The Savage Boy

45



THEY RODE SOUTH the next day, stopping early to make camp in an abandoned place that would hold for the night. There was fire. There was water. The Boy hunted during the day, using the rifle to take small game.

The night that followed was long and cold, and their embraces became deeper and more meaningful in the passing quiet.

Lying awake, she on his chest in deep sleep, the Boy thought.

He thought of all that he had to do and places they might go and be safe.

He thought of life, and though there was a new problem he could think of in each day ahead, he was glad.

To have these problems was to have her.

My life has never been this good.

And . . .

I never want it to be another way.

He slept and did not dream.

IN THE MORNING they crossed a small mountain ridge and saw the ocean stretching away to the south and west. The Boy saw the overgrown ruins of a thin spreading town that must have once climbed up to the ridge.

But it had been consumed and little remained other than concrete pads and crumbling, blackened walls that poked through the coastal vegetation.

“The village is farther along the coast. I . . . doubt they will be looking for us there yet. We can purchase . . . food and other things. Where will we go after?”

He looked toward the south.

How far away is the city of Los Angeles? On the map it seems a long way off. If those who she says must follow us are afraid of the damage caused by radiation then maybe they will turn back if we head into the worst of it. Or at least make them think that we intend to.

“Into the poisoned lands,” he said.

She was silent.

“Do not worry. I have faced monsters. Our bearskin was once one.”

“But . . . why must we go there?” she said softly.

“You said that they must follow us?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will go where they will not follow us.”