The Ranger

There was only one test I wanted to pass. Ironically, to become The Ranger of the compound, you had to score the highest among your peers. It was an aptitude test and Lyla was the only one I was concerned about. My ragged and tattered clothes weren't going to win me any fashion contests. My sun-scorched skin wasn't gonna gain me any favors with potential partners. I couldn't control those things, but I could control my test scores.

I walked out of the testing hall feeling confident, albeit scorched from the red rusted tin container walls we were so lucky to have consistently through the compound; they radiated heat like a microwave. My view of The Ranger's Roost was always obscured by the nuking sun. I felt the whites of my eyes cooking in the rebellious effort to spot The Ranger.

My peers would take a glance as well, especially those who wanted to be The Ranger as well. Every time I tried to think of an old-world equivalent to The Ranger - he was like our James Bond in iconography only. Our James Bond was no handsome man, nor was he charismatic. He was a statue, lording over this plantless wasteland. He wasn't some super spy; he stood guard to our chain link fence walls supported by the occasional generous hunk of metal plating. What set him above the fictional character was that he wielded the BAR, Browning Automatic Rifle, on the roost. The moment that gun went off, my friends and I would rush outside.

We'd run out to see the latest horde of the eyeless 'used-to-be-humans' be torn apart, like a pillow in the jaws of a rabid canine, by a torrential downpour of lead and metal. There upon the roost The Ranger would stand in the blood of bullets and we'd see ourselves standing on that platform.

I imagined how good it felt to be the one the town relied on, to be the one to 'brandish the BAR' as they'd say. To be the one baking in the sun atop the roost. To see our entire compound in its shabby scrap metal configuration as it merged with the petrified yellow grass that stretched beyond, to the brick and white marble buildings in the far distance.

I felt a level of desperation that would push me to do damn near anything to become The Ranger myself. I'd do anything to learn how The Ranger became The Ranger. I'd even break into his house to learn who he was, uncover his secrets, and understand what kind of man it took to be The Ranger. And I did.

There was something perplexing about the man. He had a position in the compound nobody else had, everyone looked up to him, he wielded the BAR, but he looked so damned miserable. Never so much as a smile spread across his wrinkled sunbaked face. He didn't walk around with the posture of a man in that position. He slouched like an old reading lamp and walked with a limp. His clothes were a tattered mess and resembled something from the old world, like some sort of hiking gear. He was an icon, and he seemed sad about it.

It felt wrong to break into his house, especially in broad daylight. Drastic measures were needed. The opportunity to become the Ranger comes once in every lifetime. If what the doctors said was true, then that opportunity would come quick. That's the first thing I looked for; his medical records. Tunnel vison had set in.

They were fresh on the table. We'd seen him frequent the infirmary over the years. Seeing him beaten down is what started me on the path in the first place. My parents were sure to make sure I understood what I was doing and of course I did.

The long story short, he'd been experiencing an increased risk of heart attacks. I thought it might just be from the lack of movement and dehydration that was causing his blood to congeal. That was the best guess any of us had; the medical professionals lacked any of the proper tools to assess the damage he'd sustained over his long seventy years. He was alive during the old world. I was born and raised in the new world, learning only the echoes of what the world used to be.

As sad as it was to confirm his imminent death, I moved across his home and took in the surroundings. I was a little distracted, getting paranoid that someone may have seen me come in, but it was quickly abated by the sheer density of objects stored in there. Boxes on boxes. From the engorged filing cabinets, papers clogged the shelves open. I couldn't decide even where to begin.

I had assumed his home would be sparsely ‘lived-in'. My room was as clean and proper and as minimalistic as could be. Nothing out of place, everything optimized. On my bathroom sink, only the brush for my teeth and its gel sat. The pressure must've gotten to him. Or, maybe he got too comfortable in his station. I needed to know more, but where to start?

I thought I should go to the beginning, but starting there would take way too long. I briefly saw the extent of his years one to three collection. His mother must’ve had a scrapbooking phase. I looked around for anything that could've been moved more recently. I wanted to see what he was dwelling on.

Dust found homes on most the boxes in this house, but a few were disturbed. A box labelled "Summer '68" popped out to me. I flipped it open. I never would've guessed it, but he was North American, as the book at the top of the box was labelled "Concord High School - Class of 1968". The pages were scratchy and thin, I had to be careful flipping through. A quarter of the way in I realized, I didn't even know The Ranger's name. There were scattered photos below, it was a hurricane of memories.

There was a photo of a man and a woman. I could see how this man was the younger version of the man we knew as The Ranger. A little bit of cross referencing revealed his name to be Larry Simmons. He struck me as more of a Richard. He was a senior, which meant this was when he was around my age. We'd done plenty of old world research, but seeing the world before always made me feel unbalanced.

The most I could determine about him through this box was that his teeth were very white. A broad smile stretched across his face in every photo of him. Even in the scattered photos in the box. In one, he was covered in mud, smile adorned. Another, it looked like he was at some rowdy get-together, his arm was cut up pretty bad, but it looked like he was laughing about it. He was in sports, which made sense. Saw the occasional American football photo and another on a track. Seeing him smile was strange and gave me the same feeling I got when my hand would connect with someone else's in the ration bin; it wasn't supposed to happen, or it couldn't be. I couldn't quite wrap my head around it. There were words under his picture that read:

"For the love of the game."

For the what?

The final thing I found in the box was an envelope, unmarked. The creases had been worn so badly that it was basically just folded over the note inside. It read:

"L,

I'm really glad to have met you this summer. It sucks that you have to go. Hopefully, we'll get to see each other again. I still don't know how your spine didn't crack when you landed. If you're ever back to the Concord area, ask around for me.

-M"

Seemed like a likable guy. I wonder what he did that would’ve threatened the integrity of his back.

The next box brought me over to the seventies. Nearly six years before the virus took our planet. A collection of notes sat at the top of this one. There were plenty. They all shared a similar feel. These were dated. It read:

April, 1970

"L,

All the way in Missouri, huh? Your wonderful mother gave me your address. Sad that I didn't get to see you one more time before you left. Be sure to ask around for me if you’re ever in town again. I’ll miss you.

M."

That must've been where he went to basic training. There were photos with him and his buddies in military get-ups a couple weeks after the letter's signing date. I had no idea if he was sending letters back, but if he did, I found myself strangely wanting them. None of this had anything to do with him and how he became The Ranger, nor did it contain any information about him other than he was always smiling. I suppose the military was something to go off of, but assumed he was, based on his arms training.

I wanted to see what kind of man he was. Surely he wasn't always so happy. Maybe he faked it for the camera? Or, something happened. He never smiles now.

I fluttered through nearby boxes. I'd already spent more time here than I wanted, but I couldn't stop there. I had to keep going. Another note in the same box read:

September 1971

"L,

Hey, I heard you were in town this week and we didn't get the chance to see each other. I'm a little bummed out, but hope you're doing well.

M."

Followed by a pile of photos of him near the coast with some people I recognized and some that I didn't. I figured he didn't go and see this person because he was too busy following his path, whatever that means. I believe they called this a party. I could understand why he was smiling in these photos, though, I wonder if he'd forgotten about her? I assume.

June, 1973

"I had a remarkable time, L. Until we see each other again..."

Looked like he didn't forget about her. Nearly two years later? There was a gap in between the photos. None from this point onward, in this box at least. There was one more letter.

August, 1973

"L,

Every day, I hope to see a letter from you. I know you're out there, I can feel it. Come home."

M."

The box was then empty. I wondered where he went. I searched for the next box in chronological order until I heard a shimmy at the front door. I quickly fortified myself within memories, obscured by thousands stored in boxes. He couldn't be back from his appointment already. I thought. Tucked away in these boxes I was suddenly reminded of how warm it was. The heat wrapped around me like a blanket in fear and adrenaline. The door opened.

It was Lyla. Shit. I thought. I rummaged my way out from the old boxes.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"You've been in here forever. Somebody's gonna come looking for you." She reached for my hand to drag me out.

I pulled away. "No, I'm just about to get to the good stuff. How'd you even know I was coming here?"

She ignored my question. "Like what? Did you figure out who he is?"

"No, not really. But, I'm about to."

She stood there, staring for a moment. "Can I help?"

My initial thought was 'no', what if she sees something that I don't. She was eligible to become the ranger, too. "Fine," I said. I don't know why. I assume it would've taken more time to get her out of here.

I went back to where I left off. I flung the lid open like a rabid scavenger. My focused shuddered as she took the box next to mine. It would be pointless for me to go through it after her, but I wanted to get the full picture. I left it as I rummaged through the box.

There were plenty of photos in this one. These looked to be in some kind of jungle, some type of war zone, I imagine. There Larry was, standing with a large weapon amongst twenty, or so, of his friends. I could pick him out immediately by the width of his smile. If he was in a war and was still smiling, I couldn't imagine why he wouldn't be smiling now. I had my theories, but they weren't based on any tangible evidence. There were many letters. Most read like this one:

August 1974

"L,

Hope you're safe. Some of my friends are getting letters. From people who know you. People you're around. They get them at the post-office down the road. I went with them, smiling. I watched them pick their letters one by one waiting to carry one home back with me. By the time I got to the table, no letters were left. Did I do something wrong? Or, did I imagine something up in my head? I feel like I'm going a little mad.

M."

Even the pictures that were dated after this letter's arrival, Larry still carried that wide smile on his face. As I dug lower into the next year, 1975, he was still smiling. It looked like he was in the states again. Was he not writing her back? Why?

1976 was when the old world became old. I looked over to Lyla who was staring blankly into a box labelled ‘1976’, she hadn't searched through any of it yet.

I leaned over.

She reached in to the box. "I've been trying to make out what this picture is."

It looked as though this box he been left under a faucet. The picture was water damaged. It was obviously a picture of two people. The date on the back said 1971. There was a woman who had long brown hair and a wide smile. The man next to her was blurred, but I know who it was.

"That's Larry."

"Who?" Lyla asked.

I hesitated. "The Ranger. That's him." I pulled out other photos of him.

I set them down. We both scavenged the rest of the box. It was an unchronological mess of photos throughout 1969 and 1971. Most of them during the summer. Beach parties, family gatherings.

We found one more note. This one was unmarked. No postage, nothing. Lyla and I reached for it at the same time, but I retracted and let her take it. She read through it.

"It says, 'M, My mind is blank. I'm not even sure what that means. I want to try to make amends for the silence. I'll start with, I'm sorry. I'll be in town in a few weeks. I'll go to the beach, if you'll meet me there. The one flooded with tourists. Yours, L.' Who's L? And who’s M?"

"To be honest, I haven't a clue."