Authors: Nick Cole
The The Wasteland Saga: Three Novels: Old Man and the Wasteland, The Savage Boy, The Road is a River (48 page)
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.”
L
ATER, THE
O
LD
M
AN
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.
D
EEP 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.
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.’
T
HE
O
LD
M
AN
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.
They would have rice and beans, cooked already, and flour tortillas they could heat on the warmth of the engine.
There are over two hundred and fifty miles to Flagstaff. They tell me there might be fuel there. So maybe . . .
I am tired of worrying about fuel. It will either be there or it won’t. But I am tired of worrying about it. I am anxious to be on the road and to be done with this errand.
You are not worried, my friend?
I am that too.
A
T DAWN,
the Big Man and the others arrived. In time the storage cases full of rice, beans, and tortillas were loaded on board the tank. The Boy came carrying their things. The Old Man’s granddaughter, fresh from the showers, wrapped in her shiny green bomber jacket against the cold that lay deep within the Dam, carried just her sleeping bag.
The Old Man started the APU and fired the main engine. Smoke erupted across the garage and the people raced to raise the big door.
The Big Man climbed up on the turret as the Old Man throttled the engine back and forth, hoping the cause of the thick smoke was just moisture in the fuel.
“Never mind that,” yelled the Big Man over the whispering roar of the engine. “Our home brew is a little watery, burns rough, but it works!” He smiled broadly. “Tell Reynolds at Kingman that Conklin sent you and to give ya any fuel, if he’s got it. Reynolds is good people.”
The Old Man shook the Big Man’s hand and made ready to go.
Once everyone was clear, he pivoted the tank toward the entrance and gassed it until they were out in the morning sun followed by a cloud of blue smoke.
The right tread may or may not be going bad and we make more smoke than we should. So there is that to worry about.
You complain too much, my friend.
Yes, I know.
B
EYOND THE
D
AM,
a long valley slid away toward the southeast and a timeworn highway ran through it. The Old Man checked his map.
We’ll link up with the 40 in Kingman. We can follow that all the way into Albuquerque.
Long-gone fires had consumed much of the land in the years after the long winter. Wild growth covered what lay in the flatlands between the two mountain ranges that defined the valley.
It reminds me of the highway alongside our village, except it’s lonelier.
H
OURS LATER
the Old Man spied the first riders high atop the cut-rock mesas as the highway twisted through red rock, closing in on Kingman. Who they were and what they wore was unknowable at distance. They were mere shadows high up on the broken rocks. They rode horses and carried long spears from which dark feathers dangled in the breeze. But that they knew of the tank and its passage was sure to be counted on.
The Boy looked back at him and the Old Man nodded.
We have both seen the riders.
The Old Man was driving, following the bumping, uneven road that wound toward Kingman.
“Just keep on the road and try to stay near the center,” his granddaughter told him. “It looks to be in better shape there than on the edges, Poppa.”
“Okay.”
Now she is giving me advice on how to drive this thing. Hoping that maybe I will let her take over.
The Old Man switched from the intercom to radio and spoke.
“Natalie?”
After a moment the General was there.
“We’re beyond the Dam and headed toward Kingman. Supposedly there are settlements along Interstate 40 and we’ve been told there might be some warlord called King Charlie causing a lot of trouble. I just wanted to let you know about that and our progress.”
White noise popped and crackled.
“I’ve reviewed the satellite imagery from our archives.” Now the General’s voice was loud and clear. “And I do find activity along your route when I use a time-lapse algorithm to detect signs of human activity. Do you have any idea who this King Charlie is and where he might be headquartered?”
‘That was fast,’ thought the Old Man. ‘Unless she’d already been looking at these places.’
But how could she have known?
“I don’t know much about him. Just that they call him King Charlie. Does he have anything to do with your situation?”
“The truth is, I don’t know. We can’t actually leave our bunker and find out who is trying to enter the complex. The radiation outside is incredibly high and would be lethal for even a short duration of time. Other than vague low-res satellite images of a large group of people trying to break down our front door, we know very little. Our engineers tell us the main door won’t hold much longer.”
“How long?”
Silence.
“A week.”
The Old Man looked at the case on the deck of the tank.
Project Einstein.
What does it do?
Ask her now.
Maybe I don’t want to know just yet.
“So we must hurry then?”
“I would advise so, yes, for our sakes.”
“If we can find fuel, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
There is fuel.
There is also King Charlie.
There is also all that end-of-the-world between here and there. All that destruction caused by nuclear warheads and two-year-long winters and after that, the forty years of neglect and craziness that followed. But yes, if we can find fuel then we can show up with this device and free you from your prison. By whatever means the device uses.
I must ask her what the device does.
Yes, my friend. You should.
“Please hurry,” said Natalie. General Watt.
“We will.”
The riders had disappeared. The Old Man leaned out of the hatch and tapped the Boy who slithered back inside the turret, out of the wind and heat so they could talk.
“Who are they?” asked the Old Man.
The Boy shook his head.
“I don’t know. Some sort of tribe. They don’t seem to be like the people back at the Dam.”
“So maybe they’re not from Kingman. We’re close to there.”
The Boy thought for a long moment.
“No, I do not think they’re from Kingman. Perhaps they are the Apache the people at the Dam talked about. Maybe that’s who we see up in the rocks.”
“Maybe.”
“Poppa!” shouted his granddaughter over the intercom.
“Is everything okay?” the Old Man asked.
“Poppa! Everything’s great! I think it’s a circus! Look at it!”
T
HEY HAD COME
suddenly upon the stockade settlement at Kingman. From the highway overpass they could see the remains of an L-shaped strip mall centered around an old chain grocery store as the eastern and southern walls of the settlement. Claptrap towers had been thrown up from the roof. The parking lot had been walled off to the north and west with stacked cars and other precarious towers. The driveway into the shopping center was now a junk-welded gate thrown wide open.
In the middle of the road that led underneath the highway and alongside the gate and walls of the stockade, there was indeed a circus.
Colorful patchwork tents rose up drunkenly into the vivid orange daylight. Banners and flags whipped frantically in the sudden breeze. An elephant bellowed loudly as activity and movement ground to a halt.
From the street of the carnival all eyes looked up toward the overpass and the rumbling tank.
Above cups held to open mouths, the glossy eyes of the Stockaders watched the Old Man. And among the Stockaders, fire-breathers, contortionists, and strong men also watched, their eyes quick and darting, deep and dark.
Wide-eyed children played in the dirt and merriment.
Adults with overly large freak eyes in heads misshapen and deformed held ladles within punch tubs.
In the center of it all stood one small figure. Huge dark eyes set in a narrow head, adorned by lanky hair and a woven crown above punch-stained lips, gazed up at the Old Man knowingly. A scrawny neck and a gangling body ending in too-large feet, all dressed in foolery, hands tensed as claw-like fingers rhythmically opened and closed.
“Is it a circus, Poppa? There’re tents and colors and punch and games just like you told me about. Is it?”
Yes, the circus is in town.
