continued. “We need to get over to you. All you need to do is unblock your front door and be prepared to let us in. Simple as that.”

Theo openly laughed at his request. “You didn’t help me earlier, why should I help you?”

The two men debated for a second and the one on the left spoke first. “We can either help each other out or we will all end up dead. Think about it.”

“On the contrary, I will be perfectly safe in my little home away from home here. You three will be shit out of luck.” Theo turned to walk away.

“Kid!” The man on the right held a bottle in his hand. “This is a Molotov cocktail. I was going to use these to carve a nice little path across the street. But since you are being a little bastard, I will happily use these to burn your smug ass out of that house.”

Theo called his bluff. “You wouldn’t dare.”

A tense few minutes of arguing, threats and compromises passed and Theo backed down. The man on the left instructed Theo to go downstairs and have the door ready to open the minute he heard a knock.

Theo waited patiently, if bitterly, by the door for any sign of action on the outside. The silence was unbearable. Suddenly, the street outside came to life with the sounds of breaking glass, roaring fires, and gunfire. He braced himself against the door, his fingers on the deadbolt. The knock came.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he even really wanted to open the door.

“Kid!” A voice was heard on through the door. Theo did not budge.

The knocking continued, each rap louder and more forceful. There was panic in the knocking and desperation in the plea.

“Open the fucking door! Kid!” Theo started to back away from the door. Fuck them.

There was a quick exchange outside and the knocking was replaced by the sound of the men trying to kick their way in.

Theo unlocked the door.

The three men charged into the house, slamming and locking the door behind them. The man who had been on the right started moving furniture in front of the door as a barricade. The man who had been slumped on the rooftop resumed the position in the corner. He didn‘t look well at all. The man who had been on the left approached Theo with fire in his eyes. He wound back his arm and threw a punch. Theo collapsed to the floor.

He awoke with a jolt, his arms outstretched for a fight. His jaw hurt like hell. The man who had initially shot him with a pellet was sitting there smoking. He walked over and helped Theo up. The other two were nowhere to be seen. “You’ve got brass balls, and a vengeful streak. I respect that. My friends went on ahead, I decided to stay to see if you were alright.”

The man stuck out his hand in introduction. Theo looked down at it and back up defiantly. He refused to speak a word.

The man continued anyway. “I understand you’re pissed. It’s alright. They call me Ike. I have something I wanted to give you before I went on my way.”

He unzipped a large duffle bag that looked stuffed with whatever was in there. Ike combed through the bag, glancing at Theo and back again every now and then with an indecisive look on his face. Ike gave a satisfied grunt and pulled a handgun out.

“My gift to you, kid.”

“What would you have me do with this?”

Ike shrugged. “Shoot stuff?”

“I’m serious.”

“Maybe you should save it for yourself, you know, just in case.” He laughed, but it was countered by a gloomy undertone that was unmistakably serious. “I mean, we all deserve an option, right?”

Theo didn’t say anything; he just stood stupidly, holding the gun. Ike climbed the stairs after his fellows. He turned back one last time and gave a small wave, as if saying “good luck, kid,” with all the well wishes and doubt involved.