Authors: Nick Cole
It was later he realized he had not stopped to rest in the shadows of the ruined overpasses. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Dreamtime Motel. He was afraid of the dreams he might have.
How much longer until the monsoons?
He stopped to drink in the thin shade provided by a small bridge.
An orange sun hung low off to the west. Afternoon dust storms rolled across the broken red horizon. He wondered how far west, if he started from this bridge, he would need to walk to find the village.
If the monsoons came soon, there might be trouble with the flash floods.
The torrents of ash would be dangerous.
Where does the ash come from after all these years?
Does it matter?
Maybe it’s the answer to what’s left of the world. So much ash, so little world.
There is still the village.
Too tired to go much farther, he camped under the bridge, and just before nightfall made a small fire of mesquite.
In the blue twilight, he thought it might be nice to have a guitar. That being alone wouldn’t be so bad if he had a guitar. With a guitar he might just continue to wander and never return to the village.
But what about your granddaughter?
The village must think I am dead.
I hope no one came looking for me. They might have gotten hurt.
That is the love of not wanting someone to come and look for you when you have gone.
He tried the phrase out against the wall under the bridge. Letting his shadow speak the words in the light of the fire.
It felt like a phrase one says and doesn’t mean. But the words were true.
Maybe it’s not enough for something to just be true?
Truth is enough.
T
HE ALPHA PICKED
up the Old Man’s scent near the wreck of the Winnebago below the mountains. He hunted here at the end of most nights, and the scent had come only faintly to him. He’d pulled down five men in his life. Alone, when the pack had scattered, he pulled them down.
He had been the leader of the wolf pack for seven rains now. He felt tired most nights. The thrill he experienced in pulling down the wild mule deer to the north didn’t cause him to go rigid with electricity at the thought of their meat as it once did. When he had first killed, he had eaten most of the kill before letting his mate at the remains. Lately he made the kill, took his favorite part near the spine at the top of the back, then wandered away to chew with the good side of his teeth.
The smell he tasted in the dawn air was not mule deer. Nor was it the coyote or other prey of the valley. This was man. He remembered the man they caught the spring before. He’d smelled terror in the dark forest moments before the pack crashed through the wall of trees and into the meadow. He’d been halfway across the high meadow, running, when the pack of thirty wolves, his wolves, spotted the man.
In a moment they were on him. The Alpha had fought hard to keep the two killers from the best parts of the man. He wondered how much longer he would be able to keep them at bay. Soon enough they would come for him. As he had, they would.
When the pack passed through the meadow at the end of spring, the shattered bits of white bone were still there.
He had enjoyed the taste of man.
At the two roads the large wolf padded back and forth scenting the air. Even the wolf knew what was north. He had seen the ruins of Phoenix with his own eyes. He knew it was lifeless, and what remained there long was soon poisoned. The deer they killed there always had that taste of death. Often the pack would leave after a few torn strips had been tested. In those times the kill had been 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.
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 upward, each full-blown sail exploding beneath an eruption of white foam. The armada of clouds came no closer than a dark ridge of jagged mountains to the east that embodied everything he felt about that direction.
The monsoons were coming.
T
HE
A
LPHA LED
the thirty wolves of his pack off the mountain and passed the Winnebago on its side. At the road, he smelled the night wind coming out of the south. He didn’t smell the man. But he knew men. He had watched them. Men always moved in one direction, as if always on the hunt of just one animal.
The two killers challenged him briefly as he started off down the highway but his mate snarled back at them. For a moment, it looked as though the pack might split. The two killers wanted to circle to the north and for a while they yelped about it, making the noises that indicated mule deer.
But the females went with the Alpha, and soon the entire pack lay strung out behind him as he scented the sides of the road for the man.
Near the bridge where the Old Man made camp the night before, the wolf picked up the scent of urine. The Old Man had urinated just before sleeping.
Slowly the Alpha crept down along a path and followed the trail directly into the camp under the bridge. He smelled the gray ash of the night’s fire. Some paper the Old Man had wrapped the dried fox in. The rest of the pack milled about above the camp on the main road. Dawn wasn’t far off and they’d nothing to eat so far.
One of the killers howled in warning and the entire pack turned toward the sound of it.
A family of havalina had come up the dry riverbed under the bridge from the east and the wolves fell upon the wild pigs, easily snatching the babies as the male and the females stubbornly stood their ground hoping to minimize losses.
But the wolves were too good for the wild pigs. Had hunted too long under the Alpha. Soon, the last sow’s eyes rolled back in her head. She’d watched the killers tearing out the entrails of the male that had presided over the brood for as long as she could remember. Seconds later, a warm softness came over her as the Alpha sunk its teeth deeper into her jugular vein, forcing her to release.
Swinging her to the side, the Alpha looked at the two killers. They should have known the females were the most dangerous. She could have killed them or made the victim wish for death. That might have solved his problems right there. But treachery was not in the Alpha.
The snarling pack devoured flesh and blood. The Alpha settled down to the dead sow. He had lost the pack for the night. There would be no going any farther after this meal. Dawn would soon be upon them. They would sleep in the shade under the bridge in the man’s camp from the night before. And tomorrow they would hunt him again.
Tearing at the haunch of the desert pig, he thought it might be good for them to sleep in the man’s camp. They would have the smell of him. That way he wouldn’t have to do all the work.
In the twilight at the end of the next day, the Old Man standing on the road didn’t feel as tired as he should have. He’d caught two snakes in the late morning coming out on the highway to sun themselves. Big rattlers, he’d pinned their flat heads and swung the crowbar down with a ring on the old highway.
He’d roasted them quickly and eaten. Just after noon he was headed south again. Later the “thunder-bumpers,” as some of the villagers called the big late afternoon cumulus clouds, though Big Pedro had called them “the Chubasco,” built up to the east over the iron gray mountains. As twilight came, a cool wind whipped up from the south, and in the dust of it he could smell rain.
I might walk a bit longer tonight. The snake tasted so good I might walk a bit longer. Maybe I will make the town in the night, and if anyone lives there it might be better that way.
A few minutes later he heard the first mournful howl. Behind him. To the north from where he had come.
If it is just one I might be fine.
If not?
A chorus began, but each successive howl was more urgent as if hoping to outdo the previous one by speed.
The Old Man shifted his satchel higher onto his back and bent quickly, hoping, praying, that the wolves were about some other business. He tied his huaraches tighter, adjusted his burden once more, and moved off quickly.
If I can find something tall, they might not get to me.
But the road seemed a straight flat course bearing off into the south and the night. There were no rocks or boulders, no wreckage of overturned tankers or piled cars. There had not been since the days before the bombs. Tucson had evacuated early. After Phoenix had been hit. The roads had been empty as survivors fled into the desert or other places they hoped might be safe.
Going south the town will be off to my right.
Ay, but you’re not anywhere near it. You don’t even know where it is. And Mirrored Sunglasses told you it burned.
He lied about other things.
The Old Man darted off into the scrub and down an embankment. Behind him, the wolves were calling back and forth.
They are still away off, but wolves must move fast.
He pulled out his crowbar as he ran and placed his other hand on the pistol in his waistband. After a moment, when one of the wolves seemed closer, back near the road, he pulled out the gun, flicking off the safety.
It’s really not enough you know. Five bullets. It sounds like a lot of them from the howling.
In the sand he stepped on something thick and long. Man-made. Kicking his feet through the soft desert powder he found the remains of a thick cable.
A downed power line.
He followed it away through the brush to the south.
If I can find the tower I can climb it even if it’s down.
He headed south, maneuvering around the scrub and keeping one step on the cable as he ran.
Looking back over his shoulder he could see the elevated rise of the highway. In the last moments of light he saw the shadowy wolves. He counted quickly but gave up as they shifted. It seemed there were maybe twenty of them. It was a large pack.
Behind him, a cacophony of yapping went up as the wolves tried to find his trail.
At least there must be a town ahead. This power line must have been going somewhere.
He could hear the wolves in the brush now, bounding and leaping about. Making a game of hide and kill with the Old Man.
The downed power line began to rise from the sand, and soon it was high enough for him to follow with his hand.
It’s rising. Something to climb.
Frantically he plowed through the scrub, heedless of scorpions.
The evening wind had picked up and was blowing sand across the desert. Ahead he could hear the singsong of metal bending in the wind. It reminded him of the village.
The wolves had his scent now and he could hear them racing in the brush behind him
Rising out of the dark he could make out a toppled power tower. The kind that was nothing more than cross welded steel frames rising high above the landscape. But this one had fallen on its side.
A wolf howled behind the Old Man, and not daring to look back he raced for the nearest girder and began to climb.
At first, he had to climb with the gun and the crowbar in his hands, but once he was high enough, he hung for a second, placing the gun in his satchel.
Below him, the entire pack circled, whining and yelping.
Once the Old Man was as high as the toppled girder would rise, he wedged himself between two supports and glanced down.
The wolves whined and howled in high little yelps. Pacing, they began to race back and forth until the largest of them let out a bone-chilling howl.
If I fall . . .
Then don’t. Don’t fall.