CHAPTER THIRTY

The Old Man sat in the cantina drinking clear, cold water and listening to the old pipes above his head creak and gurgle within the Dam. Only a frail lantern illuminated the small dark room.

This is where they gather when the day is done.

Like when the boy would bring you the papers, Santiago, that were a few days, or even a week old, and you would read them together and talk about baseball.

And like your village, my friend, in the late afternoon, when the first of the evening brought out the scent of the desert sage, heavy and thick.

We did not have papers with baseball scores, though. But yes, this place is where they come at the end of the day or when they have something to celebrate like a birthday. Just like we did back in the village, in the old mining hall outside the kitchen. So I know this place, and I know these people.

The Big Man came in.

Kyle’s dad.

He went to the cooler that held the cold spring water and poured some into a porcelain mug. He drank, filled it again, then drank again, each time emitting a tired but satisfied, “Ahhh.”

“You have a good spring for your water,” said the Old Man.

The Big Man turned, surprised.

He must have thought he was all alone. He was expecting the solitude, the moment apart. The moment apart from their collective grief. He must be their leader. He must have wanted time for his own, personal grief.

For his son.

“We’ve always had that to be thankful for,” said the Big Man. “Good water. A good safe place. Good people.”

The Big Man sat down.

“Normally we’d have been celebrating your arrival … but … I guess not.” The Big Man looked down into his mug of water. “We thought, that is, some of us did, we thought we’d buried those who didn’t make it back, a while ago. Others kept holding out. Hoping there might be a chance some of ’em would make it back, someday.”

You. You were holding out.

And.

I would too.

“I’m sorry,” said the Old Man.

“Ain’t your fault.”

“Tomorrow,” began the Big Man, “we’ll be back to our old selves, fightin’ and crabbin’ at one or the other. Maybe we’ll kill one of the cows and have a ‘Q’ up top. That’d be real nice.”

“The showers were enough,” said the Old Man. “More than enough. We’ll move on tomorrow if you can spare some of your fuel.”

“Fuel? You can have all the fuel you want; we’ve done lost all our vehicles trying to keep the roads open. All our rides are either out there in pieces, torn to shreds by King Charlie’s crazies, or they’re broke down in the garage below.”

“What will we find in the east?”

“East,” said the Big Man and rubbed his chin. “East is Kingman and Flagstaff and then you’re in Apache lands. The Apaches told us there was some people out in ABQ who were makin’ a pretty good go of it.”

The Old Man waited. The Big Man looked like he had more to say.

“Truth is, I couldn’t tell you what you’ll find beyond a thousand meters out in front of this Dam. These raiders come down from the North a year and a half ago and ruined our plans to get a network of roads and outposts open and connected. They went wide of Apache lands but they came down hard on Kingman and straight into Vegas. We caught a few. That was how we found out they were lookin’ for old Area 51. We didn’t know what they were up to but we figured we needed to keep them out of there. Tried to get ’em to focus on the Dam but they wouldn’t have it. They dug in all around Vegas and kept us out of our salvage up in Creech. That was how you met my boy. Kyle.”

Silence.

“He was a good leader,” said the Old Man.

In the dark of the cantina, in the shadows thrown by the dim lantern, the Old Man heard the Big Man sob once and so suddenly that a moment later he wondered if he’d even heard it at all.

“I know,” mumbled the Big Man. “I know that about my son.”

Later, the Old Man found the Boy near the tank, sitting against its dusty treads. The Old Man sat down next to him.

It’s time I try to talk to him.

“Are you hungry?”

The Boy shook his head.

“When you went back … did you find her?”

The Boy looked at the Old Man sharply.

He’s confused.

There’s another “her” besides the girl Trash.

When the look of bewilderment passed from the Boy’s face and he understood who the Old Man was talking about, he said, “I did.”

The Old Man waited.

It’ll come. Whatever his story is, it’ll come.

Just wait. Be patient.

Inside the Boy’s eyes, the Old Man found a story he didn’t know how to read just yet.

Just like salvage. There’s always a story. Even in the eyes of a man. Or a boy.

He’s all alone.

The Old Man groaned as he got to his knees.

He rested his hand briefly on the Boy’s muscled shoulder, and after it jumped and settled at his touch, he squeezed it firmly.

I’m here.

And …

You are too.

That’s important these days.

The Old Man stood and walked back toward the doorway that led from the garage within the Dam, back to the small rooms they’d made available for them.

The Boy spoke.

Just before the Old Man reached the door.

“We take everything with us.”

The Old Man turned, searching the dark and finding the shadow of the Boy.

“They never leave.” The Boy’s voice was husky and deep. “Even if you want them too.”

Silence.

“Then maybe we really don’t want them to go just yet,” said the Old Man and turned back to the door and was gone.

Deep in the night, the Old Man awoke, sweating.

I was drowning, but not in water. In darkness.

His granddaughter is asleep on her cot.

The Boy’s is empty.

The Old Man lay back down, breathing slowly, willing his racing heart to settle.

The Boy is still disturbed by what he’s had to do within the casino. Maybe he is forever damaged just like his weak side. Maybe I should just leave him here.

Stop. It’s the middle of the night and it’s dark, my friend. The worst time to try to make plans or important decisions.

And the Old Man thought of how his friend Santiago had followed the fish all through the night, all alone, being pulled deeper and deeper into the gulf.