by Nick Cole
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.’
THE OLD MAN 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.
AT 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.
BEYOND THE DAM, 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.
HOURS 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.
Chapter 32
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!”
THEY 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.
Chapter 33
The Old Man, still holding his map, climbed down from the tank. His granddaughter was already dancing around, doing cartwheels along the overpass.
“What’s that big animal, Poppa?”
“An elephant.”
“An elephant!” she screamed.
A delegation of Stockaders seasoned with circus performers climbed the dusty embankment toward the tank. The Old Man checked the Boy who stood atop the turret.
“Be ready.”
The Boy nodded softly.
It’s good he came with us.
A paunchy Stockader came forward, his face bright red and burning beneath a bushy mustache. His fat lips were punch stained, his eyes glossy from drink.
“What a day of miracles! First the circus and now this! I’m Reynolds.” He held out a beefy hand and the Old Man shook it, feeling thick viscous sweat on it.
“We’re just passing by,” mumbled the Old Man.
“Oh come now, ya gotta see this thing!” bellowed Reynolds too loudly.
“Oh, Poppa, the ele—the elemant . . . the . . . what’s its name, Poppa?”
“Elephant.”
“The elephant!” she cried.
Everyone cheered.
And the Fool was there.
He beamed at the Old Man.
“We need fuel,” said the Old Man. “The people at the Dam said you might have some. Then we really must go.”
The Old Man felt his hand suddenly taken between the Fool’s long claws.
“But we’ve come all this way and we have so much to give you!” begged the Fool. “Oh please, come see the elephant!”
“The elephant!” shrieked his granddaughter again.
Everyone cheered and even the elephant bellowed distantly.
“You’re going to love this, Nuncle,” assured the Fool as he dragged the Old Man forward, down the off-ramp and into the circus. “Things that were lost are coming back. Amazing things. Free things. The whole world will be ours again!”
His granddaughter raced forward toward the throng surrounding the elephant. The Old Man turned his head back to look over the heads of the pushers who pushed him forward into the circus outside the gates. The Boy stood atop the tank, his strong right arm dangling just above the haft of his tomahawk.
A tin cup is pressed into the Old Man’s hand and he drinks knowing he should be careful, but all eyes and even the eyes of the Fool, are watching him.
Pleading.
Begging.
“Huzzah!” shout all the Players when the Old Man takes a thirsty drink.
His granddaughter is hoisted by three Strong Men aboard the elephant who immediately stands on its hind legs, raises its trunk, and bellows again.
The Old Man breaks out into a cold sweat sensing the sudden uncomfortable fear and helplessness one feels as he watches his granddaughter atop this gigantic and wild beast.
Reynolds, close and breathy, whispers hotly, “Ain’t it a trick?”
Conklin!
“Conklin says hello.”
For a whisker Reynolds seems bewildered. Then he slaps his head, spilling punch across his vest and bushy mustache.
“There’s a fellow!” roars Reynolds. “Knew’d him ever since the first days after. How is McKenna?”
“I don’t know McKenna. But Conklin told me to ask you for fuel if you still have any.”
HIS GRANDDAUGHTER SCREAMED with delight, her face merely an open mouth, her head thrown back as her hair sprang wildly out into the blue sky.
This is wrong. What if something horrible happens to her? What if the giant beast throws her and then tramples her? What if anything goes wrong?
The Old Man feels cold sweat beginning to run down his back as he imagines the worst.
“Fuel? Got all the fuel you can take on,” says Reynolds. “We’ll see about it tomorrow, all right?”
The Old Man starts to protest but Reynolds is off through the crowd roaring and backslapping, calling for more of the circus-brewed punch.
The day is hot.
Too hot.
When the Old Man looks down, his tin cup is drained and his mouth feels sugary.
“Where’d ya get that machine, Nuncle?”
The Fool stares smilingly up at the Old Man, his thin body posed into a slant, as though leaning backward over a cliff.
The Old Man doesn’t answer, wants to answer, but cannot.
I am tired and I feel my body relaxing into all this.
Let go and enjoy it. The only one ruining it is you and your fears.
And I feel so good.
Like . . . ?
Like?
Like the motel, my friend?
Oh . . . !
“You look like you’ve just swallowed a rotten bug, Nuncle.” The Fool is ladling more punch into the Old Man’s tin cup.
I feel rooted to the earth.
I can hear my granddaughter. High above and far away.
You never should have brought her with you.
Then I would’ve had to come all this way alone.
And die alone.
“Great things are coming again, Nuncle,” simpered the Fool. “Medicine and well-being. Food for all. Oh, Nuncle, here is the best part. There’ll be a work. A work to rebuild it all just as it once was but better and completely new. Even different. Isn’t that amazing, Nuncle?”
The Fool seems confused. The Old Man stares at him as though he is looking at a picture on a wall.
He is merely a drawing.
A photograph even.
Pictures were once so common you deleted them if they weren’t exactly what you wanted.
“Nuncle, you must stop swallowing these bugs. Perhaps you’d like to lie down. I’ll sing you a song or recite a poem.” The Fool threw his head back and put one long claw-like hand across his chest. “The Twenty-Dollar Burger for just a Quarter! At FattyBurger you’ll think your stomach’s been hit by a mortar. FattyBurger, All Meat, No Veggies, All Night.”
The Fool beamed and threw his claws wide and open, accepting applause.
“I bet you remember that one from Before, Nuncle. I bet you remember when it was shown on the telly-screen? Those times were grand, those times were fun, those times are coming back I tell you all and one. What we lost is coming back the same and different. And the difference is better. Difference is always better. Change is always good. Right, Nuncle?”
His granddaughter is at his side. She is clutching him and showing him a streamer on a stick someone has given her.