CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

The Boy looked back at him and the Old Man nodded.

We have both seen the riders.

The Old Man was driving, following the bumping, uneven road that wound toward Kingman.

“Just keep on the road and try to stay near the center,” his granddaughter told him. “It looks to be in better shape there than on the edges, Poppa.”

“Okay.”

Now she is giving me advice on how to drive this thing. Hoping that maybe I will let her take over.

The Old Man switched from the intercom to radio and spoke.

“Natalie?”

After a moment the General was there.

“We’re beyond the Dam and headed toward Kingman. Supposedly there are settlements along Interstate 40 and we’ve been told there might be some warlord called King Charlie causing a lot of trouble. I just wanted to let you know about that and our progress.”

White noise popped and crackled.

“I’ve reviewed the satellite imagery from our archives.” Now the General’s voice was loud and clear. “And I do find activity along your route when I use a time-lapse algorithm to detect signs of human activity. Do you have any idea who this King Charlie is and where he might be headquartered?”

‘That was fast,’ thought the Old Man. ‘Unless she’d already been looking at these places.’

But how could she have known?

“I don’t know much about him. Just that they call him King Charlie. Does he have anything to do with your situation?”

“The truth is, I don’t know. We can’t actually leave our bunker and find out who is trying to enter the complex. The radiation outside is incredibly high and would be lethal for even a short duration of time. Other than vague low-res satellite images of a large group of people trying to break down our front door, we know very little. Our engineers tell us the main door won’t hold much longer.”

“How long?”

Silence.

“A week.”

The Old Man looked at the case on the deck of the tank.

Project Einstein.

What does it do?

Ask her now.

Maybe I don’t want to know just yet.

“So we must hurry then?”

“I would advise so, yes, for our sakes.”

“If we can find fuel, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”

There is fuel.

There is also King Charlie.

There is also all that end-of-the-world between here and there. All that destruction caused by nuclear warheads and two-year-long winters and after that, the forty years of neglect and craziness that followed. But yes, if we can find fuel then we can show up with this device and free you from your prison. By whatever means the device uses.

I must ask her what the device does.

Yes, my friend. You should.

“Please hurry,” said Natalie. General Watt.

“We will.”

The riders had disappeared. The Old Man leaned out of the hatch and tapped the Boy who slithered back inside the turret, out of the wind and heat so they could talk.

“Who are they?” asked the Old Man.

The Boy shook his head.

“I don’t know. Some sort of tribe. They don’t seem to be like the people back at the Dam.”

“So maybe they’re not from Kingman. We’re close to there.”

The Boy thought for a long moment.

“No, I do not think they’re from Kingman. Perhaps they are the Apache the people at the Dam talked about. Maybe that’s who we see up in the rocks.”

“Maybe.”

“Poppa!” shouted his granddaughter over the intercom.

“Is everything okay?” the Old Man asked.

“Poppa! Everything’s great! I think it’s a circus! Look at it!”

They had come suddenly upon the stockade settlement at Kingman. From the highway overpass they could see the remains of an L-shaped strip mall centered around an old chain grocery store as the eastern and southern walls of the settlement. Claptrap towers had been thrown up from the roof. The parking lot had been walled off to the north and west with stacked cars and other precarious towers. The driveway into the shopping center was now a junk-welded gate thrown wide open.

In the middle of the road that led underneath the highway and alongside the gate and walls of the stockade, there was indeed a circus.

Colorful patchwork tents rose up drunkenly into the vivid orange daylight. Banners and flags whipped frantically in the sudden breeze. An elephant bellowed loudly as activity and movement ground to a halt.

From the street of the carnival all eyes looked up toward the overpass and the rumbling tank.

Above cups held to open mouths, the glossy eyes of the Stockaders watched the Old Man. And among the Stockaders, fire-breathers, contortionists, and strong men also watched, their eyes quick and darting, deep and dark.

Wide-eyed children played in the dirt and merriment.

Adults with overly large freak eyes in heads misshapen and deformed held ladles within punch tubs.

In the center of it all stood one small figure. Huge dark eyes set in a narrow head, adorned by lanky hair and a woven crown above punch-stained lips, gazed up at the Old Man knowingly. A scrawny neck and a gangling body ending in too-large feet, all dressed in foolery, hands tensed as claw-like fingers rhythmically opened and closed.

“Is it a circus, Poppa? There’re tents and colors and punch and games just like you told me about. Is it?”

Yes, the circus is in town.