Page 33 of The Last Stars in the Sky
The man glances at his wife again. She looks down at the floor. “It’s not how it was before,” he says quietly. “When everyone was waiting for something to happen.”
“What do you mean?” But already Daniel thinks he knows. The shocked lull after the first few strikes has come to an end, as he knew it would. What has replaced it?
“It’s dangerous,” the woman states flatly. “No one’s in charge anymore, not the army, not the police. There’s no law anywhere.”
“And when the law does show up…” The man glances at his wife. She purses her lips. “Better if they don’t,” he finishes, and Daniel feels a chill of apprehension. How on earth is he going to get to Sam?
“Can I travel?” he asks. “Are the roads passable?”
“They’repassable,” the man says, and Daniel knows there’s something he isn’t saying.
“Please,” he says, “just tell me. What’s going on? What is it like out there?”
A silence falls, like a simmering. The man and woman look at each other again, and the woman gives a little shrug. Daniel realizes he’s clenching his fists and he uncurls them, smooths them out on his lap like crumpled pieces of paper. Takes a slow, even breath because his heart is racing, and he’s feeling dizzy.
“It’s not safe,” the man finally says. “Not anywhere, but especially any towns, cities. There are gangs. Violence. The police have as good as disappeared. The army…” He shook his head, his mouth twisting with disgust. “Sometimes, they come, in trucks, tanks even, they wave their guns around. Sometimes,they shoot them. They’re as scared as the rest of us, and no one knows what’s going on. The government—”
“There is no government,” the woman bursts out, as if she could not stay silent a moment longer. “The president, pfft! He’s disappeared, down into some bolt-hole. He doesn’t care.”
“What about other countries?” Daniel asks. “Have there been strikes in other countries?” Or is the rest of the world simply watching the United States get blown up? Enjoying it, even?
The man shrugs as he blows more smoke up at the ceiling. “Who knows.”
“Has the US retaliated?” he asks, and he’s met with more shrugs.
He needs to get out there and see for himself, Daniel realizes. Take his chances. He’s crossed the border, he reminds himself. That was the hardest part. Hopefully. It’s just a matter of miles between him and Sam, that’s all.
“I need to go,” he tells them. “My other things…” He trails off, tensing, because he doesn’t know these people, isn’t sure if they’ll give him back his belongings. But they did take care of him, he reminds himself. They fed him, they kept him, and they didn’t have to.
The woman seems to read his expression, his uncertainty, because she stiffens, drawing herself up with dignity, wide shoulders thrown back, managing to look down her nose at him even though she’s a foot shorter than he is. “I will get your things,” she states with dignity, and Daniel feels ashamed.
She leaves the room, returning a minute later with his backpack, his rifle, his watch, everything. The money he’d put into different pockets has all been taken out, paperclipped together in a wad of crinkly bills.
“They had to dry,” she explains stiffly. “It’s all there. Count it, if you want.”
“Thank you.” He takes the money without counting it, even though part of him still wants to.
“The rifle dried out,” the man adds. “But I don’t know about your ammo. If it got too wet, it might not work. You’ll have to see.”
“Thank you,” Daniel says again. He is, quite suddenly, overcome by their kindness. They could have left him to freeze to death. Why didn’t they?
“You should stay the night,” the man advises. “It’s nearly dark, and you need the rest. Leave in the morning, early. Where did you say you were going?”
“Clarkson, between Utica and Syracuse.”
“You’ll have to avoid 81, any of the main roads, any towns.” The man gestures to the woman, who goes to a drawer and takes out a map, the kind everyone used before phones, crinkly and creased, that were always impossible to refold.
The man unfolds it on the table, smooths out its deep creases before pointing with one gnarled, nicotine-stained finger to where they are—just outside Redwood, New York, Route 37, a few miles from the StLawrence River. His finger traces various lines, avoiding all the highways. “Route 37 to 26 to 12, all the way to Utica,” he muses, “but turn off before you get to the city itself, or even the outskirts. I heard some renegades had taken over the Home Depot just outside of Watertown, barricaded themselves in there…you just don’t know.” He hacks, spits into his empty coffee cup. Daniel realizes he has been chewing a wad of tobacco; his spittle is a deep, reddish brown. The man resumes tracing the route with his finger. “Then Route 46, maybe, to 31…there’s Clarkson.” He jabs at the map with his finger. “Don’t go on 90. Keep to the back roads, skirt around any towns if you can, even small ones.” He glances up, his expression somber, even sad. “It’s got to be over a hundred miles.”
A hundred if he’d been able to take the highway, but walking along all these meandering roads will add a lot of distance. A lot of time. Daniel swallows. How on earth is he going to do it?
The man refolds the map. “You won’t be able to walk it,” he tells him, a simple statement of fact.
Daniel looks down at his lap. He knows it is true. Even with all the other obstacles, he doesn’t have enough food or enough stamina for that kind of journey, not now, when he’s been in bed with a fever for a week.
“I have to,” he says, also a statement of fact. He looks up to see the man nod slowly.
“We may have something,” he says.
