A Tearful Reunion

by Darrell Maloney

  “No snakes?”

  “No snakes.”

  “How you gonna do that?”

  “Just let Sal or me know when you need to go. We’ll find a vehicle on the highway you can hide behind to do your thing. We’ll make sure there are no snakes and then we’ll walk away and let you go. Would that be okay?”

  She thought about it. She didn’t like the thought of using the restroom out in the open.

  But she liked rattlesnakes even less.

  “Okay. Let’s try it next time and see how it works out.”

  Crisis averted, the three walked back to their campsite.

  Sal asked, “Now where were we?”

  Dave said, “You were telling me about a repo chick named Julie.”

  “Oh, yes. As I said, she asked to ride along with me for awhile.

  “She rode with me for a couple of weeks before we parted ways. She rode on the bench alongside and drove half the time, and we got to know each other quite well. We became good friends.

  “She showed me how to find the gold and silver jewelry that some of the big retail stores shipped in their trucks.

  “You see, to keep it from being stolen they sometimes shipped it in nondescript boxes mixed in with everything else.

  “Most nomads are so busy looking for boxes that say ‘chili’ or ‘soup’ on them that they overlook a little box on a pallet full of ladies makeup and hand lotion. A little box sealed with orange tape.

  “They overlook it simply because they don’t know what to look for. They don’t know its value.”

  “Since then any time I go through a truck for food I also find the cosmetics and lotions pallet and see if there’s any jewelry on it.

  Dave smiled.

  “Well, I’ll be darned. I thought I knew everything there was to know about digging through trucks.”

  “Julie predicted that the horses would eventually go lame pulling the rig. They were considerably older than these horses, you see, and nowhere near as sturdy.

  “She encouraged me to start collecting gold and silver so when they went lame we could replace them.

  “And sure enough the oldest one, Shadow, developed problems with his knees not long after that.

  “It was while we were looking for Shadow’s replacement that we stumbled across the farmhouse where we met Beth.”

  “And you wouldn’t mind contributing part of your fortune to procure a working pickup truck?”

  “It would be only fair. After all, if I hadn’t taken Beth away from that farm you wouldn’t even be here. You’d likely be back in Texas now with your family.

  “It’s only right that we do what we can to obtain a truck, and you can use it to replace the one you lost. That way you’ll have a means to get back to your home in San Antonio.”

  “I still don’t feel right about it. I mean, I have nothing to barter. I used up what little precious metals I had in Albuquerque.

  “I’ll tell you what. If we can find Indian Joe, and if we can work out a deal with him to trade your truck for his, the truck will belong to you, not to me.

  “After all, everything we trade for such a vehicle will be yours. It’s only right for the new truck to be yours as well.”

  “Will you two old biddies quit arguing?”

  Both men looked at Beth, who had her hands on her hips.

  Dave had seen the same stance on Sarah a thousand times.

  The “old biddies” was also a favorite saying of Sarah’s, who often used it to quell arguments between her daughters.

  Beth went on, “It doesn’t matter who the pickup belongs to. We’re all going to San Antonio. Grandpa Sal, you’re coming with us too. Wait until we get to San Antonio and then you can flip a coin for it.”

  Problem solved.

  Chapter 35

  They slept fitfully in the hours that followed, finding it difficult to get comfortable on a particularly hot day.

  But that was okay, for they had some extra time to kill.

  Normally to travel at night they’d wake up in late afternoon and eat, then make preparations to get on the road.

  But it made no sense to go into Gallup in the evening hours. They’d only have a little while to search for Indian Joe before the sun went down.

  And Dave didn’t want to spend the night in the city, where the chance of someone trying to take the rig by force was much more likely.

  The sleep they lost in the heat of the day they made up for that night, when they continued to sleep until morning light.

  By the time the sun broke on the horizon they’d pretty much caught up.

  Not only on their lost daytime sleep, but on the sleep they’d lost in previous days.

  And all were fresh and raring to go, but for different reasons.

  Dave because as reliable as the rig was, a running pickup truck would move so much faster.

  Sal was so very tired of sitting on the wooden driver’s seat of the rig.

  He’d designed it himself, and did a good job.

  But even Sal had to admit it wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d ever had to sit for many hours each day.

  It might be okay for a younger man or a child, who were inherently more flexible and more resilient.

  But for an old man with bad joints and a bad back it was anything but.

  Sal would never complain about it. He wasn’t the type.

  But each morning when he crawled into his tiny tent to sleep he had to pull a bottle of ibuprofen tablets from his backpack.

  And he had to ignore the dosing instructions.

  For the recommended dosage of two tablets just didn’t do the trick.

  Neither did four.

  Sal had to pop six of the tablets to even have a chance at pain-free sleep.

  Sal wasn’t necessarily looking forward to giving up his rig, for it was his pride and joy.

  But he was looking forward to getting off that creaking, swaying wooden seat and onto something a bit more padded, a bit more stable.

  Beth was just looking forward to trading the rig for an Apache pickup because Dave explained to her how cool the old truck was.

  Beth was a kid. She liked “cool,” no matter what it was.

  After a breakfast of Frosted Flakes with powdered milk the trio climbed aboard and set out for Gallup.

  The town of Gallup itself was off the interstate. Only a few motels, restaurants and service stations dotted Interstate 40. It was set up that way for the convenience of travelers, since almost all of them had no real need to stop in the town and typically bypassed it.

  To get to the tiny town a driver had to take an exit for a service road, called “Business 40.”

  “Business 40,” despite its indiscrete name, had played an important role in 20th century United States history.

  For during the dust bowl era in the 1930s this stretch of Highway was better known as Route 66.

  Thousands of economic refugees, typically farm families forced from their lands by the drought, had driven this particular stretch of highway on their way to California and better times.

  Since then hundreds of businesses had made a good living by capitalizing on the term, “Route 66.”

  As they drove the rig along Business 40, they saw the term everywhere they looked.

  Historic Route 66 Museum… Route 66 Country Restaurant… Route 66 Souvenir Shop… Route 66 Information… Route 66 Historical Society….

  The trouble was, all the buildings were deserted.

  There just wasn’t a reason to stay open when the days of traveling the country on vacation were over.

  “Where is everybody?” Beth asked.

  “Oh, I’m sure there are people around,” Dave answered. “Surely the whole town didn’t get wiped out.”

  And, sure enough, they spotted a woman hanging laundry on a clothesline in her front yard.

  Behind her on her front porch was an old fashioned wash tub and scrub board. They reminded Dave of similar items he’d seen as a boy at his grandmother’s h
ouse.

  A little farther up they came across a man and a boy crossing the street with a shopping cart.

  The cart contained half a dozen boxes they’d picked from a tractor trailer somewhere. Probably on the Interstate a mile from where Dave had taken the exit.

  “Excuse me,” Dave called out to them.

  They stopped and waited for the rig to draw closer.

  “Good morning!”

  The man was Native American. The boy with him was so covered with dust and dirt it was hard to tell.

  “Good morning sir. I’m looking for a friend of mine. I don’t know his last name, I’m afraid. But he goes by Indian Joe.”

  The man burst into laughter. The kind of laughter that made him hold his gut.

  “What? What did I say?”

  “Nothing, really. It’s just that, well, this is Indian country. I know about twenty Joes, and every damn one of them’s an Indian.”

  “Oh.”

  Dave finally got the joke.

  “Well, this one’s a prepper, if that helps.”

  “A prepper? What the hell’s a prepper, son?”

  “A prepper. Somebody who prepares for a coming catastrophe, even when they don’t know what it is or when it’s coming. Or even for sure if it’s coming.”

  “A prepper, huh? Sounds like a waste of time to me. But no, I don’t know anybody like that. Sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome, son. And good luck to you.”

  He walked away with the boy, still laughing under his breath.

  “Indian Joe. That’s a good one…”

  Chapter 36

  They moved on to the woman hanging laundry.

  Dave knew it was a risk, approaching a woman on her own property. Someone watching from inside the house might perceive him as a threat, and it might not bode well for him.

  He took off his gun belt and left it on the rig’s bench seat, next to his rifle.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  If she’d hesitated, or seemed frightened, he’d have immediately backed away.

  But she seemed to have no fear of him. She seemed to have the self-confidence and toughness that comes standard of Native American women.

  “I don’t have any spare food. You strike me as young enough and healthy enough to gather your own.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not looking for food.”

  “Same goes for water. Just because I have a well out back don’t mean I have enough water to give every stranger that wanders along.”

  “No ma’am. I’m not looking for water either. I’m looking for a friend of mine who lives somewhere around here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Joe. He goes by Indian Joe.”

  “Indian Joe got a last name?”

  “Yes ma’am. But I don’t know it.”

  “Can’t be much of a friend if you don’t know his last name.”

  It was a reasonable conclusion.

  “We met on the radio. He’s a ham radio operator and a prepper. So am I. We got to know each other on the radio and he said if I ever came to Gallup to drop in and visit.”

  “He must not have wanted you to visit very much if he didn’t give you his address.”

  Another good point.

  Dave dug deep, trying to think of something else about Indian Joe that might spark a memory in the woman’s mind.

  “He loves Apache pickup trucks. He used to drive one that said ‘Navajo’ on the side instead of ‘Apache.’

  The woman’s face immediately brightened.

  “Oh, I know who you’re talking about. He used to come and visit my husband sometimes. They drank beer together. I don’t know where he lives, though.”

  It was a spark. A ray of hope.

  “Great! Maybe I can ask your husband if he knows where Joe lives.”

  “Nope.”

  “Nope?”

  “Nope. My husband died a few months ago, He had cancer. When the power went out he couldn’t get to the doctor anymore. Couldn’t get his medicine. He just shriveled up and died on me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. But we all gotta die sometime.”

  “Do you know of anybody else who might know where my friend lives?”

  “Nope. You can keep asking around. Hell, ask everybody in town. That won’t take long. There’s only eighteen of us left.”

  “Only eighteen survivors? How many were here before the blackout?”

  “Oh, hell, I don’t know. A couple thousand I reckon. Maybe a bit more.”

  “What happened to all of them?”

  “Mostly they just up and left. You see, this town lived and died by the highway traffic. It was the only reason for the town’s existence. Once it became obvious cars were never gonna run again, everybody saw the writing on the wall.

  “They all lit out.”

  “To where?”

  “Oh, all over, I reckon. Some to the res at Fort Wingate. Some west to Arizona. Some east to Albuquerque. I reckon your friend probably went with them.”

  “No ma’am. I spoke to him after the blackout. Just a few months ago. He said he lived near Gallup.”

  “Well, if that’s the case he probably lives on a ranch. They’re all around us, typically owned by people who don’t need to come to town for nothin’ because they’ve got everything they need at home. Water, cattle, land to grow crops. When you think about it, there wouldn’t be much reason at all to show their faces around here.

  “Not any more, anyway.

  “Down the road a piece is an old man named Walks at Night. You’ll know him because he wears a Dodgers cap that’s about ten thousand years old. He’s a man who knows everybody.

  “The trouble is his mind. Most of the time he’s completely gone.

  “But when his mind is clear he’s sharp as a tack, with a wonderful memory. If his mind is clear today he’ll not only know where your friend lives, but will tell you exactly how to get there.”

  “Yes ma’am. Well, thank you for your help.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you find him.”

  They did find the old Indian named Walks at Night. And he was indeed wearing an old hat with the Dodgers logo. It had once been Dodgers blue, but was faded almost to white.

  But Walks at Night was afflicted with Alzheimer’s and rambled on and on. They thanked him and went on their way.

  By the end of the day they’d talked to sixteen of the eighteen official residents of Gallup, New Mexico.

  A few knew of Indian Joe. But no one had seen him since the blackout, and no one knew where to find him.

  By the time they finished their task it was late afternoon.

  Though disappointed, they hadn’t lost anything from their adventure except for being a day behind schedule.

  But they were no worse off than before. They still had the rig. The horses were still in good shape. And they were still moving at a semi-steady pace.

  Sal still had his aches and pains, but was keeping mum about them.

  For dinner that evening they had Beth’s favorite: canned spaghetti and meatballs.

  With toasted marshmallows for dessert.

  Just before sunset they struck west again with plans to follow Business 40 until it reconnected with the interstate highway east of town.

  And they’d bid a forever adieu to the once-vibrant and now dying town of Gallup.

  Chapter 37

  Ten miles down the road they passed within three hundred yards of a barn, which looked like a thousand other barns within a hundred miles.

  But this was a special barn, not only for the way it was built but for what it held.

  It was built with a layer of sheet metal which lined its interior. Its floor was covered with similar metal, then covered again with plywood.

  It held a lot of things. New televisions and DVD players still in their boxes. New clocks and microwaves and all the modern electronic convenience
s one could want. Also bigger, bulkier items like generators, water pumps, spare automobile batteries.

  Not everything the barn held was new, though.

  Lined up in a nice neat row were several Chevrolet Apache pickup trucks.

  It had been well more than half a century since these trucks rolled off a Detroit assembly line, but they were shiny and spotless and looked brand new.

  Their owner was a believer in keeping them “factory.” When they were restored he resisted the urge to ruin them by changing their original body style. He left off the ridiculous lifts and hydraulics and scoops.

  His thinking was that the original designers scored a major coup when they put their pencils to paper. The trucks had a unique look that was still stylish three generations after they drove their first mile.

  And really, why mess with success?

  The barn was separated from Interstate 40 by a couple of rolling tree-covered hills. Even if Dave had been looking due north of the highway as they went past, he still wouldn’t have seen the barn.

  If he had he wouldn’t have given notice. For again, it looked like a lot of others.

  The rig rolled on down the highway, and Dave thought of Indian Joe and what might have become of him.

  The human mind is an amazing thing.

  Physiologists and psychologists say we only use about ten percent of the mind’s potential. That if we could figure out a way to unleash them, the mind would reveal tools of an unbelievable magnitude.

  Telekinesis, maybe. Voiceless transfer of thoughts. Perhaps the ability to solve every problem which ever plagued mankind.

  If only that power could be unleashed.

  Such scientists have marveled for a very long time about twins’ abilities to seemingly read each other’s thoughts.

  They’ve noted instances of a mother knowing of a son’s death on the battlefield some four thousand miles away.

  Of people having premonitions which come true a remarkable percentage of the time.

  Even the art of fortune telling, these days turned into a circus sideshow of “gypsy seers,” has its roots in reality.

  There really have been people capable of telling one’s future, although they’ve been rolled over by the hoard of frauds claiming to.