He should be thankful, since they had fed him. He had been lonely, but they had kept him alive. One hundred and seventy-three years, by his best count, on the mountain. Maybe a handful more or less. He had lost count, at least once, of the springs and summers. Stopped counting, then realized he had stopped counting and tried to count again. Tried, to recollect how many years he hadn't scratched a tally mark on the plastic panel that had made up his cabin wall. Started over.
Starting over. I am starting over, again. Free, at least free, at last. He smiled. Did anybody remember those words, those men, and the women, he reminded himself, don't forget the women. His parent's generation. He suspected that nobody did. Nobody but him, these days. These days, he said to himself, as he walked with the dog. These days. This implied there was time, a shared frame of reference you and, well whoever you were talking with, could agree on. That was what these days meant. Not those other days, back then, or future days, to come, but these. You know, current times. He looked at the dog, padding along beside him. Did dogs experience time the same way people did? He doubted it.
They learned and remembered. They remembered people and places. Other dogs. But it was like what his anthropology professor had called a dreamtime. No history. Outside of history, like most people had always lived. No history possible. Just life. Just experience, and maybe what your parents and elders taught you, which is what their parents told them too. Dogs lived in the dreamtime, where people had once lived, for time out of mind. Maybe people were back now, in the dreamtime. He hoped so.
The road out of the village was dirt, more of a fire track. It was rough and washed out in spots. He reached a curve where it met a wider road made of gravel. Streams flowing down from the mountain cut across the road, eroding it. But none were too deep to wade through, so he and the dog waded through. The dog lapped at the water, and he thought about stopping the dog from drinking dirty water, but dogs had drunk dirty water forever, and there were still dogs, so why bother. It was part of the doggie dreamtime. He seemed to think the water was OK, so let him drink.
The man and his son who had brought his winter supplies these past, what, fifty years? More than that? They had seemed to be, for sure, in some sort of semi-dreamtime. There had been drones at first, which dropped his supplies. A big one, more of a truck, Jeep sized, carrying a pallet of beans, canned vegetables with Asian labels. Rice. Dried fish and some canned, spammy meat. That had changed over time, to simpler food brought by a man and boy on a cart, pulled by a scrawny donkey.
So, the world had slipped; it seemed, maybe, into a dreamtime. But there had been trucks not so long ago, so it was a puzzle, for sure. Could there be a dreamtime when there were trucks? The drone repair shop, back in the village, had been for workers who could fix complex machinery. They couldn’t do that without some level of education, which he hadn't seen when he had watched the man and his son. They had looked poor as dirt. He shrugged. Off the mountain and headed out on a great adventure; he told himself. The greatest. What else was there to do?
He could starve, he supposed. He could cut his own throat, if he had the guts. Which he didn't, he knew. He could try hanging himself, but again, he couldn't do it. Not in my nature. Would it even work? He suspected it might not, which was interesting. On the mountain for many years, and in not one of those years had he been sick, not even the least sick. Several times he had accidentally cut himself, a few times the cuts were deep, and he had healed overnight. Once he had smashed his hand with a stone ax, trying to break another stone. It had healed in days, and he was sure he had broken at least one of the bones in his hand. It had throbbed that first night, and by the next morning it was still sore, but less swollen. So maybe the Bloom had stuck with him. It would fit, he thought. Fitting punishment for hubris. For stupidity.
The road wound through a switchback, flattening out into a wide meadowland which it cut through. That was when he saw them at the far edge of the meadow. A few had fallen, but there were three still standing, one leaning and looking about to fall. Warnings. He stopped in the road, wondering. They were facing downhill, down the mountain, so if they were a warning, they were to keep people from coming further. They were people, dead people, hung on poles. Murdered people, he corrected himself. The dog scented them, staring downhill.
He walked down to them, jaw set. He had seen too much death, and scenes like this before, during the bad times, before he had fled out into the wilderness. But those had been cops who had done it, back East. Cops, or their lackeys. Bad men. Authority figures. Someone had strangled these people here with wire, and then lashed them to poles and hoisted them up. They had piled rocks around the base of the poles to keep them standing. This had taken someone some time, so they were invested in warning people away. You see shit like this and you don't turn around? Well, you get what is coming to you. Similar treatment awaits, so turn around, was the message.
He looked up into the faces of the victims. There were still scraps of tissue and gristle keeping their heads on. The wires around their necks had cut deep. Down to the bone. Hard to say, if one of them was the man who had delivered his foot last. He looked at the others. A man and a woman. There had been five, three on one side of the road, two on the other. Two had fallen and were little more than scraps of flesh. Maybe the man and the boy were here, or maybe the man was part of the group who had done this. Or it could be neither, and this was unrelated.
Unrelated to me? He thought about it and doubted it. He had been on the mountain, and someone had burned the village. Had these folks lived there? He thought they must have. So, someone had killed them because of him. He frowned. Add them to the tally then. It made the number of people killed because of him, due to him and what he did, tick up. Like an odometer, he pictured the numbers rolling over. An odometer from an ancient car, with a very large number on it.
He left them there, up on their poles. They were dead, and nothing he could do could change that. Nothing he could do could change any of it. He headed north, clicking his tongue to get the dog to follow.
Chapter Five
Gold watched the girl, and the girl watched Gold. They sat around a fire of well-aged boards, studded with rusted nails, in the lobby of what had once been some sort of shopping mall, Gold reckoned, but which now was the home base of the scavenger tribe. There were people here, Gold saw them scatter into the darkness of the cavernous building as they pulled in. Women, children, an old man leaning on a stick. They had left when the truck stopped.
The smoke from their fire wafted upwards and disappeared. There was, Gold noted, a sizeable hole in the roof somewhere above them. She could feel the breeze on her skin. The girl, pale face cast yellow by the flames, regarded her.
On their arrival in this place, the girl had led her here. They had ridden on the truck while the scavengers had followed them, left behind in a cloud of dust. The truck moved fast, and Gold suspected it could make higher speeds if it had an open, well-maintained highway instead of a ruin choked with fallen buildings and cracked streets. The truck had nosed its way into this building and parked, shutting down with a whine as it settled on its suspension.
An arm swung out from behind the cage and released the locking mechanism at the top. Rebar, Gold thought. Salvage. It was all salvage. These people were the ones who had picked this city clean, she thought, or previous generations of people like them. The girl had climbed out of the cage, and Gold noted she was older than she’d first thought. Early twenties, she guessed.
The girl had beckoned to her, and she’d followed, to this fire. The girl had built it while Gold sat and watched. She was competent with the flames, building a base of boards, two by fours, Gold recognized, but grayed and blackened with age, and then fashioning a trough in the little fire pit smashed into the floor. She placed thinner strips of wood across the trough, piled bits of dried leaves and twigs on top of those, and then lit it with a silver lighter she pulled from a black nylon bag. The lighter sparked blue and left a whiff of burnt insulati
on. The girl tucked it back in her bag and glanced up at Gold.
Defiance, there in her face and eyes, Gold noted. She waited. The girl said something to her in Chinese. Gold shrugged. The girl’s full lips pulled into a frown. She dug into her bag and pulled out a black plastic box. She set it down in front of her and worked at a recessed switch. Her nails were very short and dirty. They sat, waiting, while the fire grew and took, the embers on the top falling down into the little trough to glow among the two-by-fours. The girl tossed a couple more small chips of wood into the fire, then seemed satisfied.
The Box spoke in Chinese. Watching Gold, the girl answered. The box spoke again. The girl spoke again, sounding angry this time. She never looked away from Gold.
“She says you are rude,” the Box said, in perfect, unaccented English. “A rude barbarian.”
Gold nodded, not speaking for a moment. “Thank her, please,” she said, watching the girl, “for her hospitality. For the fire.” She was very white. Her skin was like milk or heavy cream, Gold thought. Her hair was bone white and hung lank to her shoulders. Pretty, Gold thought. In another time and place, cleaned up, she would stand out among even pretty women. Here, she was a dirty scavenger, eking out a life in a ruined city.
The Box spoke at length. The girl nodded to Gold, then spoke again, this time her voice rising in emotion. Anger, Gold thought, but maybe not at her. Outside, she heard voices, distant but approaching. The rest of the tribe, then, returning. The drones, too, buzzing louder as they led them back to this place.
“Why did you bring me here?” Gold asked the Box.
“You are a mystery,” the Box said. “So I felt we should learn more about you.”
“What are you?” Gold asked, glancing at the Box. “You’re a machine, correct? A computer intelligence?”
“Yes,” the Box said. “I am a machine.” There was a pause. “Or rather, I am a machine now. Once, I was like you.”
Gold pondered this. “What should I call you?”
“You should call me Uncle,” the Box said. “It is what the people call me.”
“Is that common, here? Becoming a machine,” she asked. She was listening to the rustle of the shopping mall. There were people here, maybe as many as a hundred. She heard a baby cry. She could smell them.
“It was never common, but it happened,” the Box said. “Not anymore.” It sounded wistful, Gold thought.
“How was this done?” Gold said. The voices outside were louder. A drone flew in and settled on the truck’s broad back. Another, and then another, and then the last.
“There was a procedure,” the Box said. “In a hospital. You went to sleep and then regained consciousness as a machine. As something different. There was an elaborate simulation.”
“Tell me about this simulation,” Gold said, watching the girl. She had heard the drones and the approaching voices and had twisted around to look back out into the street. The light outside was fading, approaching dusk. She didn’t speak, but her posture indicated increased stress and tension.
“I would enjoy discussing this with you,” the Box said. “But we have more pressing matters to talk about.”
“Such as?” Gold asked. “The scavengers? The ones approaching?”
“Yes, the people.” the Box said. Gold could hear the honorific, the emphasis, in the Box’s voice. “I told them you were a witch, and they were quite angry with you. They are unpredictable and difficult to control.”
Gold nodded. The cage made sense, then, perhaps.
“And yet, you control them?” Gold asked.
“Somewhat. They fear me, as I control certain machines they know are dangerous. But they do not love me,” the Box said. “The People are simple, and will want to punish you.”
“I have not harmed them,” Gold said. “So they are mistaken to fear me, let alone seek to punish me. That would be a mistake.”
“Still,” the Box said, “they will fear you.”
“You caused this, by lying to them that I was a witch.” Gold looked at the girl. “I am no more a witch than she is.”
“She is a witch,” the Box said. “Or rather, they think she is a witch, and I don’t think they will want another. I have miscalculated, maybe. But it worked before, with Li, so I thought to try it again.”
“Li?” Gold asked. She saw figures approaching, in the lowering dusk.
“The girl,” the Box said. “It means plum. The tree.”
Gold nodded. “They are near. What is your recommendation? Can you protect me?”
“I can speak to them. I can state that you are under my protection. They may listen.” The Box sounded dubious.
“Do this, please,” Gold said, shrugging out of her pack. She flexed her arms and stood. “They are entering this place.”
It was true, ten or so of them, in blue coveralls, had ventured inside, and others followed, hanging back in caution. They carried tools, picks and shovels and lengths of pipe. They looked skinny and dirty and angry. The tall one, the one who had scowled at her and made the go-away-evil sign at her when she had come down from her tower, was in the lead. They stopped at the edge of the firelight and looked at her. The tall one stepped forward and spoke to the girl, Li.
Li shook her head. He spoke again, insistent. She said something, eyes downcast. He looked at Gold, and spoke to her, anger rising. Some spittle flew out of his mouth.
“Tell him I don’t like his tone,” Gold said, eying him. The man held a length of pipe with a rebar hook, like a grapple, fastened to the end, and he pointed it at her. He was tall, a big man. The others looked at him. Their leader, then, Gold noted.
The truck rumbled to life, with the whine of an internal turbine spinning up. Some of the crowd scrambled back. Fear. From the truck came the Box’s voice, speaking Chinese. Gold waited.
The man looked at her, then at the girl who knelt by the fire still, eyes downcast. He laughed and replied with a string of Chinese words. His entourage laughed with him. Toadies, Gold thought. He is in charge here or wants to be. He looked about him, at the gathering crowd of blue-clad figures, and raised his voice to address them.
“Translate, please,” Gold said. “What does he say?” Although she could guess what he was saying. This bitch thinks she can come in here and mess things up, or some local variation. I’m in charge here and she has broken our laws. She is a witch and we’ve got enough witches. Gold thought. The old refrain.
“He says,” the Box replied, “that you are an invader, an outsider, and a witch. Who comes to steal from them, to invade their city, and bring sickness to their children, like all witches.” Gold glanced at the albino girl, Li. Her eyes remained on the floor. Fear. She did not tremble, but Gold could see her fear.
Afraid of this man, Gold knew. Of these men. For what they could do, might do, might have done before. Gold had seen it before, many times. Women, terrified of men. It was part of the pattern, the tapestry of human experience. Men were sometimes bad, and sometimes they grew twisted and their badness led them into evil. Sometimes they had help. Gold had helped many bad men in her life. Her mouth twisted into a smile. She stretched, raising her arms up to the darkening sky she could see through the shattered roof. She rotated her neck to the right, then the left.
She’d caused this kind of suffering before, she knew. My hands are not clean, she thought, but that didn’t mean they needed to keep getting dirty. Not anymore. Not here, not today, not in this place. I am free; she reminded herself. Free of all that. I can be. If I want to.
“Can you scare them off?” she asked the Box, although she suspected she knew the answer. “Can you stop them from trying to hurt me or the girl?” She was also not sure she wanted the truck or box or whoever to try. She was growing tired of this big man, with his crooked teeth and his ugly face. She flexed her left calf, then the right, pointing her toe a bit. All seemed in order.
“No,” the Box said to her. “I could try, but they are many and I have few resources. Some would flee, perhaps, but
they are many. If we fight them all, we would need to leave immediately. They could bring fire and burning oil. It would be messy.”
“Do not try,” Gold said, deciding. “Propose a duel.”
“He has already proposed this,” the Box said to her. “He has sworn to kill you, and to eat your liver.”
So. Gold stepped forward. She looked up into the giant’s scowling face and smiled.
Chapter Six
Two weeks later in, the Central Valley, he saw her. He and the dog had camped in a copse of oak and pine trees, nestled in the crook of two hills. There was a stream that carried cool, fast running water, so it was a good place to camp. He’d been there two days, trying to decide which way to go next. He and the dog had caught two rabbits in his snares, so they had a bit to eat. There was a farm, he thought, or the remnants of a farm, and they had found some wild onions and carrots, which were probably what the rabbits had been eating too. So they had food and water and cover among the trees.
North had been the plan, but north from there was nothing, he thought, but hundreds of miles of open country. That would be a challenge with no food and only the water he could carry in his bag and bottle. So he dithered, poking around the ruined farm. The buildings had collapsed long ago and were mostly just overgrown hummocks in the field. There were a few stone walls and one hummock was a buried truck, he thought, which he had scratched at yesterday, until his machete had scraped on metal under the soil. The light had been fading, so he figured he would dig at it more tomorrow.
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