Nick Cole - The Road is a River

“Says they need our help,” said Cork.

“We need help!” shouted Pancho.

More murmuring. A few comments. Cork handed the note to Pancho in defeat. Villagers drifted away. Only a few remained, all in agreement with Pancho. In agreement as he tossed the note into the wind and the paper fluttered down the street.

And then they were all gone and only the Old Man remained, invisible and unconsidered.

He went to pick up the note.

On it was written a message.

To whomever is operating the radio station at Tucson. Please tune your receiver to radio frequency 107.9 on the FM band and send us a message so that we can communicate with you. We are trapped inside a bunker and need help . Beneath that, Please stay away from me. I’m contaminated with radiation .

That night the Old Man snuck out of his room and made his way to the radio station the villagers had set up inside the Federal Building.

“Are you sure, Grandpa? Are you sure we should try to contact them?”

He raised a finger to his lips.

His granddaughter nodded, excited to be playing the game of not being found and doing things that should not be done in the dead of night while others slept.

When they reached the radio room they found it unlocked. Inside all was dark. The equipment had been turned off. The Old Man closed the door behind them and for a moment the two of them listened to the silence.

The Old Man switched on his flashlight.

“How does it work, Grandpa?”

“Power. Electronics require power. So we must find the switch or the button or the toggle that will turn it on.”

“Toggle,” she pronounced and laughed softly.

The Old Man searched and just when he had given up ever finding out how to turn on the power, his granddaughter’s thin hand darted forward.

“Is this it, Grandpa?”

The Old Man didn’t know if it was.

“Do you want to try it?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Okay then. Try it.”

She hesitated for a moment and then with only the confidence that the young possess in their movements, she flipped the switch. Soft yellow light rose behind the instruments. Green and red buttons illuminated. There was a faint scent of burning ozone.

The Old Man watched power course through the ancient technology.

After the bombs I never thought I would see such things again.

He found the frequency keypad and typed in the numbers from the slip of paper.

“Grandpa?”

The Old Man stopped.

“What if …” She hesitated and began again. “What if my dad and the others are right?”

The Old Man could hear the worry in her voice.

“They are right.”

“They are?”

“Yes. They are. But that doesn’t make it right to do nothing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s right to be afraid. It’s right to be afraid of what you don’t know. What could hurt you, you should be afraid of that, right?”

“Yes.”

“But sometimes you have to do a thing even if you are afraid to do it.”

“Because it’s the right thing?”

“Yes, and because the world has got to become a better place.”

For you to grow old in.

“Okay then, Grandpa. We’ll do it.”

“You’re very smart. And brave too.”

“You’re brave, Grandpa. Like when you were in the desert.”

“I was afraid too.”

“But brave also.”

If you say so.

“So do we do this? Do we try to help whoever sent the message?” he asked her.

The young girl watched the power coursing through the machine as buttons lit up and needles wandered and settled. The Old Man watched her eyes. Watched her reach a decision.

“Yes.”

The Old Man hit ENTER and a green button lit up. Stamped in black letters upon it were the words “Active Freq.”

The Old Man moved the speaking mic close to his mouth.

“What do I say?” he asked his granddaughter.

She reached forward and pointed at a button.

“You have to push this when you talk.”

“How did you know that?”

“I’ve watched others.”

Of course you did. Nothing escapes you.

“All right, then, what should I say once I push that button?”

She touched her tiny chin with her thumb and forefinger, which was her way of thinking and was a gesture he remembered her first making when she was only three turning four.

“Tell them, ‘we are here.’”

“Just that? ‘We are here’?”

“Yes, just that.”

The Old Man cleared his throat. He moved closer to the mic again and this time took hold of it. His finger hovered over the button his granddaughter had indicated he should push.

He pressed the button.

“Hello,” he began. He looked at his granddaughter. She nodded.

“We are here,” said the Old Man.

“Let go of the button now, Grandpa,” she whispered.

They waited.

And then they heard the voice.

“Who am I speaking with?” The voice was a woman. Older. But clear and crisp. A voice used to giving commands and having them obeyed.

“Us,” said the Old Man who had needed to be reminded that he must touch the button to reply.

“All right,” said the voice cautiously. “Are you operating the radio station that just went active a few weeks ago in Tucson?”

“Yes,” replied the Old Man. “Who are you?”

“My name is Brigadier General Natalie Watt. I’m the commander of forces at Cheyenne Mountain Complex and we need your help. We’re trapped inside our bunker and we need to get out very soon.”

The Old Man and his granddaughter looked at each other in the thick silence of the radio room.

“Are you still there?” asked the General.

“Yes.”

“Can you help us?” she asked.

Pause.

“Yes.”

“Will you?”

Pause.

“Yes,” said the Old Man.

The Old Man watched from the high window as his granddaughter slipped back through the quiet streets of Tucson to her family’s home. It was well after midnight.

If I go on this journey, I must go alone. It is too dangerous for her to come with me.

He thought of the route. All the way into California, then back to Nevada, through New Mexico, and up to Colorado Springs.

It is over a thousand miles. The tank can only hold two hundred and sixty-four miles’ worth of fuel according to General Natalie Watt. She said I could scavenge. Tanks can draw fuel from many sources. Even kerosene. There are no guarantees of fuel and then there is the radiation. Well, that would be why you need to go to California for the extra gear. And after I cross all that desert, I am to aim a laser at the back of a mountain surrounded by unknown enemies. A Laser Target Designator. And who are these enemies? The General doesn’t know. She only knows they are trying to tunnel into the bunker and that when they do, they will flood the complex with radiation and kill everyone inside. They only opened the main door once so that the dead man, Captain Roberts, could drive his dune buggy out of the complex.

There is too much for just an old man like me to think about. This is too much for just me.

A one-way trip, my friend. He’d volunteered.

General Watt said the radiation is so bad at the front entrance that Captain Roberts probably absorbed a lethal dose in just the few minutes it took him to drive away. So I cannot take my granddaughter with me to such a place.

The Old Man watched the night.

In my nightmare she is crying for me. I am dying. Just like I almost did after the last time I went into the wasteland alone. She is crying and there is nothing I can do to make it better. The last thing I will ever hear is her grief for me.