by Nick Cole
He looked left and right of the trail until he found a sapling. Maybe just a year old. He took the stake he had carved before sleeping and sank it firmly in the narrow trail. Looping his wire he connected the stake to a length of rope that he quickly turned into a noose. He laid the rope out some distance toward the small green palo verdes and bent the tree over until its top touched the ground. Then straddling it he tied off the rope around the sapling.
He returned to the hole. With a quick motion, he stabbed the mouse and waited for it to die. Then he set the dead body in front of the noose, which hung inches above the trail. He stepped away, resisting the urge to dress the trap. Leave it alone, he heard Big Pedro say. Washing his hands of the blood of the mouse and the dirt of the trail he took a long drink and returned to his camp.
THE SUN WAS low and he thought about food. He lit his fire and stared into it, thinking his own thoughts for a long time. The falling of the sun failed to rouse him as he continued to stare into the fire. He did not think about his aches. Or the village, which would remind him of food. He thought about Yuma. And the girl whose father had been shot. Had she and her mother made it to Yuma? If so, then they too had died forty years ago.
I might hear the trap spring. But probably not. In the morning maybe there will be a fox. If not, then who knows?
He didn’t like to think about that and so, piling a few more sticks onto the fire, he wrapped himself within his blanket.
Why can’t I dream about the lions on the beaches of Africa like my friend in the book? At sunset they came down to the water to play like cats.
Chapter 8
When he awoke there was a fox. It twisted in the morning breeze, its tongue lolling purple and its eyes wide in terror. It was beautiful. The Old Man admired its healthy coat as he skinned the little fox.
By late morning, strips of fox meat were skewered and roasting over ashy orange coals of smoking mesquite. The Old Man, calm and weak, walked among the palo verdes, drinking from the stream and looking for the honeycomb of the dead bee. Standing near the roasting strips of flesh was too much, so it was better to wander among the quiet trees.
By noon the meat was ready and at first he went slowly. He didn’t want to become sick from too much too fast. For the rest of the day he ate slowly and continued to roast more and more of the fox. It would keep for a few days.
As night fell, he looked out into the great desert he had come across.
I survived. I can return and accept the curse. It isn’t much of a curse. They will feed and take care of me. I will play my part. But as a salvager I am finished.
Maybe it is time to let that go.
Or I can continue on and try to find the town.
The dunes seemed nothing more than gentle curves and soft colors.
You tried to kill me. There was nothing in you. Nothing to take away. So what good are you? If I go across you again what could I find this time? Nothing. But if I find the town then maybe that is something, and if not I can pick up the Old Highway to the south and that will lead me back to the village.
But you will come from the east.
There is that.
He ate more fox and thought it might be nice with some tortillas. He set the rest of the meat to smoke in the coals throughout the night so that it would last for a few days more. Then he slept.
AT DAWN HE was up. He felt better. He drank from the stream and chewed a little bit of the dried fox meat.
I think I might go on a bit.
He spent the morning climbing up out of the stand of green palo verdes and onto the broken rocks of the mountain. When he gained the summit he looked east. The landscape sank away into a bowl deeper than the one he had crossed.
It will be hotter.
At the extent of his vision he could see mountains, jagged and gray.
Almost at the center of the bowl, halfway between himself and the mountains, he could see a collection of buildings. Too small to be the town he once knew.
There might be a map or a sign that might lead to the town.
By late afternoon the small mountain was far behind him. The going was mostly smooth and downhill. The heat reminded him of the bread oven back in the village.
Chapter 9
After the bombs there had been dreams. Dreams everything lost had come back. The dead might walk through the barroom door two years after the global car wreck. The survivors, drinking to forget, would put down their cups. All would be as it once was. The dreams after the bombs were like that.
The neon sign came stuttering to life in the twilight of the desert. The Old Man stopped in the smooth blown sand.
There is power here.
The sign showed a sleepy little boy, in nightgown and night cap drifting toward a bed. In rockets bursting script the words “Dreamtime Motel” loomed large, then recessed toward a universe of smiling faced stars. Vacancy, air-conditioning, and color TV were all available.
The cluster of buildings were merely an L-shaped motel complete with swimming pool and the blackened remains of a nearby gas station, its metal twisted in telltale strands away from where the pumps had once been.
The lights of the hotel came softly to life here and there where bulbs still burned.
The east is cursed.
He moved forward cautiously, remembering the pistol within his satchel.
The parking lot was gritty with the windblown sand of the years. Still, the cracks in it were nowhere near the rents and buckles of the main highway back near the village.
From the office, a man emerged wearing a Hawaiian shirt, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.
“Room for the night, mister?” His voice the desiccated husk of a reptile. Used. Spent.
The Old Man remained staring.
If I am dreaming then this does not exist. Maybe the oasis of palo verdes did not exist. Maybe I am dying in the dunes still clutching the dead bee.
“Got room if yer lookin’.” Then the man with the mirrored sunglasses began to wheeze and laugh. After a second he said, “Have ever since before the bombs.”
The Old Man still standing in the twilight, his face illuminated by the flickering glare of the last wisps of neon, remembered the gun. His fingers, bony and old, adjusted the strap of his satchel.
“I got snake.” Mirrored Sunglasses moved forward. His body was long, though he wasn’t tall; the only roundness a potbelly that seemed more pregnant than fat. “You want snake for dinner?”
“What is this place?” croaked the Old Man.
Mirrored Sunglasses whirled, taking in the motel against the dying light in the west.
“This my hotel. Even before the bombs, I swear.” He seemed all out of breath and ragged at once.
“You got power.”
“Just a little ever’ night. Went solar before the bombs, but the panels ain’t doin so good these last few years. Got a well for water. Power ever’ night. No air-condition though. And snake. Lotsa snakes east of here.”
East is cursed.
“Where ya headed?”
“Into the town I thought used to be near here.”
“The town? Why ya wanna go there fer? Burnt down during the bombs.”
The Old Man was silent.
Still.
“Nothing left that way. All of it’s gone. Seen two clouds that week. First Phoenix then Tucson. Nothing there but death. Won’t be for another hundred years. Say where you come from?”
“West.”
“Really?”
“Three days to the other side of the dunes. On the Old Highway a couple days this side of the Great Wreck.”
“Never heard of no ‘Great Wreck.’ ”
They remained standing in the parking lot, the Old Man considering what was his and his alone.
“I’ll get the snake reheated. Et myself earlier, but I can get you some going.”
“That would be nice of you. Thank you.”
Mirrored Sunglasses turned and headed back into the darkened office mumbling, “M
aybe afterwards you’d like to see the pool.”
The Old Man lowered his satchel to the ground.
How had this place remained? There was no sign of a town, other than the remains of the gas station. The road leading away from the motel seemed in better condition than the Old Highway near the village. It must have been new at the time of the bombs.
The Old Man looked again at the neon coursing through the tubes. The design of architecture had once meant something to him. He remembered living in a time when architecture was at war with itself. The old being swept away for the new. You could tell, he remembered, when you walked into someone’s house, a restaurant, even a gas station, what the architect’s idea of the future was. Glass blocks seemed so outdated to him at the time. That was all he could remember.
The snake was good. The two men stood in the parking lot as the Old Man ate it out of a bowl using a bent spoon. All this had survived the apocalypse under neon tubes humming and buzzing, manufactured before the world was the way it would be.
“Built it the year before the war. I did. I built it.” Mirrored Sunglasses never looked straight on at the Old Man. Always to the side or over his shoulder.
The moon would be full tonight. The last curled bits of snake were scooped up in a red sauce that might have been either peppers or ketchup, as the Old Man remembered ketchup to taste. Finally, the bent spoon clanged loudly against the silence that stood between them.
“Finished?” Mirrored Sunglasses held out a gnarled hand to take the bowl and spoon. The Old Man moved the bowl toward the hand noticing it didn’t move farther than initially extended. Another hand would always reach to meet what was offered. This one didn’t. When the bowl touched the fingertips of Mirrored Sunglasses, the tips curled instantly and the bowl was jerked away.
“Good huh? Made it myself.”
It was, nodded the Old Man.
Mirrored Sunglasses didn’t say anything and for a brief moment confusion crossed the craggy face beneath the sunglasses.
Mirrored Sunglasses is blind.
“Sure is. The best. Always got lots of snake. Always snake. Not much else but there is always snake.”
Blind, thought the Old Man. Blind for how long? Alone. No village. How had he survived? Who knew.
“Like a dip in the pool now? Then we can get you fixed up for the night. A real hotel room. Betcha never thought you’d have that again. I’ve kept ready since the bombs. Sometimes folk stay awhile. Like to stay for awhile?”
The Old Man considered the moon and the desert. It would be a good night for putting some distance toward the old town. But the chance of finding salvage after the moon went down was poor. He needed good light.
But wasn’t this place salvage? Was a motel beyond the wasteland with power salvage?
“That would be kind of you to put me up for the night.”
“A dip in the pool first? A good swim and you’ll sleep like a dead sailor.”
“Maybe in the morning. I think I need to lie down. It’s been a long few days.”
Mirrored Sunglasses turned to the office, muttering that the Old Man should follow along. Moments later he handed the Old Man a card.
“Room five. Card unlocks it like one of them fancy hotels before the war, ’member ’em?”
The Old Man looked at it. Had he ever stayed in a hotel with a card as a key? He had a vague memory of once having done so. A laughing girl at his shoulder as he ran the card through a slot and red became green and there was some meaning to him at that moment. Young. It must have meant something to a young man. The meaning of it now was lost among the blown sand and dying heat of a world where cards did not open locks. That was the work of crowbars.
“I’ll knock on your door before dawn. Then you can have a swim while the water’s still cold.”
The Old Man said that would be fine and left the office. Five was on the bottom floor, halfway down the long end of the capital L that was the shape of the place.
Inside the room it was quiet. It was not his shed where light came through at all angles and where the wind brought the unwanted gift of sand. Or where the business of the village could always be listened to. Comforted by. This room was too quiet. A quiet he had not experienced for many years.
He flicked a switch on the wall and one lamp cast a thin cone of light against the gloom. He lay on the bedspread. It was thick and stiff. It smelled of heavy dust.
Already his eyes were closing. For a moment he awoke and realized he had been sleeping. He needed to turn off the light. But he was too tired. More tired than he had ever been.
I feel as if I am made of grease. I must turn off the light. I would be a bad guest if I didn’t turn off the light and used up all the power. He flailed and heard the lamp fall.
He was asleep.
Chapter 10
In the dream he was awake in the hotel room, knowing he must turn off the light or he’d run down the power of the motel. Cars were pulling up in the parking lot as the bombs went off. Lots of bombs.
And then he was awake. There were no bombs. No sound. No cars.
HE WILL KILL U!!!
A jolt of blue fire raced across muscles and arms. Above him the letters of the words were written in glowing yellow light on the ceiling. They seemed to grow larger as he stared at them. The room was dark.
‘I must be hallucinating,’ he thought. He closed his eyes and tried to rub them, but his arm would barely move.
I am so tired.
When he opened his eyes again he saw the words.
HE WILL KILL U!!!
I must be going crazy.
Sweating, he pushed himself up and realized he was breathing heavy. Too heavy. With more effort than it should have taken, he got the lamp upright and switched it on again. Nothing happened.
I must have broken the bulb.
He looked upward, and again the glowing warning remained above his head. The letters were made up of little stars and moons. Planets with rings. He knew those things, those glow-in-the-dark shapes. A girl he once knew. He remembered her to be sad. Or maybe he was the one who was sad. But she had put glow-in-the-dark planets and stars on her ceiling. He remembered lying next to her in the dark as music played nearby. He remembered the sadness though he could not say whether it had been his or hers.
Someone had written those words on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark planets and stars. Standing with more effort than it should have taken, he stood on the bed to examine them. They were real. He peeled off a star. Held it between his thumb and forefinger.
He moved to the window and parted the curtains. The moon had fallen to the other side of the sky.
Dawn in a few hours.
He looked once more at the warning.
Taking his satchel, he opened the door and stepped out into the night. He crossed the walkway heading into the parking lot. His huaraches scraped quietly. He kept his eyes on the dark office door.
“No swim, my friend?” Mirrored Sunglasses stood in the doorway of the room next to him, his arm cradling a double-barreled shotgun.
“You’re not thinking of running off without paying your bill?”
Was he truly blind?
Ahead the moon sank into the black horizon turning the silver nightscape a dark blue.
“How’d you know?” asked Mirrored Sunglasses.
The Old Man swallowed thickly.
When did I last have some water? I am thirstier than I should be.
“Tell me. It won’t do you no good not to.”
“Some words written on the ceiling.”
Mirrored Sunglasses moved the shotgun to the other arm. He seemed to stare off, considering a different matter altogether.
“Shoulda knowed it,” he mumbled. “How ’bout that swim?”
“I don’t know what the problem is,” began the Old Man. “But I mean you no harm. Just headed to the old town east of here. Just going to look for salvage. That’s all. I won’t steal from you.”
“Right, you won’t. Can’t hav
e people knowing I’m here. You’d tell. They’d come for my stuff. Come for me. I wouldn’t be king anymore.”
“That’s not true. Why don’t I just move on? No harm, friend.”
After a moment’s silence in which the Old Man thought he might just walk into the desert and be free of this nightmare, Mirrored Sunglasses raised the shotgun. It wasn’t dead on straight in his face, but it was close enough.
Two barrels with the right shot and he doesn’t need to see me move. Just squeeze at the sound of me. I’ll be nothing but shredded flesh and bones.
He thought of his own pistol hidden in his satchel. Getting it out? He’d know.
But he’s only got one chance to shoot you. Then he’s got to break the barrel and reload. Then fire again. Takes time.
“Think it’s time for that swim, mister,” said Mirrored Sunglasses in a voice that was both mean and low. “Start walking.”
The pool lay beyond a gate at the far end of the complex. The Old Man began to shuffle and by the time he reached the gate, the double-barreled shotgun hovered a foot behind his kidneys. The rusty gate swung open and landed with a clank.
“Move.”
The Old Man walked to the edge of the pool.
It was drained.
Along its cracked concrete bottom, hundreds of snakes lay sleeping and lethargic in the cool predawn. Occasionally one moved. A corpse lay on the far side near the steps, what would have been the shallow end of a filled pool. Beneath the snakes lay more humps that might be corpses.
As he neared the edge of the deep end, he heard Mirrored Sunglasses suck in air.
Barely thinking, the Old Man twisted and stepped back as he saw Mirrored Sunglasses raise the shotgun into both hands across his chest and rush at him as if pushing a plow.
Recoiling in horror sent the Old Man off the lip of the edge and saved his life. He fell and felt his hands grasping for the edge. A familiar childlike feeling as he found it. Then he swung hard into the concrete wall of the empty pool to hang just a few feet from the snakes.