Authors: Nick Cole
The tank followed the three dark figures through the dust storm. Ahead, the ruins of Las Vegas hovered in and out of the skirling grit that sent sheets of brown and gray across the dark sky and swept the crumbling highway.
There should be a good moon out tonight but the dust is too thick to find it.
Ahead, the superhighway that once cut through the desert and the city had long ago collapsed into rubble. The Old Man could see oil drums filled with fire and belching black smoke from atop piles of fortified concrete. Stakes and spears and tattered banners jutted and flapped madly in the storm.
Who are these people? This Army of Crazy. King Charlie’s advance force Kyle called them.
They’re different from the Horde. More organized. More dangerous. They’ve made traps and they have flags and lines of defense. They’ve come to rule, not like those I faced at Picacho Peak. They were little more than locusts. These are like wolves.
Yes.
Ahead of the tank, the three figures lit their four torches. Grayson on the right. Trash on the left. Kyle holding two in the center.
The Old Man checked the case again, making sure it still rested on the floor of the tank.
The Boy sat in the loader’s seat, watching the Old Man.
His granddaughter was in the driver’s seat, forward and buttoned up.
“Are you all right up there?” he said to her over the intercom.
“Yes, Poppa. Can I drive now?”
“No. Not yet. Maybe on the other side.”
The bobbing torches descended off the freeway, following an off-ramp down into the ruins of the ancient gambling palaces.
Crumbling casinos like canyon walls rose up dirty and dusty on both sides. Debris skittered wildly down the side streets. Ahead, the Old Man could see the broad thoroughfare they must traverse.
Kyle’s father and mother and all the old ones of the Dam had told of the day when the airliner, taking off from the airport south of the city, had been crashed directly onto the Strip.
Terrorists.
It wasn’t until hours later that the authorities, and then everyone else, realized the plane had also been carrying a dirty bomb. A low-yield nuclear dirty bomb. That was when the panic started. When everyone fled.
Like you did in Los Angeles.
Yes, like we all did.
Kyle said the plane and its dirty bomb were why they’d been told to avoid the main road through the casinos. Because of the dirty bomb. Only the bravest kids claimed to have seen the actual wreckage of the plane, lying halfway up the Strip in the middle of the street.
That must have been a bad day.
There were a lot of bad days back then, my friend.
The Old Man turned to wondering if the Radiation Shielding Kit would indeed protect them.
He looked at the radio.
Concentrate on the path through the rubble. If you get stuck in this city, you’ve made things worse for everyone, and for no reason at all.
Yes.
He followed the jumping torches onto the main street.
Fractured monuments fell away into the dusky gloom behind them. Alongside the road, a million darkened and shattered windows looked down upon them. Crumbling walkways crossing the street resembled strands of moss draped over swampy water. The torches guttered in the blasting wind, their oily fuel barely illuminating the ground beneath the feet of their guides as the flames fought desperately against the storm.
Those torches won’t last long.
Frozen buses lay on their sides, thrown across the road, while petrified cars littered the streets in haphazard directions. A clear reason why they’d stopped on that last, long-ago day seemed just out of reach, and in the end, unknowable.
Their procession of torches and armored tank began to weave through the wrecks, occasionally crushing a smaller vehicle, its rusty destruction blossoming for an instant like a sickly rose, suddenly carried off by the storm.
Ahead, a cluster of dust-caked and ashy gray emergency vehicles, fire engines and ambulances from that long-ago lost day of an air disaster turned terrorist attack, walled off the street ahead.
On that day, those firefighters must have thought the downed aircraft was the biggest tragedy they’d ever seen, were likely to ever see.
And then someone told them about the radiation.
The Old Man looked at the dosimeter.
It’s very high here.
Kyle knows I am worried about the right tread. I hope he doesn’t ask me to drive over those fire engines. Besides, we must be getting near Ground Zero, and it should be time to go around the actual bomb site.
Ground Zero.
I have not used those words . . . since I cannot remember when.
The Old Man marveled at the thought.
Those words were once a common part of my vocabulary. Of all our vocabularies. I remember entire conversations, courses of action, fears that were based on those two simple little words. Ground Zero.
As if listening in on the Old Man’s thoughts, the four torches veered to the left, heading into the gray and dusty ruins of a darkened casino. It loomed high above the tiny tank and the three figures like some scavenger bird of the wasteland. The wings of the two towers almost enveloped the street and all within it like a hunched and greedy eater of carrion.
We’ve passed the unmanned defenses of this Army of Crazy. If they’re anywhere, they’ll be hunkered down from this storm, inside one of these old places. Waiting for us.
And . . .
I don’t want to go in there. I don’t want anyone, any of these children, to have to go into that dilapidated and evil pile of ruin.
But we must, my friend. There is no other way through this city. No other way to stay on the road and keep the tank from throwing a tread, which we could never fix. If we take our chances on the side streets we could end up caught in one of their traps. Trust these children, my friend.
But why would they help us like this?
And the Old Man thought of his own journey and General Watt. Natalie.
When the Old Man didn’t follow immediately, Kyle, masked and armored, turned back in the thundering wind and waved both torches toward the tank and then back toward himself.
Are you sure?
He must be.
The Old Man pivoted the tank, once again feeling the weakness in the right tread, wondering if it wasn’t the control mechanisms that were responsible for his suspicions.
They attacked at that moment.
They came gushing out of the casino’s open mouth.
The Old Man watched through the hazy green optics of night vision as wild figures surged downward upon the three torchbearers.
At once, bright flashes erupted from the rifles of Grayson and Trash.
A bare-chested man waving an iron pipe studded with spikes was flung backward onto the rotting shreds of carpet that once dressed the steps of the palace.
A one-armed giant hurled a heavy stone, nearly crushing Grayson who batted it away with his arm. The Old Man saw the arm go limp, but Grayson continued to fire into the onslaught with the other.
Lumbering men in armor that shimmered in small points of white fuzz by the green light of night vision raced forward, leaping over downed comrades, waving machetes and nail-studded clubs. They wore turbans that wrapped their faces.
With her machine gun, Trash stitched a bright line of death across their charge, flinging some sideways as others stumbled forward waving their blades halfheartedly while blood pumped out darkly onto the dusty steps and shredded carpet. They fell before they reached her.
Now she was reloading, and the Old Man could see that the shimmering armor of the crazies was made up of coins. Coins that had been hole punched and stitched together into coats of mail.
Their coin-mail armor must be good against hand weapons but guns are another story.
He felt the Boy at his side.
“Sit down in there.” He pointed toward the gunner’s seat. “Look through this and you’ll see what’s going on.”
The Boy slithered past him.
When the Old Man looked into the night-vision scope, he saw Kyle moving forward, while Grayson covered him holding his rifle with his good arm. Trash seemed to be intent on fixing her battered rifle while still walking forward.
Her weapon is jammed.
The attackers were retreating now, disappearing into the dark gray of the casino halls beyond the once-grand entrance of marble and arch.
Kyle mounted the steps, waving his torches forward over his shoulders, indicating the tank should follow them in.
The Old Man gently pushed forward on the sticks and the tank began to mount the steps.
The attackers were all gone now.
Trash turned and waved at him with her torch, showing him how much room he had to thread the opening into the casino.
The Old Man gave it more gas, hearing the top of the archway leading to the casino scrape against the turret and then give way in a stony crumble of dust and metal that bounced off the armor above their heads.
Inside, a large dust-covered marble lobby vaulted toward a high domed ceiling of broken glass and blackened ironwork. Kyle waved both torches into an X and laid them on the debris-littered marble floor. He ran to the back of the tank, out of sight, and the Old Man knew he would hear from him on the small telephone attached to the rear of the tank.
“We can’t make it any farther down the street,” yelled Kyle over the internal hum of the communications system and the howling wind outside. “Follow us through this casino. On the other side of the machines there’s another entrance back onto the street on the far side of Ground Zero.”
“Okay,” said the Old Man.
“Oh,” said Kyle almost as an afterthought. “Does this thing have any ammo for its gun? Ours did a long time ago but we used that up.”
“There are eleven rounds left.”
“Don’t fire in here! It’s too dangerous. These buildings are barely standing up.”
The line went dead, and shortly after, Kyle reappeared in the fuzzy gray optics, picking up his torches and waving them forward over his shoulders in bright white blurs of light and shadowy smoke toward a long hallway that stretched off into the depths of the casino.
When it became so dark inside the long hallway that the Old Man could see nothing but gray, green, and ash, he switched on the tank’s high beams and turned off the night vision.
They followed a wide way of rotting red carpet and dust-covered advertising. Signs that had once held meaning remained embedded in graffiti-gouged wood paneling. Beautiful girls, faded and long dead, promised wealth untold. Thrilling spectacles dully offered entertainments that were sure to dazzle. There were even peeling pictures of unending amounts of food.
Lobster.
I had forgotten about lobster!
Concentrate, Old Man!
They entered a massive room of slot machines and overturned gaming tables. Silvery coins lay heaped in piles. Large torches guttered from makeshift holders along the walls. Campfires burned intermittently among the arranged stockades of slot machines.
The Old Man could see the three guides talking among themselves as they moved slowly forward.
They’re worried. They didn’t expect this.
We’ve walked into a hornets’ nest.
Sudden dark shadows arched through the upper atmosphere of the room and began to fall among the tank and the three guides.
They’re firing arrows at us!
The Old Man could hear their impact distantly on the outer hull of the tank. The three guides retreated to the far side of the vehicle, using it for cover. Coins used as sling bullets began to ricochet like metallic rain upon the tank.
“Move forward toward that arch at the far end of this hall.” It was Kyle on the tank’s phone. “We should be able to get back out to the street if we go that way.”
The Old Man gunned the tank’s engine, hoping the three of them were clear, unable to know for sure if they were.
“Poppa, are they going to be okay?”
“Yes. I would prefer if maybe you just closed your eyes until I say it’s good to look again, okay?”
There was no immediate reply and he suspected she would dis-
obey him.
Beyond the arch, the tank’s headlamp illuminated another long hallway. The ceiling sagged the length of it. Rich wood paneling that must have once assured the gambling audiences this was indeed the finest of places to lose all their money and homes had long since been pried loose in wide patches.
For firewood, I imagine.
At the end of the hall, they turned onto an arcade of shops long gutted. Fixtures spilled out onto a marble palazzo or hung like the bones of criminals from the ceiling.
The Old Man swiveled the gun sight, searching the optics for his three guides. He found them behind the tank, covering their retreat from the hall as dark figures swarmed beyond the light of the tank’s headlamp. Far down the hall he could see more of the coin-mailed warriors advancing behind crude shields.
The Old Man backed the tank out and onto the main thoroughfare of the arcade pointing it toward where he hoped the exit might be.
I’m lost in here.
Grayson ran forward and waved at the Old Man to follow him.
Their torches are lost or gone out now.
The Old Man maneuvered the tank after the armored and masked Grayson who ran forward weaving into and out of the destruction and litter that had once been a grand passage of fine shops and luxuries. What the Old Man could not steer around he crushed beneath the tank’s treads, hoping each time the right tread would not suddenly break and strand them all.
He checked the dosimeter.
The radiation is higher here. Maybe we are getting closer to the street again.
It’s better than being trapped in here with these lunatics, my friend.
“Can I look now, Poppa?”
She listened to me.
And . . .
She is good that way.
“Not yet, just a little farther.”
It was hot inside the tank and the Old Man wiped at the thick, stinging sweat on his forehead.
Maybe I am still sick.
Concentrate!
The explosions went off behind them.
The Old Man felt the tank lift up slightly and then shudder as it settled back down onto the palazzo. When he swiveled the gun sight to see what had happened behind them, all was a blossom of powdery white dust in the tank’s optics. He could see nothing through its sudden storm.