I Didn't Really Know Him

#1

((Leander Van Vliet continued from Nerves Of The Ocean Shores))

Did this count as nothing?

Leander slowly tucked the shotgun into his backpack. It was an awkward fit, the back of the stock protruding through where the zippers met, but it would do until he got out of the open and could set to work fabricating a sling. Extricating it from the boy's grasp had been slightly tricky and significantly more unpleasant, and he'd felt guilty the whole time. Grabbing a gun from a fallen comrade in the heat of battle was one thing, but looting the dead like a scavenger was another. It felt dirty, cowardly, disrespectful.

It actually felt worse than if he'd done the deed himself. At least then it would've been a prize he'd earned. As it was, he'd done nothing except be loosely in the area. He hadn't even had to watch. Once he'd gotten to a vantage point to see the crumpled form, he'd lurked for a long time, five minutes or ten, waiting to see if anyone would come, but nobody had. The two from before must have either been too far gone to hear, or have decided they wanted nothing to do with mysterious gunfire. He didn't blame them, though the lack of curiosity had in this case been foolish.

It was strange. All that time spent wondering if he was being tested, if the signs were adding up to something or other, and in the end Leander had been rewarded for choking. He had the extra weapon and ammunition and supplies that he'd wanted, and he hadn't had to kill anybody for them. The dead body at his feet had almost nothing to do with him, physical proximity aside. The minutes he'd spent watching it through the scope had let him take in the details, but it didn't quite feel real. This was a guy he'd seen moving around, talking, doing human things. They'd locked eyes, though only Leander had ever known it. And now he was dead and there was no telling what his name had been.

Maybe things could've been different. Maybe they should've. There was this ripple of guilt in Leander, like if he'd stepped out and waved perhaps he could have prevented this. But for all he knew, the guy was unstable and would've opened fire on him. It could've been two bodies in the sand.

It didn't matter. It didn't mean anything. Nothing at all, except that Leander had a shotgun and a sniper rifle and double rations, double first aid kits, two flashlights. He was locked and loaded. There was no telling what was lying in store for him still, but he had seen two guns in his time here and he had both of them now. His chances had to be pretty good.

It was just sort of upsetting how that came to be. That was all. Watching someone from a distance, wondering about them, making up little character traits and details even while trying to decide whether or not to kill them... it made facing the actual death strangely affecting.

There was a lesson to be learned here. He'd been too passive, observed too long. He'd let himself be drawn in. It was a mistake, and he would do well not to repeat it.

Leander looked at the body again, looked at its empty hands, that basic white t-shirt that had earned his judgement before, the halo of blood and bone. Then he zipped the bag open again for a moment, and he got out the BigG, and he laid it gently on the boy's chest. As if that meant something.

"Hey, man," he said, softly. "I'm..."

His lips pressed close together. This was meaningless. Far too late.

"Leander," he continued. "I'm Leander. Nice to meet you. Sorry it was, you know... like this."

He shrugged. He wasn't looking so much at the body now, but not because it was distressing—it was, but he'd watched it through the scope long enough to burn away the worst of that.

"I guess it's..."

He trailed off.

"I don't know. Rest well. See you around."

He'd wanted to put a coin on the boy too, Charon's obol, something traditional that wasn't a sign of bad luck, but his pockets had been emptied and his wallet was gone. It was frustrating and uncomfortable.

He shrugged again, and considered trying to arrange the body more nicely, but all that would do would be to get blood on him, and he'd managed to avoid that so far. And he didn't know the guy. The conversation had been one-sided.

He wanted to add something. A compliment for the boy's bravery. A promise to tell his family what happened. Something heartfelt and meaningful, but there was nothing because this was nothing—a stranger had died and Leander had been close enough to hear the noise, and he'd spied for a while and then swooped in to take his stuff. That was it.

He raised his fingers to his forehead, gave a casual salute, and turned back to the treeline, breaking into a brisk walk. Who knew who else had rifles like his, after all?

And still, something lingered over him that didn't feel quite right.

((Leander Van Vliet continued in Chupa-Chupa))