by Nick Cole
The sky was gray with rain. Wet slaps hit the mud about him, embracing him in a soft white noise. He turned skyward and opened his mouth; drinking what rainwater fell into it. After he’d filled a mouthful he would swallow. It tasted of iron. It was bitter and it burnt his throat. He drank again.
You are a dead man.
Not yet.
Your stuff is gone. How will you survive?
I’m glad I didn’t bring the book. Now when I return I can read it again.
He stood shakily. In his pocket was a soggy book of matches and the pliers. The rest had been carried off. Gone.
You are a dead man.
Not yet.
He walked for another few hours. The flooded ravine forked south and east. He headed south.
If Tucson still stands, I will see it tonight or tomorrow. That is my only hope.
His other voice did not reply.
The valley floor was filled with the violence of the flash floods, and at times he waded through pools, and at others, followed the course until he could jump across, knowing this was dangerous.
At one such crossing, the far side caved away at his sudden weight and all he could do was fall forward into the mud to keep from falling back into the torrent. He lay panting.
I am feeling very weak.
When was the last time you ate?
I can’t remember. Maybe the snake.
Start looking for flint.
For a fire?
Yes.
I have nothing to eat.
Again his other voice was silent.
He forgot to look for flint, and when he had gone on another few hours, he stumbled and realized he’d been stumbling for some time.
There is nothing here.
You are beaten.
I am curst.
That is the same.
I don’t agree.
The sun came out and everything dried almost instantly. If there had been rain, rain in abundance, the evidence was hidden. Only the clean smell of air without dust betrayed the monsoon. The sun made him sleepy, and when he began to crawl, he remembered he must look for flint. Flint to make a fire. But again he forgot and soon it was night.
The wind came up and he found himself on hands and knees in a sandy depression. He heard a sound. A sound he knew. A sound he had heard in the village.
I will lay down for a few hours and then walk.
He slept the whole night. He dreamed that he was back in his shed, back amongst the village, listening to the desert wind move through the tin and corrugated metal that was the village. Waiting for morning. Waiting to go salvaging once more with his granddaughter. He kept waiting. He should get out of bed, he thought during the dream. Get out and get ready his tools and breakfast. Get ready for his granddaughter who would spend the day walking. Talking. Listening. It was she, of all the village, who had not given up on him. Just like the boy in the book. He was very excited just for those things. Not so much the salvage. But if they did find salvage, then of course that would be nice also. In the dream, he kept looking out the door of the shed to see if she was waiting. But it was still the middle of the night, dark and cold and clear with the stars like the broken glass east of the village. He had woken too early.
When he awoke it was light. The light was soft. Wind blew sand across his skin. The sound of the tall grass was the sound of a husky broom being swept purposefully in long strokes across a stone floor.
The tail of the airplane was white. It was tall, and it rose above the field of tall grass.
An airliner.
He stood slowly. His side ached where the flood had hit him. There were many tails. Like tombstones shifted slightly right, one to the next.
He moved through the waving grass and found himself standing on the concrete apron that girded the airport. Airplanes stretched away across the field, their metal groaning in the morning wind.
Marana Air Park. The airplane graveyard.
Of all the names from the past that you cannot remember, you remember this one?
My dad…was a pilot. He was an airline pilot. I haven’t thought about that in years.
He walked forward.
The planes, all of them white, faded paint visible on some, stood like headstones. Large wings had collapsed. Some lay on their bellies. Their number stretched off into the distance.
Their doors sealed tombs.
If I had my crowbar, maybe I could get in.
What could there be of use inside?
He thought of electronics, seat cushions. Flotation devices. The galley. Maybe he could find a knife or a fire axe. Planes had fire axes. He remembered that from the many times his dad would take him to the cockpit where he worked.
He found the hangers that once stood watch over the graveyard of planes. They had fallen down. What tools or a crowbar he might have used to violate the tombs of the airplanes, lay underneath and out of reach.
He walked toward the far end of the airfield.
These planes once crossed the world.
He thought of Hawaii. He had been five times. Flown there five times as child. It was his Dad’s route. He and his mother in back. A vacation.
Had such a thing like that ever happened? He stood in the bright sunshine of the place. The wind was dying and the cemetery music of lonely tin slowly faded.
In the book my friend talked of Africa. Of the lions on the beach at sunset. I remember.
‘When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening.’
Had ever such a thing happened?
If I could get in. If I could get into one of these, I might stay for awhile. Gather tools. Hunt. Then trek back to the village.
I could head back to the peak and turn west. The ‘Eight’ leads back to the village.
What if there are more of them? More of that boy. Chasing me with the club. The plaque said human sacrifice.
The Horde.
If The Horde still exists, they might find the village some day. We could not defend ourselves.
Maybe the boy is the last.
There could be others. Watching you. Letting you lead them back to the village. Or if they find you they might make you talk.
What about Fort Tucson, the Army, that Sergeant Major?
They will think you are one of The Horde. You must look like one.
I will tell them there is a village. They might help us. Or we could trade.
You are curst. This whole journey has been nothing but a curse, and here you are in a graveyard of airplanes without food or water or a weapon.
Then I must get into one of these planes. At least for the axe.
He still had not made up his mind as he sat working with the gear he had collected. It had taken him a long time to get into one of the airplanes but he finally had. Going up through the nose gear of a four-engined plane, he’d found the trap door that led into the belly of the aircraft. Working hard at the pin and lock that secured it, he’d finally gotten it open. His head pounded with thirst and hunger and he was tired.
He wound his way up into the dark plane. Feeling his way along a gloomy corridor that twisted to the right once, he saw light coming from a square in the ceiling above, and found a ladder that led up to the square. It swung open easily and he was overwhelmed by the smell of stale fabric and dust.
He had some ideas about what he might find aboard the plane that might be of use. Now he put these ideas to the test. He went to the door at the front of the plane, the one where passengers had once embarked. After a few moments reading the instructions, he pulled the red handle marked ‘Emergency’. Nothing happened. He read the instructions again. Realizing his error he tried again, and this time the oval boarding door swung open to the desert sky. He deployed the safety slide. With a bang and a hiss it flung itself away from the aircraft. Inside the compartment he found instructions for deploying the life raft case if the plane needed to land in the ocean. With what strength was
left, he found the case, then threw it out onto the runway. After bouncing a few times the large suitcase opened and a round raft burst forth, inflating at once.
He slid down the slide and entered the covered raft on his hands and knees. He found a pouch built into the rubber floor marked ‘Supplies’. The pouch contained a stash of stale protein bars and silvery bags filled with water. He ate and drank.
Now later, in the last moments of twilight, sitting near the fire of mesquite and working on his supplies, he still did not know what to do next.
He had found three more life rafts and collected an abundance of supplies. Besides the emergency food and water, he’d collected medical kits, scissors, matches, a flare gun and some flares, fishing line, and hooks. Now he sat cutting a raft into strips. Later, when the firelight cast too many flickering shadows making it difficult to focus, he stopped work and carried his supplies back up the boarding slide into the plane. Back outside he sat by the fire for awhile drinking a pack of water, then he went into the plane and closed the door. He slept on a row of seats with an emergency blanket and several pillows.
For a long while Himbradda lay beside the raging floodwaters. Stunned. Numb. He had lost the man, and his rage boiled up within him. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the club.
He would return to the people, but when he stood, his right leg collapsed and he screamed in pain. It was broken.
He stood again, crying and grunting all at once. He began to limp back along the rivers’ edge. He would return to the people and maybe he would get food.
Then he saw the tracks. Thick and gloppy in the mud. The tracks of the man. Dragging the broken leg, he followed them and forgot the pain that rushed up in him at every step. He drank greedily from evaporating pools of muddy water and chewed hungrily at seeds The People carried for nourishment. He would save the peyote for the kill.
Himbradda followed the muddy tracks until it was too dark to track them anymore. He would find the man and that would make him happy again. For awhile he sat shivering in the dark. Then he slept.
Twenty Five
The next day The Old Man made a rucksack. Using cut strips of yellow rubber from the raft. He sat in the shade under the large wing, sewing it together with some needle and thread from the emergency medical kit. Then he made a vest and finally a hat. In the emergency kit he found a little bottle of sunscreen. He would use that also.
I have enough to head back.
The heat made everything quiet. His voice seemed to carry under the wing of the plane and then fall into the dirt beyond.
This is salvage. We could come back here and search these planes. There’s medicine, axes, pillows. These things would be good for the village. For a moment he saw movement underneath the wings of far away planes. He crouched low, looking.
It was the savage. Dragging a leg, he came limping toward The Old Man.
Quickly The Old Man packed his ruck with supplies. He donned the vest and rolled up his hat, stuffing it in the rucksack. He grabbed the fire axe from the nose wheel where he’d left it to lean.
You can’t lead him back to the village.
I’ll head south for now. I must go to Fort Tucson.
At the perimeter fence, as The Old Man crossed onto the road leaving the air park, the savage gave a cry that pierced the still desert air. The savage had seen him.
Looking back, he saw the boy limping furiously after him. The boy was slow and the effort he exerted great. But The Old Man felt he could stay ahead of the savage. Turning his back he hustled off down the road.
A few hours later he entered a series of rocky rolling hills. Saguaro cactus littered the sides of the hills, their arms upraised. The road began to twist and he passed a weather-beaten granite sign. He was now entering the Saguaro National Monument.
Ah ha, I am west and north of Tucson. I can follow this road and it will take me to Gates Pass. I remember that. From Gates Pass it’s a short downhill walk into Tucson. I’ll see the city from there. If it is gone, then I can turn west and head back to the village.
What will you do about the boy?
He turned back to see. The boy was falling farther behind. For awhile, flailing his good arm, he’d chased The Old Man. Now he seemed to be stumbling. Weaving. Sometimes he would raise his head and scream at The Old Man, then return to his efforts, limping forward in angry determination.
The Old Man set off into the park. In the afternoon the clouds began to build up thick and white, and The Old Man could smell the musty scent that came before the desert rain. His bones felt tired and his muscles remained cold. When he stopped at a covered picnic area to rest, he felt dizzy.
Maybe the water? Or maybe the food from the plane?
Maybe it’s been too much.
When the rain came a few minutes later he felt hot and sweaty. He’d lost sight of the boy.
I can’t rest.
Shouldering his pack, he started off into the rain moving steadily; slowly but steadily up the winding road.
Can he still be behind me?
It got dark early and the air became cold. The rain continued as a slight mist. Standing in the gloom, The Old Man smelled the pavement and wondered what he should do.
If it comes to a fight I have the axe.
He’s a boy. Your granddaughter’s age.
I think he means to harm me.
He smelled woodsmoke from a breeze that came at him out of the north. In the distance he saw a small orange fire farther down the valley.
He has fallen far behind.
It could be a trick. To make you think he has stopped for the night.
The Old Man shouldered the pack and set off into the evening drizzle. Moments later, a flash of light caught the image of him receding into the negative, against the photograph of a land turned bone white and shadow.
Himbradda heard the thunder and sat shivering in front of his fire. He ate the last handfuls of the seed. He took out the peyote and fingered it, chanting over and over his nonsense words.
He threw more brush on the fire and white smoke issued up as the fire slowly caught. He ate the peyote. He felt tired as he sat there staring into the fire. Later when the laughter came upon him, he got up and the leg felt numb. The pain was gone. He began to circle the fire laughing and muttering. The rain stopped and he stared at the stars twirling and moving faster.
The Dragon was dead and The People were the stars.
The Dragon was old and now he was just an old man, chased through the desert by Himbradda. Chased by a hero across the stars.
He shouldered his club and set off into the night. The Old Dragon was sticking to the hard roads. Himbradda didn’t need to track him through the desert. He would stay on the hard path and he would find him.
At the bottom of Gates Pass, The Old Man turned back to look along the way he had come. He didn’t see the boy.
Ahead, a serpentine road wound its way up the rocky face of the pass. At the top he would be able to see Tucson. He would be in the suburbs of Tucson.
He shivered and felt chilled to the bone. He drank an entire packet of water and thought about eating a protein bar, but his throat felt as though it were on fire.
I am at the last of it and I am too sick to go on.
You must.
The boy is asleep no doubt. I can afford to borrow a little rest against the lead I have taken.
Your friend in the book would tell you, ‘First you borrow, then you beg.’
True.
The moon was out as ghostly-white clouds skidded off into the deep blue of night. It was quiet.
I heard coyotes a while back and I am just thinking of it now. I think I am very sick.
If there is a Fort Tucson they can help you.
‘If’ is the question.
The savage boy loped into view on the road below. Using his club as a cane, he was pumping hard to catch The Old Man. The Old Man tightened his grip around the axe resting across his shoulder and knew he was too weak to swing it to any effect
.
Himbradda charged forward seeing The Old Dragon. The night air burned clean and fresh in his lungs. He screamed and thought of victory and dipping his hands in the blood of The Old Dragon, and covering the rock walls where he had chased The Old Dragon to, making the sign of the People. He screamed and felt better than he had ever felt in all his short life. He felt alive.
The Old Man labored hard up the steep grade. The next stretch of the cracked and broken highway was extremely steep.
Another bend or two and I’ll be at the top.
He’ll be on you by then.
He is my shark. I must try until there is nothing left like my friend did with first the harpoon, then the paddle and finally the club.
He spared a glance back at the boy and knew the boy was nothing human. Humanity hadn’t been something the child had ever possessed, been taught, experienced.
The flare gun might scare him off.
The Old Man reached into the ruck. He had four flares. He loaded one and took aim. Himbradda labored up the first grade below. He fired and Himbradda stopped, watching the flare streak over his head. When it passed, The Old Man could see the features of the wild boy. Teeth missing in a mouth agape. Thick hair. The withered arm. Animal amazement at the red streaking light. His pupils large and dark. When the flare had gone into the bushes to burn, Himbradda surged forward up the hill, closing in on The Old Man.
Start moving now.
But I am tired.
Just move forward. Get to the top. Then think of something else to do when you get there.
He began to move.
At the top of the pass he turned, breathing hard, and felt dizzy. The savage boy was running now, rounding the bend on the narrow road that would lead straight to The Old Man.
He let the axe fall to the ground while holding the handle, and he knew it was beyond himself to use it. He let it go and backed toward the edge of the cliff.
You’ve got time for one trick Old Man.
The Boy charged forward closing the distance rapidly. The Old Man could hear the savage boy wheezing as he gasped for breath to close the gap.