Still, salt would be nice.
Yes.
And the tread that is going bad.
And fuel too. Do not forget fuel. You must think of fuel.
How could I not?
The Old Man took a drink of warm water from his canteen and sighed. A small breeze skittered across the desert and cooled the sweat on his neck and face.
He thought of the meal that the boy in the book would bring Santiago. Rice and bananas.
I always like to imagine that there were bits of fried pork in it.
And don’t forget the coffee with milk and sugar, my friend. That was the best part.
Yes.
This place. Its story. I’ll tell you. They were caught by surprise. No bombs. No nuclear bombs. No, an enemy attacked this place. There were reports of the Chinese offshore in those last weeks, but after the first EMP, the news was thin and, really, I can say this now to myself since there is no one left to contradict me, the news we hung on then was of little value. I remember though the rumors of Chinese airstrikes in the morning hours. The names of bridges and oil refineries I must have known at the time going up in the early morning darkness. We saw the smoke at dawn. That was when we began to flee.
It was Los Angeles.
Yes. That was it.
I bet Natalie knows.
One day these bombers we trusted in will sink beneath the salt and the sand and who will know what happened to them? To us. Or who will even be interested?
There is always someone.
But what if there isn’t?
The Old Man watched his granddaughter return from her explorations. She was holding a jacket.
“I found this in a bag behind the seat in one of the planes, Poppa!”
She held it up triumphantly. It was green and shiny on the outside, almost brand-new. And on the inside it was orange.
A flight jacket.
And what if there isn’t anyone left?
The Old Man watched her smile.
He nodded.
There must be.
AT DUSK THE BOY returned, limping across the sands, the dressed goat slung over his shoulders.
When the Old Man saw the shadow of the Boy, he turned from the rubble they’d been clearing in the stairwell that led to the collapsed rooms beneath the tower. The Old Man dropped his crowbar weakly and set to gathering what little wood he could find.
It was full dark and the stars were overhead when the goat finally began to roast. In the hours that followed, the three of them drank lightly from their canteens as their mouths watered and they watched the goat.
Close to midnight, the Old Man cut a slice off the goat and tasted it. He handed it to his granddaughter and she began to chew and hum, which was her way.
“It’s ready, Poppa.”
They fell to the goat with their knives, eating in the firelight, their jaws aching as grease ran down their chins.
We were hungrier than we thought.
Yes.
Chapter 25
The Boy found the black case underneath a desk beneath the collapsed roof of the basement he’d crawled through under the tower.
“I found it!” he shouted back through the dust and the thin light their weak flashlights tried to throw across the rubble.
“Are there words written on the side of the case?” the Old Man called through the dark.
I must remember what Natalie told me to look for. The words she said we would find. What were they?
Pause.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to read. Who could have taught him?
“Project Einstein,” shouted the Boy.
Who taught him how to read?
“That’s it. Bring it out.”
Later, in the last of the daylight beneath the broken tower, they looked at the dusty case. On its side were military codes and numbers. But the words Natalie, General Watt, had told him to look for, the words were there.
Project Einstein.
I should be…
Excited? Happy? Hopeful?
But I’m not. It means we must go on now. It means we must go all the way.
Yes.
“Halt!”
The voice came from behind them. It was strong yet distant, as if muffled.
“Raise your hands above your heads!”
“Poppa,” whispered his granddaughter.
“Do it,” he whispered back. He noticed the Boy struggle to raise his left arm as quickly as the strong right one. Even then the left failed to straighten or fully rise.
Behind them, the Old Man heard boot steps grinding sand against the cracked tarmac of the runway.
If there is just one, we might have a chance.
The Old Man looked to see if the Boy’s tomahawk was on his belt. It was.
“Grayson! Trash! Move in and cover them.”
Movement, steps. Gear jingling and clanking together.
The voice stepped into view, circling wide to stand between the Old Man, his granddaughter, and the Boy and the broken tower.
He carried a gun. A rifle.
An assault rifle, remembered the Old Man.
His face was covered by a black rubber gas mask.
Beneath a long coat lay dusty and cracked black plastic armor.
‘Riot gear,’ thought the Old Man. Just like in the days before the bombs.
On top of his head was the matte-scratched helmet of a soldier.
At his hip, a wicked steel machete forged from some long-ago-salvaged car part lay strapped.
His boots were wrapped in rags.
Within his long coat, lying against the black plastic chest armor, a slender rectangle of dented and polished silver hung.
A harmonica.
The Old Man snatched a glance at the Project Einstein case on the ground.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” said the man in the dusty black riot armor as he raised his helmet
