Savage Boy. Nick Cole

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      Chapter Four

      HE COULD HEAR the Ashy Whites throughout the night, far off, calling to one another. At dawn there were no birds and the calls ceased.

      “Boy,” Sergeant Presley had said that time they’d spent a night and a day finding their way across the Mississippi. “Things ain’t the same anymore.”

      They were crawling through and along a makeshift damn of river barges and debris that had collected in the mud-­thickened torrents of the swollen river.

      “You probably don’t know what that means, d’ya?” The mosquitoes were thick and they had to use all their hands and feet to hold on to anything they could as the debris-­dam shifted and groaned in the treacherous currents. It felt like they were being eaten alive.

      If I’d fallen into the water that day what could he have done to save me?

      But you didn’t, Boy.

      I was afraid.

      I knew you was. So I kept telling you about how things were different now. About how sane, rational ­people had gone stark raving mad after the bombs. About how the strong oppressed the weak and turned them into slaves. About how the sick and evil were finally free to live out all of their cannibalistic craziness. And how sometimes, just sometimes, there might be someone, or a group of someones who kept to the good. But you couldn’t count on that anymore. And that was why we were crossing that rickety pile of junk in the river rather than trying for the bridge downstream. You smelled what those ­people who lived on the bridge were cookin’ same as I did. You knew what they were cooking, or who they were cooking. We didn’t need none of that. The world’s gone mostly crazy now. So much so, that all the good that’s left is so little you can’t hardly count on it when you need it. Better to mistrust everyone and live another day.

      Like these Ashy Whites out in the night looking for me.

      Seems like it, Boy.

      Many times he and Sergeant Presley had avoided such ­people. Horse knew when to keep quiet. Evasion was a simple matter of leaving claimed territory, crossing and re-­crossing trails and streams, always moving away from the center. The town was the center. Now, at dawn, he was on the far side of the valley and he could make out little of the town beyond its crisscross roads being swallowed by the general abandonment of such places.

      You almost got caught, Boy.

      But I didn’t.

      We’ll see.

      He waited in the shadows at the side of a building whose roof had long ago surrendered inward, leaving only the walls to remain in defeat. The warm sunshine on the cracked and broken pavement of the road heading west beckoned to him, promising to drive off the stiffness that clamped itself around his left side every night.

      They’ll assume you’re gone by now, Boy.

      The Boy waited.

      When he hadn’t heard the ululations for some time, he walked Horse forward into the sunshine.

      Later that morning he rode back to the town, disregarding the warnings Sergeant Presley had given him of such places.

      Whoever the Ashy Whites were, they had gone.

      And the others too, huddled within the circle of the Ashy Whites—­that voice in the night, a woman he thought, calling for help.

      Who were the others?

      The answer lay in the concrete remains of a sign he spelled S-­C-­H-­O-­O-­L.

      School.

      This had been their home. The fire that consumed it hadn’t been more than three days ago. But the Boy knew the look of a settlement. A fort, as Sergeant Presley would have called it. The bloated corpses of headless men lay rotting in the wan morning light.

      This is where those who had huddled within the circle of the Ashy Whites had lived all the years since the end of the things that were.

      Before.

      He found the blind man at the back of the school, near the playground and the swing sets.

      Remember when I pushed you on a swing that time, Boy? When we found that playground outside Wichita. We played and shot a deer with my crossbow. We barbecued the meat. It could have been the Fourth of July. Do you remember that, Boy?

      I do, he had told Sergeant Presley in those last weeks of suffering.

      It could have been the Fourth of July.

      The blind man lay in the sandbox of the playground, his breath ragged, as drool ran down onto the dirty sand, mixing with the blood from the place where his eyes had once been.

      The Boy thought it might be a trap.

      He’d seen such tricks before, and even with Sergeant Presley they’d nearly fallen into them once or twice. After those times and in the years that followed, they’d avoided everyone when they could afford to.

      He got down from Horse.

      “There’s no more to give!” cried the blind man. “You’ve taken everything. Now take my life, you rotten cowards!”

      The Boy walked back to Horse and got his water bag.

      Not much left.

      He knelt down next to the blind man and raised his head putting the spout near his lips. The blind man drank greedily.

      After: “You’re not with them, are you?”

      The Boy walked back to Horse.

      “Kill me.”

      He mounted Horse.

      “Kill me. Don’t leave me like this. How …” The blind man began to sob. “How will I eat?”

      The Boy atop Horse regarded the blind man for a moment.

      How will any of us eat?

      He rode off across the overgrown field and back through a broken-­down wire fence.

      That’s everything you need to know, Boy. Good. Tells you everything you need to know. Supremacists. Coming down out of their bunkers in the North. Don’t know these guys, but they’re worth avoiding. Probably here slavin’.

      Probably.

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