The Road is a River. Nick Cole

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      “I’ll need to explain that later. I only have a limited time to communicate with you before the satellite I’m currently hijacking disappears over the Pacific horizon. Find the container and get it open. I’ll explain what you’ll need to do once you’ve obtained the supplies.”

      Why do I have the feeling bad news has made an appointment?

      Because you are cautious, my friend. And right now is the time to be cautious. So if you are cautious, you are doing well.

      If we were on the boat I dreamed of last night, Santiago, seeing the flying fish jump, watching our lines, waiting for the big fish that was like a monster to come up from the deep to fight him together, you would say such things to me when my confidence was low.

      Confidence can work both ways, my friend.

      Yes, there is that.

      That is not important now. Right now you need to find this box, my friend. Later you can decide how you feel about the bad news that you fear might be inside.

      There is a story here also. A story of salvage.

      The Old Man searches the gloom of the warehouse and sees very little. He smells wood smoke and decay from long ago.

      Dead animals. Dried blood. Huddled bodies. Decay.

      “Go to the tank, please, and bring me back the flashlight,” he whispers to his granddaughter.

      When she returns, he scans the interior of the warehouse with the beam. Its light is weak and barely penetrates the dark. All batteries are old now in these many years after the bombs.

      They walk forward into the gloom. She has brought a flashlight for herself also and he watches her beam move with energy, like her, never staying in any one place for too long, also like her. His beam is slow and searching. He finds the remains of the campfire in the center of the warehouse before she does. It was a large fire.

      Around it are storage racks and iron beams, arranged as though many might sit and watch the fire through long winter nights that must have seemed unending and as though the entire world was frozen forever.

      I know those nights.

      I know those fire-watching nights.

      I am always hungry when I think back on them and the howling wind that was constant.

      You were very hungry then.

      The whole world must have been hungry.

      But there is no box here.

      They search the building, even shining their lights into the high recesses of the fractured roof.

      There is nothing.

      In the next building, the centermost of the three, they find the remains of the same style bonfire, and she, his granddaughter, on the farthest wall, at the back of the massive warehouse, finds the drawings.

      Taken in parts they are merely a collection of scribblings.

      Stick figure people. A Man-Wolf. Slant-Eyed Invaders waving guns. Mushroom clouds. Stick figure people who wear the wide-brimmed hat. Like that Roadside Killer. Stick figure people with spikes that come from the tops of their misshapen heads. Many dead Spike Heads. The bonfire. The Hat People stare into it.

      “Who are they, Grandpa?”

      Her voice startles him in the gloom beyond the cone of light he stares into, trying to know the meanings of these scribblings.

      “I don’t know.”

      He follows the drawings from left to right and finds no mention of the container.

      He finds they are a people. A people who wore hats like the one the Roadside Killer wore. A people surrounded by decay who waited through the long winter after the bombs and stared into fire.

      A people like his village. The same and different.

      Mushroom clouds.

      The Man-Wolf leads them all away.

      Leads them toward the Slant-Eyed Invaders who wave guns and trample over other stick figures beneath their stick feet.

      “I don’t know,” he says again, his voice swallowed within the quiet.

      And he realizes he is all alone.

      “Where are you?” he calls out.

      From high above he hears her voice.

      “I found a ladder, Grandpa.” She is straining to pull herself up. “If it leads to the roof, I can look around and see where the box is.”

      He shines his light about and can see nothing of her.

      His mind thinks only of rusted metal and snapping bolts that pull away from crumbling walls with a dusty smuph.

      And falling.

      A moment later he hears metal banging on metal and knows it to be the sound of a crowbar smashing against a door. The sound is a familiar cadence to him and reminds him for a moment of the comforts one finds in what one does. The music of salvage.

      He shines his light high into the rafters and finds her against the ceiling.

      She is so small.

      She is so high up.

      I regret all of this.

      Her crowbar gives that final smash he knows so well, when the wielder knows what must give way will give way with the next strike, and a frame of light shoots down within the darkness, illuminating the Old Man.

      “I’m through, Grandpa!”

      No one will ever stop you will they?

      “I’m going up, Grandpa.”

      Please be safe!

      A few minutes later, the longest minutes of the Old Man’s life, he can hear her voice shouting down into the darkness in which he stands.

      “I see it, Grandpa! It’s on the roof of another building. It’s very big.”

      Later, after her descent, in which he can think of nothing but her falling and knowing he will try to catch her and knowing further that both his arms will be broken and that it doesn’t matter as long as he saves her so he must catch her, they climb again onto the roof of the other building.

      The yawning blue sky burns above their heads as they crawl out onto the wide hot roof.

      The roof is bigger than a football field.

      Along a far edge, the container, its parachute little more than scrappy silk rags, sinks into the roof.

      The Old Man approaches cautiously, feeling the thinness of the roof beneath his feet. He waves for her to stand back and let him go on alone.

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