CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

The work of the day began in earnest once they’d located the entrance to the tower. It was hard work. Crowbar work. At one point they’d needed to use the tank and a tow chain to remove a section of concrete blocking the entrance.

Later, when the door was revealed and they’d stopped to rest, the Old Man, sweating thickly and drinking warm water, watched his granddaughter wander among the twisted and burnt remains of bat-winged bombers, gray with dust, sinking beneath the white salt and sand that swept in off the dry lake.

The Old Man was thinking of water.

How much is left?

And.

Where will we find more?

He turned to the aircraft scattered across the horizon.

There was a time when I would have wondered at the story of this place and those aircraft. But only because there was salvage here. Not because of the story of what happened on that last, long-lost day.

Not because of that, my friend?

No. There is too much to think of. There is water. There is this device we must find. There is food. Will the Boy be able to catch us a goat?

Goat would be nice with the pepper that remains.

And salt?

I do not think we can eat this salt.

Still, salt would be nice.

Yes.

And the tread that is going bad.

And fuel too. Do not forget fuel. You must think of fuel.

How could I not?

The Old Man took a drink of warm water from his canteen and sighed. A small breeze skittered across the desert and cooled the sweat on his neck and face.

He thought of the meal that the boy in the book would bring Santiago. Rice and bananas.

I always like to imagine that there were bits of fried pork in it.

And don’t forget the coffee with milk and sugar, my friend. That was the best part.

Yes.

This place. Its story. I’ll tell you. They were caught by surprise. No bombs. No nuclear bombs. No, an enemy attacked this place. There were reports of the Chinese offshore in those last weeks, but after the first EMP, the news was thin and, really, I can say this now to myself since there is no one left to contradict me, the news we hung on then was of little value. I remember though the rumors of Chinese airstrikes in the morning hours. The names of bridges and oil refineries I must have known at the time going up in the early morning darkness. We saw the smoke at dawn. That was when we began to flee.

It was Los Angeles.

Yes. That was it.

I bet Natalie knows.

One day these bombers we trusted in will sink beneath the salt and the sand and who will know what happened to them? To us. Or who will even be interested?

There is always someone.

But what if there isn’t?

The Old Man watched his granddaughter return from her explorations. She was holding a jacket.

“I found this in a bag behind the seat in one of the planes, Poppa!”

She held it up triumphantly. It was green and shiny on the outside, almost brand-new. And on the inside it was orange.

A flight jacket.

And what if there isn’t anyone left?

The Old Man watched her smile.

He nodded.

There must be.

At dusk the Boy returned, limping across the sands, the dressed goat slung over his shoulders.

When the Old Man saw the shadow of the Boy, he turned from the rubble they’d been clearing in the stairwell that led to the collapsed rooms beneath the tower. The Old Man dropped his crowbar weakly and set to gathering what little wood he could find.

It was full dark and the stars were overhead when the goat finally began to roast. In the hours that followed, the three of them drank lightly from their canteens as their mouths watered and they watched the goat.

Close to midnight, the Old Man cut a slice off the goat and tasted it. He handed it to his granddaughter and she began to chew and hum, which was her way.

“It’s ready, Poppa.”

They fell to the goat with their knives, eating in the firelight, their jaws aching as grease ran down their chins.

We were hungrier than we thought.

Yes.