Member-only story
And Deliver Us from the Vikings, Amen
A flashlight comes on in the dark. The light defines the motions of a man’s hand as he gets to his feet. The light lands here and there on empty liquor bottles, a ratty bed roll, chunks of concrete, dirt and sand. He fumbles with his bed roll and his small bag of clothes, grunting and groaning and complaining in the cold morning air. He hides his belongings between two rocks and turns away.
He stumbles out into the rising sun and glares at the sky. He lowers his head and shakes it, rubs his eyes. He’s fifty-one, of substantial build, with a long red beard that comes to a point. Layers of filthy clothing hang on his body as if thrown there. He looks a like an old tired Viking. People have told him before that he looks like a Viking, and he likes the thought of it.
It’s still early but the heat of the desert city is already building.
There is a chain link fence with a large hole in it and a sign that says: CITY OF TUCSON WATERSHED, KEEP OUT. The tunnels are dry this time of year and will stay that way until the monsoon rains arrive in a month. He’ll need a summer home by then. He’s made the mistake of sleeping in the tunnels too late into the season. Waking up in a torrent.
His fingers are thick and dirty as he rolls a cigarette from a yellow pouch. He brings the thin cigarette to his lips and lights it…
