Cormac McCarthy

by The Road

  Is the dark going to catch us?

  I dont know.

  It is, isnt it?

  Come on. We’ll hurry.

  The dark did catch them. By the time they reached the headland path it was too dark to see anything. They stood in the wind from off the sea with the grass hissing all about them, the boy holding on to his hand. We just have to keep going, the man said. Come on.

  I cant see.

  I know. We’ll just take it one step at a time.

  Okay.

  Dont let go.

  Okay.

  No matter what.

  No matter what.

  They went on in the perfect blackness, sightless as the blind. He held out one hand before him although there was nothing on that salt heath to collide with. The surf sounded more distant but he took his bearings by the wind as well and after tottering on for the better part of an hour they emerged from the grass and seaoats and stood again on the dry sand of the upper beach. The wind was colder. He’d brought the boy around on the lee side of him when suddenly the beach before them appeared shuddering out of the blackness and vanished again.

  What was that, Papa?

  It’s okay. It’s lightning. Come on.

  He slung the tarp of goods up over his shoulder and took the boy’s hand and they went on, tramping in the sand like parade horses against tripping over some piece of driftwood or seawrack. The weird gray light broke over the beach again. Far away a faint rumble of thunder muffled in the murk. I think I saw our tracks, he said.

  So we’re going the right way.

  Yes. The right way.

  I’m really cold, Papa.

  I know. Pray for lightning.

  They went on. When the light broke over the beach again he saw that the boy was bent over and was whispering to himself. He looked for their tracks going up the beach but he could not see them. The wind had picked up even more and he was waiting for the first spits of rain. If they got caught out on the beach in a rainstorm in the night they would be in trouble. They turned their faces away from the wind, holding on to the hoods of their parkas. The sand rattling against their legs and racing away in the dark and the thunder cracking just offshore. The rain came in off the sea hard and slant and stung their faces and he pulled the boy against him.

  They stood in the downpour. How far had they come? He waited for the lightning but it was tailing off and when the next one came and then the next he knew that the storm had taken out their tracks. They trudged on through the sand at the upper edge of the beach, hoping to see the shape of the log where they’d camped. Soon the lightning was all but gone. Then in a shift in the wind he heard a distant faint patter. He stopped. Listen, he said.

  What is it?

  Listen.

  I dont hear anything.

  Come on.

  What is it, Papa?

  It’s the tarp. It’s the rain falling on the tarp.

  They went on, stumbling through the sand and the trash along the tideline. They came upon the tarp almost at once and he knelt and dropped the bindle and groped about for the rocks he’d weighed the plastic with and pushed them beneath it. He raised up the tarp and pulled it over them and then used the rocks to hold down the edges inside. He got the boy out of his wet coat and pulled the blankets over them, the rain pelting them through the plastic. He shucked off his own coat and held the boy close and soon they were asleep.

  In the night the rain ceased and he woke and lay listening. The heavy wash and thud of the surf after the wind had died. In the first dull light he rose and walked down the beach. The storm had littered the shore and he walked the tideline looking for anything of use. In the shallows beyond the breakwater an ancient corpse rising and falling among the driftwood. He wished he could hide it from the boy but the boy was right. What was there to hide? When he got back he was awake sitting in the sand watching him. He was wrapped in the blankets and he’d spread their wet coats over the dead weeds to dry. He walked up and eased himself down beside him and they sat watching the leaden sea lift and fall beyond the breakers.

  They were most of the morning offloading the ship. He kept a fire going and he’d wade ashore naked and shivering and drop the towrope and stand in the warmth of the blaze while the boy towed in the seabag through the slack swells and dragged it onto the beach. They emptied out the bag and spread blankets and clothing out on the warm sand to dry before the fire. There was more on the boat than they could carry and he thought they might stay a few days on the beach and eat as much as they could but it was dangerous. They slept that night in the sand with the fire standing off the cold and their goods scattered all about them. He woke coughing and rose and took a drink of water and dragged more wood onto the fire, whole logs of it that sent up a great cascade of sparks. The salt wood burned orange and blue in the fire’s heart and he sat watching it a long time. Later he walked up the beach, his long shadow reaching over the sands before him, sawing about with the wind in the fire. Coughing. Coughing. He bent over, holding his knees. Taste of blood. The slow surf crawled and seethed in the dark and he thought about his life but there was no life to think about and after a while he walked back. He got a can of peaches from the bag and opened it and sat before the fire and ate the peaches slowly with his spoon while the boy slept. The fire flared in the wind and sparks raced away down the sand. He set the empty tin between his feet. Every day is a lie, he said. But you are dying. That is not a lie.

  They carried their new stores bundled in tarps or blankets down the beach and packed everything into the cart. The boy tried to carry too much and when they stopped to rest he’d take part of his load and put it with his own. The boat had shifted slightly in the storm. He stood looking at it. The boy watched him. Are you going back out there? he said.

  I think so. One last look around.

  I’m kind of scared.

  We’re okay. Just keep watch.

  We’ve got more than we can carry now.

  I know. I just want to take a look.

  Okay.

  He went over the ship from bow to stern again. Stop. Think. He sat in the floor of the saloon with his feet in the rubber boots propped against the pedestal of the table. It was already getting dark. He tried to remember what he knew about boats. He got up and went out on deck again. The boy was sitting by the fire. He stepped down into the cockpit and sat on the bench with his back against the bulkhead, his feet on the deck almost at eye level. He had on nothing but the sweater and the souwester outfit over that but there was little warmth to it and he could not stop shivering. He was about to get up again when he realized that he’d been looking at the fasteners in the bulkhead on the far side of the cockpit. There were four of them. Stainless steel. At one time the benches had been covered with cushions and he could see the ties at the corner where they’d ripped away. At the bottom center of the bulkhead just above the seat there was a nylon strap sticking out, the end of it doubled and cross-stitched. He looked at the fasteners again. They were rotary latches with wings for your thumb. He got up and knelt at the bench and turned each one all the way to the left. They were springloaded and when he had them undone he took hold of the strap at the bottom of the board and pulled it and the board slid down and came free. Inside under the deck was a space that held some rolled sails and what looked to be a two man rubber raft rolled and tied with bungee cords. A pair of small plastic oars. A box of flares. And behind that was a composite toolbox, the opening of the lid sealed with black electrical tape. He pulled it free and found the end of the tape and peeled it off all the way around and unlatched the chrome snaps and opened the box. Inside was a yellow plastic flashlight, an electric strobebeacon powered by a drycell, a first-aid kit. A yellow plastic EPIRB. And a black plastic case about the size of a book. He lifted it out and unsnapped the latches and opened it. Inside was fitted an old 37 millimeter bronze flarepistol. He lifted it from the case in both hands and turned it and looked at it. He depressed the lever and broke it open. The chamber was empty but there w
ere eight rounds of flares fitted in a plastic container, short and squat and newlooking. He fitted the pistol back in the case and closed and latched the lid.

  He waded ashore shivering and coughing and wrapped himself in a blanket and sat in the warm sand in front of the fire with the boxes beside him. The boy crouched and tried to put his arms around him which at least brought a smile. What did you find, Papa? he said.

  I found a first-aid kit. And I found a flarepistol.

  What’s that?

  I’ll show you. It’s to signal with.

  Is that what you went to look for?

  Yes.

  How did you know it was there?

  Well, I was hoping it was there. It was mostly luck.

  He opened the case and turned it for the boy to see.

  It’s a gun.

  A flaregun. It shoots a thing up in the air and it makes a big light.

  Can I look at it?

  Sure you can.

  The boy lifted the gun from the case and held it. Can you shoot somebody with it? he said.

  You could.

  Would it kill them?

  No. But it might set them on fire.

  Is that why you got it?

  Yes.

  Because there’s nobody to signal to. Is there?

  No.

  I’d like to see it.

  You mean shoot it?

  Yes.

  We can shoot it.

  For real?

  Sure.

  In the dark?

  Yes. In the dark.

  It could be like a celebration.

  Like a celebration. Yes.

  Can we shoot it tonight?

  Why not?

  Is it loaded?

  No. But we can load it.

  The boy stood holding the gun. He pointed it toward the sea. Wow, he said.

  He got dressed and they set out down the beach carrying the last of their plunder. Where do you think the people went, Papa?

  That were on the ship?

  Yes.

  I dont know.

  Do you think they died?

  I dont know.

  But the odds are not in their favor.

  The man smiled. The odds are not in their favor?

  No. Are they?

  No. Probably not.

  I think they died.

  Maybe they did.

  I think that’s what happened to them.

  They could be alive somewhere, the man said. It’s possible. The boy didnt answer. They went on. They’d wrapped their feet in sailcloth and bound them up in blue plastic pampooties cut from a tarp and they left strange tracks in their comings and going. He thought about the boy and his concerns and after a while he said: You’re probably right. I think they’re probably dead.

  Because if they were alive we’d be taking their stuff.

  And we’re not taking their stuff.

  I know.

  Okay.

  So how many people do you think are alive?

  In the world?

  In the world. Yes.

  I dont know. Let’s stop and rest.

  Okay.

  You’re wearing me out.

  Okay.

  They sat among their bundles.

  How long can we stay here, Papa?

  You asked me that.

  I know.

  We’ll see.

  That means not very long.

  Probably.

  The boy poked holes in the sand with his fingers until he had a circle of them. The man watched him. I dont know how many people there are, he said. I dont think there are very many.

  I know. He pulled his blanket about his shoulders and looked out down the gray and barren beach.

  What is it? the man said.

  Nothing.

  No. Tell me.

  There could be people alive someplace else.

  Whereplace else?

  I dont know. Anywhere.

  You mean besides on earth?

  Yes.

  I dont think so. They couldnt live anyplace else.

  Not even if they could get there?

  No.

  The boy looked away.

  What? the man said.

  He shook his head. I dont know what we’re doing, he said.

  The man started to answer. But he didnt. After a while he said: There are people. There are people and we’ll find them. You’ll see.

  He fixed dinner while the boy played in the sand. He had a spatula made from a flattened foodtin and with it he built a small village. He dredged a grid of streets. The man walked down and squatted and looked at it. The boy looked up. The ocean’s going to get it, isnt it? he said.

  Yes.

  That’s okay.

  Can you write the alphabet?

  I can write it.

  We dont work on your lessons any more.

  I know.

  Can you write something in the sand?

  Maybe we could write a letter to the good guys. So if they came along they’d know we were here. We could write it up there where it wouldnt get washed away.

  What if the bad guys saw it?

  Yeah.

  I shouldnt have said that. We could write them a letter.

  The boy shook his head. That’s okay, he said.

  He loaded the flarepistol and as soon as it was dark they walked out down the beach away from the fire and he asked the boy if he wanted to shoot it.

  You shoot it, Papa. You know how to do it.

  Okay.

  He cocked the gun and aimed it out over the bay and pulled the trigger. The flare arced up into the murk with a long whoosh and broke somewhere out over the water in a clouded light and hung there. The hot tendrils of magnesium drifted slowly down the dark and the pale foreshore tide started in the glare and slowly faded. He looked down at the boy’s upturned face.

  They couldnt see it very far, could they, Papa?

  Who?

  Anybody.

  No. Not far.

  If you wanted to show where you were.

  You mean like to the good guys?

  Yes. Or anybody that you wanted them to know where you were.

  Like who?

  I dont know.

  Like God?

  Yeah. Maybe somebody like that.

  In the morning he built a fire and walked out on the beach while the boy slept. He was not gone long but he felt a strange unease and when he got back the boy was standing on the beach wrapped in his blankets waiting for him. He hurried his steps. By the time he got to him he was sitting down.

  What is it? he said. What is it?

  I dont feel good, Papa.

  He cupped the boy’s forehead in his hand. He was burning. He picked him up and carried him to the fire. It’s okay, he said. You’re going to be okay.

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  It’s okay.

  He sat with him in the sand and held his forehead while he bent and vomited. He wiped the boy’s mouth with his hand. I’m sorry, the boy said. Shh. You didnt do anything wrong.

  He carried him up to the camp and covered him with blankets. He tried to get him to drink some water. He put more wood on the fire and knelt with his hand on his forehead. You’ll be all right he said. He was terrified.

  Dont go away, the boy said.

  Of course I wont go away.

  Even for just a little while.

  No. I’m right here.

  Okay. Okay, Papa.

  He held him all night, dozing off and waking in terror, feeling for the boy’s heart. In the morning he was no better. He tried to get him to drink some juice but he would not. He pressed his hand to his forehead, conjuring up a coolness that would not come. He wiped his white mouth while he slept. I will do what I promised, he whispered. No matter what. I will not send you into the darkness alone.

  He went through the first-aid kit from the boat but there was nothing much there of use. Aspirin. Bandages and disinfectant. Some antibiotics but they had a short shelflife. Still that was all he
had and he helped the boy drink and put one of the capsules on his tongue. He was soaked in sweat. He’d already stripped him out of the blankets and now he unzipped him out of his coat and then out of his clothes and moved him away from the fire. The boy looked up at him. I’m so cold, he said.

  I know. But you have a really high temperature and we have to get you cooled off.

  Can I have another blanket?

  Yes. Of course.

  You wont go away.

  No. I wont go away.

  He carried the boy’s filthy clothes into the surf and washed them, standing shivering in the cold salt water naked from the waist down and sloshing them up and down and wringing them out. He spread them by the fire on sticks angled into the sand and piled on more wood and went and sat by the boy again, smoothing his matted hair. In the evening he opened a can of soup and set it in the coals and he ate and watched the darkness come up. When he woke he was lying shivering in the sand and the fire had died almost to ash and it was black night. He sat up wildly and reached for the boy. Yes, he whispered. Yes.

  He rekindled the fire and he got a cloth and wet it and put it over the boy’s forehead. The wintry dawn was coming and when it was light enough to see he went into the woods beyond the dunes and came back dragging a great travois of dead limbs and branches and set about breaking them up and stacking them near the fire. He crushed aspirins in a cup and dissolved them in water and put in some sugar and sat and lifted the boy’s head and held the cup while he drank.

  He walked the beach, slumped and coughing. He stood looking out at the dark swells. He was staggering with fatigue. He went back and sat by the boy and refolded the cloth and wiped his face and then spread the cloth over his forehead. You have to stay near, he said. You have to be quick. So you can be with him. Hold him close. Last day of the earth.

  The boy slept all day. He kept waking him up to drink the sugarwater, the boy’s dry throat jerking and chugging. You have to drink he said. Okay, wheezed the boy. He twisted the cup into the sand beside him and cushioned the folded blanket under his sweaty head and covered him. Are you cold? he said. But the boy was already asleep.