“They caught me right before I could do it,” Tomsen says, unhooking the last tie-down, “but I did it anyway. I did it today. But I guess there’s more to do.” She yanks the tarp to the ground. “Barbara,” she says, “this is our new crew. They’re going to help us finish.”
Barbara is, as promised, not a van. She is over twenty feet long, rounded and bulbous like a cartoon submarine, riding low on three sets of wheels like a retro vision of the future. A forest of antennas sprouts in the cracks between solar panels, and a roof rack holds three plastic barrels marked NOT GAS DON’T STEAL. Other than a red stripe running along the sides, the whole length of the thing is bright, unapologetic yellow.
M sighs, but I see a smile creeping into Julie’s face.
“1977 GMC Birchaven,” Tomsen says as she pulls a key from a box under the chrome bumper and unlocks the only door: a curved hatch remarkably similar to the one on the 747. “Finest motor home ever built, made even finer with a few apocalypse mods.”
As we file into her strange little home on wheels, she rushes around trying to tidy up. It’s a comically lost cause. The RV’s interior resembles a merger of a newsroom and an eccentric artist’s studio: documents and photos and collage clippings piled on every surface, maps and sketches pinned to the walls and drawn on the windows, and of course, plenty of actual trash.
A beat-up old copy machine occupies the kitchen counter, surrounded by reams of yellow paper.
“So this is where the magic happens,” Nora says with genuine wonder.
Tomsen looks embarrassed as she struggles to stuff the chaos into the already overflowing cabinets. Every seat is piled high; there is literally no room for anyone but the driver.
Julie puts a hand on her shoulder. “Tomsen,” she says. “Do you still need all this stuff?”
Tomsen stops stuffing. She looks at Julie.
“It was for your search, right? For the tower?”
“And the Almanac,” Tomsen says. “For writing and publishing the Almanac.”
“You just toppled one tower. We know where to find the other one. So isn’t all this . . .” She gestures to the chaos around her. “Isn’t it finished?”
“Are you suggesting she should discontinue the Almanac?” Nora says, aghast.
“Of course not,” Julie says. “But once we kill the jammer, the Almanac can go on the air. It can go worldwide if you want it to.” She wades through the trash to examine the sun-darkened copy machine. “It’s amazing what you’ve done with a single copier . . . but maybe you don’t need it anymore.”
Tomsen looks at the copier. She looks at it for a long time with what I assume is fondness and nostalgia. Then I have to rethink that interpretation when she grabs the machine and throws it violently out the door. It bursts apart with a satisfying crunch, and she dusts off her hands. “Good-bye, exed world.”
? ? ?
We all assist in the purge, scooping up piles of research and tossing it into a huge pile on the pavement. It’s a strange feeling, dumping out someone’s life’s work, but this work is finished. Soon she can begin another.
When the publishing house is gone, what remains is a surprisingly spacious home complete with a restroom, a kitchen nook, two sets of couches that fold into beds, and plenty of orange shag carpet. The cabinets are filled with a treasure trove of canned food, tools, car parts, and survival gear, except for the one occupied by some kind of oil filtration system. Through the gigantic rear window, I see a scooter hanging from a rack.
The RV isn’t a home on wheels; it’s a self-contained city.
“H. Tomsen,” Nora says, spinning slowly in the passenger seat, which sits like a throne on the elevated cockpit platform, “you are the coolest person I’ve ever met. Where the hell did you get this thing?”
“My dad,” Tomsen says as she darts around shutting drawers and securing loose objects, battening down the hatches. “He was always a step ahead. Saw it all coming. Spent his life savings future-proofing Barbara, right before the currency crash.” Everything is secure but she keeps moving around, looking for more to do. “Had a few good years together. A few good trips. First five issues of the Almanac were his.”
I open my mouth to ask where her father is now, then I remember Julie’s lesson and I close it.
“His writing was beautiful,” Julie says softly.
“How would you have seen those issues? You’re not that old . . . are you?”
Julie smiles sheepishly. “I, uh . . . bought them off a traveler. For my collection.”
Tomsen looks perplexed. “You collect my zine?”
“I have every issue.”
“Maybe we’re a little weird,” Nora says, “but the Almanac meant something to us. There was nothing else like it, no one else trying to reach out. There might be a few other explorers out there, but when they find something good, they sure as hell don’t share it with the world. You’d have to be crazy to do that.”