“Of course I did,” she cried. “Why wouldn't I? Are you saying it isn't true?”
“Is it hell,” he laughed. “I'm just wandering up and down, picking up things as I go. I thought maybe the other story was more interesting.”
“It was,” she said. “But how did you get irradiated?”
“I must have wandered into a pocket left over from the rad cloud. It might kill me, it might not. I have no way of knowing, do I?”
“That's true enough. Where are you really from then?”
“A settlement in the south. It's gone now. It was overrun by the Slavers a while back. They killed most of us and captured the rest. I was at one of the farms we had and when I heard the fighting in the distance I turned and ran. I'm not proud of it but I'm still alive. Unlike Rachel and the others.”
“Who's Rachel?”
“She ran the place. Tough old bird. She was getting on a bit back then but she still looked pretty to me.”
“Did you ever go back?”
“No way!” he cried. “Slavers run that side of things now. It's funny, isn't it?”
“What is?”
“Slavers. Scavengers. Survivors. We love our labels, don't we? Keeps the good guys away from the bad guys, doesn't it?”
“I guess so,” she said.
They were walking along at a fair pace and the man was still dragging his trolley which Sarah suspected would be as radioactive as he was. She tried to look at the spines of the books to see what they were but she couldn't make them out. A pity, she thought, but looking at them from the top of her saddle was as close as she intended to get to them.
“They're people you know.”
“Who are?” she asked.
“The Slavers.”
“They killed your friends,” she said. “Doesn't that bother you?”
“But they're still people - you can't just bracket them all into one big name like 'Slaver' or 'Scavenger'.”
“I never said I did. It was you who-”
“No I didn't.”
“Yes you did. Just then. You said that Slavers attacked your settlement.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. Are you sure the rads aren't frying your brain?”
He smiled again and laughed to himself, yanking on the handle of the trolley and upsetting some of the cans. A couple rolled off and he stopped to pick them up.
“I used to like making people laugh,” he said. “I used to entertain the little ones back at my old place. A joke here and there. Sometimes I'd pretend to be people they knew, like Rachel and the others. I'd do really good impressions and they'd crack up all over the floor. Good times.”
He carried on walking and the trolley clattered behind him, occasionally hitting a pot-hole and jinking off to one side. Sarah kept her distance but rode alongside him, glad of the company. When he stopped to restack his property, she'd amble on a ways, looking ahead for any more trouble.
“There isn't a lot to laugh about anymore,” he continued as they rounded a long, sweeping bend past some collapsed buildings that'd been picked clean long ago. They looked like children's blocks that hadn't been cleared away, all colourful and sharp and stacked wherever they fell. She wondered what the place had been back before the disaster and who the face belonged to on the sign. The man had a moustache and a broad smile in white and black on a red background.
“That's true,” she replied.
“Back when I was younger my Dad used to tell me all about the comedians he once knew, about the people he'd watch on the teevee.”
“Teevee? That screen with pictures on?”
“Yeah, that's it. They'd perform on there and tell all kinds of jokes. Dad said he'd crease up every time, crying tears of laughter. When was the last time you cried at a joke?”
She thought about Alan and the story of the Spanish soldier in the cinema and grinned.
“Not so long ago,” she replied.
“Good!” he said. “Good! It means we haven't gone just yet.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. Died. Ended. I have a theory,” he said. “Do you want to hear it?”
“By all means.”
“I think that the moment we stop laughing, the moment when we can't find something to smile about or find the comedy in, that's when the human race is finished. We're done. Time to roll over and die like the dinosaurs.”
“The who?”
“Forget it. What I'm saying is that in everything there's always the lighter side, you know? Always a place for a gag or a jape or a caper.”
“You're losing me,” she said. “But I think I get it.”
“Excellent. You're smart for a horse rider.”
She shot him a sharp look and he broke into a kind of manic laughter again.
“See?” he said. “Funny, right?”
“No.”
As the night drifted in, they came across a fallen bridge and decided to make camp under it. The parts that were still standing there provided them with a great place to shelter for the night and, leading the horse into an overgrown field nearby, she let him eat his fill before turning in.
The man, whose name was Christoph Swartz, dragged his trolley into a dark corner and began setting up his camp for the night. Sarah watched from where she was, fascinated by his routines. He first laid out a big piece of tarp as a kind of groundsheet, anchoring the four corners down with bean cans, all with their labels turned carefully inwards towards the centre. Then, taking off the layers of goods from the trolley, he piled them up in neat little stacks around the site of his tattered looking blanket. When he was done, he unfastened the laces of his boots, folding them into the mouth of each shoe and set them at the bottom of his 'bed', facing back towards himself. His socks came off next and he wiggled his pale toes in the cold air for a moment before slipping them into the most bizarre pair of white bunny-rabbit slippers that were kept in a purple plastic bag at the bottom of the trolley. When all these strange rituals were complete, he wrapped himself in his blanket and nibbled at some parched biscuits while sipping from a battered aluminum canteen.
When Ziggy seemed satisfied, she led the horse into the shelter but far enough away from Christoph, still nervous about exposing either of them to any fallout materials that might be in his belongings.
“No offence intended,” she said, unbuckling her tack. “You understand, I hope.”
“Of course,” he replied with a smile. “Just don't be frightened during the night. I sometimes glow.”
“I'm sure you do.”
She made up her own camp and tethered the horse to a metal rung that was conveniently set into one of the pillars that supported the bridge above her. Then she sat down, setting the tin cup to boil on a small fire made from twigs she'd brought back from the field. When it was done she drank her tea and ate some of the meat and bread from her pack.
“What have you got there?” asked Christoph.
“Some beef strips,” she said. Noticing that his eyes were nearly popping out of his skull at this, she wrapped some of it in a piece of cloth and launched it towards him. It landed at his side and he snatched it up, devouring it almost in one go. “When was the last time you ate properly?”
“I don't remember. Most places won't let me in the front door and I have to beg for them to throw some scraps my way. They won't accept gold or things to trade because they're worried it's irradiated.”
“I see,” she replied. She was resting with her back against the saddle so her bags were within easy reach. She took out a small loaf and some strips of jerky and went over to him, putting them on the floor next to him. She also gave him her spare bottle, the one filled with liquor from The Hearth that she'd bought along with her food. He looked to be on the verge of crying and she turned away quickly, lying back down to watch the sun set at her feet. She could hear him eating and occasionally sniffing away his tears. Then he let out a sigh and uncorked the bottle with a pop and coughed as the hot liquor burned his throat.
“What the hell is that?�
�� he cried.
“I don't entirely know,” she said. “But it works.”
“Sheesh. That'll kill me before the rads do.”
It didn't stop him drinking the entire bottle. As the sun went down into a fiery bed for the night, she began to feel that, like her, Christoph was drinking to hide the pain, to numb it or at least deaden its effects. The strong odour carried itself across the distance between them and she felt the desire to slip into that happier self once again. She had another bottle of course, and it whispered to her from the saddle bag beside her head where she lay.
“I can't remember the last time I felt this good,” muttered Christoph just loud enough for her to hear. “Thanks.”
“It wears off I'm afraid,” she said, still watching the skies at her feet as the stars began to shine. “And it leaves you with one heck of a headache in the morning.”
“It'll be worth it.”
The sound of insects waking up somewhere near the field chirruped its way down towards them with a slight echo under the cold, hard concrete of the bridge. It sounded magnified, as did their voices.
“Labels...” he said to himself.
“What?”
“Labels. So many labels. A name is just a label you know.”
“I guess that's right,” she said.
“Christoph. Sarah. Rachel. Jack. Antoine. Labels... Slaver. Scav. Vagrant. Irradiated. Do you ever stop to think why that is?”
“Because we need to know,” she replied. “Identify. Understand.”
“It's threat assessment. Friend or foe. Helpful or harmful. That's why.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” His words were thick and heavy, like treacle on the end of a knife. “We've gone backwards, back into the past.”
“What do you mean?”
“Basic. Back to animal behaviors. Kill or be killed. We've lost so much, so very much. I've lost a lot. Family. Friends. Art. History. Gone. All gone now. Just labels left now. Names.”
“Who were they?” she asked. He turned under his blanket so that he was looking directly at her across the space between them. She could just make out his eyes glittering in the twilight.
“My wife was Marsha. She was beautiful. Hair like spun gold. Eyes like jade or maybe emeralds. She had this little smile that just lit up the room she was in. She made you feel special, you know? Like you really mattered to her, that you weren't just a thing to be nagged or prodded. You were her life and she made sure you felt it.”
“Who else?”
“My son, Ivan. Marsha named him after her father. Ivan was a little terror. He was always getting into mischief, always exploring the world and seeing Pirates and Space Aliens and always wanting to be the hero of his own story. He had this crazy imagination. Once he pretended that our bathtub was a battle tank and he was driving it to war, to kill the Scavs in their camps and lead the world back to the old days.”
“Who else?”
“Scarlett. My baby girl. Barely old enough to stand but as sassy and stubborn as her mother. Her little hands always closing around my finger like it was a lifeline, like it was the only solid thing in her existence. Eyes as big as hub caps on automobiles.
“They're all gone now. Dead. Killed during the trip to the settlement by people who wanted to take what we had for themselves. They could've had my things, my pathetic bags filled with pathetic things I thought were important. But instead they took everything else that mattered to me and left them behind. I wanted to kill them all, I was so angry. But then what would be the point? It wouldn't bring them back to me. I would have to go to them instead. One day, very soon, I will.”
She listened to the story and thought of all the stories, all the memories of all the people who'd lost loved ones and wondered if any of it really mattered now. The old gods were gone, banished to history like Zeus and if there were any holy books left then none of them had answers for Christoph or the others. It was as if the thin veil of ordered existence had been torn asunder when the world went into the grave and 365 days later had risen to a dark, pointless one, free from the tyranny of reason or purpose. It had all been a lie, a cleverly constructed escape from the truth that, in the end, none of it really mattered after all. One death was as vague and meaningless as another and no one, no god or super power, actually cared. If they did then they were clearly powerless to change it.
“You're the worst comedian I've ever heard,” she said. “You haven't said a single funny thing all night.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Don't be. Talking keeps them alive.” Christoph snorted out a laugh.
“No it doesn't. If it did then I've said more than enough words to bring them back. No. But thanks.”
“For what?”
“Trying to please me at least. Next time, let the booze and the food do it for you.”
She cursed him for an irradiated mad-man and turned over, trying to find where sleep was hiding. It certainly wasn't in her saddle bags or under her blanket.
“Let me tell you a joke,” he suddenly cried from his side of the camp.
“Really?”
“Yeah. It's a good one. Promise.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Come on,” he said. “Trust me.” Sarah sighed.
“Go on then.”
“Where was the Pope when the lights went out?”
“The who?”
“The Pope? You don't know who the Pope was? Is? Maybe.”
“No.”
“Sheesh,” he said. “You've ruined my joke now.”
“You might as well finish it now. Where was he then?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“Well tell me who the Pope is and maybe I'll get it.”
“He was in charge of the Catholics. He was the-”
“Catholics? Weren't they some kind of religious group?” she asked.
“Yes. He was their boss.”
“Before the disaster?”
“Yes. So - where was he when the lights went out?”
“I don't know,” she said. “Where did he live?” Christoph cursed so loudly that it bounced around the struts of the bridge and came right back at them.
“That's not the point!” he cried. “It's a bloody joke, isn't it?”
“It isn't all that funny,” she replied. “He'd be in the dark, wouldn't he?”
“That's the punch line! You've already heard it before.”
“No I haven't,” she said. “The answer is obvious, isn't it? No light means dark. Where's the joke in that?”
“Goodnight, Sarah. I give up. It's over. No sense of humour at all.”
She laughed then, laughed at the crazy little man and his temper and continued to laugh even when she was wrapped in her bedroll, trying to close her eyes. He asked her to be quiet but that made her laugh all the more.
“It wasn't that funny,” he said.
“It wasn't what you said. It was the delivery. Trust me, I know about these things.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I'm a postman.”
They both erupted in fits of laughter then which made her sides hurt all the more. It was a good pain though and it sent her off to sleep with a smile on her face and a tiny bit of warmth in her heart.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ziggy snorted in the cold morning and blew a gust of hot air over the body of Christoph Swartz as Sarah, wrapped up in her coat and scarf, looked down on him in his blanket. His eyes had glazed over and he was looking at something above them, far beyond the concrete bridge or maybe even the blue sky which promised a cold, dry day. He'd been right - once the laughing stopped it really was over.
The crumbs from her loaf of bread and the empty bottle of liquor were the only signs that there'd been anything but misery in the man's life. She couldn't even bury him for risk of exposure. She had no words, no prayers, no offerings of any kind to the man with fifty or more years of a life that was now consigned to the blank pages of history, one that
no person would ever write or read about. It was all gone like dust on the wind, so fragile, so utterly feeble and yet so tragic. She felt angry then. She felt a deep seated resentment at a world of complete irrelevance where nothing mattered but where this man's life should have. Someone should have been upset. Someone should have felt his passing. Someone. Somewhere.
“How do you do it and still be able to go on?” she asked aloud, thinking of Alan.
“Because I know that I'll remember, at least for as long as I live.”
She spun round and there he was, as if her words had conjured him out of the very air she breathed and she gasped. He was holding the reins of his mount and looking down at Christoph with those bright blue eyes before turning his gaze upon her. He was wrapped in a heavy leather coat that went down to his boots and around his neck was a long woolly scarf that covered the lower part of his face. And true to form, there was Moll, sat on her haunches, looking up at her with a kind of 'not my idea' expression on her furry face.
“How did you-”
“I was passing through Abbingdon yesterday,” he said. “Harry told me you were going this way to deliver a package. I've ridden through the night to catch you up and I was about to stop under this bridge for a nap when I saw you.” He stepped closer to Christoph's body and looked down on him. “What was his name?”
“Christoph Swartz. He was from the south.”
“Radiation?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I'll dig a hole.”
With that the giant of a man took a folding shovel from his saddle bags and walked off towards the field. Sarah couldn't believe her eyes as she watched him walk away. He'd come after her. He was speaking to her. It was really him.
She tethered both animals to the rung and followed him. He'd taken off his coat by this time and was now digging a grave near an oak tree that looked painfully withered and tired. She stood at one end of the hole and stared at him, still hovering around her disbelief.
“Yes?” he asked, without looking up.
“Is that it?” she said. “You just decided to follow me and here we are, digging a grave for a stranger, just like that?”
“Yes,” he said. “Just like that. And he's not a stranger. We knew him.”
Beyond Hope (Tales from the Brink Book 3) Page 15