The Road is a River. Nick Cole

the message is for us,” interrupted Cork.

      Pancho, patient, strong, confident in who he was, smiled.

      “And that, Cork, is who we must take care of. Us.”

      Everyone began to murmur.

      The Old Man turned away, looking down the street, searching for his granddaughter.

      Maybe I can find her and we can go salvaging in the afternoon. That would be fun if I feel up to it.

      “There are worse than those people called the Horde,” proclaimed Pancho above the clamor.

      “How do you know that?” someone asked.

      “How do you know there isn’t?” replied Pancho.

      Quiet.

      “We do what that note says and we open a door we may not be able to close.”

      Quieter.

      “Even now,” continued Pancho, “you are saying to yourselves ‘we have weapons, the tanks, some guns left by the Army.’ Well, you don’t have an endless supply. And do you want to go down that road? Do you want conflict? No, none of you do. You want tomatoes and lemons and homes just like I do. Right now, our greatest weapon is not the Old Man’s tank or our few rifles. Right now our greatest weapon is our invisibility. Whoever sent that man wants to confirm that we are here. They picked up our broadcast, which I advise we turn off immediately, and now they want to know who we are and what we’re doing out here. If we respond to that message, who knows who we’ll be talking to. All I ask is that you consider this. The world isn’t a nice place. It hasn’t been a nice place for a long time. We answer that message and we would be unwise if we did not expect the worst. In fact, we would be stupid.”

      “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.

       Chapter Seven

      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