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The Old Man and the Wasteland
Nick Cole
The Old Man and the Wasteland is the first book in Nick Cole’s The Wasteland Saga.Part Hemingway, part Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, The Old Man and the Wasteland is a suspenseful odyssey into the dark heart of the Post-Apocalyptic American Southwest.Forty years after the destruction of civilization…Man is reduced to salvaging the ruins of a broken world. One man’s most prized possession is Hemingway’s classic ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’ With the words of the novel echoing across the wasteland, a survivor of the Nuclear Holocaust journeys into the unknown to break a curse.What follows is an incredible tale of survival and endurance.One man must survive the desert wilderness and mankind gone savage to discover the truth of Hemingway’s classic tale of man versus nature.
Contents
Author’s Note (#ulink_690b5996-9b20-57fe-947b-2803276b7145)
Chapter One (#ulink_44790683-9bf5-5d39-85c4-d27d986efc7f)
Chapter Two (#ulink_314c042c-052b-5dc7-b0a5-13ce4ae21bbc)
Chapter Three (#ulink_fde7f352-948b-5820-a7c1-9426b5936c01)
Chapter Four (#ulink_e79127a6-01cf-5724-afcc-566b0a68bb1b)
Chapter Five (#ulink_b1bcae41-27dc-565d-ad18-f8c5745022d7)
Chapter Six (#ulink_a113b9c0-48d7-5a33-bfcd-50afbe6c45e3)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_2dd6426e-6f3d-5c1e-ad98-0904364da5d4)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
More books by Nick Cole (#litres_trial_promo)
Intermezzo (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By Nick Cole (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note or Where We Find Ourselves (#ulink_c7615f6d-0e84-5273-8266-2336695bd267)
Before we get started with this new edition of The Old Man and the Wasteland I want to take a moment and talk with you. And by talk I mean write a few words to you. So just pretend we’re talking over a cup of tea, a few buttery shortbread cookies even. Just before a long, rainy afternoon of reading.
The Old Man and the Wasteland is the story of an old man living in the years after a nuclear war has destroyed most of the world. That’s the setting. The Old Man is part of a village of salvagers, living in a shed off to the side of lonely Highway 8 as it cuts through the Sonoran Desert of the southwestern United States. That’s our main character. He’s a salvager. He salvages what was lost during and before the war and brings it back to his village so they might use it to survive the harshness of their environment. Lately, as the book begins, the Old Man hasn’t been doing so well. He hasn’t found much of anything. The other villagers don’t want to salvage with him anymore. In their minds he is “curst.” He’s also old. That’s our conflict. One final note about the Old Man: He has one prized possession: a book he found while salvaging the wrecks and abandoned places of the deep desert. That book is The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway.
I first read Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea at a very dark time in my life. Things weren’t going my way and I wasn’t helping matters. It was sort of my own personal apocalypse. Those who loved me could only stand by and watch as I spiraled downward. Then I broke my arm. As I recovered that summer I decided to read one book every day, and sometimes two, as I sat by the side of a community pool. And in between the adventure fiction and detective novels I read, Hemingway’s book The Old Man and the Sea surfaced in a used-book store I’d been haunting. I felt like his Old Man. I felt beat. I felt abandoned. I felt salao. And here’s what Ernest had to say in his book about the struggle that is life. Sometimes you’ve got to go a little farther out into the gulf waters. Sometimes you’ve even got to go out alone. Sometimes, even though you win, even though you are victorious against the big fish, well, sometimes victory can be snatched away. Even as you do everything you can to save your prize. Ernest’s Old Man fought the two sharks with his knife, then his paddle, and finally the broken end of the paddle. In the end, he too watched helplessly as the sharks tore away at his hard-won prize.
Now here’s the truth. We’ve all been there. Or we will be there. We will all face a moment in which we will lose, but we must still play our best game. I think what Ernest was saying in his book is that “winning” and “losing” are often just matters of perception. Maybe that came from his experiences of carrying the bleeding and dying “winners” off the battlefields of Italy in World War I. Maybe.
No, The Old Man and the Sea is a book about defeat. What Hemingway wanted to say is that no one can defeat you. They might destroy you. But they cannot defeat you. In Hemingway’s view, defeat was worse than loss. If you lost a hundred battles, a hundred contests, a hundred bullfights, you weren’t defeated. You just hadn’t won, yet. No, I think Hemingway thought you were only truly defeated when you gave up. Hemingway’s Old Man didn’t give up, even though the whole village wanted him to. Even though the fish dove deep and refused to come up over the course of a night and a day as the Old Man was pulled farther and farther out into the gulf waters. Even though the sharks eventually came and finally took away his prize between their razor sharp teeth. Hemingway’s Old Man was not defeated. He would fish again. And this time the Boy would be with him. The Old Man had proven that he was still able to catch the Big Fish.
After I wrote this book I began to get messages and emails through my website at nickcolebooks.com and on Twitter @nickcolebooks. People told me their stories. There were elderly people who’d read The Old Man and the Wasteland and told me they felt just like the Old Man. They knew they were old, but they still felt they had something to contribute—like they had one last adventure in them. There were families who read the book together. One chapter at night. Together and reading. Making memories that might last forever. There was one guy who finished the book in the bus on his way home from work. He rushed up to his apartment to tell his wife about it as she was preparing dinner. As he told her about the ending, he began to cry. And there were the soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq who probably felt just like the Old Man: all alone in the desert. And there were the people who were having another tough year. And …
Life is tough. Despite our best efforts. Life is tough. But sometimes you’ve got to go a little farther out into the gulf. Sometimes you need some of that real courage, the kind Harrison Ford’s character talks about in The Mosquito Coast: “Three-A.M. courage.” And you might get beaten again today, or maybe, just maybe, you might get a chance. You might hook the big fish. You might just win one. Whatever happens in these tough times, winning and losing isn’t so important. Just don’t give up. Christ told his disciples to keep asking, keep seeking, keep knocking.
And so it’s three A.M.
Our Old Man has been turning, tossing. Trying to figure out a way to beat the day that will come with the rising sun. A way to take back something from “Before” to be used in the “Now” that is a burnt up and ash-covered world.
The only book he’s read for the last forty years is about another Old Man who was eighty-six days unlucky, and then in the dark of morning that other Old Man went farther out into the gulf waters in hopes that today might be the day he caught the big fish.
Our Old Man rolls over and hears the rusty springs in his bed. He is tired of sleep. He is tired of losing. He is tired of being “curst.” And so he puts his feet onto the dirt floor and considers going farther out into the Wasteland today.
I hope you enjoy what follows.
Nick Cole
October 2012
Chapter One (#ulink_1f0a5c6b-6d71-545b-9126-28187e063534)
It was dark when he stepped outside into the cool air. Overhead the last crystals of night faded into a soft blue blanket that would precede the dawn. Through the thick pads of his calloused feet he could feel the rocky, cracked, cold earth. He would wear his huaraches after he left and was away from the sleeping village.
He had not slept for much of the night. Had not been sleeping for longer than he could remember. Had not slept as he did when he was young. The bones within ached, but he was old and that was to be expected.
He began to work long bony fingers into the area above his chest. The area that had made him feel old since he first felt the soreness that was there. The area where his satchel would push down as he walked.
He thought about tea, but the smoke from the mesquite would betray him as would the clatter of his old blue percolator and decided against it.
He stepped back inside the shed, looked around once, taking in the cot, patched and sagging, the desk and the stove. He went to the desk and considered its drawers. There was nothing there that should go in his satchel. He would need only his tools. His crowbar, his worn rawhide gloves, his rope, the can of pitch, the tin of grease and his pliers. Not the book.
But if I die. If I go too far or fall into a hole. If my leg is broken then I might want the book.
He dismissed those thoughts.
If you die then you can’t read. If you are dying then you should try to live. And if it is too much, that is what the gun is for. Besides, you’ve read the book already. Many times in fact.
He put the book back in its place.
He went to the shelf and opened the cigar box that contained the pistol. He loved the box more than the gun inside. The picture of the sea, the city and the waving palms on the front reminded him of places in the book. Inside the box, the gun, dull and waiting along with five loose shells, an evil number, rattled as his stiff fingers chased them across the bottom.
Moving quickly now he took the old blue percolator and rolled it into the thin blanket that lay on the cot. He stuffed them both inside the worn satchel, reminding him of the book’s description of the furled sail. ‘Patched with flour sacks… it looked the flag of permanent defeat.’ He shouldered the bag quickly and chased the line away telling himself he was thinking too much of the book and not the things he should be. He looked around the shed once more.
Come back with something. And if not, then goodbye.
He passed silently along the trail that led through the village. To the west, the field of broken glass began to glitter like fallen stars in the hard-packed red dirt as it always did in this time before the sun.
At the pantry he took cooked beans, tortillas, and a little bit of rice from the night before. The village would not miss these things. Still they would be angry with him. Angry he had gone. Even though they wished he would because he was unlucky.
Salao. In the book unlucky is Salao. The worst kind.
The villagers say you are ‘curst’.
He filled his water bottle from the spring, drank a bit and filled it again. The water was cold and tasted of iron. He drank again and filled it once more. Soon the day would be very hot.
At the top of the small rise east of the village he looked back.
Forty years maybe. If my count has been right.
It was an old processing plant by the side of the highway east of what was once Yuma. It was rusting in the desert before the bombs fell, now it was the market and pantry of the village. Its outlying sheds the houses of the villagers, his friends and family. He tried to see if smoke was rising yet from his son’s house. But his daughter-in-law would be tired from the new baby.
So maybe she is still sleeping.
If his granddaughter came running out, seeing him at the top of the rise against the dawn, he would have to send her back. He was going too deep into the wasteland today.
Too dangerous for her.
Even though she knows every trick of salvage?
I might need her. What if I find something big?
‘I may not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution.’
My friend in the book would say that, yes.
He would send her back. It was too dangerous. He adjusted the strap wider on his shoulder to protect the area above his heart where the satchel always bit, then turned and walked down the slope away from the village and into the wasteland.
Chapter Two (#ulink_849ef98e-31e0-5537-a533-5b33893d1b9a)
He sang bits of a song he knew from before. Years hid most of the lyrics and now he wanted to remember when he first heard the song. As if the memory would bring back the lost words he’d skipped over.
Time keeps its secrets. Not like this desert. Not like the wasteland.
In the rising sun, his muscles began to loosen as his stride began to lengthen, and soon the ache was gone from his bones. His course was set between two peaks none of the village had ever bothered to name after the cataclysm. Maybe once someone had a name for them. Probably on charts and rail survey maps of the area once known as the Sonoran Desert. But such things had since crumbled or burned up.
And what are names? He once had a name. Now the villagers simply called him The Old Man. It seemed appropriate. Often he responded.
At noon he stopped for the cool water in the bottle, kept beneath the blanket in his satchel. Still mumbling the words of the song amongst the silent broken rocks, he drank slowly. He had reached the saddle between the two low hills.
Where had he first heard the song? He wondered.
Below, the bowl of the wasteland lay open and shimmering. On the far horizon, jagged peaks, beyond those the bones of cities.
For seventy-eight days The Old Man had gone west with the other salvagers, heading out at dawn with hot tea con leche and sweet fry bread. Walking and pulling their sleds and pallets. In teams and sometimes alone. For seventy-eight days The Old Man had gone out and brought back nothing.
My friend in the book went eighty-six days. Then he caught the big fish. So I have a few days to go. I am only seventy-eight days unlucky. Not eighty-six. That would be worse.
Every canyon silent, every shed searched, every wreck empty. It was just bad luck the others said. It would turn. But in the days that followed he found himself alone for most of the day. If he went down a road, keeping sight of the other teams, they would soon be lost from view. At noon he would eat alone in the shade of a large rock, and smell on a sudden breeze their cookfires. He missed those times, after the shared lunch, the talk and short nap before they would start anew at what one had found, pulling it from the earth, extracting it from a wreck, hauling it back to the village. Returning after nightfall as the women and children came out to see this great new thing they could have back. This thing that had been rescued from the time before and would be theirs in the time of now. Forty years of that, morning, noon, and night of salvage. It was good work. It was the only work.
Until he found the hot radio.
His first years of salvage were of the things that had built the village. On early nights when the salvagers returned and light still hung in the sky, he could walk through the village and see the things he had hauled from the desert. The door on his son’s house that had once been part of a refrigerator from a trailer he and Big Pedro had found south of The Great Wreck. The trailer someone had been living in after the bombs. There were opened cans, beer and food inside the trailer. Cigarette butts in piles. That had been fifteen years after the war. But when they opened the door it was silent and still. An afternoon wind had picked up and the trailer rocked in the brief gusts that seem to come and go as if by their own choosing. Big Pedro did not like such places. The Old Man never asked the why of how someone salvaged. He accepted this of Pedro and together they’d worked for a time.
Outside he heard Pedro asking if there was anything. The Old Man knew he would find a dead body. There were always dead bodies. Salvage and dead bodies go hand in hand.
The trailer rocked for a moment, and as The Old Man adjusted his eyes to the dim light within, he waited for salvage to be revealed. This was how one salvaged. Just waiting and watching a thing. A wreck, someone’s home or a railway shed. In the desert it paid to wait. A quick choice owned you. A wrench, a hammer, and one might not see the saw. Too often the wealth of the past could distract one from what was really there. He had seen piles of money, gold, jewelry, pornography. What good were such things now?
But in the trailer there was a story. There was always a story of salvage. In a wreck, one could see the skeletons crushed under the weight of their possessions as the vehicle left the highway. Rolling over and over in the dirt and down a culvert. To lie trapped for years. Waiting for ambulances that would not come. Rescue that could not rescue itself while mushroom clouds broke the unbroken horizon. On that day when everything changed.
On that long ago hot afternoon when Big Pedro waited outside in the sighing wind, all was quiet inside. He stepped in, closing the door behind him. There was no life here. Just dry dust and the shed skins of the rattlers that seemed everywhere at times and then at others could not be found.
