not even see me.
The fallen sections were made of clean white concrete, grooved as if combed by a brush. He took off his huaraches and continued along the road as it climbed quickly. A break in the road caused him to stop, and he lowered himself onto the section that had fallen on the other side of the break. He climbed this section and another one like it, and soon he was beneath one of the large pillars where part of the highway remained above him.
How long would that last?
He marveled at what man had once built. What he had once driven over. What was once so common seemed a thing of lost giants.
At the end of the broken road he could see the intersection of the four roads. The ground beneath was barren. An old Winnebago lay on its side off in the weeds. He watched for a moment, wondering if it might be someone’s home. But the weeds around it and growing out the back window told the story of salvage.
There is no one here.
He climbed back down the broken sections and thought better of the Winnebago.
If it has been here for so long then it has already been salvaged.
On the other side of the ruins, two roads led away. One headed northeast, the other southeast.
What about the Winnebago? Fleeing the bombs, many such RVs had often been loaded beyond safety with such things as might be salvaged.
If that is the case then I would have seen some lying on the ground nearby. It has been searched.
He continued looking north, wondering if that is the east he should pick.
Something, a knife, a tool perhaps, could be lying in the weeds or the dirt.
Unlikely. I would need to go into the wreck and a Winnebago out here by itself would be a place for rattlesnakes or even the brown spider.
Then you expect salvage to be laying in the middle of the road for you to happen along and pick up. Neatly untouched these forty years. A bottle of aspirin or medical tools for the village. Maybe even an entire set of encyclopedias. The village is right. You are cursed. It is your laziness that is the curse. You are the curse of yourself.
Be quiet.
To the north must be Phoenix.
Low hills of red dirt climbed toward Phoenix.
Phoenix was destroyed. I know that. In L.A., just before I left, that had been part of the decision. The bombs were falling each day on a new city. First New York and then Washington, D.C., then Pittsburgh, then Chicago . . . was that right? Or had Chicago been first?
I chose Tucson. Tucson was too small to be hit. The terrorists were choosing bigger cities.
And your parents lived there. On a golf course.
Yuma was smaller than Tucson. Later, on the day the President landed, the Old Man had seen the cloud over Yuma in his rearview mirror as he picked his way through the beginning of the Great Wreck. He had seen it about 2:00 in the afternoon. 2:06 he remembered by the digital clock of his car’s instrument panel. The cloud rising from the valley behind him. Ninety miles away. The United States of America had lost its last president.
His car had stopped. The EMP had finished it. In the days that followed, walking the highway, moving away from Yuma, he headed east. Survivors told him they’d seen the cloud over Tucson. L.A. was gone also. They had gone for two that day. That last known day. After that, there was no news. No radio. If the bombs continued to fall, who knew? Had we retaliated against the Middle East like we’d threatened? Was there still a world beyond the United States? A Europe? Africa?
I will never see those lions at sunset. Playing on the beach. Unless I dream them. And my dreams are past stories that cannot be finished.
He thought of the little girl.
I will never know.
I know Phoenix is gone. It went after Miami. I know that Phoenix is gone. That I know.
Those are problems solved long ago. Salvage is your business and if you cannot search the wreck of the Winnebago, then what salvage will you find?
Be quiet.
He turned south along the highway once more.
There will be nothing toward
The fallen sections were made of clean white concrete, grooved as if combed by a brush. He took off his huaraches and continued along the road as it climbed quickly. A break in the road caused him to stop, and he lowered himself onto the section that had fallen on the other side of the break. He climbed this section and another one like it, and soon he was beneath one of the large pillars where part of the highway remained above him.
How long would that last?
He marveled at what man had once built. What he had once driven over. What was once so common seemed a thing of lost giants.
At the end of the broken road he could see the intersection of the four roads. The ground beneath was barren. An old Winnebago lay on its side off in the weeds. He watched for a moment, wondering if it might be someone’s home. But the weeds around it and growing out the back window told the story of salvage.
There is no one here.
He climbed back down the broken sections and thought better of the Winnebago.
If it has been here for so long then it has already been salvaged.
On the other side of the ruins, two roads led away. One headed northeast, the other southeast.
What about the Winnebago? Fleeing the bombs, many such RVs had often been loaded beyond safety with such things as might be salvaged.
If that is the case then I would have seen some lying on the ground nearby. It has been searched.
He continued looking north, wondering if that is the east he should pick.
Something, a knife, a tool perhaps, could be lying in the weeds or the dirt.
Unlikely. I would need to go into the wreck and a Winnebago out here by itself would be a place for rattlesnakes or even the brown spider.
Then you expect salvage to be laying in the middle of the road for you to happen along and pick up. Neatly untouched these forty years. A bottle of aspirin or medical tools for the village. Maybe even an entire set of encyclopedias. The village is right. You are cursed. It is your laziness that is the curse. You are the curse of yourself.
Be quiet.
To the north must be Phoenix.
Low hills of red dirt climbed toward Phoenix.
Phoenix was destroyed. I know that. In L.A., just before I left, that had been part of the decision. The bombs were falling each day on a new city. First New York and then Washington, D.C., then Pittsburgh, then Chicago . . . was that right? Or had Chicago been first?
I chose Tucson. Tucson was too small to be hit. The terrorists were choosing bigger cities.
And your parents lived there. On a golf course.
Yuma was smaller than Tucson. Later, on the day the President landed, the Old Man had seen the cloud over Yuma in his rearview mirror as he picked his way through the beginning of the Great Wreck. He had seen it about 2:00 in the afternoon. 2:06 he remembered by the digital clock of his car’s instrument panel. The cloud rising from the valley behind him. Ninety miles away. The United States of America had lost its last president.
His car had stopped. The EMP had finished it. In the days that followed, walking the highway, moving away from Yuma, he headed east. Survivors told him they’d seen the cloud over Tucson. L.A. was gone also. They had gone for two that day. That last known day. After that, there was no news. No radio. If the bombs continued to fall, who knew? Had we retaliated against the Middle East like we’d threatened? Was there still a world beyond the United States? A Europe? Africa?
I will never see those lions at sunset. Playing on the beach. Unless I dream them. And my dreams are past stories that cannot be finished.
He thought of the little girl.
I will never know.
I know Phoenix is gone. It went after Miami. I know that Phoenix is gone. That I know.
Those are problems solved long ago. Salvage is your business and if you cannot search the wreck of the Winnebago, then what salvage will you find?
Be quiet.
He turned south along the highway once more.
There will be nothing toward
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