by Nick Cole
Night.
The Old Man watched, listening to his granddaughter talk about the tank. He watched for the satellite above. The one that General Watt was using to talk to them.
The satellites are still up there crossing the sky.
Like me crossing this land.
Which is something, if you think about it.
IN THE NIGHT, long after she had drifted to sleep listening to him tell about the time he had seen the fox walking down the old highway, he awoke. The fire was low. There is nothing left to burn but the weeds of this old lawn. Unless I want to pull the boards off these buildings, but the sound would wake her. Besides, the night is warm enough.
The Old Man rose.
Because the ground is too hard and I need to pee. And also because I am not sleeping.
Tomorrow we will have to turn back. Without fuel, it’s just not possible to make it all the way. The tankers were most likely in Yuma, at the airport, when the bomb went off. Now, they are gone.
He tried to remember if he’d seen any such vehicles forty years ago on the last hot day of his country.
I can’t remember. She will be disappointed.
He turned and crossed the ancient outline of the weed-choked lawn, hearing the dry crunch beneath his feet.
Why would the Army have lawns in the desert?
I guess that was the way the military did things. They imposed order and rules regardless of the situation and location.
They were crazy to try to grow grass in the desert.
But they did. As long as they had water they must’ve grown these lawns. The world was crazy then.
We were all crazy.
And then he knew where he would find fuel. Or at least he hoped to. Excited, he drifted back to sleep for what remained of the night as though he had found a missing puzzle piece or remembered something good that would happen. Excited that he would not disappoint her. Excited that the best salvage trip ever might go on for at least one more day.
The best ever.
IN THE MORNING they found where the military kept its gardening equipment. Ancient rakes, rusty shovels and time frozen hedge trimmers. Dust-choked oily lawnmowers forever resting in dress-right-dress formation waited at the back of a large dark hangar. And off to one side, an immense storage tank of military-grade kerosene.
The Old Man drew off a little of the kerosene in a coffee mug he’d found in an office where clipboards hung neatly on the wall. He took it back outside as his granddaughter followed with questions, unsure of his game.
“Will it make the tank go, Grandpa?”
“If it’s still good, it might.”
The Old Man took a match from his pocket. He had loaded up on matches for this trip, remembering the last three matches inside the sewers beneath the hangar the wolves had chased him into. He struck the match and dropped it into the fuel. It caught and made a heavy chemical smell erupt in gray waves of smoke.
THEY RODE THE lumbering tank away, leaving the dry and dusty military post to itself and the years that must consume it. Off to the west, sand dunes rose in the afternoon heat.
Soon the sand dunes will arrive here as they march across the desert. Then they will cover this place and the kerosene that still remains inside that big storage tank.
But I will be gone by then.
Now we must hope there will be other fuel sources along the road. We may not find our river, my friend, but in a way the road is like that.
And what ocean will it lead to?
That night, the Old Man dreamed that he and Santiago were on a wide sea, under a hot sun, watching the flying fish leap from the water. Waiting for the big fish they would catch.
Chapter 13
Ahead we will find places I once knew long ago and have forgotten since. And I can only imagine what time and the bombs have done to them. I can only imagine that my past memories have changed to present nightmares.
Yes, my friend.
The tank trundled down a long, dirty, brown slope. In the distance they could see a strand of Highway 10 cutting the landscape in two.
It too is still there.
His granddaughter, ahead in the separate compartment containing the driver’s couch, steered the tank across the crumbling dirt slope. Often he needed to remind her to slow down.
I feel like we’ve gone off the edge of something. The edge of everything we’ve ever known. Did you feel that way, Santiago, as you pulled at the oars farther and farther out into the gulf, watching the color of the water deepen until it was dark and not blue? Did you too feel like you were going off the edge of something?
And yet I knew it all once and long ago.
Memories of the cities of the West began to come and stand around the Old Man like mourners near an open grave.
You must forget all this melancholy and think only of the facts. You have enough fuel to reach China Lake. If you don’t find fuel there, then crossing Death Valley into Area 51, will be impossible. You must follow this road until you come to an old tactical outpost set up alongside the highway. General Watt told us we would find it there.
“GRANDPA, THERE’S SOMEONE on the road ahead.”
The Old Man scanned the horizon.
Far to their right, in the direction they must go, he could see the dark silhouette of a human.
It stood, unmoving in the late heat of the day.
The Old Man continued to watch the unmoving man-shaped shadow far down the cracked road as the tank heaved itself up onto the old highway. His granddaughter maneuvered the tank to point west at his instruction. A mile off, the lone figure remained unmoving beside the road they would follow.
I wish I knew how to work these optics like she has already learned to.
“Can you tell me what he looks like?” he asked her.
He knew she would be using her viewfinder.
“He’s tall,” she said after a moment. “Long dirty hair. Maybe a salvager, but not like anyone from our village. Oh, and he has a hat.”
His mind stayed on the words “Not like anyone from our village.”
The Old Man felt a cold river of fear sweep through him.
“Out there.”
And . . .
Too many “Done” things.
“Let’s move forward. But don’t stop unless I tell you to, okay?”
“Okay.”
I am afraid of this stranger on the road. Why?
We know why, my friend; it’s just that we’re not always willing to be honest with ourselves when we must. It is better to admit that you are afraid now than to pretend you are not.
The dark man-shadow, before the setting sun, seemed to lean toward them and out into the blistered highway as they approached. As they closed the distance between them the Old Man saw the shadow revealed. Saw him clearly as one might see something dead beside the road and want to look away in that passing instant of speed. His face was gaunt. Sun stretched by time and all the years since the end of the world. All the years on the road.
Worn rawhide boots. Faded dusty pants. A long coat made of license plates stitched together. A thick staff he leaned on heavily, though his frame was spare. Two small skulls dangled from its topmost tip. He wore a faded wide and weak-brimmed hat under which shining hawk-like eyes watched the Old Man. Had watched since they’d first appeared, the Old Man was sure of that.
He’s a killer.
The Old Man could feel the slightest decrease in their acceleration.
“No!” he shouted into his mic. “Keep going!”
The tank lurched forward, and as they hurtled past the Roadside Killer, the vessel of all things unclean, the gaunt man raised one bony arm from the sleeve of his license-plate mail coat and extended a claw-like hand that might have been a plea.
The Old Man knew his granddaughter would be staring, wide-eyed, as they raced past, throwing grit and gravel, drawing up the road behind them.
Do not look back.
The Old Man rose in the hatch, watching the highway ahead.
<
br /> “Why didn’t we stop, Grandpa? He looked like he needed help.”
Do not look back.
“Grandpa?”
“Because,” said the Old Man after a moment. “Because we must help those inside the bunker.”
IT WAS LATER, in the early evening, beyond a fallen collection of wind-shattered buildings the map once marked as the town of Quartzite, where they buttoned up the tank for the night. In the dark they’d settled into their bags, feeling the tank sway in the thundering wind that had risen up out of nowhere late that afternoon.
“Why didn’t we help him, Grandpa?”
The Old Man listened to the sand strike the sides of the tank and thought of some acid they’d once drained from a car battery to weaken the lock on a tractor trailer they’d salvaged.
The wind sounds like acid tonight.
“Not everyone needs our help.”
“But some people, the people inside General Watt’s bunker, do?”
“Yes, they do.”
And I wonder if they truly do. How do I know this isn’t some game, a complex game, to draw us all into a trap?
You don’t know, my friend.
“How did you know the man today didn’t really need our help?”
“I just did.”
And how will I teach you to know such things when I am gone?
“So we only help those who really need our help, Grandpa?”
“Yes. Only those whom we can tell really need our help.”
I will have to think of a better way to teach her to know how and when to help, but not tonight. I cannot think of a way tonight.
Soon she was asleep and the Old Man lay awake for a long time listening to the sand dissolving the tank, and when he slept he dreamed of the cities of the West and the stranger beside the road and serial killers and empty diners where there was no food anymore.
Chapter 14
“You’re just two thousand meters away from the last known location of the tactical command post.” General Watt’s transmission was breaking up within intermittent bouts of white noise. “I have not been able to get a satellite with a working camera over the location. There are only a few operating satellites remaining, otherwise I might have been able to give you better data regarding the container’s location.”
They were passing through a wide sprawl of ancient warehouses that rose up like giant monoliths from the desert floor surrounding Barstow.
“What will this container look like?” asked the Old Man, hoping General Watt’s transmission would be understood.
“Green . . .” Static. “Size of a box . . .”
The Old Man asked the General to repeat the description, but the electronic snowstorm he listened within contained no reply. The satellite she had been bouncing the transmission off had finally disappeared far over the western horizon. The General had told them she wouldn’t be able to reach them again for another twelve hours.
The Old Man watched the silent place of massive box-like buildings. From this distance they seemed little more than dirty tombstones, but as his granddaughter maneuvered the tank up the road, he could see the telltale signs of time and wind. Metal strips had been ripped away in sections, as if peeled from the superstructure of the buildings. A place like this would have been an obvious choice for salvagers. But this is California. Everyone fled California when all the big cities had been hit. L.A. before I’d even left. San Diego a day later. But there was no sign of the box General Watt said they must find.
And what is in this box?
The Old Man shut down the tank.
They were exactly where General Watt had said they would find the tactical command post. And somewhere nearby would be the container, but there was nothing. No command post.
Dusty, wide alleyways led between the ancient warehouses.
If it was a small box, what would’ve prevented someone from merely carrying it away?
Then it must be a big box, my friend.
“Maybe it’s in one these buildings, Grandpa.”
They left the tank, feeling the increasing heat of the day rise from the ancient pavement of the loading docks.
Inside they found darkness through which dusty shafts of orange light shot from torn places in the superstructure. The Old Man clutched his crowbar tightly, stepping ahead of his granddaughter. There is a story here. A story of salvage. If you tell the story, you’ll find the salvage. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. You know part of the story. The General told you that part.
The days of the bombs had begun. Los Angeles was gone. But the Chinese, which was news to me because that must have happened after Yuma, were invading the western United States. The military, the Third Armored Division, or so General Watt said, staged its forces here in the deserts of Southern California. Supplies were air-dropped in as well as tanks and soldiers. They would counterattack the Chinese on American soil.
Imagine that.
At least they were supposed to have. But what happened in those days of bombs and EMPs and the rumors that spread like a supervirus is not clearly known and all the General can tell me is what was known. What was known before the jury-rigged, EMP-savaged communications networks that were able to route traffic through the bunker at Cheyenne Mountain collapsed. What was known before everything went dark.
And after?
The success of the counter-attack?
The tanks and soldiers?
The Chinese?
During those first days as we walked east, away from the Great Wreck, I had thought the world had ended. But in truth we knew so little of the story because who really knew everything that was going on and how could they tell us as we carried our possessions in our hands along the highway. The world had gone on ending long after we thought it was dead.
Nothing is known clearly now, and it is no longer important on this hot day forty years later.
The important matter for today is to find a container that was air-dropped and went wide of the landing zone as soldiers and tanks readied themselves to meet the enemy. The container’s GPS locator broadcast for years. But even that fading signal ended a long time ago.
“What’s inside?” the Old Man had asked General Watt.
“I’ll need to explain that later. I only have a limited time to communicate with you before the satellite I’m currently hijacking disappears over the Pacific horizon. Find the container and get it open. I’ll explain what you’ll need to do once you’ve obtained the supplies.”
Why do I have the feeling bad news has made an appointment?
Because you are cautious, my friend. And right now is the time to be cautious. So if you are cautious, you are doing well.
If we were on the boat I dreamed of last night, Santiago, seeing the flying fish jump, watching our lines, waiting for the big fish that was like a monster to come up from the deep to fight him together, you would say such things to me when my confidence was low.
Confidence can work both ways, my friend.
Yes, there is that.
That is not important now. Right now you need to find this box, my friend. Later you can decide how you feel about the bad news that you fear might be inside.
There is a story here also. A story of salvage.
The Old Man searches the gloom of the warehouse and sees very little. He smells wood smoke and decay from long ago.
Dead animals. Dried blood. Huddled bodies. Decay.
“Go to the tank, please, and bring me back the flashlight,” he whispers to his granddaughter.
When she returns, he scans the interior of the warehouse with the beam. Its light is weak and barely penetrates the dark. All batteries are old now in these many years after the bombs.
They walk forward into the gloom. She has brought a flashlight for herself also and he watches her beam move with energy, like her, never staying in any one place for too long, also like her. His beam is slow and searching. He finds the remains of the campfire in the center of the warehouse before she does. It wa
s a large fire.
Around it are storage racks and iron beams, arranged as though many might sit and watch the fire through long winter nights that must have seemed unending and as though the entire world was frozen forever.
I know those nights.
I know those fire-watching nights.
I am always hungry when I think back on them and the howling wind that was constant.
You were very hungry then.
The whole world must have been hungry.
But there is no box here.
They search the building, even shining their lights into the high recesses of the fractured roof.
There is nothing.
In the next building, the centermost of the three, they find the remains of the same style bonfire, and she, his granddaughter, on the farthest wall, at the back of the massive warehouse, finds the drawings.
Taken in parts they are merely a collection of scribblings.
Stick figure people. A Man-Wolf. Slant-Eyed Invaders waving guns. Mushroom clouds. Stick figure people who wear the wide-brimmed hat. Like that Roadside Killer. Stick figure people with spikes that come from the tops of their misshapen heads. Many dead Spike Heads. The bonfire. The Hat People stare into it.
“Who are they, Grandpa?”
Her voice startles him in the gloom beyond the cone of light he stares into, trying to know the meanings of these scribblings.
“I don’t know.”
He follows the drawings from left to right and finds no mention of the container.
He finds they are a people. A people who wore hats like the one the Roadside Killer wore. A people surrounded by decay who waited through the long winter after the bombs and stared into fire.
A people like his village. The same and different.
Mushroom clouds.
The Man-Wolf leads them all away.
Leads them toward the Slant-Eyed Invaders who wave guns and trample over other stick figures beneath their stick feet.
“I don’t know,” he says again, his voice swallowed within the quiet.
And he realizes he is all alone.
