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“Laws of the People” adorned one wall. On another, “History of the People.”
The Old Man stepped across the rotten charwood of the room and read the one marked “Laws of the People.”
THERE ARE NO LAWS
THERE IS NO GOD
THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS WRONG
DON’T HATE ANYTHING
YOU ARE THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE
The Old Man stepped to the side wall and read “History of the People.”
“On the day after we come. All those who heard and seen Phoenix go up in smoke and ash and those who seen the Cloud over Tucson. For many days we sat and cried. We didn’t no where to go. Then Professor said ‘This is our paradise.’ He gave us the laws and now at the end of our old world our perfect world has begun. It was laws that destroyed the old. It were hate that killed everyone. Now nothing is wrong and we is happy. We the People.”
But where did you go?
You know where they went.
He thought of the corpses stretched on the boards back at the Y.
The Old Man dropped his bandolier and stroked the whiskers he needed to shave. He took out the canteen and drank sparingly.
Laws. Rules. I think that’s what lets people get along. It must have been shocking once someone wanted something that was yours. Or murdered someone you loved.
The Old Man stepped out of the building. He walked toward the peak wondering if he should do what he was thinking he ought to do next.
If you fall.
Stop.
You won’t make it out of here alive.
Stop. I can’t think like that. I need to get to the top of the peak and take a look. I might be able to see Tucson from there.
They said they saw a cloud. That’s the answer.
Sometimes you’ve got to see a thing for yourself to know it.
He walked up a slope of scree and reached the jagged face of the peak. While it had looked sheer from far away, now he saw the cracks where he might make his way. Beyond that, leading to the highest peak, there seemed to be a trail he might take most of the way up.
He turned back to the valley, seeing the unbroken road heading south toward Tucson. The world was divided into blue sky and dusty orange dirt. Then he saw the flagpole and two flags hanging in the still desert air farther down the highway, near the base of the tallest peak. He hadn’t seen it from the ruins of the gas station town.
He slid down off the scree and walked in the afternoon shadow cast by the peak until he came to the flagpole.
“On June 3rd, 2061, a great battle was fought here at Picacho Peak. The 6th Troop, 1st Cav, ‘The Black Horse’ out of Fort Tucson, engaged and defeated the numerically superior main body of the Horde. This action was taken to stop the Human Sacrifice being conducted atop Picacho Peak, in which the leaders of the Horde would toss human children from atop the highest peak. During the battle and in the days that followed, over 10,000 enemies were estimated to have been killed in action against the Black Horse. They are buried at the base of the Peak and it is hoped that the Horde has scattered and will not return to this place for fear of the Black Horse.”
—Sergeant Major John Preston,
6th Troop, 1st Cav, “Black Horse”
The plaque at the base of the flagpole was a large piece of beaten sheet metal. The engraved words had been done in the same blowtorch-writing as those he had seen in the sewers of the burned-up village and on the highway at the Y. Above him, on the flagpole, a slight afternoon breeze out of the southeast snapped the tattered American flag to life. Drifting in the breeze below it, a yellow flag with a black stripe and the black silhouette of a horse’s head waved gently.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE (#ulink_fe0eadbb-be95-5430-92dc-faa936c7bc23)
Himbradda had watched long enough. The scrawny Old Man had violated the houses where Himbradda, even as a child, knew he must not go. When the People had lived in the shadow of the peak, there were two places they did not go. The hut of the Professor and the top of the peak.
Himbradda had waited for the Dragon to come. He had seen the Dragon years ago. He had seen it come upon the people in the night, belching great bursts of fire that exploded into the midst of the People. When the People had tried to rally and drive the Dragon away it had spit hot bolts that left gaping holes in all the fierce ones whom Himbradda had hoped one day to be like. But that had been a long time ago when Himbradda was a boy.
Then the Old Man walked toward the cliff, as if to climb to the most sacred place. The place where the babies had come falling from the sky, rejected, to crash down onto the rocks as a gift to the hungry people. Himbradda remembered those days as though a forgotten festival of better times.
If the People could return, then all would be right again. The festivals, the feeding. Still the Dragon had not come out against the Old Man.
Himbradda, hiding in the tall rocks, watched the Old Man. Ha and Nu-Ah and the blind girl with the swollen belly waiting, not breathing, waiting.
When the Old Man moved on, sliding down the scree of the sacred peak and disappearing into the great field where the people had lived, where Himbradda had been born, where his earliest memories had taken place, the Dragon still had not come. Himbradda knew the Dragon must be dead now.
As all thirty-two of his skull-crushed victims had never moved again so, surely, he reasoned, must someone have crushed the Dragon’s head.
He made grunts and noises and hugged himself, then pointed east. Nu-ah and Ha would return to the People.
He grabbed dirt and threw it toward the peak.
They understood. They were to bring the People back. The Dragon was dead. They both turned toward the blind girl with the swollen belly.
Himbradda waved them away. Nu-ah, grabbing Ha’s chest, rode piggyback and soon the pair were leaping away to the east to find the People.
Himbradda hefted his club to his shoulder and set off at a hunched run for the Old Man. He would leave the girl here, she wouldn’t move. He would finish the Old Man and have his meat all to himself. Then he could return to the girl for what he wanted next.
Tucson must have survived.
The Old Man, staring at the flag and the plaque, looked toward the south. To the east clouds were bunching up fast and the Old Man knew monsoon season had come.
It will be dangerous now.
He heard the scream and whirled in time to see Himbradda standing at the top of the rise that led into the small bowl of the field beneath the peak.
To the Old Man, Himbradda appeared to be a large man with one huge arm waving a club in the air. He looked filthy and unkempt. For a moment, the dark savage was silhouetted against a gingham sky of soft blue dotted with white puffy clouds. The savage screamed in rage, whirling the club above his head and then he loped down upon the Old Man.
The Old Man turned and ran in the opposite direction. At the end of the field was a long fence twisted and bent by time. The Old Man made the fence and heard Himbradda screaming hoarsely in the hot still air, his shoeless feet slapping the hard red dirt behind him.
At the fence, the Old Man ran along its twisting path, coming to a pile of tumbleweeds that had built up against it. He dropped to the ground and crawled into a warren of weeds. The savage was no more than a few feet behind him now.
His world turned to brown dust and dry brush as he crawled farther and farther into a pile of tumbleweeds that had accumulated over forty years. Behind him, Himbradda tore through the maze, grunting and keening all at once.
This man is no more than an animal.
He turned right and pulled more weeds behind him as he crawled forward, bursting into the open. He had maybe a moment or two before the savage would be free of the weed pile.
The Old Man looked around. He was near the great highway that bent itself toward Tucson. He crossed the road and dropped to the ground on the far side. There was little cover.
Above him, on the road, the savage screamed in pain.
If he makes the right choice in the next moment, I’m going to know what it feels like when that club comes crashing down on my head. If not, then maybe I have a chance.
Himbradda screamed again but farther away, on the opposite side of the road.
He must be circling the pile looking for me.
The Old Man slithered backward down the dirt embankment and headed south alongside the road. Himbradda yelled raggedly, almost crying. The Old Man took off his huaraches to lessen the sound of his steps.
He had not gone ten steps before the thing he had hoped would not happen, happened.
The scorpion stung him on his instep. It happened a second after he felt his foot crush its peanut-shell carcass. White-hot pain shot up his leg, and the Old Man stuck one dusty huarache in his mouth and bit down on the scream. His vision went red as his eyes fought a black tunnel that seemed to crush the world about him.
He looked down, praying it was not one of the baby white scorpions.
They are the most poisonous.
Instead he was rewarded with a frightening-looking scorpion. Large, black, and crushed in the dirt.
These old ones have less poison.
They are cursed like you.
Quiet.
He hobbled along the ravine hoping the savage man wouldn’t check this side of the road. If he did, there would be no way he could outrun him now.
The pistol has no bullets.
I know. But he doesn’t know that.
The pain is blinding.
He may not even know what a gun is. I think if he finds me he won’t give me the time to explain it to him. It won’t make a difference.
The Old Man limped farther down the descending embankment below the ruined highway.
The first drops of rain began to splatter in the red dust as the Old Man looked at his foot. Large glistening drops settled on the thick dust, remaining globes of water for a moment, then dissipating. His foot, though not swollen, tingled. It felt foreign to him.
He worked his way down the side of a broken bridge that once ran over a ravine. The rock-littered embankment descended into a dry streambed and then rose to meet the other side.
Above him, he could still hear the wild man screaming hoarsely in the desert air.
There’s no time to treat the foot.
But you must. You must clean the wound and elevate it.
The Old Man had seen many stings and been stung many times. This one was not bad. It wasn’t timely, also. He reached the riverbed as the rain began to fall with hard wet thumps against the dry ground.
This place will be dangerous soon.
Hurry.
He began to climb the rocky embankment, dragging the foot.
You rest for a while, foot. I’ll give you that.
The wild savage screamed, having come to the end of the broken bridge and seeing the Old Man dragging himself up the far embankment. Near the dark range of hills to the east, thunder cracked and a moment later a flash of lightning lit the darkening sky. Toward the west, hot blue sunshine ground away at the sandy desert beyond Picacho Peak.
The savage looked down, considered jumping, then disappeared. A moment later he returned, running and grunting as he scrambled down the embankment on the side of the bridge. Halfway down he caught his foot on a jagged volcanic rock and yelped painfully.
The rain was coming down hard when the Old Man reached the summit of the broken highway. On the far side, the screaming savage raced down the embankment, kicking up dust in his wake.
If the rain had come earlier, I could have lost him in the ravines.
It’s still your only chance.
It will be dangerous. The water will come fast, pushing everything. I could get caught.
Better than getting caught in the open by the savage and his club.
The Old Man ran, dragging the tingling leg. The fire was gone but the foot was tender.
Forget it.
Farther down he could see a crack in the highway. When he reached it he lowered himself into it. The Old Man raised his head above the lip and spotted the savage. It had taken the savage longer than the Old Man would have expected for a young man to ascend the embankment. But now the Old Man could see why. Dragging the club with the one arm while the withered left arm remained tucked into the dirty overalls must have slowed him down.
The Old Man dropped into the dark crack in the highway and inched along the wall toward the ravine it opened into.
He could hear the slap of feet coming closer and then saw the figure of the savage above him. Screaming gibberish, the savage smashed the parking meter club into the pavement, sending bits of stone and sand down on the Old Man.
Years after the bombs, an earthquake had shaken the village. This crack must have been caused by the quake.
Mud began to sluice down upon him from above. The rain came down heavily on the dry desert floor. Wet hair hanging in his face, the savage raved in gibberish at the Old Man below.
You will need to come down here to get me.
The Old Man squeezed farther along the crevice. Then it opened into a jagged ravine that jogged off toward the south. The Old Man, who had felt a touch of closeness in the tight spaces of the crack, breathed deeply and coughed.
I said you will have to come get me, boy.
It’s the only way I can get rid of you.
The Old Man limped off along the ravine in the opposite direction from where Himbradda stood at the cliff’s edge.
