The road (19 page)

The pistol was where he'd left it in the sand. The
man picked it up and shook it and he sat and pulled the cylinder pin and handed
it to the boy. Hold this, he said. Is it okay, Papa? Of course it's okay. He
rolled the cylinder out into his hand and blew the sand from it and handed it
to the boy and he blew through the barrel and he blew the sand out of the frame
and then took the parts from the boy and refitted everything and cocked the
pistol and lowered the hammer and cocked it again. He aligned the cylinder for
the true cartridge to come up and he let the hammer down and put the pistol in
his parka and stood up. We're okay, he said. Come on. Is the dark going to
catch us? I dont know. It is, isnt it? Come on. We'll hurry.

The dark did catch them. By the time they reached
the headland path it was too dark to see anything. They stood in the wind from
off the sea with the grass hissing all about them, the boy holding on to his
hand. We just have to keep going, the man said. Come on. I cant see. I know.
We'll just take it one step at a time. Okay.

Dont let go. Okay.

No matter what. No matter what.

They went on in the perfect blackness, sightless
as the blind. He held out one hand before him although there was nothing on
that salt heath to collide with. The surf sounded more distant but he took his
bearings by the wind as well and after tottering on for the better part of an
hour they emerged from the grass and seaoats and stood again on the dry sand of
the upper beach. The wind was colder. He'd brought the boy around on the lee
side of him when suddenly the beach before them appeared shuddering out of the
blackness and vanished again. What was that, Papa? It's okay. It's lightning.
Come on. He slung the tarp of goods up over his shoulder and took the boy's
hand and they went on, tramping in the sand like parade horses against tripping
over some piece of driftwood or seawrack. The weird gray light broke over the
beach again. Far away a faint rumble of thunder muffled in the murk. I think I
saw our tracks, he said. So we're going the right way. Yes. The right way. I'm
really cold, Papa. I know. Pray for lightning.

They went on. When the light broke over the beach
again he saw that the boy was bent over and was whispering to himself. He
looked for their tracks going up the beach but he could not see them. The wind
had picked up even more and he was waiting for the first spits of rain. If they
got caught out on the beach in a rainstorm in the night they would be in
trouble. They turned their faces away from the wind, holding on to the hoods of
their parkas. The sand rattling against their legs and racing away in the dark
and the thunder cracking just offshore. The rain came in off the sea hard and
slant and stung their faces and he pulled the boy against him.

They stood in the downpour. How far had they come?
He waited for the lightning but it was tailing off and when the next one came
and then the next he knew that the storm had taken out their tracks. They
trudged on through the sand at the upper edge of the beach, hoping to see the
shape of the log where they'd camped. Soon the lightning was all but gone. Then
in a shift in the wind he heard a distant faint patter. He stopped. Listen, he
said. What is it? Listen.

I dont hear anything. Come on. What is it, Papa?
It's the tarp. It's the rain falling on the tarp.

They went on, stumbling through the sand and the
trash along the tideline. They came upon the tarp almost at once and he knelt
and dropped the bindle and groped about for the rocks he'd weighed the plastic
with and pushed them beneath it. He raised up the tarp and pulled it over them
and then used the rocks to hold down the edges inside. He got the boy out of
his wet coat and pulled the blankets over them, the rain pelting them through
the plastic. He shucked off his own coat and held the boy close and soon they
were asleep.

In the night the rain ceased and he woke and lay
listening. The heavy wash and thud of the surf after the wind had died. In the
first dull light he rose and walked down the beach. The storm had littered the
shore and he walked the tideline looking for anything of use. In the shallows
beyond the breakwater an ancient corpse rising and falling among the driftwood.
He wished he could hide it from the boy but the boy was right. What was there
to hide? When he got back he was awake sitting in the sand watching him. He was
wrapped in the blankets and he'd spread their wet coats over the dead weeds to
dry. He walked up and eased himself down beside him and they sat watching the
leaden sea lift and fall beyond the breakers.

They were most of the morning offloading the ship.
He kept a fire going and he'd wade ashore naked and shivering and drop the
towrope and stand in the warmth of the blaze while the boy towed in the seabag
through the slack swells and dragged it onto the beach. They emptied out the
bag and spread blankets and clothing out on the warm sand to dry before the
fire. There was more on the boat than they could carry and he thought they
might stay a few days on the beach and eat as much as they could but it was
dangerous. They slept that night in the sand with the fire standing off the
cold and their goods scattered all about them. He woke coughing and rose and
took a drink of water and dragged more wood onto the fire, whole logs of it
that sent up a great cascade of sparks. The salt wood burned orange and blue in
the fire's heart and he sat watching it a long time. Later he walked up the
beach, his long shadow reaching over the sands before him, sawing about with
the wind in the fire. Coughing. Coughing. He bent over, holding his knees.
Taste of blood. The slow surf crawled and seethed in the dark and he thought
about his life but there was no life to think about and after a while he walked
back. He got a can of peaches from the bag and opened it and sat before the
fire and ate the peaches slowly with his spoon while the boy slept. The fire
flared in the wind and sparks raced away down the sand. He set the empty tin
between his feet. Every day is a lie, he said. But you are dying. That is not a
lie.

They carried their new stores bundled in tarps or
blankets down the beach and packed everything into the cart. The boy tried to
carry too much and when they stopped to rest he'd take part of his load and put
it with his own. The boat had shifted slightly in the storm. He stood looking
at it. The boy watched him. Are you going back out there? he said. I think so.
One last look around. I'm kind of scared. We're okay. Just keep watch. We've
got more than we can carry now. I know. I just want to take a look. Okay.

He went over the ship from bow to stern again.
Stop. Think. He sat in the floor of the saloon with his feet in the rubber
boots propped against the pedestal of the table. It was already getting dark.
He tried to remember what he knew about boats. He got up and went out on deck
again. The boy was sitting by the fire. He stepped down into the cockpit and sat
on the bench with his back against the bulkhead, his feet on the deck almost at
eye level. He had on nothing but the sweater and the souwester outfit over that
but there was little warmth to it and he could not stop shivering. He was about
to get up again when he realized that he'd been looking at the fasteners in the
bulkhead on the far side of the cockpit. There were four of them. Stainless
steel. At one time the benches had been covered with cushions and he could see
the ties at the corner where they'd ripped away. At the bottom center of the
bulkhead just above the seat there was a nylon strap sticking out, the end of
it doubled and cross-stitched. He looked at the fasteners again. They were
rotary latches with wings for your thumb. He got up and knelt at the bench and
turned each one all the way to the left. They were springloaded and when he had
them undone he took hold of the strap at the bottom of the board and pulled it
and the board slid down and came free. Inside under the deck was a space that held
some rolled sails and what looked to be a two man rubber raft rolled and tied
with bungee cords. A pair of small plastic oars. A box of flares. And behind
that was a composite toolbox, the opening of the lid sealed with black
electrical tape. He pulled it free and found the end of the tape and peeled it
off all the way around and unlatched the chrome snaps and opened the box.
Inside was a yellow plastic flashlight, an electric strobebeacon powered by a
drycell, a first-aid kit. A yellow plastic EPIRB. And a black plastic case
about the size of a book. He lifted it out and unsnapped the latches and opened
it. Inside was fitted an old 37 millimeter bronze flarepistol. He lifted it
from the case in both hands and turned it and looked at it. He depressed the lever
and broke it open. The chamber was empty but there were eight rounds of flares
fitted in a plastic container, short and squat and newlooking. He fitted the
pistol back in the case and closed and latched the lid.

He waded ashore shivering and coughing and wrapped
himself in a blanket and sat in the warm sand in front of the fire with the
boxes beside him. The boy crouched and tried to put his arms around him which
at least brought a smile. What did you find, Papa? he said. I found a first-aid
kit. And I found a flarepistol. What's that? I'll show you. It's to signal
with. Is that what you went to look for? Yes.

How did you know it was there? Well, I was hoping
it was there. It was mostly luck. He opened the case and turned it for the boy
to see. It's a gun. A flaregun. It shoots a thing up in the air and it makes a
big light. Can I look at it? Sure you can. The boy lifted the gun from the case
and held it. Can you shoot somebody with it? he said. You could. Would it kill
them? No. But it might set them on fire. Is that why you got it? Yes.

Because there's nobody to signal to. Is there? No.

I'd like to see it. You mean shoot it? Yes.

We can shoot it. For real? Sure.

In the dark? Yes. In the dark. It could be like a
celebration. Like a celebration. Yes. Can we shoot it tonight? Why not? Is it
loaded? No. But we can load it. The boy stood holding the gun. He pointed it
toward the sea. Wow, he said.

He got dressed and they set out down the beach
carrying the last of their plunder. Where do you think the people went, Papa?
That were on the ship? Yes.

I dont know. Do you think they died? I dont know.
But the odds are not in their favor. The man smiled. The odds are not in their
favor? No. Are they? No. Probably not. I think they died. Maybe they did. I
think that's what happened to them. They could be alive somewhere, the man
said. It's possible. The boy didnt answer. They went on. They'd wrapped their
feet in sailcloth and bound them up in blue plastic pampooties cut from a tarp
and they left strange tracks in their comings and going. He thought about the
boy and his concerns and after a while he said: You're probably right. I think
they're probably dead. Because if they were alive we'd be taking their stuff.
And we're not taking their stuff. I know. Okay.

So how many people do you think are alive? In the
world? In the world. Yes. I dont know. Let's stop and rest. Okay.

You're wearing me out. Okay.

They sat among their bundles. How long can we stay
here, Papa? You asked me that. I know. We'll see. That means not very long.
Probably.

The boy poked holes in the sand with his fingers
until he had a circle of them. The man watched him. I dont know how many people
there are, he said. I dont think there are very many. I know. He pulled his
blanket about his shoulders and looked out down the gray and barren beach. What
is it? the man said. Nothing.

No. Tell me. There could be people alive someplace
else. Whereplace else? I dont know. Anywhere. You mean besides on earth? Yes.

I dont think so. They couldnt live anyplace else.
Not even if they could get there? No.

The boy looked away. What? the man said. He shook
his head. I dont know what we're doing, he said. The man started to answer. But
he didnt. After a while he said: There are people. There are people and we'll
find them. You'll see.

He fixed dinner while the boy played in the sand.
He had a spatula made from a flattened foodtin and with it he built a small
village. He dredged a grid of streets. The man walked down and squatted and looked
at it. The boy looked up. The ocean's going to get it, isnt it? he said. Yes.

That's okay. Can you write the alphabet? I can
write it. We dont work on your lessons any more. I know. Can you write
something in the sand? Maybe we could write a letter to the good guys. So if
they came along they'd know we were here. We could write it up there where it
wouldnt get washed away. What if the bad guys saw it? Yeah.

I shouldnt have said that. We could write them a
letter. The boy shook his head. That's okay, he said.

He loaded the flarepistol and as soon as it was
dark they walked out down the beach away from the fire and he asked the boy if
he wanted to shoot it. You shoot it, Papa. You know how to do it. Okay.

He cocked the gun and aimed it out over the bay and
pulled the trigger. The flare arced up into the murk with a long whoosh and
broke somewhere out over the water in a clouded light and hung there. The hot
tendrils of magnesium drifted slowly down the dark and the pale foreshore tide
started in the glare and slowly faded. He looked down at the boy's upturned
face. They couldnt see it very far, could they, Papa? Who?