The Road is a River. Nick Cole

knows this kind of lock. He has broken it many times and if one knows how to use a crowbar, the design of the container and the position of the lock will do most of the work.

      The Old Man knows.

      Forgetting the precarious and illusory roof, thinking only of salvage, blinded by salvage, he breaks the lock.

      The doors swing open on a rusty bass note groan.

      The Old Man smells the thick scent of cardboard.

      Inside, stacked to the ceiling of the container are thin boxes, one lying atop another, long and flat.

      He takes hold of the topmost and drags it away from the container onto the roof and back a bit where he feels it will be safer to stand.

      Bending over the box he reads, seeing his granddaughter’s little girl shadow lengthen next to his, as the day turns past noon. He reads the words the military once printed on these long flat boxes.

      “Radiation Shielding Kit, M-1 Abrams MK-3, 1 ea.”

       Chapter Fifteen

      “By the time communication with the outside world had completely failed,” explained General Watt after they’d re-established contact, “fourteen military-grade nuclear weapons had already been used within Colorado alone. I determined that it would be beneficial to you and your team to obtain a shielding kit in order to protect you, once you enter Colorado.”

      The Old Man watched the radio, thinking.

      He held the mic in his trembling fingers, his weathered thumb as far away as possible from the transmit button.

      “We have no idea …” General Watt paused, her voice tired. “I have no idea how bad things are above. But I wanted you to have some protection. Just in case. That’s the reason I directed you to obtain the Radiation Shielding Kit.”

      “And was that also the reason you didn’t tell us what we were going to find until we found it?”

      You know the reason, my friend. You are angry at someone because they lied to you in order to save their life.

      I am angry because …

      Because of that, my friend. Because of that, and nothing more.

      “Is there anything else you’re not telling us, General?” asked the Old Man.

      “No,” replied General Watt. “There is nothing. I know very little beyond our limited access to a failing satellite network. In truth …”

      Pause.

      Static.

      The Old Man saw the satellite in his mind, aging, drifting steadily out over the Pacific horizon once more.

      “The truth, General.”

      “Call me Natalie.”

      “The truth, Natalie,” said the Old Man softening his tone.

      “The truth is, I don’t even know if this plan will work. It is merely our last chance. I didn’t want to tell you about the Radiation Shielding Kit because I estimated that you might not want to become involved if you knew there was a possibility of being exposed to high levels of radiation. Though I have no contact with those on the surface, I hypothesize that a fear of radiation poisoning has evolved into a healthy respect, if not outright avoidance policy, among postwar communities.”

      Sometimes she sounds so detached. As if the world is little more than mathematical chances and equations that must be solved so that an answer can be found.

      And hoped for, my friend. After so many years of living underground, what else might she have except some numbers that give her hope?

      And if I know she is lying to me, why are we continuing down this road?

      Because you don’t know if she is lying to you.

      “All right, General,” said the Old Man. “I’m sorry. Thank you for trying to protect us.”

      I should turn back now. We …

      “Natalie.”

      “Natalie,” agreed the Old Man.

      Natalie.

      “The shielding kit will protect you through most of southern Colorado. All you have to do is get close to the collapsed backdoor entrance and then aim the Laser Target Designator at the back of the mountain. We’ll do the rest.”

      The rest.

      Do I want to know what the rest is? Not today. There has been too much already for just today.

      That is the love of letting things go for now.

      The day that follows is hot and dusty.

      They pass through the crumbling remains of eastern Southern California.

      All day long they maneuver through scattered debris, time-frozen traffic jams, and long-collapsed overpasses while the Old Man scans the western horizon.

      I was raised over there, beyond those mountains that stand in the way, near the sea. Like you, Santiago.

      I have not thought of those places since the bombs. Which is not true.

      In the days after, I thought of them all the time.

      And then you married your wife and forgot them, my friend.

      Yes. There was the work of salvage and you had to concentrate to dig out its story. There was no time for where I had come from. There was no time to think of where I could never go again. There was salvage. My wife. Our shack. My son. His family. My granddaughter. They were my salvage and they replaced all those burned-up places that were gone.

      “Grandpa, how will we know where the 395 is?”

      I thought only of them, my new family, in the days that followed the bombs.

      “Roads lead to roads,” he said. “If we follow this big road, we will find another road. In time we will find this little highway once called the 395.”

      The dull hum of the tank’s communications system.

      “Some always leads to more, right, Grandpa?”

      “Right.”

      Some always leads to more.

      That night they camp near the off-ramp at the intersection where the big highway spends itself into the untouchable west and the little ribbon of road the map names the 395 drops off into the lowest places of the earth. Death Valley.

      They eat rations heated in the Old Man’s blue percolator and sit around a campfire made of ancient wood pulled from the wreckage of a fallen house built long before the bombs and well before the science that would reveal their terribleness.

      Yucca trees, spiky and dark, alien against the fading light, surround them and the silent tank.

      The Old Man thinks of the fuel gauge and its needle just below the halfway point.

      The drums atop the tank are empty.

      If you think all night you will not sleep, my friend.

      Natalie says there will be fuel, of a sort, in China Lake.

      General Watt.

      Natalie.

      She sounds old. Like me. “Grandpa, why do they call it the Death Valley?”

      She has been quiet for most of the afternoon. Her questions have been few, as though the place that makes all her questions is overwhelmed by the road and our adventure upon it.

      Maybe the world is bigger than she ever imagined, my friend.

      “It was called Death Valley even before I was born.”

      “So not because of