The Road

I think so. One last look around.

I'm kind of scared.

We're okay. Just keep watch.

We've got more than we can carry now.

I know. I just want to take a look.

Okay.

He went over the ship from bow to stern again. Stop. Think. He sat in the floor of the saloon with his feet in the rubber boots propped against the pedestal of the table. It was already getting dark. He tried to remember what he knew about boats. He got up and went out on deck again. The boy was sitting by the fire. He stepped down into the cockpit and sat on the bench with his back against the bulkhead, his feet on the deck almost at eye level. He had on nothing but the sweater and the souwester outfit over that but there was little warmth to it and he could not stop shivering. He was about to get up again when he realized that he'd been looking at the fasteners in the bulkhead on the far side of the cockpit. There were four of them. Stainless steel. At one time the benches had been covered with cushions and he could see the ties at the corner where they'd ripped away. At the bottom center of the bulkhead just above the seat there was a nylon strap sticking out, the end of it doubled and cross-stitched. He looked at the fasteners again. They were rotary latches with wings for your thumb. He got up and knelt at the bench and turned each one all the way to the left. They were springloaded and when he had them undone he took hold of the strap at the bottom of the board and pulled it and the board slid down and came free. Inside under the deck was a space that held some rolled sails and what looked to be a two man rubber raft rolled and tied with bungee cords. A pair of small plastic oars. A box of flares. And behind that was a composite toolbox, the opening of the lid sealed with black electrical tape. He pulled it free and found the end of the tape and peeled it off all the way around and unlatched the chrome snaps and opened the box. Inside was a yellow plastic flashlight, an electric strobebeacon powered by a drycell, a first-aid kit. A yellow plastic EPIRB. And a black plastic case about the size of a book. He lifted it out and unsnapped the latches and opened it. Inside was fitted an old 37 millimeter bronze flarepistol. He lifted it from the case in both hands and turned it and looked at it. He depressed the lever and broke it open. The chamber was empty but there were eight rounds of flares fitted in a plastic container, short and squat and newlooking. He fitted the pistol back in the case and closed and latched the lid.

He waded ashore shivering and coughing and wrapped himself in a blanket and sat in the warm sand in front of the fire with the boxes beside him. The boy crouched and tried to put his arms around him which at least brought a smile. What did you find, Papa? he said.

I found a first-aid kit. And I found a flarepistol.

What's that?

I'll show you. It's to signal with.

Is that what you went to look for?

Yes.

How did you know it was there?

Well, I was hoping it was there. It was mostly luck.

He opened the case and turned it for the boy to see.

It's a gun.

A flaregun. It shoots a thing up in the air and it makes a big light.

Can I look at it?

Sure you can.

The boy lifted the gun from the case and held it. Can you shoot somebody with it? he said.

You could.

Would it kill them?

No. But it might set them on fire.

Is that why you got it?

Yes.

Because there's nobody to signal to. Is there?

No.

I'd like to see it.

You mean shoot it?

Yes.

We can shoot it.

For real?

Sure.

In the dark?

Yes. In the dark.

It could be like a celebration.

Like a celebration. Yes.

Can we shoot it tonight?

Why not?

Is it loaded?

No. But we can load it.

The boy stood holding the gun. He pointed it toward the sea. Wow, he said.

He got dressed and they set out down the beach carrying the last of their plunder. Where do you think the people went, Papa?

That were on the ship?

Yes.

I dont know.

Do you think they died?

I dont know.

But the odds are not in their favor.

The man smiled. The odds are not in their favor?

No. Are they?

No. Probably not.

I think they died.

Maybe they did.

I think that's what happened to them.

They could be alive somewhere, the man said. It's possible. The boy didnt answer. They went on. They'd wrapped their feet in sailcloth and bound them up in blue plastic pampooties cut from a tarp and they left strange tracks in their comings and going. He thought about the boy and his concerns and after a while he said: You're probably right. I think they're probably dead.

Because if they were alive we'd be taking their stuff.

And we're not taking their stuff.

I know.

Okay.

So how many people do you think are alive?

In the world?

In the world. Yes.

I dont know. Let's stop and rest.

Okay.

You're wearing me out.

Okay.

They sat among their bundles.

How long can we stay here, Papa?

You asked me that.

I know.

We'll see.

That means not very long.

Probably.

The boy poked holes in the sand with his fingers until he had a circle of them. The man watched him. I dont know how many people there are, he said. I dont think there are very many.

I know. He pulled his blanket about his shoulders and looked out down the gray and barren beach.

What is it? the man said.

Nothing.

No. Tell me.

There could be people alive someplace else.

Whereplace else?

I dont know. Anywhere.

You mean besides on earth?

Yes.

I dont think so. They couldnt live anyplace else.

Not even if they could get there?

No.

The boy looked away.

What? the man said.

He shook his head. I dont know what we're doing, he said.

The man started to answer. But he didnt. After a while he said: There are people. There are people and we'll find them. You'll see.

He fixed di

Yes.

That's okay.

Can you write the alphabet?

I can write it.

We dont work on your lessons any more.

I know.

Can you write something in the sand?

Maybe we could write a letter to the good guys. So if they came along they'd know we were here. We could write it up there where it wouldnt get washed away.

What if the bad guys saw it?

Yeah.

I shouldnt have said that. We could write them a letter.

The boy shook his head. That's okay, he said.

He loaded the flarepistol and as soon as it was dark they walked out down the beach away from the fire and he asked the boy if he wanted to shoot it.

You shoot it, Papa. You know how to do it.

Okay.

He cocked the gun and aimed it out over the bay and pulled the trigger. The flare arced up into the murk with a long whoosh and broke somewhere out over the water in a clouded light and hung there. The hot tendrils of magnesium drifted slowly down the dark and the pale foreshore tide started in the glare and slowly faded. He looked down at the boy's upturned face.

They couldnt see it very far, could they, Papa?

Who?

Anybody.

No. Not far.

If you wanted to show where you were.

You mean like to the good guys?

Yes. Or anybody that you wanted them to know where you were.