knew.
Staff Sergeant Presley was gone now.
The last night had been the longest. The old man that Staff Sergeant Presley had become, bent and shriveled, faded as he gasped for air around the ragged remains of his throat, was gone. His once dark, chocolate brown skin turned gray. The muscles shriveled, the eyes milky. There had been brief moments of fire in those eyes over the final cold days. But at the last of Staff Sergeant Presley there had been no final moment. All of him had gone so quickly. As if stolen. As if taken.
You take everything with you.
The cold wind thundered against the sides of Gas Station all night long as it raced down from mountain passes far to the west. It careened across the dry whispering plain of husk and brush through a ravaged land of wild, dry corn. The wind raced past them in the night, moving east.
A week ago, Gas Station was as far as Staff Sergeant Presley could go, stopping as if they might start again, as they had so many times before. Gas Station was as far as the dying man could go. Would go.
I gotcha to the Eighty, Boy. Now all you got to do is follow it straight on into California. Follow it all the way to the Army in Oakland.
Now, in the morning’s heatless golden light, the Boy came back from hunting, having taken only a rabbit. Staff Sergeant Presley’s sunken chest did not rise. The Boy waited for a moment amongst the debris and broken glass turned to sandy grit of Gas Station, their final camp. He waited for Sergeant Presley to look at him and nod.
I’m okay.
I’ll be fine.
Get the wood.
But he did not. Staff Sergeant Presley lay unmoving in his blankets.
The Boy went out, crossing the open space where once a building stood. Now, wild corn had grown up through the cracked concrete pad that remained. He crossed the disappearing town to the old wooden shamble at its edge, maybe once a barn. Working with his tomahawk he had the slats off with a sharp crack in the cool, dry air of the high desert. Returning to Gas Station, he knew.
Staff Sergeant Presley was gone now.
The Boy crossed the open lot. Horse looked at him, then turned away. And there was something in that dismissal of Horse that told the Boy everything he needed to know and did not want to.
Staff Sergeant Presley was gone.
He laid the wood down near the crumbling curb and crossed into the tiny office that once watched the county road.
Staff Sergeant Presley’s hand was cold. His chest did not rise. His eyes were closed.
The Boy sat next to the body throughout that long afternoon until the wind came up.
You take everything with you.
And …
The Army is west. Keep going west, Boy. When you find them, show them the map. Tell them who I was. They’ll know what to do. Tell them Staff Sergeant Lyman Julius Presley, Third Battalion, 47th Infantry, Scouts. Tell them I made it all the way—all the way to D.C., never quit. Tell them there’s nothing left. No one.
And …
That’s the North Star.
And …
Don’t let that tomahawk fly unless you’re sure. Might not get it back.
And …
These were all towns. People once lived here. Not like your people. This was a neighborhood. You could have lived here if the world hadn’t ended. Gone to school, played sports. Not like your tents and horses.
And …
There are some who still know what it means to be human—to be a society. There are others … You got to avoid those others. That’s some craziness.
And …
“Boy” is what they called you. It’s the only thing you responded to. So “Boy” it is. This is how we…
Make camp.
Hunt.
Fight.
Ride Horse.
Track.
Spell.
Read.
Bury the dead.
Salute.
For a day the Boy watched the body. Later, he wrapped Staff Sergeant Presley in a blanket; blankets they had traded the Possum Hunters for, back two years ago, when their old blankets were worn thin from winter and the road, when Staff Sergeant Presley had still been young and always would be.
At the edge of the town that once was, in the golden light of morning, the Boy dug the grave. He selected a spot under a sign he could not spell because the words had faded. He dug in the warm, brown earth, pushing aside the yellowed, papery corn husks. The broken and cratered road nearby made a straight line into the west.
When the body was in the grave, covered, the Boy waited. Horse snorted. The wind came rolling across the wasteland of wild corn husks.
What now?
You take everything with you.
Horse.
Tomahawk.
Blankets.
Knife.
Map.
Find the Army, Boy. All the way west, near a big city called San Francisco. Tell them there’s nothing left and show them the map.
When he could still speak, that was what Staff Sergeant Presley had said.
And …
You take everything with you.
Which seemed something more than just a lesson.
Chapter Two
THE ROAD AND the map gave the number 80. For a time he knew where he was by the map’s lines and tracings. He alone would have to know where he was going from now on.
I followed him from the day he took me. Now I will need to lead, even if it is just myself and Horse.
Horse grazed by the side of the broken and cracked highway.
The short days were cold and it was best to let Horse eat when they could find dry grass. The Boy considered the snowcapped mountains rising in the distant west.
Sergeant Presley would’ve had a plan for those mountains.
You should be thinking about the snow, not about me, Boy.
The voice of Sergeant Presley in his head was strong, not as it had been in the last months of his life when it was little more than a rasp and in the end, nothing at all.
You’re just remembering me as I was, Boy.
I am.
You can’t think of me as someone who can get you outta trouble. I’m dead. I’m gone. You’ll have to take care of yourself now, Boy. I did all I could, taught you everything I knew about survival. Now you got to complete the mission. You got to survive. I told you there’d be mountains. Not like the ones you knew back east. These are real mountains. They’re gonna test you. Let me go now and keep moving, Boy.
The sun fell behind the mountains, creating a small flash as it disappeared beyond the snow-capped peaks. Horse moved forward in his impatient way. The Boy massaged his bad leg. This was the time when it began to hurt: at the end of the day as the heat faded and the cold night began.
Sometimes it’s better to ride through the night, Boy. Horse’ll keep you warm. Better than shiverin’ and not sleepin’. But stick to the roads if you do go on.
The Boy rode through the night, listening to Horse clop lazily along, the only sound for many hours. He watched his breath turn to vapor in