The Old Man and the Wasteland

by Nick Cole

  Further along the highway, he passed the remains of a burnt fueling station off to one side. It was little more than a concrete pad and blackened cement. In the lone shade of a mesquite tree he ate the last of the fox and drank some water.

  Now you have two problems.

  Now I have no food and no salvage. If I could walk straight to the village day and night for three days I might make it. But not without food. The effort would be too great and I might make a mistake if I were so hungry I couldn’t focus. Then a broken leg would be the end of me.

  Tonight I will stop early and make some traps.

  A gas station like this once had a tin awning that made a sing song noise in a strong wind.

  Another thought that has no place in the present.

  Maybe just another memory trying not to be forgotten.

  I might know that because I once stopped here for fuel.

  You always came to visit your parents on the ‘Eight’. Not the ‘Ten’.

  Amazed, he stopped chewing. He hadn’t referred to The Old Highway as the ‘Eight’ in a long time. Since the days just after the bombs. The names of places had been forgotten. Or were too painful to remember.

  The ‘Eight’.

  He tried to remember the name of the town he was looking for. Something ‘Big’ he remembered. But it wouldn’t come and the air seemed to be getting hotter with the noon day heat.

  He began to move again, south along the highway.

  At least moving it feels cooler.

  In the afternoon, brilliant white sails of cloud began to form to the east. Climbing upwards, each full-blown sail exploding beneath an eruption of white foam. The armada of clouds came no closer than a dark ridge of jagged mountains to the east that embodied everything he felt about that direction.

  The Monsoons were coming.

  The Alpha led the thirty wolves of his pack off the mountain and passed the Winnebago on its side. At the road, he smelled the night wind coming out of the south. He didn’t smell the man. But he knew men. He had watched them. Men always moved in one direction, as if always on the hunt of just one animal.

  The two killers challenged him briefly as he started off down the highway but his mate snarled back at them. For a moment, it looked as though the pack might split. The two killers wanted to circle to the north and for awhile they yelped about it, making the noises that indicated mule deer.

  But the females went with the Alpha, and soon the entire pack lay strung out behind him as he scented the sides of the road for the man.

  Near the bridge where The Old Man made camp the night before, the wolf picked up the scent of urine. The Old Man had urinated just before sleeping.

  Slowly the Alpha crept down along a path and followed the trail directly into the camp under the bridge. He smelled the gray ash of the night’s fire. Some paper The Old Man had wrapped the dried fox in. The rest of the pack milled about above the camp on the main road. Dawn wasn’t far off and they’d nothing to eat so far.

  One of the killers howled in warning and the entire pack turned toward the sound of it.

  A family of havalina had come up the dry river bed under the bridge from the east and the wolves fell upon the wild pigs, easily snatching the babies as the male and the females stubbornly stood their ground hoping to minimize losses.

  But the wolves were too good for the wild pigs. Had hunted to long under the Alpha. Soon, the last sow’s eyes rolled back in her head. She’d watched the killers tearing out the entrails of the male that had presided over the brood for as long as she could remember. Seconds later, a warm softness came over her as the Alpha sunk its teeth deeper into her jugular vein, forcing her to release.

  Swinging her to the side, the Alpha looked at the two killers. They should have known the females were the most dangerous. She could have killed them or made the victim wish for death. That might have solved his problems right there. But treachery was not in The Alpha.

  The snarling pack devoured flesh and blood. The Alpha settled down to the dead sow. He had lost the pack for the night. There would be no going any further after this meal. Dawn would soon be upon them. They would sleep in the shade under the bridge in the man’s camp from the night before. And tomorrow they would hunt him again.

  Tearing at the haunch of the desert pig, he thought it might be good for them to sleep in the man’s camp. They would have the smell of him. That way he wouldn’t have to do all the work.

  Fifteen

  In the twilight at the end of the next day, The Old Man standing on the road, didn’t feel as tired as he should of. He’d caught two snakes in the late morning coming out on the highway to sun themselves. Big rattlers, he’d pinned their flat heads and swung the crowbar down with a ring on the old highway.

  He’d roasted them quickly and ate. Just after noon he was headed south again. Later the ‘thunder-bumpers’, as some of the villagers called the big late afternoon cumulus clouds, though Big Pedro had called them ‘The Chubasco’, built up to the east over the iron gray mountains. As twilight came, a cool wind whipped up from the south, and in the dust of it he could smell rain.

  I might walk a bit longer tonight. The snake tasted so good I might walk a bit longer. Maybe I will make the town in the night, and if anyone lives there it might be better that way.

  A few minutes later he heard the first mournful howl. Behind him. To the north from where he had come.

  If it is just one I might be fine.

  If not?

  A chorus began, but each successive howl was more urgent as if hoping to outdo the previous one by speed.

  The Old Man shifted his satchel higher onto his back and bent quickly, hoping, praying, that the wolves were about some other business. He tied his huaraches tighter, adjusted his burden once more, and moved off quickly.

  If I can find something tall, they might not get to me.

  But the road seemed a straight flat course bearing off into the south and the night. There were no rocks or boulders, no wreckage of overturned tankers or piled cars. There had not been since the days before the bombs. Tucson had evacuated early. After Phoenix had been hit. The roads had been empty as survivors fled into the desert or other places they hoped might be safe.

  Going south the town will be off to my right.

  Ay, but you’re not anywhere near it. You don’t even know where it is. And Mirrored Sunglasses told you it burnt.

  He lied about other things.

  The Old Man darted off into the scrub and down an embankment. Behind him, the wolves were calling back and forth.

  They are still away off, but wolves must move fast.

  He pulled out his crowbar as he ran, and placed his other hand on the pistol in his waistband. After a moment, when one of the wolves seemed closer, back near the road, he pulled out the gun, flicking off the safety.

  It’s really not enough you know. Five bullets. It sounds like a lot of them from the howling.

  In the sand he stepped on something thick and long. Man made. Kicking his feet through the soft desert powder he found the remains of a thick cable.

  A downed power line.

  He followed it away through the brush to the south. If I can find the tower I can climb it even if it’s down. He headed south, maneuvering around the scrub and keeping one step on the cable as he ran.

  Looking back over his shoulder he could see the elevated rise of the highway. In the last moments of light he saw the shadowy wolves. He counted quickly but gave up as they shifted. It seemed there were maybe twenty of them. It was a large pack.

  Behind him, a cacophony of yapping went up as the wolves tried to find his trail.

  At least there must be a town ahead. This power line must have been going somewhere.

  He could hear the wolves in the brush now, bounding and leaping about. Making a game of hide and kill with The Old Man.

  The downed power line began to rise from the sand, and soon it was high enough for him to follow with his hand.

  It’s rising
. Something to climb.

  Frantically he plowed through the scrub, heedless of scorpions.

  The evening wind had picked up and was blowing sand across the desert. Ahead he could hear the sing song of metal bending in the wind. It reminded him of the village.

  The wolves had his scent now and he could hear them racing in the brush behind him

  Rising out of the dark he could make out a toppled power tower. The kind that was nothing more than cross welded steel frames rising high above the landscape. But this one had fallen on its side.

  A wolf howled behind The Old Man, and not daring to look he raced for the nearest girder and began to climb.

  At first, he had to climb with the gun and the crowbar in his hands, but once he was high enough, he hung for a second, placing the gun in his satchel.

  Below him, the entire pack circled, whining and yelping.

  Once The Old Man was as high as the toppled girder would rise, he wedged himself between two supports and glanced down.

  The wolves whined and howled in high little yelps. Pacing, they began to race back and forth until the largest of them let out a bone chilling howl.

  If I fall…

  Then don’t. Don’t fall.

  Sixteen

  The Old Man lay under a blanket of stars. Above him a thousand points of broken glass shimmered. The moon had gone down and now the sky was black before dawn.

  This is how the world is in the night. In all the nights I was a child and a young man before the bombs. It was like this in the night.

  It was like this for the man in the book. At night. With the great fish. Will I find my great fish? Will my story go that far?

  Below the wolves had disappeared for the most part. He could hear them ranging through the dirt and scrub. All except the big one. The big one waited. Sitting mostly. Waiting. Occasionally he would pad around beneath The Old Man, checking the perimeter. A loping little gait, almost friendly. Just business.

  The Old Man lay precariously across the top of one of the girders where it intersected with another. It was a small space and not much more.

  A strong wind or sleep and over I go. So no sleep tonight.

  What will the wolves do in the morning?

  What will you do in the morning?

  The big wolf didn’t answer. But he seemed to be listening.

  The Old Man drank some water.

  His neck was tired. His back felt numb from the girder. And his legs were falling asleep. He flexed them, moving back and forth. He winked at the big wolf.

  If I fall, you must be ready. So no sleep for you either.

  Are you crazy?

  No.

  The wolves won’t let you go five feet.

  I must try.

  You will fail if it comes to that.

  ‘If’ it comes to that.

  Below the wolf waited.

  At dawn, the wolves settled to wait. There were thirty of them. The two killers baited the Alpha. They wanted to leave the scrawny man and return to the sickly mule deer near Phoenix, a hot pile of ruins the wolves called ‘The Uneven Ground.’ The two killers walked away decidedly. But none of the females followed. The young watched. As if their decision mattered. But the big Alpha waited.

  The Old Man watched the wolves play their game.

  It’s obvious to me.

  How so?

  They don’t want to stay. They want something to kill. To eat. But the big one there won’t let them. What he says goes. There is more to me, for him, than just a meal. So I think all of us must wait.

  He awoke with a start. He had drifted for only a moment. But he had started to roll. Started to roll off the girder to the wolves below.

  I can’t wait all day my friend. Maybe you should listen to the rest of your family and go. That would be for the best.

  The big Alpha watched from underneath the top of his eyes giving away nothing.

  I have a family too, you know.

  Do you?

  The Old Man looked behind him, toward where he had been heading. A dawn breeze moved softly over his gray hair in the orange light of a new day.

  The power lines ran down the length of the fallen tower which was even higher at the far end. The lines continued out across a low river bed. They stretched loosely across the gap to meet another tower, twisted and fallen in the same direction on the other side of the dry river bed.

  These must have fallen in the shock wave after Phoenix.

  The Old Man rose to his knees. He moved his satchel onto his back.

  Listen, my friend. I can’t wait for you to leave. So I must go. You understand, don’t you?

  The Old Man began to crawl over the length of the tower. At once the wolves were up and pacing, whining and crossing back and forth underneath him. Some growled.

  This requires all the concentration you have ever had in your whole life, so pay attention. You must focus like your friend in the book. He needed to bait the hooks and cut the tuna while his hand was cramping. And still he held the line the big fish was on.

  I will.

  Patiently, unlike the rest of the pack, the big Alpha below paced The Old Man above, each of the paws tracing each of the hands and knees of The Old Man.

  When he arrived at the end of the tower, he was at least ten feet higher and the girders were wider. The power lines were draped and bunched on the desert floor around the tower but they continued up across the base of the fallen tower and out across the riverbed.

  I must be fifty or sixty feet up from the riverbed.

  I don’t think I have the strength.

  The heavy cables swung in the morning breeze.

  He tried them. He would never know for sure. Never know if half way across the gap they might start to slide downwards.

  These are heavy cables. They stretch for miles and miles. They weigh tons. Surely they can support the weight of just me.

  You will never know.

  I don’t have much choice.

  Most of the wolves below were losing interest and they began to chase small animals. All except the big Alpha. As The Old Man began to work at his satchel, cutting it into strips, the big Alpha began to growl. And when The Old Man began his journey across the void, the big Alpha let out a sudden mournful howl, and soon all the wolves were back and baying at him.

  His tools were in his pockets and he had secured the grease in his bandolier with his water bottles. Everything he had tied across his waist.

  Cutting the leather satchel into strips, he missed his wife.

  She had made the satchel for him before she died. It had not been salvaged. It had been made. He left it at that. He didn’t think anymore about their love. Their love after the end of everything. Or the short time they had together. Or her olive skin. Or the boy he raised. Or all the things that are made when love is reason enough.

  He tied the strips three times about one wrist. He tied another set of strips about the other wrist. He did the same with his ankles ending up with a leather collar for each limb. He ran thicker straps made of sturdier leather through those bands about his wrist. He did the same with his ankles.

  Moving to the cable that stretched across the riverbed, he greased the tough straps and then tied them to the other bands about the opposite ankle and wrist leaving the power cable between his body and his arms and legs.

  The sun was directly above him. He looked across the gap to the other fallen tower.

  Two hundred yards.

  He started out head first, using his hands to pull and his feet to brace. He was thankful for his gloves.

  The big Alpha howled and then stopped.

  This might be tougher than I’d thought.

  The cables were dropping down at first and so The Old Man was braking himself more than pulling. Halfway across when he would be most tired, he would need to pull.

  Just work and think about something.

  What will the wolves do?

  Think about something else.

  What is the name of m
y friend in the book?

  He is not much of a friend if you don’t know his name.

  I would like to have been in the boat with my friend. I could have helped him with the fish.

  Great drops of sweat broke out across his body, and by the time he was three quarters of the way down the descent, one glove tore above his index finger.

  Listen. Do you hear the wolves?

  I think they have gone.

  He looked down and saw the big Alpha bounding across the rocks of the dry riverbed. Two leaner wolves paced behind him.

  At the lowest point of the descent, he could barely see from the glare of the sun and the salty sweat running into his eyes.

  He gripped the cable with his legs and felt it slip, or thought he did. He opened the tin of grease he had placed in the bandolier across his chest. Trembling fingers flipped open the lid as he poured the rest of the grease across the straps and the cable.

  He let the empty tin of grease that had accompanied him on so many salvages for so many years fall as the wolves danced away from it.

  Now you must pull.

  Ten feet farther up and climbing, he was exhausted.

  I can’t I am too tired.

  You have no choice. You must pull. Think about something.

  I wonder what the wolves will do when I get to the other side.

  Think about something else and pull.

  Pull.

  You must pull.

  You should teach your granddaughter to do this in case she is ever surrounded by wolves and trapped on top of a fallen power tower.

  I would rather teach her to read.

  You must pull.

  I am pulling.

  Pull. Pull. Pull harder.

  There is nothing left.

  You have no other option, now pull old man.

  I am pulling.

  What ever happened to all the people you ever knew? Knew before the bombs.

  I don’t care.

  The women you loved?

  I still love my wife.

  Pull. Pull. Pull.

  I can’t see. There is too much sweat in my eyes.