The Homeless Man pushed his cart into an alley adjacent the now wrecked on-way ramp leading to the freeway. Up above, the sky was a deep gray, pregnant with a downpour, he guessed. Not wasting any time the Homeless Man reached into the cart and withdrew a rolled up tent. It was military style with camo print. Just as he finished pitching the tent the first fat drops of rain began to patter on the Homeless Man’s cap. Before retreating into the tent with his mostly intact sleeping bag, the Homeless Man took in the alley surrounding him. High black walls made slick with the rain, several empty trash cans and one dumpster on its side (though still closed).
A rattle. Then a thud. The Homeless Man heard something come from the direction of the dumpster. Pay it no mind, he thought to himself while keeping his hand on his hunting rifle. Zipping up the tent the Homeless Man settled into his sleeping bag.
“Hmm…” he murmured. Something felt wrong. Tiny objects were poking in his back from beneath the tent and through the sleeping bag. The Homeless Man reached a hand out and felt on the floor of the tent. Then, he extended his hand through a hole at the base of the tent and pinched one of the objects.
It was a spent bullet casing. As he was examining it, the rains started to intensify, pounding at the already weathered tent with an increasingly fierce tempo.
But within all that noise, there was something else. A shuffling and something slapping on the wet asphalt.
The Homeless Man chalked it up to some animal passing by or some Raider Survivor group foraging for food or shelter.
He was half-right.
Just as the Homeless Man was about to close his eyes and cling to the little warmth his body in the sleeping bag had produced, one sound separated itself from the rest.
The squeaking of bad wheels.
In a flourish, the Homeless Man rushed out of his sleeping bag, ripping it significantly in the process. He cursed. Looking to his side he grabbed at his rifle and threw open the flap of the tent.
Outside the tent, the rains were merciless. Almost a soft hailstorm. But even with the downpour the Homeless Man was able to see a form retreating in the distance beneath the once grand superstructure of the freeway. Glancing, he confirmed his suspicions. His cart, his lifeline, was gone.
He breathed. The mist hung heavily feeling as if it was weighing down his beard. The Homeless Man ran off into the rain not even bothering to get his tent or sleeping bag.
The thief had a big head start, and with this weather and the winds beginning to kick up, the Homeless Man couldn’t rely on his rifle to bring an early end to the chase.
Following in pursuit, the Homeless Man ducked under the freeway onramp and into the dark region beneath it. The area was black and musty and the air smelled stale and stagnant. Bits of collapsed pillars were strewn here and there on what once was grass but was now only charred black to match the surroundings. Up above, tiny shafts of light (and rain) fell through the ceiling. Each individual drop echoed like a cannon shot. But above the din of the drops, the Homeless Man was able to make out the noise of his cart being rolled. From what he could guess, whoever had stolen his cart didn’t think to stay on the asphalt as opposed to going on charred grass.
Huffing and puffing the Homeless Man ran through the darkness, squinting only under the shafts of light. He held his rifle in front of him, doing his best not to stumble or trip on any of the stones or overgrown weeds popping out of the ground.
It was frantic. Like being lost in a shattering house of mirrors. Three times the Homeless Man thought he had the thief cornered only to discover a dead end or large pit. Craning his neck and closing his eyes to focus his hearing, he would pick up the squeaking sound again and take off after it. After a few attempts, the Homeless Man was sure he was getting closer as he began to hear the struggling gasps and labored breathing of the thief.
Eventually, the pair emerged from beneath the elevated freeway and into the rain. The Homeless Man was surprised that he was as close as he was to the thief. He still couldn’t quite make out who he was chasing, could’ve been anything, man, woman, anything in between?
Gulping down air and having the breath catch in his throat, the Homeless Man suppressed the tiny amount of bile that rose in the back of his throat and raised his rifle to his eye. Through the shaky view of the lens he could see the thief pushing the cart with all of the strength he could muster. Now on the asphalt the thief (obviously younger than the Homeless Man) could put much more distance between himself and his pursuer.
Stopping so short that he could hear his boots slide and wheeze a little on the slippery and cracked pavement, the Homeless Man steadied his aim and centered the reticule of the cracked lens over the back of the thief.
He pulled the trigger.
Shoving aside the constraints of time and distance, the bullet flew from the rifle and blasted through the left shoulder of the thief. The thief cried out and fell to one knee. He began to struggle back to his feet and continued pushing the cart (with significantly less vigor now). Despite the rain and the still considerable distance between the two, the Homeless Man took his time with his next shot. Steady, aim, bang.
This time, the back of the thief’s left leg blew out, splattering velvet fluid on the asphalt ground, only to be quickly diluted by the constant rain. Reduced to one leg the thief hobbled as best he could with the cart.
Expending the used shells the Homeless Man reloaded, taking his time about it, sliding each bullet from his bandolier slowly and carefully. He then took aim again and fired, this time getting the thief in the back, not quite hitting the spine. Clinging to the cart as it was now the only thing keeping him off the ground, the thief began to give under the wear and the rain. Struggling for a few moments, the thief fell to one, then both knees. His hands shaking, blue, and pale from the blood loss the thief lost his grip on the carts handlebar completely and fell to the ground.
The Homeless Man slowly approached, hobbling a bit himself from the chase. From his perspective the collapsed thief looked like a bundle of black rags with boots sticking out at odd angles.
Taking off his cap to let the cold rain fall on him and cool him down, the Homeless Man replaced his cap and cocked his rifle.
Giving the body a good kick, the thief’s eyes opened with a start and he gasped.
Looking down at the face, the Homeless Man surmised that the man was barely out of his teens, maybe sixteen or even fifteen.
“Whuh…” he said, his onyx eyes darting this way and that until they finally rested on the Homeless Man. “Y-you s-s-shot m-me…” the thief stuttered between shivers. The Homeless Man could see his face going ashen, the breath quickly leaving him.
“You took my cart.” the Homeless Man said. The thief began acting like a fish, his breath locking and unlocking.
“I needed it.” he said.
“I need it.” the Homeless Man responded.
The two stared at each other, the living looking into the dieing and vice versa. Acting on an impulse that could’ve only been triggered by a long suppressed memory, the Homeless Man knelt by the head of the thief and tucked one hand under his head. Lifting it gently neither the pursuer nor the prey noticed the knit wool cap (long since soaked by the rain) slip off the thief’s head and reveal stringy, inky black hair that cascaded and spread on the wet asphalt.
He held the thief like this for a while. The pitter patter of the rain did not cease. It reminded him of a time when bullets rained from a sky reddened by man. And he held someone like this. He remembered that he was thirsty.
“Are you…thirsty?” the Homeless Man asked the thief. The thief could only gasp and sputter in response. The Homeless Man reached to his side and unlatched an empty canteen. Unscrewing the cap, he held it above his head and let the rain collect in it. Then, when it was half full he slowly brought the lip of the canteen’s neck to the thief’s lips.
His eyes shaking, the thief didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Couldn’t understand that the Homeless Man was looking through him, at a time when the sky was still somewhat clear, when the pillars of smoke hadn’t quite enveloped the sky. When someone’s child had died.
The water spilled from the canteen and poured into the thief’s mouth, and also down his chin and cheeks.
After a few seconds the Homeless Man withdrew the canteen when he noticed the thief had stopped shaking. His face was stuck in open mouth awe, the same look that the child had had, the same look that crossed the faces of those who entered the valley of the giants.
The Homeless Man lowered the thief’s head to the concrete. He then extended his rag wrapped hand and closed the thief’s now unblinking eyes.
Using the rifle as a crutch, the Homeless Man rose to his feet. Dropping the gun in the cart, he set off back the way came. The rains intensified.
…

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