The Watch Tower

Civilians had been advised to stay off of the main roads during the scheduled reconstruction period. Alternate routes had been set up through surrounding rural areas, and curfews were being strictly enforced. Although peace had been been reached, there were still places still holding to chaos. There were still angry people and broken buildings, falling apart. The spirit of civil war was dying, but not quite dead. Most were cooperative and adhered to the safety guidelines put about the country’s new and improved authority.

Malcolm, however, cared nothing for the rules, not the old authority’s or the new. He had, just an hour ago, scaled the walls of the fence bordering the eastern side of the city. After infiltrating the city limits, he began to make his way toward the capital building, where the watch tower was. Even from miles outside of the city, Malcolm could always see the tower. It was ever present, and always visible. The tower had been built by the local authority, during the height of the war. It had been the symbol and home of oppression for a long time. During the war it was always heavily guarded. These days, the building was empty more often than occupied. There were patrols sent to keep watch, every so often, but Malcolm was more determined than concerned.

In the cold evening, Malcolm could see his breath in clouds of mist, with every exhale. His footsteps echoed as he made his way west. It had been raining all day. His heavy boots were disrupting the still puddles of water that were scattered up and down the street. The hour was late, and the streets were empty and dark. There were sporadically placed street lamps giving off a dull orange glow between the large spaces of darkness. Malcolm as if he was walking through a nightmare of some sort. The scene was surreal. What was left of the city was desecration and vandalism. The remnants of a war.

Malcolm was a large man. Tall and athletically built. Even still, with protection in each pocket, Malcolm could not help but look over his shoulder. The war may have been over for the country, but Malcolm’s war was never going to end. Over his shoulder he carried a bag that had once belonged to his late friend and mentor, Vincent Houser. The bag was the only thing left in Vincent’s room. Inside, Malcolm had found keys with no door, a sweatshirt, a speaker, a red pen, a small black book and a stack of cash amounting to twenty thousand dollars.

The money was the only thing in the bag. that Malcolm found confusing, as Vincent had never been a man of material. In fact, monetary gain was against everything he claimed to believe. Malcolm had sat on the edge of his old friends bed for several hours in the aftermath of the news of Vincent’s death. He had no idea what to make of the money. Had his old friend been hiding something from him? Was he less righteous than he made himself out to be? As Malcolm dealt with his emotions, he found himself browsing through the small black notebook. Malcolm had vivid memeories of Vincent with the book. He carried it with him everywhere.

“The world is ending. There’s no better time to have a bucket list.” Vincent’s voice was still clear in Malcolm’s head. On every single page of the notebook, written uniquely, was a task or an experience that Vincent wanted to complete before he died. Over their decade of friendship, Malcolm would watch Vincent follow through with his plans or fall short. When he would complete something from the list he would, vandalize the page by scribbling through the desire. Unfortunately, Vincent’s book was left undone. Malcolm had picked up where he could, but some things were to eternally incomplete.

Malcolm continued his trek. He remained aware for any sign of a threat. There was nothing. There was no one. He was alone. With every step he took, the tower came closer to him. “This one’s for you Vin,” Malcolm whispered to himself. “I’m going out fighting. Just like you.”

Malcolm was in his late teens when the riots first began. He was barely finished with high school before someone from Vincent’s group had recruited him. Before long Malcolm found himself second in command. Malcolm adored Vincent. Everyone did. He had an unmatched presence. Herds of people would get lost in his charisma and his purpose. All over the country, citizens had given up on the government. They were starving, and falling between the ever-growing gap between rich and poor

“You don’t have to starve if you know how to prepare your own food!” Vincent would say.

They were all about self- sufficiency and survival. Vincent’s group had no ethical code when it came to surviving. He believed preserving their lives was to be done at any cost. He had been convinced that life, as they knew it, was over forever. He never believed that the conflict would pass. They had been ruthless. Making themselves, not only, enemies of the state, but enemies of everyone around them as well.

It was shocking, rather than relieving then, to hear that peace was in the works. Things began to fall apart with the, and Vincent was eventually captured and killed. The members of the group that had been holding on to his ideals, were now being hunted and taken out. There was no place for Malcolm or his friends in the new order.

Malcolm stopped his stride, suddenly. He made it. He looked up at the large structure. He took a deep breath and began to manipulate the locks on the outside of the doors. Vincenet hated this building. He wanted nothing more than to see it burned down. Before taking his trip, Malcolm had added an urn with his Vincent's ashes, and a black box with a couting meter attached.

"Tonight is the night, my friend," Malcolm said, pain in his tone.

Careful to keep a watchful eye, he was soon inside of the tower. Before making his way to the top floor, Malcolm took Vincent’s bag and turned the opening toward him. He reached in and took out a large black box that he had added to the contents of the bag. He set it at the bottom of the steps, pressed a few buttons and began walking. His mind was still on Vincent. He smiled, remembering the man’s passion.

Vincent had grown famous, rapidly, by burning money. The shock value of watching someone set fire to something that people felt so desperate for, brought him much attention. He would turn cameras on and live stream himself burning money or representations of wealth that he had stolen from the ddupper class. His working class following loved him. Vincent had shown them that life existed without the movement of the dollar.

“Money is evil,” Vincent would declare. Whatever crowd of people that were gathered around him would yell and scream in agreement. “Let me help you disillusion yourselves from this lie. Did you eat today?”

“Yes!” The crowd would declare. “We are full!”

Vincent would begin to set the pile of valuables ablaze. “Did you sleep well last night?”

“Yes!” The crowd answered.

“Were you safe?”

“Yes!” Again and again. Vincent would grow louder as the flames grew stronger. The money would be engulfed and the crowd was energetic.

“Money is nothing! It means nothing. While you were starving, they were eating food off of your backs! And all for this! Where are they now? They, who know how to do nothing! Those executives and those creators. Where are they now? You can live without their way. We don’t need them!”

As the memories flooded Malcom’s brain, he began to near the top of the watch tower. He approached the door, leading to the roof. It was boarded up. Malcolm began to take down the boards, and soon he was back out in the cold night air. He sat at the edge of the corner of the tower, his feet dangling over. He stared out into the quiet night sky. In his breath, he had accepted defeat. He was ready to stop looking over his shoulder.

Malcolm exhaled, unsteadily. All he had to do now was wait for the device that he placed at the bottom of the tower to explode. And it would all be over. A tear had formed in the corner of his eye. The city was incredible from this angle. He felt like he could see the entire world from where he was sat. Every piece of the city was available to him, at his vantage. Malcolm felt like the entire world was available to him at this angle. At that moment he had an idea.

Malcolm retrieved one of the hundred dollar bills. He constructed a small paper airplane. He opened the urn, and pinched out some of Vincent’s ashes. He filled the inside of the plane with it, and released it into the wind. For a moment Malcolm watched as the plane was taken by the wind. He watched it switch directions as it drifted, smoothly, toward the earth. Malcolm kept his eyes on the small part of his friend until the plane was out of view.

He repeated this action, over and over until there was no money left. “There you go Vinny! You’re all over the world. I bought you first class tickets.”

Malcolm picked up the notebook and scratched out the page that read : See the World on it. He then flipped to the last page that read, TAKE DOWN TOWER, and scratched it out as well. Malcolm sat back, watching the sun rise over the cities horizon. He waited, in a tearful silence, as Vincent’s last request erupted over the remains of the city.