End Of Childhood

The ruins of Red Rock smoldered under a sky the color of iron. Smoke rose in thin, bitter streams, curling into the dry wind that carried the stink of blood and ash. Rex moved slowly through what had once been his home, boots crunching on charred wood and broken glass. His revolver hung heavy in his hand, though there was no one left to shoot.

Beside him, Colt trailed silently, eyes darting to every sound — the creak of a collapsing shack, the snap of fire eating through beams. They said nothing for a long time. What words could there be, when the town they’d grown up in — the only place either of them had ever known — was nothing but bones?

Rex crouched near a body, his breath catching. It was Mrs. Harlow, who used to sneak him sweet cakes when his grandad wasn’t looking. Her face was pale, her eyes glassy, her apron dark with blood. For a moment, his chest tightened until it hurt. Then he forced himself to stand.

“We can’t stay,” Rex said, voice low and steady, though every part of him screamed inside.

Colt nodded quickly, too quickly. “I know. They’ll come back. Bandits don’t just hit once and leave.”

Rex looked around. The buildings were gutted, their roofs gone, their walls blackened. Even if the bandits didn’t return, there was nothing left to live on. No food, no water, no safety. Just ashes.

Colt swallowed, his voice breaking the silence. “There’s… a place. I heard about it when I was on the road, before I came here. Northwest, past the canyon. They call it Havenrest. Supposedly it’s safe. Real walls, farmland, people who look out for each other.”

Rex turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “Safe? Nothing’s safe out here.”

“I know,” Colt said quickly. “But it’s something. And if there’s even a chance it’s real…” He hesitated, then added, “It’s far, Rex. I heard it’s at least two hundred and sixty kilometers. Maybe more. On foot.”

The words hit Rex like a hammer. Two hundred and sixty kilometers of scorched earth, empty desert, and hungry raiders. His gut clenched at the thought.

Still, he thought of his grandad, of Red Rock, of every friend lying cold in the dirt. If there was even one place in the world where people still lived without fear, where boys like him didn’t have to grow up with a gun in their hands — then maybe it was worth chasing.

Rex looked at Colt, his jaw set. “Then that’s where we’re heading.”

---

Before they could leave, there was one thing Rex refused to do: abandon the dead.

Together, the boys dug shallow graves at the edge of town, their hands blistered from the work. The ground was dry and stubborn, but they pressed on, sweating under the harsh sun. They couldn’t bury everyone — there were too many — but they laid to rest the ones they could carry, the ones who hadn’t been burned beyond recognition.

They buried Mrs. Harlow. Old Man Griggs. Two children Rex had played marbles with. Neighbors, friends, gone to dust. Each mound of earth was marked with stones, small and humble.

When it came time for the last grave, Rex placed a weathered pocketknife on top. It had belonged to his grandad. He didn’t have a body to bury, but the knife would serve as a marker. His throat tightened, but no tears came. He felt hollow, emptied out.

Colt whispered, almost to himself, “Feels wrong. Leaving them behind.”

Rex stared at the row of fresh graves, the smoke curling from the ruins behind them. “We’re not leaving them. We’re carrying them with us.” His voice was flat, but his hands trembled at his sides.

---

By the time the sun dipped low, they’d scavenged what they could — dried meat, a canteen half full of water, a couple of blankets, and what little ammunition they found among the wreckage. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start.

They camped that night in the shell of a barn outside town. The roof was gone, and the walls leaned, but it was shelter enough. They lit no fire, wary of drawing attention, and shared a meager meal in silence. The weight of the day hung heavy over them.

Colt broke the quiet first. “Two hundred and sixty kilometers,” he muttered, staring at the cracked boards above. “That’s… days of walking. Weeks, maybe. You think we’ll make it?”

Rex didn’t look at him. “We don’t have a choice.”

They lay down side by side, their packs beneath their heads. Sleep didn’t come easy. Every crack of wood, every gust of wind sounded like footsteps. Rex stared at the darkness until his eyes burned. At some point, exhaustion pulled him under, though his hand never left the grip of his revolver.

---

The next morning, they set out.

The desert stretched before them, endless and merciless. The ground was cracked and pale, and the heat shimmered in waves. Each step carried them farther from Red Rock, farther from everything they’d known.

Hours passed. The silence pressed down like a weight, broken only by the crunch of their boots. Flies buzzed around the corpses of fallen horses by the roadside. Once, they passed the charred remains of a wagon, its wheels melted into black lumps.

By midday, the sun blazed high and pitiless. Their lips cracked, their throats burned, and sweat ran down their backs. Colt stumbled, catching himself on a rock. Rex offered him water, but only a sip. The canteen was too light already.

“Two hundred and sixty kilometers,” Colt muttered again, almost bitter this time.

Rex’s eyes were hard as stone. “Then we’d better get used to walking.”

---

As the horizon shimmered, the ruins of Red Rock faded into memory. The only home they had was gone, and what lay ahead was uncertain.

But they walked on, two shadows against the endless wasteland, carrying the weight of the dead and the fragile hope of something better.

The road to Havenrest had begun.

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