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

by Nick Cole

  Years after the bombs, an earthquake had shaken the village. This crack must have been caused by the quake.

  Mud began to sluice down upon him from above. The rain came down heavily on the dry desert floor. Wet hair hanging in his face, the savage raved in gibberish at the Old Man below.

  You will need to come down here to get me.

  The Old Man squeezed farther along the crevice. Then it opened into a jagged ravine that jogged off toward the south. The Old Man, who had felt a touch of closeness in the tight spaces of the crack, breathed deeply and coughed.

  I said you will have to come get me, boy.

  It’s the only way I can get rid of you.

  The Old Man limped off along the ravine in the opposite direction from where Himbradda stood at the cliff’s edge.

  Maybe he won’t come. That would be for the best. For both of us.

  Another flash of lightning lit the afternoon as Himbradda stood silent. Tension and worry contorted the snarl of his lips as he worked at crooked teeth with his tongue, thinking what to do.

  The Old Man was just disappearing around the far bend of the ravine to the south, when Himbradda threw himself down the cliff at a run. His legs worked hard to keep ahead of the fall. His torso fell forward, ahead of his running feet. Then the muddy walls became too thick, catching at his struggling feet. He tumbled forward smashing into the floor of the ravine, hearing a dull crack inside himself while emitting a heavy grunt as the air was driven from him all at once.

  A moment later he came to, in the mud of the ravine, unable to breathe. He rolled onto his back waving his club with the brawny good arm. He would scream at the sky. Scream as he always had at the hardness of a life he barely understood. The screaming had always helped. But no sound came out. His head thudded and he could feel a tremble in the ground. Moments later his breath returned.

  He rose shakily to his knees looking for the Old Man who had gone past the bend.

  He would have him soon.

  The wall of water and debris that hit Himbradda from behind started in the hills to the east. The surge had been growing in force with mud and debris as the water ran off the desert floor and into the ravine. When it finally arrived upon Himbradda, it slapped him down with mindless force and drove his body through the swirling chaos. All the debris of a broken world moved farther down the ancient riverbed.

  THE OLD MAN heard the flash flood coming, heard its low rumble through the riverbed behind him, heard the dry snap of branches above the din. Turning, he saw the sudden churning rapids. He reached the side wall and found it too steep to climb.

  He removed the belt that had once been an extension cord. He tied a loop in its end and cast it above the lip of the ravine just beyond the reach of his fingertips. When he pulled on it the loop came flying back at him.

  You are stupid.

  Run!

  Wait. There is no chance if I run. This is the only way.

  He dropped his bandolier of blankets. Thick currents of cold water rose around his feet. It felt soothing to the wound in his foot but the cold was terrifying as the water began to rise sharply. He knotted the belt in his hand, stepped back, and rushed at the wall, leaping for its edge. He dangled, grasping the edge, as the thunder of the debris wave erupted with a rumble at the far end of the ravine he had just come down. With one hand holding on to the edge, he waved his other hand across the ground above the lip, and finding a root, he quickly passed his cord underneath it. Just before the surge hit him, his other hand grasped the loose end of the extension cord. The flood drove into his waist like a wild bull.

  Chapter 24

  He hung on as long as he could, but soon the walls of the ravine had turned to mud and began to collapse into the torrent. The Old Man heaved himself upward, even as the wall collapsed, and felt himself scrambling to stand. At last he kicked away from the collapsing mud and found himself breathing hard in a pool of water a few feet from the cliff’s edge.

  The sky was gray with rain. Wet slaps hit the mud about him, embracing him in a soft white noise. He turned skyward and opened his mouth, drinking what rainwater fell into it. After he’d filled a mouthful he would swallow. It tasted of iron. It was bitter and it burned his throat. He drank again.

  You are a dead man.

  Not yet.

  Your stuff is gone. How will you survive?

  I’m glad I didn’t bring the book. Now when I return I can read it again.

  He stood shakily. In his pocket was a soggy book of matches and the pliers. The rest had been carried off. Gone.

  You are a dead man.

  Not yet.

  He walked for another few hours. The flooded ravine forked south and east. He headed south.

  If Tucson still stands, I will see it tonight or tomorrow. That is my only hope.

  His other voice did not reply.

  The valley floor was filled with the violence of the flash floods, and at times he waded through pools and, at others, followed the course until he could jump across, knowing this was dangerous.

  At one such crossing, the far side caved away at his sudden weight and all he could do was fall forward into the mud to keep from falling back into the torrent. He lay panting.

  I am feeling very weak.

  When was the last time you ate?

  I can’t remember. Maybe the snake.

  Start looking for flint.

  For a fire?

  Yes.

  I have nothing to eat.

  Again his other voice was silent.

  He forgot to look for flint, and when he had gone on another few hours, he stumbled and realized he’d been stumbling for some time.

  There is nothing here.

  You are beaten.

  I am cursed.

  That is the same.

  I don’t agree.

  The sun came out and everything dried almost instantly. If there had been rain, rain in abundance, the evidence was hidden. Only the clean smell of air without dust betrayed the monsoon. The sun made him sleepy, and when he began to crawl, he remembered he must look for flint. Flint to make a fire. But again he forgot and soon it was night.

  The wind came up and he found himself on hands and knees in a sandy depression. He heard a sound. A sound he knew. A sound he had heard in the village.

  I will lie down for a few hours and then walk.

  He slept the whole night. He dreamed that he was back in his shed, back among the village, listening to the desert wind move through the tin and corrugated metal that was the village. Waiting for morning. Waiting to go salvaging once more with his granddaughter. He kept waiting. He should get out of bed, he thought during the dream. Get out and get ready his tools and breakfast. Get ready for his granddaughter who would spend the day walking. Talking. Listening. It was she, of all the village, who had not given up on him. Just like the boy in the book. He was very excited just for those things. Not so much the salvage. But if they did find salvage, then of course that would be nice also. In the dream, he kept looking out the door of the shed to see if she was waiting. But it was still the middle of the night, dark and cold and clear with the stars like the broken glass east of the village. He had woken too early.

  When he awoke it was light. The light was soft. Wind blew sand across his skin. The sound of the tall grass was the sound of a husky broom being swept purposefully in long strokes across a stone floor.

  The tail of the airplane was white. It was tall, and it rose above the field of tall grass.

  An airliner.

  He stood slowly. His side ached where the flood had hit him. There were many tails. Like tombstones shifted slightly right, one to the next.

  He moved through the waving grass and found himself standing on the concrete apron that girded the airport. Airplanes stretched away across the field, their metal groaning in the morning wind.

  Marana Air Park. The airplane graveyard.

  Of all the names from the past that you cannot remember, you remember this one?

 
My dad . . . was a pilot. He was an airline pilot. I haven’t thought about that in years.

  He walked forward.

  The planes, all of them white, faded paint visible on some, stood like headstones. Large wings had collapsed. Some lay on their bellies. Their number stretched off into the distance.

  Their doors sealed tombs.

  If I had my crowbar, maybe I could get in.

  What could there be of use inside?

  He thought of electronics, seat cushions. Flotation devices. The galley. Maybe he could find a knife or a fire axe. Planes had fire axes. He remembered that from the many times his dad would take him to the cockpit where he worked.

  He found the hangars that once stood watch over the graveyard of planes. They had fallen down. What tools or a crowbar he might have used to violate the tombs of the airplanes lay underneath and out of reach.

  He walked toward the far end of the airfield.

  These planes once crossed the world.

  He thought of Hawaii. He had been five times. Flown there five times as a child. It was his dad’s route. He and his mother in back. A vacation.

  Had such a thing like that ever happened? He stood in the bright sunshine of the place. The wind was dying and the cemetery music of lonely tin slowly faded.

  In the book my friend talked of Africa. Of the lions on the beach at sunset. I remember.

  “When I was your age I was before the mast on a square-rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening.”

  Had ever such a thing happened?

  If I could get in. If I could get into one of these, I might stay for a while. Gather tools. Hunt. Then trek back to the village.

  I could head back to the peak and turn west. The Eight leads back to the village.

  What if there are more of them? More of that boy. Chasing me with the club. The plaque said Human Sacrifice.

  The Horde.

  If the Horde still exists, they might find the village some day. We could not defend ourselves.

  Maybe the boy is the last.

  There could be others. Watching you. Letting you lead them back to the village. Or if they find you they might make you talk.

  What about Fort Tucson, the Army, that Sergeant Major?

  They will think you are one of the Horde. You must look like one.

  I will tell them there is a village. They might help us. Or we could trade.

  You are cursed. This whole journey has been nothing but a curse, and here you are in a graveyard of airplanes without food or water or a weapon.

  Then I must get into one of these planes. At least for the axe.

  HE STILL HAD not made up his mind as he sat working with the gear he had collected. It had taken him a long time to get into one of the airplanes but he finally had. Going up through the nose gear of a four-engined plane, he’d found the trapdoor that led into the belly of the aircraft. Working hard at the pin and lock that secured it, he’d finally gotten it open. His head pounded with thirst and hunger and he was tired.

  He wound his way up into the dark plane. Feeling his way along a gloomy corridor that twisted to the right once, he saw light coming from a square in the ceiling above and found a ladder that led up to the square. It swung open easily and he was overwhelmed by the smell of stale fabric and dust.

  He had some ideas about what he might find aboard the plane that might be of use. Now he put these ideas to the test. He went to the door at the front of the plane, the one where passengers had once embarked. After a few moments reading the instructions, he pulled the red handle marked EMERGENCY. Nothing happened. He read the instructions again. Realizing his error he tried again, and this time the oval boarding door swung open to the desert sky. He deployed the safety slide. With a bang and a hiss it flung itself away from the aircraft. Inside the compartment he found instructions for deploying the life raft case if the plane needed to land in the ocean. With what strength was left, he found the case, then threw it out onto the runway. After bouncing a few times the large suitcase opened and a round raft burst forth, inflating at once.

  He slid down the slide and entered the covered raft on his hands and knees. He found a pouch built into the rubber floor marked SUPPLIES. The pouch contained a stash of stale protein bars and silvery bags filled with water. He ate and drank.

  Now later, in the last moments of twilight, sitting near the fire of mesquite and working on his supplies, he still did not know what to do next.

  He had found three more life rafts and collected an abundance of supplies. Besides the emergency food and water, he’d collected medical kits, scissors, matches, a flare gun and some flares, fishing line, and hooks. Now he sat cutting a raft into strips. Later, when the firelight cast too many flickering shadows making it difficult to focus, he stopped work and carried his supplies back up the boarding slide into the plane. Back outside he sat by the fire for awhile drinking a pack of water, then he went into the plane and closed the door. He slept on a row of seats with an emergency blanket and several pillows.

  FOR A LONG while Himbradda lay beside the raging floodwaters. Stunned. Numb. He had lost the man, and his rage boiled up within him. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the club.

  He would return to the People, but when he stood, his right leg collapsed and he screamed in pain. It was broken.

  He stood again, crying and grunting all at once. He began to limp back along the river’s edge. He would return to the People and maybe he would get food.

  Then he saw the tracks. Thick and gloppy in the mud. The tracks of the man. Dragging the broken leg, he followed them and forgot the pain that rushed up in him at every step. He drank greedily from evaporating pools of muddy water and chewed hungrily at seeds the People carried for nourishment. He would save the peyote for the kill.

  Himbradda followed the muddy tracks until it was too dark to track them anymore. He would find the man and that would make him happy again. For a while he sat shivering in the dark. Then he slept.

  Chapter 25

  The next day the Old Man made a rucksack using cut strips of yellow rubber from the raft. He sat in the shade under the large wing, sewing it together with some needle and thread from the emergency medical kit. Then he made a vest and finally a hat. In the emergency kit he found a little bottle of sunscreen. He would use that also.

  I have enough to head back.

  The heat made everything quiet. His voice seemed to carry under the wing of the plane and then fall into the dirt beyond.

  This is salvage. We could come back here and search these planes. There’s medicine, axes, pillows. These things would be good for the village. For a moment he saw movement underneath the wings of faraway planes. He crouched low, looking.

  It was the savage. Dragging a leg, he came limping toward the Old Man.

  Quickly the Old Man packed his ruck with supplies. He donned the vest and rolled up his hat, stuffing it in the rucksack. He grabbed the fire axe from the nose wheel where he’d left it to lean.

  You can’t lead him back to the village.

  I’ll head south for now. I must go to Fort Tucson.

  At the perimeter fence, as the Old Man crossed onto the road leaving the air park, the savage gave a cry that pierced the still desert air. The savage had seen him.

  Looking back, he saw the boy limping furiously after him. The boy was slow and the effort he exerted great. But the Old Man felt he could stay ahead of the savage. Turning his back he hustled off down the road.

  A few hours later he entered a series of rocky rolling hills. Saguaro cacti littered the sides of the hills, their arms upraised. The road began to twist and he passed a weather-beaten granite sign. He was now entering the Saguaro National Monument.

  Aha, I am west and north of Tucson. I can follow this road and it will take me to Gates Pass. I remember that. From Gates Pass it’s a short downhill walk into Tucson. I’ll see the city from there. If it is gone, then I can turn west and head back to the village.

&n
bsp; What will you do about the boy?

  He turned back to see. The boy was falling farther behind. For a while, flailing his good arm, he’d chased the Old Man. Now he seemed to be stumbling. Weaving. Sometimes he would raise his head and scream at the Old Man, then return to his efforts, limping forward in angry determination.

  The Old Man set off into the park. In the afternoon the clouds began to build up thick and white, and the Old Man could smell the musty scent that came before the desert rain. His bones felt tired and his muscles remained cold. When he stopped at a covered picnic area to rest, he felt dizzy.

  Maybe the water? Or maybe the food from the plane?

  Maybe it’s been too much.

  When the rain came a few minutes later he felt hot and sweaty. He’d lost sight of the boy.

  I can’t rest.

  Shouldering his pack, he started off into the rain moving steadily, slowly but steadily up the winding road.

  Can he still be behind me?

  It got dark early and the air became cold. The rain continued as a slight mist. Standing in the gloom, the Old Man smelled the pavement and wondered what he should do.

  If it comes to a fight I have the axe.

  He’s a boy. Your granddaughter’s age.

  I think he means to harm me.

  He smelled woodsmoke from a breeze that came at him out of the north. In the distance he saw a small orange fire farther down the valley.

  He has fallen far behind.

  It could be a trick. To make you think he has stopped for the night.

  The Old Man shouldered the pack and set off into the evening drizzle. Moments later, a flash of light caught the image of him receding into the negative, against the photograph of a land turned bone white and shadow.

  HIMBRADDA HEARD THE thunder and sat shivering in front of his fire. He ate the last handfuls of the seed. He took out the peyote and fingered it, chanting over and over his nonsense words.