Matthew Wilson

Nevada 164 was a miserable thing, even before the bombs fell. The narrow strip of road cut through the Mojave Wastes, connecting the paltry town of Searchlight in the east with the even less impressive settlement of Nipton to the west. Mostly it sat unused and abandoned. On rare occasions, a caravan or two would trek it, typically slavers from whatever remained of Southern California.

On the slope before the entrance to the road, a young man. He leans against a sign, though the letters have long since faded. His name is Gene. He is of medium height, athletic, clean shaven. From a distance, you couldn’t tell him from Adam. He gazes out at the Wastes in front of him. There is chewing tobacco in his mouth, and he enjoys it thoroughly and without haste, savoring it between his teeth and his gums. In his hand is an old rifle, a Remington, chambered in .308. He calls it Ruby.

Behind him, a blue sky. The sun has just risen beyond the distant horizon, and now the town of Searchlight, the only home he’s ever known, is cast in shadows by its light. The heat is blazing. It scorches the already-scorched earth beneath his feet, but he has to walk now, or else he risks being out after dark, when temperatures can dip below freezing.

He spits, slips his rifle onto his back, and begins to walk along the shoulder of Nevada 164, towards the heart of the Wasteland surrounding.

He had told the old man his plan just the night before. They had been sitting together—as they usually did, in the usual spot—just outside the old man’s home on the western edge of town, since Marlow didn’t do so kindly to them hanging around his bar. And you couldn’t beat that view.

They traded stories of days gone by.

“What other sorta stunts did y’all pull?” Gene asked. The old man chuckled.

“Nothin you ain’t gotten up to yourself, I suppose. Just that it was easier back then before this whole Harvey nonsense and all.” In the last few years, a man named Harvey—one of those “old world” types who went around speaking about the way the world used to be—tried to organize some sort of government within the small town. They even started some kind of school in one of the pre-war ruins. Not that Gene was young enough nor interested in such a thing. “Used to be if some fellow did somethin unruly—spilled some undue blood or what have you—couple guys would get some rope, and that was that. Matter solved. Now we’re supposed to go through ‘proper means,’ or however he puts it, and ain’t nobody gonna get their just deserts. Well, hell, I lived in the ‘old world,’ and I don’t see what’s so bad about ways things was before.”

The old man was the only person left in town who lived before the Great War, as far as Gene knew. Although, he was very young when the bombs fell, and supposedly, his only memory from before had something to do with his mother.

“A damn shame is what it is.” Gene shook his head. “Now get this: the other day, I find myself on the other side of town. Now, I figure there ain’t many people living in them ruins, and even if there are, I figure they’s not gonna care much if I go picking through there. Well, I find myself a place I haven’t explored much before, and ’for I can even step foot inside, Old Mr. Jones comes out with his piece aimed at me, and he’s hollerin something about ‘his home’ and cursing me out and shooin me away. Now, how was I to know he’d taken up in there for the night? Last I knew he was living on the West side with the rest of us, and now all of sudden he’s talking about ‘my property’ and ‘trespassing’ as if pre-war ruins ain’t fair game no more.”

The old man offers a disapproving grunt and shakes his head.

“Suddenly folks tryin to cling to ways of a world already dead. Bunch of delusional types, like them individuals up in Vegas playin dress up all day. You hear they tryin to get us to trade in their own currency now? Them chips from the casinos there, those little colored things. Wantin us and all the other settlements ’round this area to switch over. Some kind of scam if you ask me. Not that anybody would. They’d have us trekking up and down US 95 just to trade with them. Shit’s bad enough we gotta go between here and Nipton. Or even Cottonwood Cove.”

Gene nodded. US 95 was the highway between Searchlight and Vegas. The journey was long, slow, and arduous. He had never done it before, nor did he ever have a desire to. There was no reason for him to, not when Nevada 164 provided him with all he needed.

“This town’s gone to hell, is what’s happened. You know Harvey’s gonna let ’em run all over us soon enough.”

“Oh, shut your mouth. Whole world went to hell when they decided to nuke the damn place. And now we’s the fools for letting a bunch of play-pretends shake up the natural order of things.”

“Mhm, mhm.”

The old man filled up Gene’s canteen one last time. The sky was turning over to shades of pink and purple, and soon they would need to take shelter. They could already feel the first whispers of nighttime brush against their skin.

‘You goin back to your daddy tonight?”

“Aw, hell. He ain’t even been home for days now. Last I saw him, he was hidin out somewhere on the east side, drunk outta his mind.”

“Mmh.”

“Not that I mind. I’d rather him out the house than in.”

“Believe it or not, your daddy was good folk once upon a time. Used to hang around together. A shame what he’s done to himself.”

“Not that I would know.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.”

Gene nodded slowly and took a sip of water, savoring it.

Now, as he walks along the road, remembering how refreshing it had tasted causes him to press his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth. The sun beats down upon him, and the rags covering his head can only do so much. The town is far enough behind him now, but he keeps going forward.

On both sides of Nevada 164, Joshua trees litter the Wasteland. They form a type of forest entirely unique to the Mojave. Ahead, the road curves northward and skirts around the McCullough Range. To the north, Vegas, just beyond the lowland mountains. Recently, on clear nights, you can even see the lights, seemingly brighter and brighter as time goes on.

But here, now, it is not night, and the sun ravages the Wastes. Gene has walked for three hours, as far as he can guess. In front of him, a large mountain imposes itself. He wipes the sweat off his brow.

“Shit.”

He slumps to the ground and pulls out his canteen. It’s almost halfway empty. Alarming, considering he still must walk back.

“Hell.”

He turns his face upwards, towards the mountains. The sun beats down upon him, and he must shield his eyes from it. He hopes they will be here soon, his target.

He composes himself and shifts to a crouching position among the Joshua trees beside him. He pulls his rifle from behind his back, grunts, and digs the stock into his shoulder. He pulls the rifle up to view the scope—up to 10x, worth a month of pillaging ruins. Adjusting the optic with his thumb and index fingers, he focuses on where the road curves ahead.

There is nothing.

He lowers the rifle and chews on his bottom lip. He wishes he had brought some tobacco. He tilts his head slightly to get a general idea of where the sun is. He figures it’s around time.

“Well.”

He waits, periodically checking the road through his rifle. The sun moves through the sky above him, its path lackadaisical. There is little sound. Just the breeze and the dust moving against the trees, through the spikey leaves. His heart beats steadily in his chest, and a drop of sweat, potent, forges a line through the grime covering his face. Occasionally, he sips some water. He takes a deep breath, holds, and releases.

Eventually, when checking his scope, he spots some movement.

“There’s you.”

He estimates them to be about 20 minutes away, maybe less. The scope doesn’t zoom far enough to get a great image of them, but he knows it’s his caravan. Carefully, he moves back into the brush. Patiently, he waits.

Once they’re within range, he finally gets a good look. In total, there are only two guards, armed with a rifle each; although, he can’t tell from this distance what exactly they are. Most likely they’ll be cheap bolt-actions, slow and hard to use in close combat. Perfect for him. They walk alongside their cargo: some beast of burden carrying a rather large payload and a single slave—a boy, probably no more than 14 years old, fettered.

They came from Southern California, but the Mojave was not their final destination. Slavers traveled straight through Searchlight towards Cottonwood Cove, where they ultimately sell their wares down river towards whatever remained of Arizona. Searchlight hadn’t been so accepting of these human salesmen as of recently, but they were tolerated on account of the crucial supplies they brought with them.

No matter how many times Gene hit them, they couldn’t change routes. Vegas had outlawed their presence, and Nevada 164 was the only way to Cottonwood Cove. It was the perfect scenario for him.

They are within range now, and through his scope, Gene can almost see the whites of their eyes. They walk in silence, the guards to the front, and the boy in the rear. The men are unafraid, unaware. The boy stares at the ground. They walk past the ruins of a very old car, pre-war, and this seems like as good of a time as any.

He reaches down to his belt and pulls out a single round of .308 Winchester. Each one was worth 30 pieces—the small shards of scrap metal they currently used for trading. The cartridge is smooth to the touch, the metal warm, and he rubs his thumb over it with care. He inserts it directly in the chamber and pushes it firmly into place with the bolt of the gun. A satisfying sound of metal against metal.

He breathes deeply and lines up his shot. The man—his victim—in his crosshairs stares unknowingly past him down the road. His finger grips the trigger delicately, and he squeezes it gently, gently.

There is no silencer on his rifle, and the first shot echoes loudly over the endless Wasteland surrounding them. The second guard raises his gun instinctively but his head jerks to his right at the sound of the other man’s body slumping to the ground. Gene pulls back on the bolt and lets the shell eject. He reaches down and grabs another round, placing it in the chamber as he did the first. He pushes the bolt back into place and looks through the scope once more. Whatever animal they had with them has run off at the sound, and the slave boy has run into the trees on the left of the roadbed. The remaining cara- van guard looks around him desperately, wildly, and Gene almost feels bad. He focuses on his face as the man is bent over his friend. He looks up from him, and for a second, Gene can almost swear the man’s eyes lock into his.

The second shot rings out much like the first one, and the man’s body falls flat onto the body of the first guard. And then silence.

Gene stands up from his position and walks out into the road. The road is clear now, and he spots the slave boy where he has sat beneath a Joshua tree. Gene walks forward, his gun in the lowered position, until he is above the bodies of the caravan guards. The boy, to his left, sobbing, and Gene, with his foot, pokes one of the carcasses. No movement.

He is short, small, and light brown. His hands are covering his face, and the chain between the shackles on his wrists droops down towards his slim knees. His thin body heaves and falls in tandem with his heavy sobs. His hair is brown and messy, and the tips of his fingers push up on some of the strands.

In the back of Gene’s mind, he is already assessing how many pieces he will sell for. But at the forefront is the adrenaline and the excitement and the heat and the fact that they are alone. Quickly, he slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs the boy by the arm. He screams in protests, but Gene is stronger than him and unshackled. The boy is weak beneath his grip, and he pushes him against the hood of the old sedan.

The boy is saying something, but Gene can’t understand him. He speaks in what he thinks is Spanish, and he talks rather quickly. Gene can only hear the word “no” sprinkled throughout his sentences.

“Calm down,” he says. “You’re gonna live.”

The boy is facing him, his back against the hood. He stands over him, his body casting a shadow over the boy almost entirely. The slave shakes his head and mumbles something else.

“I said I’m not gonna kill you. Don’t you understand?”

The boy continues crying and spitting out mysterious words.

“I guess not.”

Gene looks down at him. He isn’t exactly a prize to be had. His lips are cracked, most likely from dehydration, and his nose is bent a little funny to the left, as if God himself had touched it with his finger while making him. Even with his clothes on, Gene can see that his body is abnormally skinny, and he figures you could probably see his ribs sticking out from his skin.

But above all that, more important than all that, is the fact that he was weaker than Gene. He can’t fight back, and that is enough for him to want him.

He presses himself up against the boy and puts his hands on his shoulders, pinning the slave down upon the hood of the car. While he can’t speak Spanish, he can understand the shift in the boy’s tone of voice. He leans in close, places his ear to his chest. He hears the beating of his heart, racing, and he smiles. He picks his head back up and brings it down to the left side of the boy’s head, his lips touching the skin of his ear. With one hand, he reaches under the boy’s shirt.

In the boy’s ear, all the words Gene has ever wanted to say to a woman. And with his hand, he recreates how he would treat one. Beneath him, the boy cries out with horror.

When the shot rings out, the world around Gene is completely silent for what feels like minutes on end. He lifts his head up from beside the boy and looks down. His eyes are red, puffy, and lifeless, wide open. The right side of his head is an awful mash of red, and his ear has disappeared. The hood
of the car beside him starts changing color. Red. Now red. The boy’s lips are parted as if to speak, but no words come out.

The air around Gene feels heavy, almost stuffy, and his vision narrows in on the most random details of the boy’s face. Slowly, with seemingly no thought, Gene turns his head to his right, toward the road. There, in the center, a man with a red face. He’s weakly sitting up, his arms shaking and holding a rifle aimed toward him. Gene locks eyes with the man’s, and the revelation forces itself upon him. The boy had not been his target.

The man lifts his hand to reset the bolt, shaking. There is blood coating the metal workings of the rifle, but the man looks intent on seeing this through. Before he can, Gene’s body moves without any command from his brain. He sprints away from the scene with whatever strength he can summon, leaving everything behind and running in the direction of Searchlight, his home. He thinks of nothing while he runs, the only thing on his mind being the overwhelming desire to keep moving. On the road, there are no other gunshots.

***

The day he died was the day he was born.

The incident on Nevada 164 woke him up. For years, he had killed and raided caravans, traded human lives for money at Cottonwood Cove, but never before had he come so close to death. In the darkness of his room, he isolated himself for three days. Alone with nothing but his mind, he replays the moment over and over, watching as the boy’s head eagerly accepts the bullet in place of his own. A second before or after, and it would have been him. If he had positioned his head to the right instead of the left, it would have been him. Thoughts of the weakness of his flesh consume him. Had he not been prepared for this? Year after year, he killed and raided caravans simply for his own gain.

Did he not see the danger in that? The risk? Or maybe he only saw the reward. Yes, that must have been it. He had only seen the reward. And what a reward this had been.

During the day, he peels the skin off the palms of his hands. The white skin of his flesh becomes gnarled and bloody, much like the boy’s ear. At night, he stares into the void behind his eyelids and tries to make sense of the colors he sees there. He tries to interpret some unknown message from God but fails miserably.

On the third day, he rose from his shelter and left, walking out onto the intersection of US 95 and Nevada 164. He didn’t dare look toward the latter, instead turning toward Marlow’s bar.

“Boy, you know you’re not allowed in here. You best turn right back around and go out.”

Gene sat himself down on one of the stools. There was no one else there.

“Please.”

Marlow looked down at the young man. He shielded his face within his hands, both of which were bandaged.

“What’s got you like that?”

Gene didn’t respond.

“Boy, if you want to stay here, you better answer my questions.”

“I don’t want to be me anymore.”

“Don’t want to be you?”

“I wanna be someone else. I wanna be anyone but me.”

Marlow thought Gene to be a horrible little creature. While the rest of Searchlight tried their best to make do with what they had, Gene seemed likely to burn whatever God handed him. His father had been the same way: always jumping from one thing to the next, always looking for the next big thing. Unwilling to settle down and think about anyone else besides him. Marlow figured there was no use in society for people like Gene.

“You ain’t got anyone but yourself,” he told him. “Why do you wanna be someone else?”

“Because this me ain’t never done no good for anybody.”

“Well.”

Gene lifted his head out of his hands.

“I mean, what’s the point of all of it?”

“What’s the point of what?”

“This.” He gestured around the two of them. “Life. I don’t know. What’s the point of anything we do? It all seems so meaningless.”

Marlow broke out into an unabashed laugh.

“Well, fuck if I thought that I’d wake up this morning to have you here talking to me about the meaning of life.” Gene looked up at him. “Well, kid, I don’t really know. Maybe that’s something only God himself can answer, not that he’s paying any attention to us. But what does that have to do with you wanting to be a different person? The two don’t seem related to me.”

“Forget the whole thing.”

He rose from his seat.

“Well. If you gonna make a big stink over it, why’d you ask in the first place?”

But he didn’t say anything else, promptly exiting where he’d come in. Marlow went back to taking stock of his dwindling wares and cursing Gene under his breath. The world was getting better—anyone could see it. Everyone was trying, doing whatever they could. Gene was the exception. He was the gunk in the machine that kept it from turning smoothly. Marlow shook his head, wondering to himself how someone could be so oblivious to the ways of the world when the world surrounding them was so small to begin with.

“I swear, if he don’t straighten up, he’s gonna find himself at the bottom of a ditch someday soon.”

***

The next day, he went to the old department of transportation. He hadn’t been there before, but he had to walk past it each time he went out on the road. In the recent weeks, Harvey had been using it as a sort of government building. An administrative center, as he had called it. Gene didn’t really understand what all that entailed, and he hadn’t really been interested in finding out the answer. Inside, a lady sat at a desk and asked him why he wanted to speak to the mayor.

“Sorry, I don’t think he can do anything for you,” she said.

“Please, I just want to talk to him for a little bit.”

“Sorry, Gene. I don’t think he can help you.”

“I just need to speak to him. I know if I can just talk to him for a minute, he’ll understand.” He paused. “There’s gotta be something I can do around here. Please, just tell him I’d be willin to do whatever. Anything anybody needs. There’s gotta be folks around here needin help from somebody.”

She shook her head.

“No, Gene. Not from you.”

***

On the east side of town, he went searching for anyone that needed help.

“Kid, you better not be prowlin around here for something. Go back to 164 if you wanna do that.”

Old Mr. Jones sat in a lawn chair with a canteen in his hand. Behind him was his house, a building that looked as though it had been falling apart even before the Great War.

“I ain’t ever goin back there.”

“Mmh.”

“I’m not lookin for anything. I was just seein if you needed anything.”

Jones eyed the young man at the edge of his property and rocked back in his chair.

“Needin anything?”

“I’m goin around offering my services to anyone who needs them.”

Old Mr. Jones snorted.

“And what services would those be?”

“Well, I’m good with a rifle. And I’m strong enough for something.”

“Ain’t no use to me here.”

“I can do whatever,” Gene told him. “Really, I’ll do whatever.”

Old Mr. Jones sniffled and straighten up a bit in his chair.

“Kid, you ain’t got no use to me here.”

***

After a week, he hadn’t made any progress, and he decided to see the old man again. Before sunset, he made his way to the house on the outskirts of the town. He was there, as he always was, rocking back and forth in his chair.

“Heard you’ve been goin around tryin to ‘help’ folks. Suddenly you is a good Samaritan, is that right?”

“Aw, hell. Lay off me.”

Gene sat down in one of the lawn chairs next to him and took in the view of the Mojave in front of them.

“Now, tell me—and I think you will—what’s gotten into you? It’s been over a week since I’ve seen you, and you is actin all funny. I even heard a rumor you tried to see Harvey. Now what would you have to do with a man like that?”

“It’s nothin, really. I just got to thinking is all.”

“Thinkin? About what?”

“About… I don’t know, life. About meaning.”

“Meaning ?”

“Yeah, meaning.”

“Meanin of what?”

“Well… life.”

“Life ain’t got no meaning.” The old man took a swig of water from his canteen. “That’s how God designed it. You gotta do what you can, but it’s silly to think that there’s something more to it.”

“You really think that?”

“Well, sure I do. Why do you think they dropped them bombs? Probably ’cuz they figured nothin much mattered at all. Why else would they? What’s the grand purpose for the end of the world? And that’s the real ticket right there: there ain’t any. And honestly, when I think of it like that, I feel a lot better anyhow.”

Gene thought about what the old man said for a moment.

“It don’t make me feel no better.”

“And that’s your problem then.” The man looked over to him. Gene looked into his eyes, and he found them as infinite as the Mojave Wastes. “Now, c’mon. What really is goin on with you?”

Gene sighed. He kicked a small rock beside his foot.

“I almost died out there, on 164. And not like I got in a gunfight or something. You know I can hold my own. I mean, I really almost died. If it hadn’t been for that boy… I swear, I really would be dead right about now. There ain’t no mistaking it. I just feel like there has to be more to it, y’know? There has to be some reason that I lived and he didn’t. There has to be… well, something more, I guess. Otherwise… what’s the point?”

“Is that it?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, is that really what’s got you so down right now? Somethin like that? Listen here, kid, what you been through… Well, it ain’t exactly special. Look out there. Look.” The old man pointed out towards Nevada 164 and the Mojave. “You think others haven’t been where you been out there? Hell, you’ve brought that same fate to plenty of people. And I done did it too. Your daddy as well. What you been through was just another something awful in a long line of awful things to happen on that road. The only thing special about it is that it might be the last awful thing to occur. Don’t know how much you’ve heard, but rumor is that Harvey’s gonna take the deal with Vegas. No more slavers comin through here after that. I figure Cottonwood Cove might even be done for as well. Really is a shame.”

Gene hadn’t heard this. He hadn’t really heard any of it.

“I just can’t shake it… There’s gotta be something more to it.”

“Now, Gene, that ain’t a great road to be headin down. I know it might seem like you is enlightened or somethin, but it ain’t real. Your daddy thought the same thing as you. He thought there was some purpose to it all as well. And look where he is now. Does that seem like an ‘enlightened’ man to you?”

Gene shook his head slowly.

“No, it ain’t. You right.”

The old man took a sip of water.

“Either way,” Gene said, “I ain’t ever going down 164 again. I mean it. I’m done with that shit. Maybe I’ll just settle down here and do some good for a change.”

“Hard to do good in a world like this.”

“Well, maybe Harvey’s right. Maybe it’s best to stick together, y’know? Might help to do some good, any good, in a world like this one, as you said.”

The old man scoffed.

“Now you sound like them play-pretends. You really think they’s gonna accept you after all the trouble you’ve caused them over the years? Shoo, kid. You better think again.”

“Well. I’m just hoping people might see that I’m not really like that anymore. At least, I’m tryin to change, y’know? I’m tryin to be better. How I used to be… Well, that ain’t me no more. I don’t wanna be like that. That’s the old me.”

“‘Old you’? Ain’t ever been such a thing as that. Lemme tell you some- thin, and I think you’d be best to take this to heart: you is the same as the day you was made. When I look into your eyes, I see the same ones the Good Lord gave to Adam. Ain’t never been such a thing as ‘old you.’”

Gene shuffled a bit in his seat.

“You want more water?”

“Nah, I’m all set.” He rocked back in his chair. Slow, fluid motions. “I figure after today, there won’t be much left for either one of us to want.”

He nodded slowly, despite not knowing what the old man meant. They didn’t say much else to each other the rest of the evening. They simply sat there, on the edge of the only town they knew, and watched the sun set on the Mojave Wastes and the narrow strip of road that offered passage through it.