enough.
Satisfied the man had gone south, the wolf turned, heading back toward the mountain above the ruined overpasses. He picked his way up through the broken rocks in the early morning light.
How long could he keep his two killers at bay?
At the top of the pass, not far from the den, he turned to look at the valley floor. Where would the man be? Turning toward the den where the pack lay sleeping, exhausted from the night, the wolf trotted into the darkness.
Chapter 14
At dawn the Old Man was up. The cool morning air wouldn’t last long. He hadn’t had coffee in years. Hadn’t missed it in years. But now in the cold air beneath the broken road, he wished for it.
He stretched slowly and began to pack his things while taking cautious sips of water.
Where are you going?
South. I am going south today.
Really more east than south.
Just for this morning, let us say it is south.
He had a momentary memory of fog. Fog outside the windows of the house he’d grown up in. The first foggy days of school in autumn. Arguing with someone.
It is because you are arguing with yourself. That is why you remember fog.
For the next few hours he stayed to the side of the great bent and warped highway. The road headed south, mostly. Looking ahead, it seemed the road must eventually turn to the east.
If I can find salvage before it goes east, then I’ll head straight west. At some point I will find the Old Highway and from there I will find my way home.
Crossing another fallen bridge, he stopped in the late morning shade of the broken sections. Rebar sprang from the chunks like wild strands of hair. When he resumed his climb out of the tall ditch of red earth, he was sweating.
Let’s be clear my friend.
All right.
You say that if you find salvage you will head west and return to the village. Your curse will be lifted?
If you say so but I do not care.
Then why are you out here?
Be quiet.
On top of the dirt embankment, the gentle slope of the road fell away. In the distance a small mountain rose up, broken and dusty brown.
I know that mountain. There was once a large A on its side.
That was common in Arizona in those days. To put a large A on the side of every small mountain near a town or city.
Then it means there must be one nearby. I think it is the one whose name I cannot remember. It seems familiar.
He crossed the flat landscape toward the mountain. To the side of the road, lone stands of scrub grew up in solitary dark patches, as if too hurt to ever grow near another living thing.
Further along the highway, he passed the remains of a burnt fueling station off to one side. It was little more than a concrete pad and blackened cement. In the lone shade of a mesquite tree he ate the last of the fox and drank some water.
Now you have two problems.
Now I have no food and no salvage. If I could walk straight to the village day and night for three days I might make it. But not without food. The effort would be too great and I might make a mistake if I were so hungry I couldn’t focus. Then a broken leg would be the end of me.
Tonight I will stop early and make some traps.
A gas station like this once had a tin awning that made a singsong noise in a strong wind.
Another thought that has no place in the present.
Maybe just another memory trying not to be forgotten.
I might know that because I once stopped here for fuel.
You always came to visit your parents on the Eight. Not the Ten.
Amazed, he stopped chewing. He hadn’t referred to the Old Highway as the Eight in a long time. Since the days just after the bombs. The names of places had been forgotten. Or were too painful to remember.
The Eight.
He tried to remember the name of the town he was looking for. Something “Big” he remembered. But it wouldn’t come and the air seemed to be getting hotter with the noonday heat.
He began to move again, south along the highway.
In the afternoon, brilliant white sails of cloud began to form to the east. Climbing
Satisfied the man had gone south, the wolf turned, heading back toward the mountain above the ruined overpasses. He picked his way up through the broken rocks in the early morning light.
How long could he keep his two killers at bay?
At the top of the pass, not far from the den, he turned to look at the valley floor. Where would the man be? Turning toward the den where the pack lay sleeping, exhausted from the night, the wolf trotted into the darkness.
Chapter 14
At dawn the Old Man was up. The cool morning air wouldn’t last long. He hadn’t had coffee in years. Hadn’t missed it in years. But now in the cold air beneath the broken road, he wished for it.
He stretched slowly and began to pack his things while taking cautious sips of water.
Where are you going?
South. I am going south today.
Really more east than south.
Just for this morning, let us say it is south.
He had a momentary memory of fog. Fog outside the windows of the house he’d grown up in. The first foggy days of school in autumn. Arguing with someone.
It is because you are arguing with yourself. That is why you remember fog.
For the next few hours he stayed to the side of the great bent and warped highway. The road headed south, mostly. Looking ahead, it seemed the road must eventually turn to the east.
If I can find salvage before it goes east, then I’ll head straight west. At some point I will find the Old Highway and from there I will find my way home.
Crossing another fallen bridge, he stopped in the late morning shade of the broken sections. Rebar sprang from the chunks like wild strands of hair. When he resumed his climb out of the tall ditch of red earth, he was sweating.
Let’s be clear my friend.
All right.
You say that if you find salvage you will head west and return to the village. Your curse will be lifted?
If you say so but I do not care.
Then why are you out here?
Be quiet.
On top of the dirt embankment, the gentle slope of the road fell away. In the distance a small mountain rose up, broken and dusty brown.
I know that mountain. There was once a large A on its side.
That was common in Arizona in those days. To put a large A on the side of every small mountain near a town or city.
Then it means there must be one nearby. I think it is the one whose name I cannot remember. It seems familiar.
He crossed the flat landscape toward the mountain. To the side of the road, lone stands of scrub grew up in solitary dark patches, as if too hurt to ever grow near another living thing.
Further along the highway, he passed the remains of a burnt fueling station off to one side. It was little more than a concrete pad and blackened cement. In the lone shade of a mesquite tree he ate the last of the fox and drank some water.
Now you have two problems.
Now I have no food and no salvage. If I could walk straight to the village day and night for three days I might make it. But not without food. The effort would be too great and I might make a mistake if I were so hungry I couldn’t focus. Then a broken leg would be the end of me.
Tonight I will stop early and make some traps.
A gas station like this once had a tin awning that made a singsong noise in a strong wind.
Another thought that has no place in the present.
Maybe just another memory trying not to be forgotten.
I might know that because I once stopped here for fuel.
You always came to visit your parents on the Eight. Not the Ten.
Amazed, he stopped chewing. He hadn’t referred to the Old Highway as the Eight in a long time. Since the days just after the bombs. The names of places had been forgotten. Or were too painful to remember.
The Eight.
He tried to remember the name of the town he was looking for. Something “Big” he remembered. But it wouldn’t come and the air seemed to be getting hotter with the noonday heat.
He began to move again, south along the highway.
In the afternoon, brilliant white sails of cloud began to form to the east. Climbing
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