The Road is a River. Nick Cole

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Are you asking or hoping, my friend? Because all your hoping and asking depends on whether the weather compass that is your dosimeter still works.

      They followed the mostly buried road as best they could. As it rounded the craggy hill his granddaughter had called a mountain, ahead of them ran the fading, spider silk line of a highway, and off in the distance, the Old Man could see buildings.

      “Can you see those building through the target scope?” asked the Old Man.

      “Gimme a second, Grandpa.”

      Suddenly the turret began to rotate as the gun barrel came to rest on the far horizon.

      In every moment she figures out some new thing.

      “Yes, they’re brown and dirty. Low and flat.”

      “Do you see the tankers we’re looking for?”

      After a moment she said, “No. They’re not there.”

      The Old Man waited, watching the tiny buildings shimmer in the heat of the fading afternoon.

      “Do you see any people?”

      “No. There’s no one there.”

      The needle in the fuel gauge hovered just above empty when the Old Man finally shut down the tank amid the silent buildings being swallowed by the first low dunes of sand.

      If we don’t find these fuel tankers soon, I’ll need to pump the drums and head back to Tucson.

      He took his crowbar and exited the hatch stiffly, his granddaughter already lowering herself down onto the intersection they’d stopped in.

      Flat, dust-brown uniform buildings from a different era stretched off in orderly lines down quiet, sand-swept streets. Murky windows hid what lay within. The air was dry and hot.

      Signs and street markings had been scoured to meaninglessness. The outlines of once-lawns were everywhere. Within their borders, brown weeds withered under the final waves of the day’s heat.

      “Hello,” the Old Man called out into the silence.

      There was no reply and his voice was swallowed by the soft quiet of the dunes.

      “It’s spooky, Grandpa. I don’t think anyone has been here for a long time.”

      They searched the small streets for any sign of the tankers. But there weren’t any vehicles, of any kind.

      Inside buildings they found dust-covered museums of life as it had once been. Coffee mugs forever waiting to be picked up lay next to piles of yellowed and desiccating paperwork on dry desks that felt sapped of any sturdiness they’d once possessed.

      When the Old Man picked up a newspaper it came apart, and he was left holding only a few feathery scraps. He tried to read the paperwork without touching it. But anything meaningful was lost in a haze of military jargon that he could not understand. He scanned for the words “fuel” or “tankers.”

      There is no mention of either.

      Outside, the day was turning to orange as the sun sank into the dusty west. Gray shadows threw themselves away from the flat military buildings. A light breeze came and shifted the sand a little closer to the surrendering outpost.

      “So what do we do now, Grandpa?”

      The Old Man stood in front of the largest building.

      Probably the headquarters. They picked an idiot. They picked an idiot to come and rescue them. Remember the curse of the hot radio.

      The Old Man walked back to the tank. He felt stupid and useless.

      It isn’t my fault the tankers aren’t here.

      “We’ll camp outside tonight. It seems safe enough. In the morning, maybe we’ll have a new idea.”

      “We’re not giving up, are we, Grandpa?”

      “No, we won’t give up.”

      She seemed relieved and soon she was back in the tank handing out their bags and sleeping gear for the night.

      “Can we have a fire?”

      “Yes.”

      “A story?”

      “Yes, of course.”

      “A ghost story?”

      “I don’t know any.”

      “I do.”

      “I don’t like them before I go to sleep.”

      “Oh, Grandpa.” She snorted and laughed.

      Later, when their gear was out and they’d made camp in front of the ancient headquarters building, clearing a space along the broad sidewalk that ran through the ghost of the once-lawn, she said, “This is the best salvage trip ever, Grandpa.”

      “But we haven’t salvaged anything yet.”

      “That doesn’t mean it’s not the best.”

      “Yes, you’re right, it is the best.”

      They ate food as the stars began to appear, as the sky turned from orange to purple, then from purple to deep blue.

      Night.

      The Old Man watched, listening to his granddaughter talk about the tank. He watched for the satellite above. The one that General Watt was using to talk to them.

      The satellites are still up there crossing the sky.

      Like me crossing this land.

      Which is something, if you think about it.

      In the night, long after she had drifted to sleep listening to him tell about the time he had seen the fox walking down the old highway, he awoke. The fire was low. There is nothing left to burn but the weeds of this old lawn. Unless I want to pull the boards off these buildings, but the sound would wake her. Besides, the night is warm enough.

      The Old Man rose.

      Because the ground is too hard and I need to pee. And also because I am not sleeping.

      Tomorrow we will have to turn back. Without fuel, it’s just not possible to make it all the way. The tankers were most likely in Yuma, at the airport, when the bomb went off. Now, they are gone.

      He tried to remember if he’d seen any such vehicles forty years ago on the last hot day of his country.

      I can’t remember. She will be disappointed.

      He turned and crossed the ancient outline of the weed-choked lawn, hearing the dry crunch beneath his feet.

      Why would the Army have lawns in the desert?

      I СКАЧАТЬ