All those years of living and salvaging in the village, I thought that much of the world was the same as Yuma, or Los Angeles or the cities I had seen on TV. Destroyed. I felt as though our little village was the only place in all the world that had survived.
Remained.
Then you found Tucson and all these places. The Dam. The outpost. All the other places that seemed to have had their own stories since the bombs.
Yes, they were not all “nuked” or touched by war as we had imagined.
But everything is touched by our downfall.
Yes.
Everyone in those days ran for cover. Into the hills. Into the wilderness. Wherever they could, thinking only of escape. Unprepared for what it takes to live in such places…
Of wilderness.
Of desert.
Of wasteland.
The Old Man found a cash box underneath the counter inside the gas station, hidden on a small ledge out of sight.
He pulled it out onto the countertop where once lottery tickets and quick snacks must have waited for purchase. Now there was nothing.
How did they miss this?
The Old Man opened it and found a stack of brittle paper money lying within.
When you are coming for food you take what you can find. You’ve been living in the wilderness and all you’ve brought is long gone. Days turn to months. Months turn to years. So you go into town. Hoping that somewhere in it is a bag of stale chips or even a can of soup or stew that might still be good. Your mouth waters at the thought of such once-common delicacies.
You no longer think of lobster.
Or even money. What good is it when you’re starving?
There was a kind of canned stew I loved in college. But I grew tired of it. I remember I didn’t even buy any of it that last year.
What was it called?
The Old Man thought about all the times he had shopped for it, prepared it, eaten it.
And now I can’t even remember its name.
He returned to the tank in the blue twilight of evening.
The Boy and his granddaughter had already eaten and when he approached through the darkness he could hear his granddaughter laughing.
The Boy must have said something, which is strange because he never talks unless he is spoken to.
He sat down to his plate of beans and rice. His granddaughter handed him a few fire-warmed tortillas.
This is like camping. When I was young we went camping a few times. It was like this.
You are thinking too much about the past and not about the present. You need fuel and to find a map so you know where you are going.
I remember the map mostly. All the way to Albuquerque, turn left, go north.
You cannot afford to make a mistake, my friend. Your fuel tanks won’t suffer a wrong turn.
“Have either of you seen my map?”
The fire popped.
His granddaughter and the Boy each shook their heads.
The Old Man sighed to himself.
“I think I may have lost it.”
Or the Fool took it, my friend.
I don’t want to say that. I don’t want to make him seem more frightening than he already is.
Why?
Because it will worry them.
No, why are you afraid of him?
Because there is reason to be afraid of him. Of that, I am very sure.
“Do you think it is lost for good?” asked the Boy.
The Old Man set his plate down, rubbing his fingers together because it had gotten hot as it lay next to the fire. He picked up the plate again. He sighed.
“Yes,” he confessed.
It is best to admit the truth, even when you don’t want to. Even if it makes you look old and foolish. We have too little fuel to afford my pride.
Yes.
The Boy stood up and disappeared into the darkness. The Old Man could hear him rustling through his pack. Then he was back by the fire, standing above them.
The Boy held out a folded map that glistened in the firelight.
The Old Man took it and began to unfold it.
It was larger than his map.
The entire United States.
Roads crossing the entire continent.
And…
Notes like “Plague” and “Destroyed” and “Gone.”
Has he been to all these places?
The Boy sat down and stared into the firelight.
He is somewhere else. Somewhere else with someone else.
On the back of the map were names and words and identifiers that hinted at the details of an untold story.
CPT DANFORTH, KIA CHINESE SNIPER IN SACRAMENTO
SFC HAN, KIA CHINESE SNIPER IN SACRAMENTO
CPL MALICK, KIA RENO
SPC TWOOMEY, KIA RENO
PFC UNGER, MIA RENO
PFC CHO, MIA RENO
PV2 WILLIAMS, KIA RENO
And…
Lola.
Lola.
And who was Lola?
When the Old Man looked up at the Boy again he’d meant to ask him how and why and even, where, but the Boy was staring at something high up. Something on the massive rock that loomed above Flagstaff. The Old Man followed the Boy’s gaze.
High up on the rock burned a small campfire, and above it the stars wheeled like broken glass moving in time to some unheard waltz.
Chapter 36
The Boy sat by the fire sharpening his tomahawk.
“What’re you going to do?” asked the Old Man.
“I will go up there. Near there, and see who it is. Maybe they know where we can find the fuel that’s supposed to be here.”
The Old Man started the tank and backed it out from under the overpass. When he came back to the fire he
