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“MRE” was written on the side and then a long serial number. He tore the other three flaps off the top box and made a small fire. Nearby he found a tumbleweed that had fallen into the sewer and broke it up, adding it to the tiny flames.
It won’t last long.
He went to the top box and looked in. Three brown plastic packages lay on the bottom. He had also seen these before. In the early days. MREs. Survival rations.
The second box contained a five-quart plastic canteen that felt full. It was wrapped in camouflage material and had fasteners.
It must attach to a pistol belt.
A couple of wool blankets lay beneath the canteen but when the Old Man shook them out he found a centipede. He slammed his huarache down on it angrily.
He ripped up the two boxes and added them to the already fading fire. He pulled the third box close to him.
The centipede looked dead.
It is now.
He added it to the fire just to be sure.
He opened the box. Inside he found a military flashlight and many batteries. He also found a small penknife.
He tried the flashlight. It was dead. He unscrewed the bottom of the flashlight and threw the dead batteries off into the darkness and tried two new ones. A cone of yellow light erupted cleanly into the darkness ending in an oval against the wall. He had a flashlight.
The fire guttered to wispy ashes. The Old Man sat in the cool darkness for a moment and then clicked on the light with a dry chuckle.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ulink_30103a73-7a1c-50c1-ac49-eeeea0b2558b)
MAN IS INCAPABLE OF PEACE. Carved into the concrete wall of the old sewer, each blackened letter rose three feet high. Someone had used a blowtorch to etch the message against the wall of the tunnel that led away from the big room.
The Old Man’s light played across the words as he considered their meaning.
He’d eaten an entire MRE. It had been two days since the snake on the road. The water in the canteen tasted stale and he poured it out, filling it again with the water from his bottles.
He ran his fingers over the letters. The blowtorch had left melted waves when it traveled over the surface of the wall.
He had a steady hand.
How do you know it’s a “he”?
It feels like a “he.”
Someone did this after the bombs. Not long ago. Maybe five years. Ten at the most.
How do you know?
The boxes.
He is right. Was right. Man is incapable of peace. What’s left of the world confirms that.
So he came down here. Spent all the time that you and the village have been surviving, barely, and carved these words no one will ever see?
These words will be here long after I have gone. Long after my granddaughter’s granddaughters. The hieroglyphs in the pyramids were thousands of years old.
So why? Why do this?
To tell the story. Maybe a warning.
To who?
Whoever comes next.
So who’s to say he’s right?
He is, I guess. I don’t know that I will be around to argue.
Do you agree?
The Old Man considered the world above. The frozen ground after the bombs. The ones who died of radiation sickness. The hunger. What it looked like when the United States ended in his rearview mirror that day at the beginning of his present life.
He rolled up the MREs and the bullet-less pistol along with the empty bottles in his blanket. He added the other two green wool blankets after inspecting them thoroughly for more centipedes. He shined his new flashlight down the tunnel, enjoying its power and clarity. There were more words written farther along.
I wonder what else he had to say.
The Old Man continued down the tunnel and when he came to the next message he read: THERE CAN NEVER BE TWO ANSWERS TO THE SAME QUESTION.
Further on he read: WE DIDN’T BELIEVE THOSE WHO HAD SWORN TO KILL US.
WE TRIED TO FIRE GOD.
POWER IS NEVER SATISFIED.
BEWARE OF ANYONE WHO WANTS TO MAKE DECISIONS FOR YOU.
PEOPLE WILL TELL LIES TO GET WHAT THEY WANT.
A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION LEADS TO DEATH.
CITIES BURN DOWN.
FREE WILL WAS THE GREATEST GIFT EVER OFFERED. GOD IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT WE DID WITH IT. WE ARE.
EVERY PLACE IS THE SAME.
EVERYTHING YOU DO WILL BE FORGOTTEN.
CHILDREN ARE THE ONLY THINGS YOU LEAVE BEHIND.
CHILDREN ARE SMARTER THAN YOU THINK.
HATE FIRE AND OTHER THINGS THAT HURT YOU.
HATE IS NOT WRONG WHEN WHAT YOU HATE IS WRONG.
HISTORY HAS LIED TO US.
THE GOOD GUYS DIDN’T WIN.
DON’T LET SOMEONE SPEND MONEY WHO NEVER EARNED IT.
DON’T LET ANYONE BUT A SOLDIER TELL YOU HOW TO FIGHT A WAR.
IF YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO GO TO WAR, KILL EVERYONE.
ROCK STARS, ACTORS, AND POLITICIANS DON’T ACTUALLY DO ANYTHING.
TEACHERS, ARCHITECTS, AND MOTHERS KNOW A LOT MORE THAN YOU THINK.
THE YOUNG DISCOVERING THE WORLD FEEL LIKE CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. THEY IGNORE THE INDIANS WHO HAVE BEEN HERE FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS.
PEER PRESSURE IS WHEN YOU DECIDE TO LOB A FEW WARHEADS AT THIS WEEK’S NAZI BECAUSE CNN TOLD YOU TO.
IT ONLY TAKES A BULLET TO SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE NAPOLEON, HITLER, POL POT, STALIN, SADDAM HUSSEIN.
PEOPLE DON’T HATE EACH OTHER. THEY HATE EACH OTHER’S IDEAS.
BEWARE OF THE SELF-LOATHING GOVERNMENT.
And finally: VISIT THE LIBRARY AT FORT TUCSON.
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#ulink_4eb267b7-d198-520f-b3d9-e3f9c398ea7a)
On the other side of the manhole at the end of the hall of messages, the Old Man found a moonlit night. The air smelled of desert and sage. The cool wind that blew through the place had a faint tinge of char, though the fire that had happened here happened long ago.
Blackened wooden frames rose up on all four sides of the intersection. Desert sand had blown across the streets. He walked to a mailbox and sat down with his back against it. He hadn’t slept since the night under the bridge.
How many days ago?
Who cares.
What about the wolves?
The tunnel went for several miles. If they survived the fire I doubt they’ll come this far looking for me. Anyway I am too tired to care.
He unrolled his blankets on the sidewalk and placed his items on them. He started a small fire from charwood he found inside the ruins of a building. For a moment, standing there, he wondered what the use of the building had once been.
What was the story of this place? If I knew, there might be salvage and then I could head home.
But the fire had made it unrecognizable and whatever had once gone on there was lost.
He opened an second MRE and ate Chicken à la King. He put hot sauce on it. He’d found a little bottle of Tabasco inside a packet that contained plasticware and a book of matches. He drank some more water and added wood to the fire. He rolled up in his own blanket and one of the wool ones.
I wonder about Fort Tucson.
What …
He didn’t move the whole night. When he awoke, his side was numb and stiff. His shoulders ached with hot fire and his wrists throbbed. His chest felt heavy, and when he sat up, a morning cough turned into a prolonged hacking in which his vision narrowed to a tiny pinpoint. Each convulsion caused the needles in his shoulders to scream with anger.
The fire had gone out long ago.
It’s good the wolves didn’t find me. I might not have woken up for the feast.
For a moment he was afraid he might be sick.
Have I gone too far? Exhausted myself?
But he sat up and then got to his feet. He drank water and walked up and down the sidewalk. He considered plundering the mailbox but he was too tired and sore.
He banged on its side. It sounded hollow.
He rolled up his things slowly and mixed a packet of cocoa in a water bottle with some water from the canteen. He ate a cookie.
I feel better.
It was silent in the stubbly remains of the burnt town.
This must be the place I was thinking of.
It burned to the ground. Long ago. Mirrored Sunglasses was right.
How could he be right if he was blind?
Maybe he wasn’t blind.
The Old Man began heading south down the street. At the next intersection, a half-burnt sign that had fallen down among the charred support beams of a building looked familiar.
I know those letters.
But those are just the middle or last ones.
For a long moment he tried to remember what business they were associated with, but in the end he couldn’t.
Coffee, maybe.
How long has it been since you had coffee?
Years. I remember the night I married my wife. Someone gave us a can. Something salvaged from an RV deep inside the Great Wreck. I can’t remember who.
Floyd? Big Pedro?
