The Nomad

The Nomad

Everything was to be burned in the fire.

The backpack was wearing on him now and the straps gripped his shoulders as if pleading. He ran his fingers under the straps and hoisted it up, readjusting, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing.

The street was a slow-moving current of people on either side of a deafening traffic jam. He pushed and squeezed past the crowd of shoppers who paid no attention, who barely shifted their fixed gaze on their phones. The evening was grey and so were the buildings save for the peeling storefront signs that hung lifeless at their base. Rain battered signs that were washed of color and seldom a marquee that fluttered in the weak sea breeze. Steam hissed into the air from the alleyways of restaurants and people coughed and choked and spluttered behind their surgical masks.

The cafe was missable save its flickering red neon sign on the window and he shouldered past a group of smokers who circled the door. He entered the shop and swung his backpack into his hands and found a quiet corner, the only quiet corner, and sat. The couch was old and worn and for a second he thought he would keep sinking into its cracked leather and disappear from the world completely. 

Rummaging through his pack, he pulled his laptop from his bag and squinted through the vape smoke which hung heavy in the air for a wifi password. It was chalked on a blackboard by the counter, at least partially chalked, obscuring gradually as the digits ran on. 

He waved to a young waiter who was serving a father and son at the next table and asked her to call out the password if she happened to know it by heart.

She said she did surely know it by heart because she gives it to every customer, sometimes twice.

Perfect, he said and unlocked his laptop, readying his fingers and looking back at her. She was young, around his age, and her eyes brown. He couldn’t tell exactly from the mask but she looked familiar. He nodded his head to her but she continued to stare back.

Can I get that password? He asked.

Aye. All customers can get it.

Right. Go for it, I’m ready.

Customers being the operative word, she said, and took her pen and notepad from her pocket.

He signed and looked at the menu which lay flat on the checkered tablecloth. It was sticky in his fingers. He ordered a latte and she traded him the password.

He deactivated everything. Every platform he’d ever used, every email address. He’d made a list at home yet still found new memories in his head of obscure websites he’d signed up for. By the time he was done the latte was cold and untouched and he pushed it aside. Snapping the laptop shut, he drove it back into his bag and made his way towards the door. As he reached for the handle he saw a pair of young teenagers sitting by the window. Behind them, the bustle of city life flowed past, and specks of rain were tapping gently on the glass. The nearest kid was skinny and through great circular glasses, he was reading.

McCandless? Killian said to him with his hand on the door.

The kid looked around. Yeah, he said. 

Good book, Killian said, and he turned out into the street. The kid looked back at his friend and shrugged his shoulders. 

The alleyway was darker than the others and on either side, the buildings rose into the clouds. He walked deeper into it, past the overflowing bins and further from the hum of people. By an escape door was a large man with his hood up and Killian approached him. 

216, Killian said. In the gloomy light, the bulky man looked down at him, then lent a glance either way up and down the alley.

Are you sure you don’t want extra magazines?

I’m sure. I have no more money.

The man pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket and handed it to Killian, who swiftly turned and left the way he came. 

The fire crackled on the grass and he fed it with twigs and branches. A line of trees spurted along the embankment and leaned over the river to his left. To his right was a sea of fields. A farmer sat smoking from a tractor which rumbled along at a snail's pace up and down a wheat field. The light of day was fading fast and the fire rose as he unzipped his rucksack. 

He set pages on top of the flames and they curled in the white heat before dissolving into blackness. Then his phone, it made a loud popping noise a few seconds after the flames engulfed it. He looked to the field and the farmer droned along, content.

The laptop hissed at the base of the fire but didn’t make a pop at all and it seemed to him as if it were glad to melt into the embers. The plastic casing twisted into wild shapes as the blue flames caught it. 

He unzipped the backpack after double-checking he had his cash envelope, pistol, hunting knife, and food rations. 

As the fire sparked and crackled and lowered to the ground he closed his eyes and breathed in the air. Many things came across his mind at this moment. His mother, for one. Would she survive alone with his father? Would his little brother have the power to stop his rampages? Should he have left her at all? 

He shook the thoughts away and rose to his feet before the guilt found purchase and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back into the city. He looked once more over the fields and could see the city skyline in the distance, the great tips of the buildings rising over the trees. Before he could change his mind, he was gone.

It was dark by the time he made it to the bridge, and he trekked confidently along the road and disappeared into the unknown land.