Anarchy (WILLBERT)

3: The one where Bert walks everywhere

Bert was sent home as soon as the authorities arrived. Something about it being stupid of him to be out that late. A lanky, glasses-wearing police officer offered to give him a ride home but he declined, claiming that the amount of car headlights and flashlights out would provide enough light for him to get home. It may have been a lie, but he didn't want to risk the officer seeing his home.

When he got home, the lights were still on from midday and the tv had gone to static. His mother was passed out on her armchair like usual, knitted blanket creased in her lap. Bert flicked the standby button on the boxy television and draped the knitted blanket over his mother's shoulders.

When he retired to his room, he couldn't sleep. He sat unblinking in the same misfiring clothes, gripping his knees anxiously. Every cell in his body stood to attention in case the creature reappeared. He watched the sky slowly heat up on the other side of his bedroom curtains, red eyed and exhausted.

He didn't change into new clothes when he heard the tv start to diligently make noise, he crawled out of his room in creased jeans and a slightly sweaty band shirt. He still hadn't removed his dad's old raincoat or his old P.E. sneakers.

His mother was wordlessly entranced by the television, as per usual. He checked the fridge. No waffles. He checked the pantry. No poptarts. He struck luck with the remaining part of a loaf of bread — or so he thought. He ended up carving half of each slice off to avoid mold.

He decided that grocery shopping was going to have to happen today. He still had a few dollars from last week's paper round so he thought he may as well. He handed his mother the most pathetic looking toast he had ever made and left the house.

Every so often, Bert would pat his pockets to check the money was still there, as if it could vanish if he left it too long. And the walk into town took him almost an hour because of his paranoia.

It didn't take long for him to finish getting what he needed. Bert didn't really like shopping, the adults behind the counter gave him odd looks sometimes and he wasn't fond of the extra attention. So he kept his head down, payed and pretended like he hadn't stashed a couple airheads up his sleeve.

When he left, there was a small crowd gathered around. Joyce and Jonathan were having an ugly-looking row in the middle of town and Bert found himself blocking the door momentarily as he took the position of a bystander.

"The rest of us are having a funeral for Will, I'm not letting him sit in that freezer another day!" Jonathan spat the last word as his mother walked away, walking in the opposite direction and declaring, "Show's over."

Bert considered going over to comfort Jonathan and eventually decided that he wasn't the best person to do so, considering he had witnessed Will speaking through the lights and was, by default, on Joyce's side.

As he walked home, he remembered that he didn't own funeral clothes — not that fit him, anyway — and tried to think of a solution to that problem.

He didn't want to borrow anything of Will's. They may not have spoken in a couple years, but it would have felt wrong. His father's old clothes were far too big as well. He decided that he'd pay a visit to the Wheeler's after he'd taken his groceries home.

Bert was never properly friends with Mike Wheeler. He knew of him, met him a few times through Will but generally avoided him. As a kid, he had trouble meeting people, often getting picked on by other kids for his clothing and having mothers turning their noses up at him in playground settings.

Sure, Mike was a nice kid. But his mother was intimidating within her husband's comfortable salary and Bert knew she probably wouldn't take kindly to him.

Despite this, Bert acknowledged this to be his only option as he rentered his home and packed away what he had purchased. He gave himself a little while to rest, having already been on a substantial walk that day.

When he eventually left once again, he had his Walkman on him, headphones plugged in with Black Flag's album Damaged. It took him about half way through the album to encounter Mike Wheeler, but not at his house.

He saw Mike Wheeler across the street, five minutes away from the Wheeler Residence, accompanied by two other boys of a similar height (and likely age) as well as an odd looking girl.

He slipped his headphones down to rest on his shoulders, pausing his tape. "Mike? Mike Wheeler?"

"Robert Marsh?" The dark haired boy said after the thirty seconds of silence it took to recognise Bert.

"Yeah, look I have a favour to —"

"Look, man," Mike frowned, "now's really not a good time. We've got... uh... stuff to do?" This kid had rolled a one on his metaphorical persuasion check.

Bert crossed the street, quickly checking for bystanders. "Is this about Will?" He asked the question so quietly that if you hadn't been paying attention, you wouldn't have heard it. "Because I spoke to him last night."

The party of eleven-year-olds exchanged a mixture of different glances that Bert could only half decipher.

"Come with us."