Authors: Nick Cole
The The Wasteland Saga: Three Novels: Old Man and the Wasteland, The Savage Boy, The Road is a River (36 page)
Sam Roberts had a few more hours to live.
He wanted to know how much radiation he’d absorbed in escaping the front entrance of the bunker, but the dosimeter had stopped working by the time he was clear of the massive door and the freaks in front of it.
Still, he would’ve liked to know how many rads he’d soaked up.
It was just before dawn.
He could see the lights of Tucson far off to the west, lying on the southern side of a gigantic black rock that heaved itself up from the desert floor. The pinpoints of light twinkled softly in the rising pink of first morning like tiny jewels set amid gray pillars of sun-bleached stone.
Earlier, outside Hatch, a small town that had collapsed into the drifting sands and rolling weeds, he’d stopped to scribble a message onto a piece of paper, his hands badly shaking.
‘Wouldn’t that be something,’ he’d thought. ‘To come all this way and I’m too sick to tell them the message.’
As he threw up again he tried to say, “Help me!” But no sound came out. His voice box was gone. Either scorched by the acid his stomach seemed to churn up, and that came out of him constantly, or fried by the radiation of two high-yield Chinese nuclear warheads deposited at the front door of his lifelong home forty years ago. Either way, he would never speak again. So he wrote the note. Then he added,
Please stay away from me. I’m contaminated with radiation
.
He watched the far city. Morning light opened the desert up to Captain Roberts. There were so many different colors. The golden sand. The pink rock. The blue sky. The red earth.
‘Best day of my life,’ he thought. ‘And I saw it all at least once’ . . .
He blacked out.
When he came to, it was noon.
His heartbeat pounded throughout his entire body, but it was slow and intermittent. Captain Roberts reached into his chest pocket. He took out the emergency syringe and jammed it into his thigh. His vision cleared as his heart began to race.
‘Last one,’ he thought.
On the horizon, Tucson looked gray amid the shimmering heat waves that rose above the road. Already his vision was starting to blur. ‘These injections aren’t lasting long,’ he thought.
He started the engine. The cells were below half full. He’d forgotten to set them to charge. I don’t know if it’s enough, but it’s all I have.
He took a safety pin out of the medical kit that lay sprawled across the passenger seat. He’d done a bad job of bandaging his own blisters. He pinned the message to his jumpsuit. ‘All I gotta do now,’ he thought, ‘is get close enough for them to find me.’
He gunned the engine and felt the acceleration press what was left of his thin body backward. He did his best to keep the dune buggy on the road with what little time he had left. The road shifted and swerved in the heat and sweat as his dying heart thundered out its last.
It was tough going. But he did his best.
The Old Man walked to the wide window of the office. Below he could see the villagers congregating in the park. Or what had once been a park. Now someone was hard at work down there preparing the ground for crops. That someone worked with a hoe, turning the bleached and hard, forty-year baked mud over into dark soil, waiting and ready for rows and eventually tiny seeds.
The Old Man watched them for a long while. When the discussion seemed to grow in intensity, he closed the book and took the elevator down, passing the silent sentry machine-gun dog, patting it as he always did, and walked through the lobby and out into the heat of the afternoon.
It will be a hot summer this year. It’s good we have these buildings. If it gets too hot I can sit down in the bottom of the garage near the tanks and it will be cool there. I can even read if I bring a light.
When he reached the discussion, he saw his son and the others debating over something one of the younger villagers had found. A man he remembered once being a boy was now waving a piece of paper in the air.
“What’d you do with him?” asked a kid the Old Man thought looked more like his father, who had not survived the first ten years, and less like his mother, who had.
He’s not a kid. He’s a man now. Even though they were all once children. They are men and women now.
Time is cruel that way. It erases us. It erases the children we once were.
“I left him there!” whined Cork Petersen.
That’s his name. We’d called him “Corky” and he would follow Big Pedro and me sometimes. Now his name is Cork.
Time.
“He’s dead anyways,” mumbled Cork.
The Old Man sidled up behind his son.
“Dad,” his son acknowledged without looking at him.
“What’s all this . . .” began the Old Man, and the words he knew he must use to complete the sentence escaped and ran off into the desert.
His son looked at the Old Man and then turned back to the discussion, which seemed to be about the piece of paper Cork Petersen held on to.
I’m not old. I just couldn’t . . . I just got lost in the middle of my words. It’s because I am still recovering from the sickness that almost took me. But I am not old.
“Cork Petersen found a dead man in a dune buggy out in the desert,” whispered his son.
The Old Man waited.
“I say we do nothing.” It was Pancho Jimenez. If anyone led the village now, it was Pancho. He had been the strongest and best at salvage in recent years.
I remember him also as a boy.
“But the note says . . .” grumbled Cork.
“Take care,” interrupted Pancho. “Take care of what the note says.” His voice was enough to silence the discussion as they all turned toward him. Ready to listen.
When Pancho had their attention, their full attention, he began.
“You saw the bodies along the way. You heard the Old Man’s tale of the desert. Those savages called the Horde.”
Everyone turned to look at the Old Man for the briefest moment. Uncomfortably he smiled back at them and saw in some a look of pity.
They’re surprised you’re still alive.
I also am surprised.
“We’ve found paradise.” All eyes were again on Pancho as he continued to speak. “We have found paradise now. We’re planting our gardens, late, but we are planting. We have houses, each family their own. We have an entire city to salvage from. And what happens? A man dies in the desert. Is that any of our concern? No, none at all. We have much to be concerned with and little time in which to accomplish those things we must.”
“But the message is for us,” interrupted Cork.
Pancho, patient, strong, confident in who he was, smiled.
“And that, Cork, is who we must take care of. Us.”
Everyone began to murmur.
The Old Man turned away, looking down the street, searching for his granddaughter.
Maybe I can find her and we can go salvaging in the afternoon. That would be fun if I feel up to it.
“There are worse than those people called the Horde,” proclaimed Pancho above the clamor.
“How do you know that?” someone asked.
“How do you know there isn’t?” replied Pancho.
Quiet.
“We do what that note says and we open a door we may not be able to close.”
Quieter.
“Even now,” continued Pancho, “you are saying to yourselves ‘we have weapons, the tanks, some guns left by the Army.’ Well, you don’t have an endless supply. And do you want to go down that road? Do you want conflict? No, none of you do. You want tomatoes and lemons and homes just like I do. Right now, our greatest weapon is not the Old Man’s tank or our few rifles. Right now our greatest weapon is our invisibility. Whoever sent that man wants to confirm that we are here. They picked up our broadcast, which I advise we turn off immediately, and now they want to know who we are and what we’re doing out here. If we respond to that message, who knows who we’ll be talking to. All I ask is that you consider this. The world isn’t a nice place. It hasn’t been a nice place for a long time. We answer that message and we would be unwise if we did not expect the worst. In fact, we would be stupid.”
“Says they need our help,” said Cork.
“We need help!” shouted Pancho.
More murmuring. A few comments. Cork handed the note to Pancho in defeat. Villagers drifted away. Only a few remained, all in agreement with Pancho. In agreement as he tossed the note into the wind and the paper fluttered down the street.
And then they were all gone and only the Old Man remained, invisible and unconsidered.
He went to pick up the note.
On it was written a message.
To whomever is operating the radio station at Tucson. Please tune your receiver to radio frequency 107.9 on the FM band and send us a message so that we can communicate with you. We are trapped inside a bunker and need help
. Beneath that,
Please stay away from me. I’m contaminated with radiation
.
That night the Old Man snuck out of his room and made his way to the radio station the villagers had set up inside the Federal Building.
“Are you sure, Grandpa? Are you sure we should try to contact them?”
He raised a finger to his lips.
His granddaughter nodded, excited to be playing the game of not being found and doing things that should not be done in the dead of night while others slept.
When they reached the radio room they found it unlocked. Inside all was dark. The equipment had been turned off. The Old Man closed the door behind them and for a moment the two of them listened to the silence.
The Old Man switched on his flashlight.
“How does it work, Grandpa?”
“Power. Electronics require power. So we must find the switch or the button or the toggle that will turn it on.”
“Toggle,” she pronounced and laughed softly.
The Old Man searched and just when he had given up ever finding out how to turn on the power, his granddaughter’s thin hand darted forward.
“Is this it, Grandpa?”
The Old Man didn’t know if it was.
“Do you want to try it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Okay then. Try it.”
She hesitated for a moment and then with only the confidence that the young possess in their movements, she flipped the switch. Soft yellow light rose behind the instruments. Green and red buttons illuminated. There was a faint scent of burning ozone.
The Old Man watched power course through the ancient technology.
After the bombs I never thought I would see such things again.
He found the frequency keypad and typed in the numbers from the slip of paper.
“Grandpa?”
The Old Man stopped.
“What if . . .” She hesitated and began again. “What if my dad and the others are right?”
The Old Man could hear the worry in her voice.
“They are right.”
“They are?”
“Yes. They are. But that doesn’t make it right to do nothing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s right to be afraid. It’s right to be afraid of what you don’t know. What could hurt you, you should be afraid of that, right?”
“Yes.”
“But sometimes you have to do a thing even if you are afraid to do it.”
“Because it’s the right thing?”
“Yes, and because the world has got to become a better place.”
For you to grow old in.
“Okay then, Grandpa. We’ll do it.”
“You’re very smart. And brave too.”
“You’re brave, Grandpa. Like when you were in the desert.”
“I was afraid too.”
“But brave also.”
If you say so.
“So do we do this? Do we try to help whoever sent the message?” he asked her.
The young girl watched the power coursing through the machine as buttons lit up and needles wandered and settled. The Old Man watched her eyes. Watched her reach a decision.
“Yes.”
The Old Man hit ENTER and a green button lit up. Stamped in black letters upon it were the words “Active Freq.”
The Old Man moved the speaking mic close to his mouth.
“What do I say?” he asked his granddaughter.
She reached forward and pointed at a button.
“You have to push this when you talk.”
“How did you know that?”
“I’ve watched others.”
Of course you did. Nothing escapes you.
“All right, then, what should I say once I push that button?”
She touched her tiny chin with her thumb and forefinger, which was her way of thinking and was a gesture he remembered her first making when she was only three turning four.
“Tell them, ‘we are here.’ ”
“Just that? ‘We are here’?”
“Yes, just that.”
The Old Man cleared his throat. He moved closer to the mic again and this time took hold of it. His finger hovered over the button his granddaughter had indicated he should push.
He pressed the button.
“Hello,” he began. He looked at his granddaughter. She nodded.
“We are here,” said the Old Man.
“Let go of the button now, Grandpa,” she whispered.
They waited.
And then they heard the voice.
“Who am I speaking with?” The voice was a woman. Older. But clear and crisp. A voice used to giving commands and having them obeyed.
“Us,” said the Old Man who had needed to be reminded that he must touch the button to reply.
“All right,” said the voice cautiously. “Are you operating the radio station that just went active a few weeks ago in Tucson?”
“Yes,” replied the Old Man. “Who are you?”
“My name is Brigadier General Natalie Watt. I’m the commander of forces at Cheyenne Mountain Complex and we need your help. We’re trapped inside our bunker and we need to get out very soon.”
The Old Man and his granddaughter looked at each other in the thick silence of the radio room.
“Are you still there?” asked the General.
“Yes.”
“Can you help us?” she asked.
Pause.
“Yes.”
“Will you?”
Pause.
“Yes,” said the Old Man.
The Old Man watched from the high window as his granddaughter slipped back through the quiet streets of Tucson to her family’s home. It was well after midnight.
If I go on this journey, I must go alone. It is too dangerous for her to come with me.
He thought of the route. All the way into California, then back to Nevada, through New Mexico, and up to Colorado Springs.
It is over a thousand miles. The tank can only hold two hundred and sixty-four miles’ worth of fuel according to General Natalie Watt. She said I could scavenge. Tanks can draw fuel from many sources. Even kerosene. There are no guarantees of fuel and then there is the radiation. Well, that would be why you need to go to California for the extra gear. And after I cross all that desert, I am to aim a laser at the back of a mountain surrounded by unknown enemies. A Laser Target Designator. And who are these enemies? The General doesn’t know. She only knows they are trying to tunnel into the bunker and that when they do, they will flood the complex with radiation and kill everyone inside. They only opened the main door once so that the dead man, Captain Roberts, could drive his dune buggy out of the complex.
There is too much for just an old man like me to think about. This is too much for just me.
A one-way trip, my friend. He’d volunteered.
General Watt said the radiation is so bad at the front entrance that Captain Roberts probably absorbed a lethal dose in just the few minutes it took him to drive away. So I cannot take my granddaughter with me to such a place.
T
HE
O
LD
M
AN
watched the night.
In my nightmare she is crying for me. I am dying. Just like I almost did after the last time I went into the wasteland alone. She is crying and there is nothing I can do to make it better. The last thing I will ever hear is her grief for me.
It’s just a nightmare, my friend, heard the Old Man as though his friend from the book were with him and they were discussing some problem of fishing or salvage together.
But it is my nightmare.
Everyone dies. What would you have her do? Laugh about it? Of course she will weep.
I was hoping it would be later. When she has her own family and everyone is tired of me. When I have become such a burden to them all that they will be glad to see me go. Then, that would be a good time to die.
She will still cry for you.
Of course.
The Old Man felt the night. Felt its emptiness was only a lie and that all the world and the places and dangers hidden in it were waiting to devour him.
I need to leave soon. In the dream she says,
No, Grandpa. I need you
. It’s terrible. I never want to disappoint her. I never want to hear her say those words. I never want her to have to say them. Is it too much to ask to just fade away and have no one miss me until I’ve been gone for a long time?
And yet you must leave, my friend. Soon.
Yes. If I leave when no one is watching, just as I did last time, then I will not hear her grief.
Still, you will know. You will know she’ll say that which you do not want to hear. And even if you don’t hear her, in your heart the nightmare will lie to you and tell you that you did all the same.
Yes, that is the thing about nightmares. They embrace us when we are vulnerable, telling lies that seem very real. Like an older child who teases a younger child by making the child believe things that aren’t true.
In our nightmares we are all children.
The Old Man looked down. In his nervousness he had picked up his copy of the book. The one he had read for those forty years in the desert. The one with his friend inside.
The Old Man settled into his sleeping bag. He held the book in his hands and watched the ceiling.
So we will go together, my friend?
Yes.
The Old Man listened to the soft howl of the wind outside the large windows.
Soon I will be asleep and tomorrow all this might have just been a nightmare. Things will be different by the light of day, right, Santiago?
They are trapped in the bunker, my friend. They need someone to come and help them.
Yes.
She said she was going with you.
Yes.
And you must leave soon.
Yes, that too.
