Savage Boy. Nick Cole
on, listening to Sergeant Presley’s voice and the stories he would tell of his life before the Boy.
“Ah got caught up in things I shouldn’t have. You do that and time gets away from you. It shoulda taken me two years to get across the States. Instead it’s taken me almost twenty-five or twenty-eight years. I’ve lost count at times. How old are you, Boy? You was eight when you come with me. But that was after I’d finished my business in Montana. That took me more than twenty to do. Maybe even thirty. Nah, couldn’t have been that much.”
“We fought over San Francisco maybe ten years. After the Chinese kicked us out of the city and dug in, that’s when the general sent us east to see if there was anyone left in D.C. My squad didn’t make it two weeks. Then it was just me. Until I met you, and that was up in Wyoming.”
“I spent three years fighting in a refugee camp up near Billings. That’s where I lost my guns. After that it was all the way up to Canada as a slave. Couldn’t believe it. A slave. I knew that camp was doomed from the start. I should’ve topped off on supplies and food and kept moving. Cost me all told seven years. And what I was thinking going back to get my guns after, I couldn’t tell you to this day. I knew there was no ammo. I didn’t have any ammo. But having a gun … People don’t know, see? Don’t know if it’s loaded. I musta walked a thousand miles round-trip to find out someone had dug up my guns. Stupid. Don’t ever do anything stupid, Boy.”
Later, the Boy limped alongside Horse thinking of “Reno,” and “Slave Camp” and “Billings” and “Influenza” and “Plague” and especially “Gone,” which was written next to many of the places that had once been cities. All the words that were written on Sergeant Presley’s map. And the names too.
In the night, the Boy and Horse entered a long valley. The old highway descended and he watched by moonlight its silver line trace the bottom of the valley and then rise again toward the mountains in the west. Below, in the center of the valley, he could see the remains of a town.
Picked over. Everything’s been picked over. You know it. I know it. It is known, Boy. Still you’ll want to have your look. You always did.
For a long time the Boy sat atop the rise until Horse began to fidget. Horse was getting crankier. Older. The Boy thought of Sergeant Presley. He patted Horse, rubbing his thick neck, then urged him forward not thinking about the slight pressure he’d put in his right leg to send the message that they should move on.
Chapter Three
THE BOY KEPT Horse to the side of the road, and in doing so he passed from bright moonlight into the shadows of long-limbed trees that grew alongside the road. He watched the dark countryside, waiting for a light to come on, smelling the wind for burning wood. Food. A figure moving in the dark.
At one point he put his right knee into Horse’s warm ribs, halting him. He rose up, feeling the ache across his left side. He’d smelled something. But it was gone now on a passing night breeze.
Be careful, Boy.
Sergeant Presley had avoided towns, people, and tribes whenever possible.
These days no good ever comes of such places, Boy. Society’s mostly gone now. We might as well be the last of humanity. At least, east of Frisco.
On the outskirts of a town, he came upon a farmhouse long collapsed in on itself.
I can come back here for wood in the morning.
Down the road he found another two-story farmhouse with a wide porch.
These are the best, Boy. You can hear if someone’s crossing the porch. You can be ready for ’em.
The Boy dismounted and led Horse across the overgrown field between the road and the old house.
He stopped.
He heard the soft and hollow hoot, hoot of an owl.
He watched the wide night sky to see if the bird would cross. But he saw nothing.
He dropped Horse’s lead and took his crossbow from its place on the saddle. He pulled a bolt from the quiver in his bag and loaded the crossbow.
He looked at Horse.
Horse would move when he moved. Stop when he stopped.
The Boy’s left side was stiff. It didn’t want to move and he had to drag it to the porch making more sound than he’d wished to. He opened the claw his withered left hand had become and rested the stock of the crossbow there.
He waited.
Again the owl. He heard the leathery flap of wings.
Your body will do what you tell it to, regardless of that broken wing you got, Boy.
The Boy took a breath and then silently climbed the rotting steps, willing himself to lightness. He crossed the porch in three quick steps, feeling sudden energy rush into his body as he drew his tomahawk off his belt.
Crossbow in the weak left hand, waiting, tomahawk held high in his strong right hand, the Boy listened.
Nothing.
He pushed gently, then firmly when the rotten door would not give. Inside there was nothing: some trash, a stone fireplace, bones. Stairs leading up into darkness.
When he was sure there was no one else in the old farmhouse he went back and led Horse inside. Working with the tomahawk he began to pull slats from the wall, and then gently laid them in the blackened stone fireplace. He made a fire, the first thing Sergeant Presley had taught him to do, and then closed the front door.
Don’t get comfortable yet. If they come, they’ll come soon.
He could not tell if this was himself or Sergeant Presley.
The Boy stood with his back to the fire, waiting.
When he heard their call in the night, his blood froze.
It was a short, high-pitched ululating like the sound of bubbling water. First he heard one, nearby. Then answers from far off.
You gotta choose, Boy. Git out or git ready.
The Boy climbed back onto Horse, who protested, and hooked the crossbow back into its place. He pulled the tomahawk out and bent low, whispering in Horse’s ear, the ceiling just above his head.
It’ll be fine. We can’t stay. Good Horse.
Horse flicked his tail.
I don’t know if he agrees, thought the Boy, but it doesn’t matter, does it?
The face that appeared in the window was chalk white, its eyes rimmed in black grease.
That’s camouflage, Boy. Lets him move around in the night. These are night people. Some of the worst kind.
The eyes in the window went wide, and then the face disappeared. He heard two quick ululations.
More coming, Boy!
The Boy kicked and aimed Horse toward the front door. Its shattered rottenness filled the Boy’s lungs as he clung to Horse’s side and they drove through the opening. He saw the shadow of a man thrown back against a wooden railing that gave way with a disinterested crack.
Other figures in dark clothes and with chalk-white faces crossed with black greased stripes ran through the high grass between the road and the farmhouse. The Boy kicked Horse toward an orchard of ragged bare-limbed trees that looked like broken bones in the moonlight.
Once in the orchard, he turned down a lane and charged back toward the road. Horse’s breathing came labored and hard.
“You were settling in for the night and now we must work,” he whispered into Horse’s twitching ears.
Ahead, one of the ash-white, black-striped figures leaped into the middle of the lane. The figure planted his feet, then raised a spear-carrying arm back over his shoulder.
The