A warm bath. A soft, gold glow through the frosted windows. The full bodied and sharp aroma of lavender and mint. Small, temporary comforts for a short, unburdened moment. He knows it cannot last. He has until the sun dips below the horizon.
His muscles are supple from the hot water and his mind is half lulled to sleep. The thermal layer sticks to him, sweaty and suffocating in the insulation of his room, but he knows he will be glad for it later, out in the brittle night air. Over it he places his usual wear; jeans, a shirt, a hoodie. Then over that he pulls on the rig which fastens over his chest and the holster that sits on his hip.
Downstairs he loads the pouches of the rig with magazines, his medical kit, a couple of heat packs, his radio, a sachet of salt, two silver-tipped wooden steaks, a pair of flashbangs, his frequency scanner, a chocolate bar, a small crucifix and the axe multitool that sits through a loop over his heart. He slots a pistol into the holster. Then he pulls on his boots, puts on his coat and takes the rifle from its rack. He gives it a quick once-over, having cleaned it that afternoon, before he steps out the door and locks it. He sprays salted water on the doorstep before he walks across the garden and out the gate.
It's a ten minute walk to meet up with the rest of the watch. Although he knows the real danger comes much later, the unease of walking darkened streets is as strong this time as it was the first time, some three years ago. He doesn't want to be here, of course, he'd much rather be in the bath, but he has a community to protect. Or at least try to.
It always feels like they're too late. By the time the calls come in, and the watch arrives, whatever has been there has already done the damage and left. Feels like there more of a cleanup crew than anything. And what things they have to clean up. It nauseates him to think on it. Blood dripping down wallpaper. Ruptured guts on the carpet. Kitchen tiles slick with viscaria. They don't care much who they get. Old women. Children. Dogs. All just food to them.
He grinds his teeth. Makes him angry. A cold kind of anger that bites at his stomach. Animals, the lot of them. He'd burn them where they stand, if he faced one. But then he'd really rather not face one, if it could be helped. A tiring contradiction that pulls at all the worst feelings. Guilt. Rage. Fear. Revenge versus preservation. Not a nice place to be, but here he is.
Ahead he sees his squad, gathered under a streetlight. His radio flares up and through the garbled chatter he hears the first call come in. Another night begins.
Paddy Dobson
11th October 2020