by Nick Cole
All about him, the blistered and scabbed crazies jabber-screamed in victory. He could feel the Fool scrabbling up beside him, biting his claws into the Old Man’s belly and flesh.
Yes.
Laughter.
Mansions.
Many mansions.
And her.
I’m taking everything with me.
And then the weapon hit.
Twenty-seven million tons of shattered rock flew away from the mountain as shock waves tossed prey and predator, slave and slaver far from the nightmare of the Work.
Far south along the road, Ted stumbling forward heard a soprano note ring out across the broken and burnt lands, as though a metal beam had fallen from a great height and struck the road. Seconds later, he felt the blast of a gusty wind hit him and knock him to the ground as the earth shook. To the north, the sky was torn by the vapor rings of sonic booms, each expanding beyond the other, rings rising high into the atmosphere.
In the south, near the conical mountain, among the Mohicans and horses, the last of the dusty day fading to evening, they too felt the ground shake.
IN THE DARK.
In the early evening drenched in dust and raining debris.
The first headlights of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles appeared in the smoke and dust. They bobbed and wove up from the crack, carrying sleeping Natalie and her children.
They drove all night through darkening forests, eyes wide at the twinkling stars and the endless night and the land that might stretch impossibly away in the light of day.
IN THE FIRST of the next morning, the convoy came south. When they saw the conical hill known as Wagon Wheel Mountain, they cheered from behind their thick sunglasses and protective clothing.
The Mohicans saw them coming.
On the grassy plain they met. The children of the bunker took their first steps out onto the soft ground that stretched away into something they imagined as forever.
They embraced the horse warriors, the Mohicans, feathered and noble.
Suddenly there were tears and no one knew why. They only knew that something great had happened. That something new might be possible, replacing what had once seemed impossible.
Un-wishable.
The little girl broke away from her mother. She twisted under the high sun, twirling and spinning in the un-wishable.
Free at last.
ON THE MORNING before the children and the Mohicans would begin their long journey south and west to the Old Man’s Tucson, the Boy rose.
She was gone.
Had gone in the night.
Taking her rucksack with her.
He saw her tracks.
He could see her in his mind.
Tiny. Thin. Wearing her shiny green bomber jacket.
Heading west.
No more tears to give.
For a time she would be alone.
But he would follow her.
And . . .
Watch over her.
Heading west.
IN TIME, WHEN the end of the Old Man was known to all, when it had been told in far Tucson of what he had done, they thought of going back to find his body.
But they knew.
They knew he was gone now.
And what would it mean if they found his body anyway?
As if a simple body, old and broken, can contain all that there is of a man, or a woman.
Epilogue
The Old Man opened his eyes.
His wife was pulling him upward, onto his feet.
She was still beautiful.
Her eyes shone with love for him.
Even more so, if that was possible.
The Old Man was standing in a river.
All around him.
Wonders beyond words.
And a Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief, waded through the emerald shallows of the river out to the Old Man. The Man of Sorrows was bleeding and severely beaten, and yet he began to gently wash away all the bad that had ever happened to the Old Man. The aches, the pains, the one above his chest where the satchel had bit—all the pain was gone now. Then he gave the Old Man a new garment. The Old Man protested, thinking only of the terrible wounds this stranger had received and how much pain this other man must be in as he washed and clothed him.
“What happened to you?” asked the Old Man.
The Man of Sorrows smiled and spoke softly. “I was wounded in the house of a friend.”
As if what had happened had only been some small misunderstanding.
And then he hugged the Old Man tightly, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
And there was music.
The most beautiful music I have ever heard. All those years in the desert and I had forgotten what music really is.
And somewhere in it, he heard his granddaughter’s laugh.
You take everything with you.
Walking into it now, his wife’s hand about his arm, eagerly pulling him forward along the river and into the wonders beyond words, he thought, ‘What a strange adventure.’
Author’s Note
I’d like to thank you for reading these books. I hope you had a good time, and I apologize about the tough parts. If it helps, I felt so awful for everything that I’d done to everyone in The Savage Boy. Jin, Sergeant Presley, and Horse deserved better. I hope we ended well in spite of those dark times.
Again, thank you. I look forward to our next time together. If you get a chance, swing by my website at nickcolebooks.com or find me on Twitter @nickcolebooks and say hi.
About the Author
NICK COLE is an army veteran and actor living in Southern California. When he is not auditioning for commercials, going out for sitcoms, or being shot, kicked, stabbed, or beaten by film school students, he can often be found working as a guard for King Philip II of Spain or in a similar role in Don Carlo at Los Angeles Opera.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Credits
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover photograph © by the Marsden Archive/Alamay
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Harper Voyager and design is a trademark of HCP LLC.
THE SAVAGE BOY. Copyright © 2013 by Nick Cole.
First HarperCollins e-books edition: February 2013
THE OLD MAN AND THE WASTELAND. Copyright © 2012 by Nick Cole.
First HarperCollins e-books edition: July 2012
Various quotes within are from the novel The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. Reprinted with the permission of Scribner, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., from The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. Copyright © 1952 by Ernest Hemingway. Copyright renewed © 1980 by Mary Hemingway. All rights reserved.
THE WASTELAND SAGA. Copyright © 2013 by Nick Cole. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-221019-7
EPUB Edition © OCTOBER 2013 ISBN 9780062210203
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