A March to an Old Lion

Arata buttoned his blazer as he waited for his friends to catch up. They were making their way back from the shrine where he left them at an annoyingly slow pace.

They finally had a lead, he wanted to run and shake that old till he gave them the secrets behind all this.

He was sick of wondering about his visions.

They had haunted him for months now. His anxious mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he just had an awkward conversation with Feima about their outing. That woman… Did she really think being a good mother now would change things? She stood by for years as his dad drunk himself into an early grave, and did what he did to him.

Finally, Toma and Hana reached him. The three started together down the narrow path. The sky was overcast, a dull gray that made everything look gloomy. The wind blew at his collar as he found himself lost in thought.

Minakasa had changed a lot in the past two months.

Some things looked the same, the broken fences, sagging rooftops, but the flavor of the town had mutated. Everyone walked by with a heaviness, a silent purpose that hadn't been there before. They went about their business, but there was a sense of inevitable routine, like everyone knew the sky was about to fall, but no one wanted to be the first to look up.

Even so, there were signs of community and hope that made Arata feel a little proud.

As they passed the town square, Arata spotted a group of volunteers handing out bowls of soup to a few homeless folks. Minakasa always had a homeless crisis, at least for a town of its modest side. It took the end of the world for people to do something about it, but it was nice to see. Toma had been much more cynical about this when they had first seen it. Remarking that some privileged pricks thought that they could buy their way into heaven with a few last minute good deeds. He joked that his dad was probably gonna buy an orphanage any day now. Still, Arata felt it showed that this world wasn’t completely harsh and cold, not yet.

A handmade sign poked out of the soil, reading:

“For a New Beginning. We’re Stronger Together.”

It was nice, Arata thought. But it didn’t stop the knot tightening in his stomach.

They passed the true path temple near the crossroads, and something new caught his eye: a huge wooden cross, tied together with rope, standing out front. It was covered in old characters Arata didn’t recognize. Prayers, or maybe something else.

“Looks like another vigil,” Hana said under her breath.

Toma didn’t say anything at first. He continued to march along with his hands firmly in his pockets, his jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he said after a second. “Another one.” These religious types had been organizing neighborhood watches like vigils every night, gathering to pray and watch for interlopers and sinners. In a way, Arata found it comforting, having an organized group keep an eye on the community was certainly one way to make sure none of the looters from the bigger cities came to pillage the more vulnerable rural areas.

On the other hand, he was getting creeped out by how judgmental everyone was becoming. Some archaic traditions were becoming law out here. He looked at Hana at the corner of her eye, wearing a very unfeminine and modest pair of trousers. He suspected her folks forced her into that.

Near the cross, a small group of townsfolk were kneeling, whispering frantic prayers. They were handing out flyers and telling passer-bys to come hear their new shepherd speak tonight. 

Hana took one. Arata hesitated. “I’m getting worried that this cult business isn’t just in the past.”

Hana frowned. “Yeah, they’re getting bad. I mean, it's just suffocating, with my folks and all. They’re going to that rally tonight,” she said, eyeing the flyer in her palm, a pretty woman smiled back at her, “but I don’t think it’s wrong for people to cling to what they know when they’re scared. So long as they don’t force others to hold on, too”

Arata didn’t answer. He let his fingers brush over his dad’s ring as they walked by, feeling its weight on his chest.

They were almost to the nursing home when they spotted Mr. Nikima, the fat owner of the general store, trying to lift a heavy box onto a cart outside. He was struggling, panting hard, his hands shaking.

Toma rushed over. “Let us help, before you throw out your back.”

Arata followed silently, and they hefted the box onto the cart. It was lighter than he expected, but then again Mr. Nikima was getting old.

“Thank you,” the man said, wiping his forehead. “You’re life savers.”

Hana smiled. “Hey, the world’s ending. We gotta look out for each other.”

Toma smirked. They bid him farewell and kept walking. Arata flexed his sore fingers, letting the ache settle.

“That’s our good deed for the day. Those do-gooders at town square have nothing on us! I think we’re shoe-ins for heaven when the judgment comes,” Toma said flexing his non-existent biceps. Hana chuckled.

A few minutes passed and Arata could’ve sworn he saw Toma’s mauve eyes lingering on him for just a tad too long. Toma snapped his head away the second he met his gaze.

“What?” Arata asked, frowning.

“Yeah?” Toma responded way too fast.

“You’re staring.”

Toma grinned, playing it off. “Sorry, man. Can’t help it. You’re hot.”

Arata snorted, and let the moment pass.

Something about Toma’s tone didn’t quite sit right. Was he worried about Arata?

The nursing home finally came into view. It was a humble brown building with peeling paint and a sad little garden out front. They made their way in. A few residents were bundled in blankets, sitting in their wheelchairs and gossiping quietly.

They slipped by them and spoke to the receptionist, Hana’s acquaintance from her volunteering months. Despite the connection, the lady still barely looked up from her paperwork.

They asked where they could find Mr. Yukari. Hana was concerned the old man might have passed in the few months since her last visit. Thankfully, the receptionist assured them he was in the common room as usual.

They found him there, alone at a table by the window. A checkerd-board board in front of him. He looked bored, his eyes as dark and blank as his liver spots. His snowy hair stuck out in tufts, and his glasses looked too big for his thin face.

“Mr. Yukari?” Hana asked, walking up slowly. “Do you remember me, from last summer?”

The old man didn’t look up.

“We were hoping to talk to you.”

“No visitors past three,” he grumbled without turning. “Not that it matters, no one comes anyway.”

“We have a few questions,” Hana said, sitting down across from him.

Mr. Yukari swore under his breath and started playing with old Shorin pieces on his lap.

Arata spoke up in frustration. “It’s about the terrorist attack from thirty years ago.”

Mr. Yukari’s hand froze above the board. His eyes flicked up, now full of life.

“The cult attack?” he asked. “Now that was a head scratcher, case damn near cost me my job.”

Toma slouched into a chair next to Hana. “Your job?” He asked.

The old man shot him an ugly look. “I was the constable of this town thirty years ago. Sit up, you dandy.”

Arata chuckled. Seemed not everyone found Toma’s rich boy vibe charming.

“You were a police officer?” Hana said, shocked. “Then you must know the full story!”

Mr. Yukari’s lips twitched into a semi smile. “I might. But I’m not like the other geezers in here, I don’t drone on for fun. You kiddos will have to earn the information.”

Arata blinked. “What do you mean?”

The old man slammed a piece onto the Shorin board with one bony hand, and wily grin. “A game. You win me, I talk.”

Arata felt his headspin. His eyes locked onto the board, the piece, an old man’s wrinkled hand.

His head pounded.

“I’m an idiot,” he whispered.

Hana and Toma looked around at him.

Arata’s voice was hoarse. “The vision. This is exactly how it looked. The board, that piece... everything. I just recognized him..”

The air seemed heavier, Arata could vomit. Another vision had come true. They were running out of time.

Mr. Yukari’s smile widened, and for a moment, he looked far younger. “You’ll have to speak up, sonny. My hearing isn’t what it once was.”

Arata swallowed, this game wasn’t just against some senile old man. Their real opponent was fate, and he wasn’t sure they could win.