Nick Cole - The Wasteland Saga

Yes.

Black smoke erupted through windows and through the roof of a large warehouse as orange flames consumed the entire structure.

All their fuel must have been inside there, inside a big tank.

With no one to fight it, this fire will burn the city down in a few days.

And…

“What are we gonna do now, Poppa?”

We have, maybe, ten miles of fuel left.

So there is that also, my friend.

Yes.

The tank limped through the fence at the far end of the international airport. Ahead, dirty and ancient jetliners waited forever at their gates for passengers on that last and long-ago day. Doomsday.

The needle in the gas gauge rested firmly on Empty.

I will not give up.

As if you could fuel this tank with your words?

I will not give up.

As if you can make it all the way to Colorado Springs?

We have made it this far. I will not give up.

And do you think the fuel in these jets is still any good?

It has to be, and if it isn’t, we will find another way. I will not give up.

Why?

The Old Man did not answer himself.

Why? Why won’t you give up?

Silence as he maneuvered the tank under the wing of one of the biggest jets.

A 747 I think.

Why won’t you give up?

Stop!

Why?

Because in that moment when I saw the painted words of the Fool, I wanted to. Because this thing is bigger than an old man like me. Because this is too much, and seeing all that fuel we could’ve had, if we’d just gotten there earlier, go up in flames, crushed…

Crushed?

Silence.

Yes. It crushed me.

But you have been through worse, my friend.

Have I?

Yes.

“Will there be fuel here, Poppa?” she said over the intercom.

“Let us hope so.”

Outside and climbing onto the hot metal of the wing, burning his knees and the palms of his hands, he searched for the opening to the fuel tank.

I can’t find it.

Think. There is something you’re forgetting.

It’s underneath the wing, my friend.

Will the fuel still be good after all these years?

I will not give up.

It’s underneath the wing.

“I found it!” he called out to them.

The Boy dragged the fueling hose away from the tank.

Think. There is something…

“Wait!”

He opened the cover to the wing fueling nozzle.

There will be water in the bottom of the fuel reservoir after all these years.

Water is heavier than fuel.

The Old Man found the lever that drained the fuel tank.

“Stand back!”

He pushed the lever and fuel gushed out onto the ground.

How will I know when it isn’t water?

He waited.

Did it change color?

It smells more like kerosene now.

“Okay, bring me the hose,” he said, slamming the fuel release lever back into the closed position.

Hopefully the fuel will not have as much water in it now. Now there will be a better chance that it will burn.

The tank drank up all the fuel it could from the insides of the old plane. Afterward, they topped off the two reserve drums still strapped to the turret.

In his mind the Old Man saw the map.

This is enough to make it there.

But what about getting back?

THEY LET THE spilled fuel dry. Over a fire of discarded luggage, they spitted and roasted some rabbit the Boy had taken near the settlement. They drank water in the shadows of the old terminal. Broken glass guarded the shadowy interior of the place, and they could only catch glimpses of suitcases and curtains near the daylight, high up on the concourses above.

There must have been panic that day.

I remember.

The Old Man made them stand far away and then went to the tank.

Off in the distance the fire in the center of town seemed to grow, its oily top like an anvil of smoke or an evil bird looming high over the city.

If the aircraft fuel explodes when I start the tank, would they be safe?

Would he protect her? Would he take her back to Tucson?

What other choice do you have, my friend?

The Old Man started the APU, waited a few seconds, and then fired the turbine. He watched the Boy and his granddaughter struggling with a manhole cover they’d managed to pry up from the tarmac as he listened for trouble within the noise of the tank’s engine.

It sounds rougher and this time there is gray smoke instead of black.

Is that better? Is gray better than black?

I don’t know, my friend.

The Old Man backed the tank out from underneath the jumbo jet. He drove down the runway once and then back.

If the fuel wasn’t any good then it should be out of fuel or dying now, right, Santiago? The temperature gauge is also a cause for concern.

Yes, but it runs, my friend, and for now, that is enough.

In the distance, the black plumes above the fire had grown as smoke drifted east over the dead city.

The Old Man looked around at the terminal.

I wonder if my dad ever came here in the jets he flew.

In a few days the fire will come and it will all be gone. Maybe by tonight even.

Yes.

The ancient jets, immobile and waiting, seemed to him as if all they needed were pilots, pilots like his dad, and once again they might leap away from the earth.

I remember being pressed into my seat as we raced down the runway.

I remember that my feet did not reach the floor.

I remember that my dad was up front, at the controls of the plane.

I was very proud to be his son.

They pushed north as the flames consuming Albuquerque climbed toward the old highway on the eastern edge of town. For miles they could see the billowing black smoke reaching high into the iron blue of noonday.

The old highway was sun-bleached and rent by gaping cracks as the tank pushed upward through a ponderosa of rocks and stunted twisting pines.

There is only Santa Fe between us and Colorado Springs now. It is the last major city.

When he showed the Boy the map and pointed toward Santa Fe, asking if the Boy knew anything about what they might find there, the Boy only shook his head.

In the late afternoon they arrived in Santa Fe.

The Old Man turned off the tank and watched the pink rocks in the last of the hot day.

There is nothing here.

The Old Man looked hard into the dense tangle of weed bracken and cactus that spread west of the highway across a wide rise that ended in a chalky ridge and tired rocky hills beyond.

If there was a city here it is gone now.

Were they nuked?

The Old Man checked the dosimeter.

There is radiation.

On the sudden and very light afternoon breeze that began to sweep the place, the Old Man could hear bone chimes rattling against each other, hidden but there all the same.

So what is their story of salvage?

The Old Man watched as purple shadows began to lengthen and as the sun sank into the western sands. Within the brush he could see the frames and structures of rotting buildings signaling their surrender to the landscape.

The land turned to red and what was not red was purple and cool.

The buildings are like victims tied to a stake, signaling through the flames that they were here. Trying to communicate their last message.

What do you know of such things, my friend?

THEY DROVE ON until the dosimeter was back down to an acceptable level.

High. But not too high.

There will always be radiation now. With the amount of bombs we used, there must be.

I never fired one.

Yes. But it was your generation that can never be forgiven.

Silence.

In the dark, beside the tank, watching their fire turn and leap as it consumed the sweet-scented local pine, the Boy spoke.