The rifle withdrew inside and a moment later the door opened. A young man with a long, unkempt beard stepped into view. He didn’t smile, or seem either happy or angry to see the visitor. He seemed empty. “Whyn’t you put your horse in the barn around back? Then you can c’mon in and take a load off. You gotta be tired.”
Bob nodded. “It is Ted Junior, right?”
The boy went back inside.
The barn was more of a lean-to with three sides, but the water trough was full. Two other horses skittered away when he tied his to a rail and put a feed bag with some grass he’d collected over its mouth. He removed the saddle and pad and checked the horse for any nicks, injuries, or parasites, paying special attention to its hooves and feet.
Satisfied, he walked around the front of the house and knocked on the doorframe. A large structure built into the ground ran down one side of the house. Bob craned to see around the corner to figure out what it was and got blinding reflections for his curiosity.
“C’mon in.”
The screen door had actual mesh keeping the bugs out. Behind that door, a second one of thick wood faced with steel hung on sturdy hinges. On the inside were two heavy latches.
Once he stepped into the dark interior, Bob pointed at the door with his thumb. “That’s quite a door you got there.”
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out the shotgun braced on the man’s crossed leg, pointed at his chest.
“Lotta things to kill you in this desert. All kinds of things come outa the mountains and they ain’t picky about what they eat. If you look close, you can see dents in the metal on the front.”
Moving slowly so as not to startle the man with his finger on the trigger, Bob examined the door, and then moved in for a closer look. “Those look like… are those…?”
“Knuckles? Yeah. Whatever hit that door left knuckle marks in half-inch steel.”
“Damn, Nuff, I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
The young man leaned forward. “What’d you call me?”
Bob held up his hands in a placating gesture. Had he angered his host? “I’m sorry if that name bothers you. I won’t use it again.”
“What’d you call me?”
“Nuff. It’s a name I gave Ted Junior when he was a kid, that’s all. Maybe you’re not Ted.” Was he about to get shot?
But Ted blinked a few times and then smiled. “You are Jingle Bob!”
Hands still extended, Bob nodded in relief. “Yeah, I am.”
#
An hour before sunset, Ted handed his guest the dinner he’d cooked on a real ceramic plate. Chips lined the rim and it had several small cracks, but it was an actual plate left over from the Old Times. Then he passed out steel silverware, a fork and hunting knife. Bob had his own knife and fork, but Ted’s were better.
Steaming venison and fresh carrots swam in a reddish broth. A square crumbling yellowish cake soaked it up.
“Is this corn bread?”
“Yep. Dad made it all the time, so I kind of grew up with it.”
“Where did you get corn?”
“I grow it. Dad showed me how. We’ve… I’ve got it in a closed stockade down closer to the river. The well still has plenty of water so that’s not a problem, and I use the corn as bait whenever I need meat. The carrots come from the greenhouse here beside the house.”
“You and your dad turned this place into something, didn’t you?”
Ted looked down and picked at his food. “I guess.”
Bob dropped his voice to a low, gentle tone. “How long has he been gone?”
“Six months, thereabouts. He said it was cancer but we never knew for sure. For a while willow bark tea helped with the pain, but as things went on it didn’t work any more, so we tried pricklepoppy, which only worked for a week or so. From then on, all he could do was bathe with some tree tobacco leaves, and that helped a little. We tried to find some marijuana seeds, but no such luck.”
“I’m sorry, Nuff. I liked your dad. He was a helluva nice guy.”
“So why’re you passing through? Looking for a scrape?”
Cornbread crumbs fell from Bob’s mouth into the broth. He chewed and then swallowed with a mouthful of water.
“The Chinese are on the move. There’s an old army base north of Lake Tahoe with all kinds of heavy weapons and the Chinese want ’em. Last year I found some battlefields down around Phoenix, recent battlefields, and watched some troops that looked like Americans. One of the battlefields had burnt-out Chinese tanks scattered all over this valley, which I think is why they’re moving up north.
“I’m headed to try and warn whoever it is down south before the Chinese can grab the army base, but I’ve been on the road five days now and I’ve got at least seven more to go. I tried to ride straight through with just some short naps, but I couldn’t do it. That’s when I remembered you and your dad lived nearby, and here I am.”
“Haven’t there always been Americans down there in… I can’t remember the name of the city, but I know they had some kind of general.”
“You’re thinking of General Patton in Prescott. He started something called the Republic of Arizona, but I don’t mean his troops. I’ve run up on them a few times and they’re just desert rats with uniforms. The Americans I mean carried themselves different. You could just tell they were trained for war. They’ve gotta have a head man down there and he, or she, needs to know the Chinese are on the move up north.”
“They don’t have any radios?”
“Not that work, plus they don’t have any power. All the engineers took off during The Collapse. Not one hand-crank generator still works, their solar charging system is shot… hell, I’m surprised anybody still lives there.”
As the room darkened with twilight, Ted opened a sliding panel in one wall that wasn’t visible from the outside but which acted as a window. He sparked a flint onto some dried straw in the small cooking pit, and when the flame was high enough he lit a fat candle stuck on a small pottery holder. Most people made candles from boar’s fat, because packs of wild pigs roamed vast tracts of the desert and surrounding regions. Pig’s fat stank when it burned, but when Bob didn’t smell the characteristic reek of such a candle, he assumed it was made from sheep tallow.
Then he caught a faint sweet scent. “Where did you get a bee’s wax candle?” he said, incredulous.
“From the Utes. I trade ’em corn, vegetables, and meat, and they give me candles and a few other things. Shoes, too, they make really good boots.” He held one up so Bob could see, snakeskin with thick leather soles.
“Hell fire, boy, I want a pair of them boots. You’re lucky your feet are bigger than mine. You ever thought about being a scraper?”
“They’ll make you a pair, if you trade ’em enough. I’ve had ’em a few years now, so they do hold up.”
They ate in silence for a little while. The flickering candlelight picked out strange details that were lost in the brighter light of day. Jingle Bob smiled at the irony.
“Take me with you,” Nuff said without preamble.
Bob’s mind had wandered somewhere else. “What?”
“Take me down south with you.”
“Why? You’ve got everything you need right here. Hell, I was thinking about moving in with you once this is all over. Why would you want to leave?”
“Ever since Dad died, it’s been a lonely life. I thought about leaving on my own, just getting on my horse and riding off somewhere different. A couple of times I almost did it.”
“What stopped you?”
“Dad’s radio. He spent his entire life collecting the parts, making stuff out of scrap, doing whatever it took to get that thing up and running. And he did it, too. One night he got on the air and talked to somebody in Australia. Man, was he happy. Dad tried to explain where Australia was, but all I got was that it’s a long way from here. Somebody named Craig Buchanan; I’ll never forget it. He had a funny way of talking. Dad called it a… oh, hell, what was the wor
d?”
“Accent?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it. I couldn’t understand most of what he said before the battery ran out. Buchanan asked him where he was calling from and Dad said Nevada, and then he said something I didn’t understand…”
In the far distance, they heard barking. Neither man reacted because they’d heard it so many times before: coyotes.
“Because of his accent?” Without realizing it, Bob had scooted forward and was leaning on his knees.
“No, ’cause of what he said. He said something about talking to the Americans down south. I didn’t know what that meant.”
“Did he say who these Americans were?” Bob’s words came out breathless.
“No, and that’s the last thing he said. Dad’s battery ran out and by the time we got it running again, Buchanan was gone. He never got him back, either.”
“Have you tried to get it going since he died?”
“Me? I haven’t touched it. I don’t know how to work any of it.”
“May I… may I see it?”
Nuff nodded. “Sure.”
Bob knew a radio and homemade generator capable of reaching Australia would take up room, but no such setup was anywhere in sight. “Where is it?”
“You want to see it now?”
“After we finish eating, yeah. I’ve gotta be gone at first light.”
Nuff picked up his plate, put it to his lips, and scraped the remaining food into his mouth. “C’mon.” He mumbled while he chewed. He pulled open a trap door in the far corner Bob hadn’t noticed. “You comin’?”
#
Chapter 47
Tomorrow is tomorrow. Future cares have future cures, and we must mind today.
Sophocles, Antigone
Great Basin Desert, NV
1932 hours, April 18
Beneath the trap door, an aluminum ladder led into darkness. Nuff went first and disappeared. Jingle Bob followed cautiously. There was something about descending into someone else’s secret, unlit underground chamber that sent electric shivers down the back of his neck. He hung on the ladder’s last rung as visions of his own murder flashed through his mind. Was Nuff even then hefting an axe to split his skull?
“There it is.” Nuff’s voice didn’t seem as close as Bob would have thought. Had he now found the axe and was headed back to the ladder?
Bob’s eyes adapted to the darkness, and he realized a faint light infiltrated the ladder’s shaft, above where he stood. It was plenty to pick him out for his attacker.
As panic welled and he was about to scramble back up into the little house, a faint light shone across the chamber, jerking back and forth quickly. It went out, but he could still hear a slight tinking noise.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he said, still ready to bolt for safety.
“This is an old flashlight that you shake and it charges a little battery inside. I don’t know how it works, but that’s what Dad said. It doesn’t work so good any more.”
“Nothing works like it used to.”
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Nuff stopped shaking it and clicked the on button. The light was much brighter than Bob had expected, or maybe any light would have seemed bright in that total blackness. “Won’t last long, but I brought a candle.”
“How are you gonna light it?”
“I thought you knew my dad,” Nuff said, and Bob heard a little laugh. “He made this thing.” Using the flashlight, he showed Bob some sort of small metal box with a sliding top. Inside a coal glowed reddish orange. He put the candle’s wick into the coal and it caught a flame within seconds, and then he slid it onto the needle-like spike of a candleholder.
A moldy, musty smell, like the interior of a cavern, overrode all other scents. By the feeble light, Bob visually inspected his surroundings. The room measured about eight feet wide and ten long, with a low ceiling that made him bow his head forward. It had rough wood panels on all the walls, roof, and floor. Here and there support beams held up crumbling sections. Boxes and barrels took up much of the space, but along one wall a homemade table held various electronic devices, all wired together. Bob had no idea what any of it was or how it worked.
At one end was something he recognized as a bicycle mounted on a frame, connected to a big box filled with screws and compartments and water, which Nuff topped up from a stoppered jug. Wires ran this way and that.
“Have you tried to work this yourself?”
“Hell, no.” Nuff’s long, curly hair tossed in the candlelight as he shook his head. “’Bout the last thing Dad said was not to touch anything. It’s tuned to whatever made it connect with that guy in Australia. He said to juice up the generator, turn it on, and press that button right… there.” He indicated a small lever on the desk. “I tried it once but all I heard was cracks and whistles.”
“But you’re sure he said this Buchanan guy was talking to somebody in America?”
“Arizona, yeah.”
“Arizona? He was talking to somebody in Arizona? You didn’t say that before.”
“I didn’t? Sorry. But yeah, Arizona.”
Bob felt the excitement racing through his brain. “I’ve got to try and talk to this guy.”
“We’re not down here ’cause it smells good.” Nuff mounted the bicycle and took a couple of deep breaths. “See that little green dot right by the button I showed you? When it lights up, press the lever and start talking.”
“What do I say?”
“Hell if I know. Dad had call signs and stuff, but I can’t remember ’em and he didn’t write ’em down. Say whatever you think you should say.”
Bob rested his bony butt on a stool and stared at the green light. His fingers twitched above the lever like a mountain lion waiting in ambush for a deer. Nuff started pumping the bicycle pedals, working up speed as the rotating gears made a scree-scree-scree sound. The faster he pumped, the louder the noise.
The candle flickered for an instant and darkness fell on the green light. Bob panicked until it brightened again and then he exhaled in relief. Nuff’s knees rose and fell, rose and fell in a relentless effort to generate enough electricity to run the makeshift radio setup. Bob could barely see his face in the dim light but when drops of sweat formed at the tip of his nose, they reflected the candlelight.
Minute followed minute. He had no way of knowing how long Nuff could keep this up, how long it had already been, or when, or even if, the green light would come up.
Without warning it shone green. It took him a second to recognize what it meant before he depressed the lever. “I want to talk to Craig Buchanan in Australia. If you can hear me, say something.”
He kept the key down until Nuff reminded him to let it go to listen for a response, but all they heard was static. After waiting what he thought was a minute, he tried again. “My name is Bob. I’m trying to find Craig Buchanan in Australia.”
Nothing.
After two more tries, Nuff began to sound winded. “I can’t… do this too… much longer.”
Bob tried again.
The static increased until it hurt their ears, but in the background they heard something else, too — a voice.
“Are you Craig Buchanan?” Bob said in a much louder voice.
They heard two words clearly, yes and you. The static died down.
“Hurry up, Bob!”
In desperation, Bob did the only thing he could think of. With the key down, he started talking, loud. “If this is Craig Buchanan in Australia, it’s urgent that you call your friend in Arizona. Tell him to find the Americans and tell them the Sierra Army Depot is under attack by the Chinese. Sierra is spelled S-i-e-r-r-a. This is important. I repeat, tell the Americans—”
The green light flickered and went out. Nuff stopped pedaling and leaned his head back. Sweat poured down his face. “We tried.”
“You a prayin’ man?”
“Naw. Dad told me about God and all, but I never saw where God gave him any help. Whatever we had is ’cause Dad killt it,
built it, or grew it.”
Bob nodded. “I understand. As a favor to me, just this once, would you ask Him to help us out?”
“Can’t hurt, I guess.”
#
Chapter 48
Take calculated risks. That is quite different from being rash.
Lieutenant General George S. Patton
Great Basin Desert, NV
2208 hours, April 18
They stared at the radio for a while, as if it might come back to life on its own. But when the candle had burned low, Nuff got off the bike and rubbed his eyes. He yawned. “It’s near bed time.”
“Yeah, I know, especially since—”
“Ssshhh!”
A noise came from the cabin above, a metallic rattling sound; after seconds of listening, Nuff swore in a stage whisper. “Somebody’s trying to break into the house.”
“Are you sure?”
They heard voices now, yelling into the house, distant and muffled but distinct. “Open up or we burn you out.”
“Our guns are upstairs,” Bob said. “We need to get them.”
“No time.”
Nuff moved to the foot of the ladder. A pole hung in the stairwell with one end attached to the trap door with a swivel. He whispered that Taco Ted had put it there for just this emergency. Gently he lowered the door until again it fit into the floor above.
“What if they find it?” Bob said. “We’re trapped down here.”
Bob couldn’t see Nuff’s expression, but he heard something odd in his voice… amusement? “Would my dad build this place without a way to get out?”
He lifted the candleholder and set it down in the far corner. Nothing but wood planks showed in the wall there, but Nuff felt around and seconds later a section swung outward with a squeal of rusty hinges. Behind it was another door made of metal that looked like steel. It was round but big enough for both men to squeeze through.
“You go first, Bob. I’ve got to close up the doors behind us. I know it’s dark down there, but it’s okay, I swear.” Nuff stopped a second, leaned back, and then handed Bob the little rechargeable flashlight. “If it runs out, shake it some more. This’ll help you see any snakes or scorpions.”
Standing at the Edge Page 23