He had been killing things for a while by the time I showed up and moved into his studio apartment above the river. It flowed in fits and starts just outside its banks, building up then letting go like Campbell’s chunky soup over the log that had been wedged crossways ever since the last rain.

 

I crouched on the edge of the log and watched things flow by while listening to the screams of whoever he had found on the highway. One part of me liked them. One chunk of who I now was in this dying world liked them. I fished useful things out of the flow and carried them back upstairs when the screaming was done.

 

“Shelter. Food. Water. All Welcome!” He had taken me out to see the sign the second night. It leaned against a dead Chevy in the center lane of the Pike. A line of cars clogged the shoulder. The people who saw the sign and followed it parked neatly despite everything.

 

Kaleidoscope memories. I spun myself from river fisher to Scheherazade – whatever me he didn’t want to kill. I didn’t know what it was. I just stuck with what worked.

 

“Hey, Joe,” I said, voice light and smile easy. My gaze darted around the room expecting gore and finding none.

 

He perched on the edge of the bed, one foot propped up on the opposite knee, fiddling with the frets of an electric guitar that hadn’t existed two hours before. He strummed a tinny A minor, D, G, then an off-tempo Pop Goes the Weasel before looking up at me.

 

Another spin. Another grope for the right me. What did he expect in response to this? I met his eyes for a second then looked away at the prints and papers taped to the wall. I strained my ears for any sigh or grunt that would signify a change from okay Joe to the thing that tore travelers apart and left me to bucket brigade them down to the river.

 

I tapped a brief rhythm on the side seam of my filthy jeans with two fingers. Conciliation. Risk.

 

He looked down and picked at a toenail. “How’s the river today?” he asked, just like he always did.

 

I spun back to river fisher, safe waters, a comfort spot. I slung the sack off my shoulder. “Some net, dead bird too far gone – I let it flow – and this.” Someone had hacked off the baby doll’s black hair. Its blue dress showed silt lines and what could have been old blood on one sleeve.

 

Joe shot to his feet and over to me. My gaze shot over his shoulder. My ears opened up. I shut my mouth. Fisher gone. Watcher, waiter back. Would he accept this offering?

 

He took the doll, cupped its head. “We’ll keep it.” He drew my gaze and reached up to cup my cheek with a wet hand.

 

The first time he had touched me and I fought against the urge to recoil. My mind spun loose. I had no clue what me to be. My eyes went everywhere, my ears, my lips opened then closed silent, my mind flowed in fits and starts like soup over a log.

 

I was still alive when he turned away to put the baby on the bed. He slumped down beside it, his gaze consumed with its plastic blues. “Take care of that,” he said and waved his hand toward the bathroom.

 

I got the bucket.

 

An hour later I crouched on the log again and watched the water flow. My mind settled like a marble in a maze, tucked into some safe corner, inert. A partially inflated plastic bag snagged on a branch and I leaned out to pull it to shore.

 

A clatter of stones behind me brought me to my feet. A young couple no older than me scuffed boots down the path cautiously. The woman wore a Mexican blanket around her shoulders. The man carried a backpack and a hatchet.

 

Spin. A friendly smile. A direct, open gaze. Eye-contact.

 

I raised a hand in greeting. “Hello there.”

 

They were brother and sister, Tim and Meg. Had driven from Smithfield, they said. Wanted to get to the lake. A barge community had sprung up, according to a man they met heading south to find his family. But they saw the sign and stopped. Maybe stay a night? Maybe trade?

 

My smile widened with practiced ease. “Come inside,” I said, showing my teeth. “Meet Joe.”

 

We stood in a clump on the worn rug. They took in the artwork on the walls, the stained doll, the electric guitar, the everything, the nothing. The girl looked nervous and she caught my eye.

 

A mad vision of people on green barges, families, gardens, things that made sense flew through my head. Me, maybe with an arm around Meg’s shoulders, with Tim grinning through his beard. Birds overhead. Clean water flowing. I blinked.

 

River fisher, waiter, I turned to the door and eased it open.

 

“David,” Joe said, the first time he had used my name. “Why don’t you stay?”

 

Our eyes met. The vision spun away. The pieces of me whirled like plastic gems in a kaleidoscope, yellow and red. They spun, then they stopped. I pushed the door closed again and locked it.

 

 

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I tried to write the POV character as teetering on the edge of sanity and self in the face of the end of the world and his only protection being a violent madman. In the end, the gravity of the situation – his reality now – wins and, after a brief burst of hope for normalcy, he tips over into being what the man in the room is. I hope that all seems obvious from the story.