The The Wasteland Saga: Three Novels: Old Man and the Wasteland, The Savage Boy, The Road is a River

by Cole, Nick

  “You’ve used it already?”

  There wasn’t exactly alarm in her voice. Not exactly. But something.

  Concern?

  “Yes.” Then, “Is that going to be a problem?” asked the Old Man, hearing the sudden worry in his own voice. “Should we . . . is there something else ahead . . .”

  Pause.

  “It won’t be a problem,” said Natalie, her voice gentle and calm. “We’ll find a way to keep you safe. If you had to use it to survive, then it had to be used.”

  “I hope we didn’t . . . I hope that was all right,” stammered the Old Man. “I hope . . .”

  “It’s all right.”

  Her voice is like the voice of someone who knows that eventually everything is going to be just fine, no matter how bad it looks right now. No matter what you’ve done to mess things up.

  You need that, my friend, so take it because it is being given away for free and also because you are too poor to disagree.

  Yes.

  “There is nothing to worry about at this present time,” said General Watt. Natalie. “It’ll be all right. We will find a way to get you here.”

  But the Old Man knew that it wasn’t all right. That some change had taken place in the wind and weather, the current and tide, and finally as it must, the last port at journey’s end.

  And.

  There is always a price to pay for such things.

  Yes.

  Always.

  And someone will have to pay for it.

  Someone will.

  In the hatch, beneath the sun, the Old Man felt cold.

  THE ROAD UP and out of southern Las Vegas climbed through tired rocks and vast crumbling urban sprawls of falling houses and collapsed roadways. A barely readable sign indicated the way to Lake Mead.

  In time Las Vegas disappeared behind them, fading into the heat of a day that chased them with its memories of the night. The road led alongside the outlines of buildings once standing and now long gone. The land opened up onto a massive downslope of red earth and gray rock. At the bottom lay the glittering blue of a wide lake stretching out and away from them.

  The road began a series of twists through rock formations that seemed foreign and somehow of another world. Another world the Old Man dimly remembered from the covers of science fiction books about strange and alien planets. A crumbling tower rose up from the red rocks alongside the lake and the road. Its tenure seemed thin and merely a matter of time.

  The road that led to the Dam cut across the face of this reddish-brown rock above a steep drop into canyons below. Beyond all this, the Dam climbed skyward and their eyes saw what man had once made.

  “We made this, Poppa?”

  “Yes,” was all the Old Man could say, his voice unexpectedly choking with pride.

  I did not think it would affect me this way.

  And . . .

  I had no idea.

  The Boy lay sleeping. The Old Man stopped the tank and shook him.

  He should see this too.

  He should know we weren’t all bad.

  They climbed out from their hatches, his granddaughter in her new flight jacket, the Boy still covered in blood. The Old Man shielded his eyes against the blaze of noon with his wrinkled and calloused hand. The massive Dam stretched high above them.

  Yes.

  We built this.

  And . . .

  We were not all bad.

  THE PEOPLE WHO came out from the Dam wore the same shreds of armor and carried the same rifles as Kyle, Grayson, and Trash.

  A large man walked out in front of them. There was a smile on his face. He wore faded denim and an old Stetson hat, sun-bleached and torn.

  “You can’t be with King Charlie if you’ve gotten out of your tank,” he bellowed, his voice bombastic, echoing off the canyon walls and the Dam.

  “We aren’t,” said the Old Man, sounding thin and dry, his voice a small croak.

  When did my voice start to sound like that of an old person?

  The people behind the Big Man began to clap. Someone whooped with excitement. They patted each other. There was even weeping.

  These people are in need of good news.

  Yes, my friend, and they seem to think you are it.

  The people of the Dam approached the tank, surrounding it at once. Feeling it. Touching it. Marveling.

  These are Kyle’s people. Grayson’s.

  And Trash’s too.

  We took her in.

  That’s what Kyle had said.

  We took her in.

  There were questions all at once and each one different.

  Who are you?

  Where’d you get the tank?

  How’d you make it through?

  Where are you going?

  Do you need fuel?

  Have you seen . . . ?

  The Old Man grew confused in his rush to answer each question. Starting an answer and then being pulled away by another. Until he saw the Big Man staring at him. Still smiling. Waiting. And even though there was a smile, a big smile, there was also worry. Worry in the eyes. There was a question about the three and the Old Man could tell it was waiting for him and that the Big Man would never ask it. He would never ask it because maybe in the long days since its first being asked, he had answered it for himself. In his mind Kyle, Grayson, and Trash and all the others who had been trapped beyond Vegas had perished long ago. They must’ve.

  But there are nights. Nights when one wonders what might still be possible despite all evidence to the contrary. Nights when you rise alone for just a drink of water, and in the silence you sigh and think of unanswered questions.

  You think of loved ones and where they might be.

  And even . . .

  If, they might be.

  And when there are no answers in the night, you sigh and think . . .

  What am I going to do now?

  “Do you know Kyle?” asked the Old Man.

  The Big Man nodded, his eyes changing to hope and belief and then disbelief all at once. Speaking as he nods. Speaking words as if he cannot believe these words he has said so many times in the night might actually be real words.

  “He’s alive? My son is . . .” the Big Man’s voice faltered, unwilling to form that last word again.

  Alive.

  His son. All this time he has imagined him dead and hated himself for it.

  “He . . .” tries the Old Man and stops.

  Tell them, my friend.

  I’m afraid to. How?

  Just tell them. In time it will be a mercy to them, though they will not know it today.

  No.

  No, today will be for grief. Which is also, sometimes, a mercy.

  Other names are quickly shouted out. Names that are not Kyle or Grayson.

  There were others before it was only just the three of them.

  An older couple. She is already clinging to a man turning white with shock, holding on to her as much as she is holding on to him.

  Holding on to each other.

  The Old Man sees his own son.

  And wonders . . .

  What is he doing right now?

  And . . .

  How do I tell them?

  The truth, my friend. The truth. In the end it is what we must have. There is nothing else.

  All eyes watched him.

  He shook his head slowly.

  “They made a way for us,” said the Old Man. “Where there wasn’t one.”

  The Old Man wanted to lower his eyes. He wanted to look away as they stared at him for meaning, for answers, for some shred of long denied truth.

  But it would be wrong to look away. Cowardly.

  And then someone asked, as if it wasn’t already known to all. Someone asked, “Did they make it?”

  THE OLD MAN remembered weeping and feeling he had no right to. The three were theirs, not his.

  But he wept for them all the same and they did not stop him.

  Grayson’s mother cried out her
son’s name.

  The Old Man saw her husband pulling her into him, holding on to her. He was like a man being swept away by a river.

  Chapter 30

  The Old Man sat in the cantina drinking clear, cold water and listening to the old pipes above his head creak and gurgle within the Dam. Only a frail lantern illuminated the small dark room.

  This is where they gather when the day is done.

  Like when the boy would bring you the papers, Santiago, that were a few days, or even a week old, and you would read them together and talk about baseball.

  And like your village, my friend, in the late afternoon, when the first of the evening brought out the scent of the desert sage, heavy and thick.

  We did not have papers with baseball scores, though. But yes, this place is where they come at the end of the day or when they have something to celebrate like a birthday. Just like we did back in the village, in the old mining hall outside the kitchen. So I know this place, and I know these people.

  The Big Man came in.

  Kyle’s dad.

  He went to the cooler that held the cold spring water and poured some into a porcelain mug. He drank, filled it again, then drank again, each time emitting a tired but satisfied, “Ahhh.”

  “You have a good spring for your water,” said the Old Man.

  The Big Man turned, surprised.

  He must have thought he was all alone. He was expecting the solitude, the moment apart. The moment apart from their collective grief. He must be their leader. He must have wanted time for his own, personal grief.

  For his son.

  “We’ve always had that to be thankful for,” said the Big Man. “Good water. A good safe place. Good people.”

  The Big Man sat down.

  “Normally we’d have been celebrating your arrival . . . but . . . I guess not.” The Big Man looked down into his mug of water. “We thought, that is, some of us did, we thought we’d buried those who didn’t make it back, a while ago. Others kept holding out. Hoping there might be a chance some of ’em would make it back, someday.”

  You. You were holding out.

  And.

  I would too.

  “I’m sorry,” said the Old Man.

  “Ain’t your fault.”

  “Tomorrow,” began the Big Man, “we’ll be back to our old selves, fightin’ and crabbin’ at one or the other. Maybe we’ll kill one of the cows and have a ‘Q’ up top. That’d be real nice.”

  “The showers were enough,” said the Old Man. “More than enough. We’ll move on tomorrow if you can spare some of your fuel.”

  “Fuel? You can have all the fuel you want; we’ve done lost all our vehicles trying to keep the roads open. All our rides are either out there in pieces, torn to shreds by King Charlie’s crazies, or they’re broke down in the garage below.”

  “What will we find in the east?”

  “East,” said the Big Man and rubbed his chin. “East is Kingman and Flagstaff and then you’re in Apache lands. The Apaches told us there was some people out in ABQ who were makin’ a pretty good go of it.”

  The Old Man waited. The Big Man looked like he had more to say.

  “Truth is, I couldn’t tell you what you’ll find beyond a thousand meters out in front of this Dam. These raiders come down from the North a year and a half ago and ruined our plans to get a network of roads and outposts open and connected. They went wide of Apache lands but they came down hard on Kingman and straight into Vegas. We caught a few. That was how we found out they were lookin’ for old Area 51. We didn’t know what they were up to but we figured we needed to keep them out of there. Tried to get ’em to focus on the Dam but they wouldn’t have it. They dug in all around Vegas and kept us out of our salvage up in Creech. That was how you met my boy. Kyle.”

  Silence.

  “He was a good leader,” said the Old Man.

  In the dark of the cantina, in the shadows thrown by the dim lantern, the Old Man heard the Big Man sob once and so suddenly that a moment later he wondered if he’d even heard it at all.

  “I know,” mumbled the Big Man. “I know that about my son.”

  LATER, THE OLD MAN found the Boy near the tank, sitting against its dusty treads. The Old Man sat down next to him.

  It’s time I try to talk to him.

  “Are you hungry?”

  The Boy shook his head.

  “When you went back . . . did you find her?”

  The Boy looked at the Old Man sharply.

  He’s confused.

  There’s another “her” besides the girl Trash.

  When the look of bewilderment passed from the Boy’s face and he understood who the Old Man was talking about, he said, “I did.”

  The Old Man waited.

  It’ll come. Whatever his story is, it’ll come.

  Just wait. Be patient.

  Inside the Boy’s eyes, the Old Man found a story he didn’t know how to read just yet.

  Just like salvage. There’s always a story. Even in the eyes of a man. Or a boy.

  He’s all alone.

  The Old Man groaned as he got to his knees.

  He rested his hand briefly on the Boy’s muscled shoulder, and after it jumped and settled at his touch, he squeezed it firmly.

  I’m here.

  And . . .

  You are too.

  That’s important these days.

  The Old Man stood and walked back toward the doorway that led from the garage within the Dam, back to the small rooms they’d made available for them.

  The Boy spoke.

  Just before the Old Man reached the door.

  “We take everything with us.”

  The Old Man turned, searching the dark and finding the shadow of the Boy.

  “They never leave.” The Boy’s voice was husky and deep. “Even if you want them too.”

  Silence.

  “Then maybe we really don’t want them to go just yet,” said the Old Man and turned back to the door and was gone.

  DEEP IN THE NIGHT, the Old Man awoke, sweating.

  I was drowning, but not in water. In darkness.

  His granddaughter is asleep on her cot.

  The Boy’s is empty.

  The Old Man lay back down, breathing slowly, willing his racing heart to settle.

  The Boy is still disturbed by what he’s had to do within the casino. Maybe he is forever damaged just like his weak side. Maybe I should just leave him here.

  Stop. It’s the middle of the night and it’s dark, my friend. The worst time to try to make plans or important decisions.

  And the Old Man thought of how his friend Santiago had followed the fish all through the night, all alone, being pulled deeper and deeper into the gulf.

  Chapter 31

  Night fell across the western horizon, and atop the Dam the first ribs of meat were handed out to those who had waited throughout that long, hot, dusty afternoon.

  The ribs were meaty and full of juice.

  The Old Man ate one sitting next to his granddaughter, surrounded by the people of the Dam, telling them of Tucson. Telling them about a city that was lost and now found. Telling them of lemon trees and salvage.

  “We were trying to open the roads and keep the lines of communication up between the settlements,” said one of them after the Old Man had finished telling all there was to tell of Tucson. “Maybe we could still do that with Tucson.”

  Everybody quietly agreed this might be a good idea.

  Despite the lack of vehicles.

  The Army of Crazy in Vegas.

  The rumors of the East.

  The tragedy of the three still hangs over them.

  What could I offer that would make it better for them?

  Nothing, my friend. Nothing.

  “Poppa, where is he?” she said referencing the Boy.

  The Old Man looked down into her big brown eyes.

  Has she already fallen for him? I thought she was still too young for that.

 
; Who can know the heart, my friend?

  I thought I did.

  And . . .

  You were wrong.

  I’m almost convinced now that we must leave the Boy. He’s wounded. Damaged and what if he fails when we need him most. Or what if he turns on us.

  If you were to ask yourself, my friend, can you trust him? What would your answer be?

  I don’t know.

  “He’s missing everything, Poppa!” she said looking up from her plate. Worried.

  “I’ll go look for him. I’ll find him. Watch my plate.”

  “Okay, Poppa.”

  The Old Man found the Boy near the tank down in the garage. Securing their gear. He had rearranged the drums into a better configuration for drawing fuel.

  When he saw the Old Man watching him, he stopped.

  “It will be better this way,” he seemed to apologize.

  The Old Man walked across the silent and dark garage.

  Tell him he’ll have to stay behind. That he can’t go on with you.

  You mean, tell him I don’t trust him.

  “It will be better that way,” said the Old Man. “You’ve done good. Thank you.”

  The Boy smiled.

  In the days since he has been with us I don’t think I’ve actually seen him smile. Inside of him there is still something that wants to though. Something that “done” things and a life on the road hasn’t managed to burn up yet.

  “Come. There’s meat. Good ribs from a steer. There might even be one left for you.”

  The Boy hopped down from the tank awkwardly and limped toward the Old Man, the memory of his smile refusing to let go.

  Sometimes he is so able and strong, you forget half his body is withered.

  They turned and the Old Man patted the Boy once more on the shoulder, feeling the powerful warmth of his strong right side, remembering the sudden smile.

  And he thought, ‘I won’t leave you.’ And, ‘Maybe you just need to be salvaged.’

  THE OLD MAN did not sleep much.

  Maybe I slept a little.

  But not enough to be of measure, to count. To be worth it.

  He was up before anyone.

  Close to dawn.

  He went to the tank.

  The tank and drums were full of the home-brewed fuel.

  Also, we have all the water we can carry.