Rooster (Chapter 3)

Chapter 3
         Though the sting of sweat in Titus' eyes aided in the malignant feeling of exhaustion, the wind would occasionally coat his face with subtle relief. The junkyard was loudly quiet. The only sounds to break the tension of nothingness are the sounds of howling wind and occasional scream courtesy of the mentally ill or victimized inmates. When no companion is present, and when no settlement is in sight, the silence leaves room for nothing but thoughts to swim around in one's mind. In the case of Titus, the thoughts inhabiting his mind are the words of Sloan, "Walk till there's no more fence." With this thought in mind, Titus would turn around every few minutes to see what he could see. While not plain as day, Titus could still see a rough image of a fence. Despite attempting to count his steps to figure out how long he had been walking, he lost count around step four hundred. Titus stopped walking, worried he would faint. As he sat on the ground, another thought entered his mind. These mountains of trash and old artifacts seem to have been pushed in a certain way to allow the forming of simple roads. As he examined these roads, Titus noticed a sign in the shape of an arrow that read "Preachers Town".
After resting for only a minute, Titus lifted himself off the ground and followed the arrow.
         After walking 200 steps Titus arrived at what looked like a town. The town boasted three buildings, constructed of plywood, and patched up with cardboard. The only other visual that stood out was the burned-down shack. Titus noticed the building Nearest him had a sign on the front door that read "McTell's". Titus walked in and was greeted with stares from the three people that sat in there. The room looked like a bar from the mid-180s but was mostly made from strong cardboard and plywood building. The ceiling had a consistent shower of leakage, with buckets placed throughout the floor to contain the water droplets. "What brings you in, stranger," said an African American man, wiping a glass cup with a cloth behind the counter. Titus began to ask, "Are you M. C. T. E-", The man interrupted, "McTell?" Titus then shrugged. "Is that the guy's name on the sign?" said Titus. "I can see they didn't just throw you in here because we share the same skin color. No, I'm not McTell." The tilt of the head and the bend of the eyebrow from Titus indicated he was confused. "Throw me in here for sharing your skin color?" Titus asked. The man walked over to Titus and gestured at the nearest seat. "Take a seat friend." The man and Titus sat at a table together. "I assume you were greeted at the front gate by someone, correct?" asked the man. "Yes" answered Titus. "Did he tell you why you were there?" he asked. Titus paused for a moment to collect his thoughts on the man at the gate. "I think something about intellect and not looking like I'm supposed to," said Titus. "It seems that you don't understand what's going on, or you haven't stopped to think about it." After saying those words, the man gestured at a Caucasian person sitting at the bar to come to sit with them. "This, right here, is my friend Jason. If you notice, his skin is a little lighter than mine, and people would call him white. My skin happens to be a little bit darker, and most people would call me black. This is called a race. All through history people like me have been mistreated because of their skin tone, or race, that they have. It just so happens that you also have that darker skin color and the government decided one day we shouldn't be allowed to live the lives that white people lived. Instead, what they did is they took people that look like us, along with people called gay, mentally challenged, disturbed, and criminal, and they restricted us to this big junkyard. But this isn't just any junkyard. Before humans were cast out here, the government used this place to dispose of any historical or art-related items. Statues, pianos, paintings, and many more things were thrown in this place, so the masses could stay uninspired and loyal to the government." After hearing all of this, Titus looked down at his hands and arms, viewing himself as if he had just noticed his physical body for the first time. A mixture of confusion and resentment built up on his face as he clenched his fist. He took a deep breath and said, "Thank you for telling me, whoever you are." The man spoke with a smile "My name is Son." Titus then asked, "If you're not McTell, then where is he?" Son laughed and said, "Luckily, he's dead. That evil bastard had it comin'. He made fun of a guy for thinking their broom was their wife. McTell called the poor guy's 'wife' ugly and so the man strangled him."
         Just after their conversation came to a close and they both sat in the silence of the moment, the sound of the main bar door could be heard swinging open with rage. "I'm looking for McTell." Spoke a hoarse, deep voice. Titus darted his head toward the door, along with everyone else. The man was a skyscraper amongst the rest of them. Dressed in steel-toe boots, bootcut denim jeans, and a straw hat, the man surveyed the room looking for McTell. "You're about five months too late," Son said, with confidence in his voice. "Well, dammit, someone is paying for my brother's death. Billy and I were thrown in here together and we were gonna stay together, but your boss roped him into this criminal behavior. McTell's crimes were gonna catch up to him one of these days, but I regret that it wasn't me that finally got the jump on the guy." The man lowered his hand down and grasped at a gun that was at his hip. The man spoke, saying "But as I said, someone is paying." Almost simultaneously, The man drew his gun on Son and Titus stood up, putting himself between the gun and Son. "Shouldn't we stick together?" Asked Titus. The man, still with the gun pointed at Titus, tilted his head in confusion. "We all were thrown in here together. If we want to make something of this place, we need to work together." Said Titus, with sweat waterfalling down his face. The man took a deep breath and said "Maybe in another life, but he was my brother, and a murder is still a murder." A shot rang out and, to the shock of Titus, the man fell to the floor. Titus swung his head to Son and saw a smoking revolver in his hand.
         After Son and a few patrons cleaned up the damage and the body from the short gunfight, Son approached Titus. "I'm not the most humble guy you'll meet, but even I can see that the whole confrontation would not have gone my way without you stepping up and distracting him, and giving me enough time to take my chance." As Son said these words Titus began to form a response, but Son interjected and said "You know I'd like to repay you. A lot of people in this wasteland like to keep moving and not stay tied down too long in one place. They figure it's better to keep to yourself and it's hard to keep to yourself when you live in one spot where people know who you are. But, maybe if you want to stay a night, there's a room right by the back door. It's got a bed and some clothes if you need them. She's all yours if you want it." Titus mustered up a shy, half-smile and a nod. Son walked him to the room. The room, like the rest of the saloon, was dirty, old, and leaky, but it was comforting to the man that couldn't recall the last time he had seen a bed.
         It was the dead of night when Titus was awakened violently, not by a person, but by a sound that was unfamiliar to the frightened sleeper. Unknown to Titus, he was hearing music. Though unaware of this term, Titus began feeling warmth in his without knowledge that this sensation was a response to the music his ears were taking in. All at once, sight, smell, and taste became wholly irrelevant compared to the sensation of hearing that overtook Titus' emotions. He began following the sounds, which lead him out the back door. What he saw baffled but intrigued him, a bright orange guitar leaning against the wall and a black, circular object, spinning on a machine that kept emitting music. The words stood out to the, now calm, Titus. The music would repeat the word "Rooster" and as Titus heard the word he looked over at the guitar and approached it. He sat on the ground with the guitar in his lap and a smile grew across his face. He seemed to enjoy the way the guitar fit in his hands, though he didn't know what to do with it. As he sat by the music player he surveyed the guitar, and with a passionate smile he said, "Rooster".