They traveled for two days and nights. By mid-afternoon of the first day, Derek removed Leggy's gag.

"I'd appreciate if you get this twine off me too," said the old man. "It itches."

Derek made no move to untie him.

"Look boy, I ain't going nowhere," said Leggy.

"Bullshit," said Derek. "The second you get a chance you'll slip away."

"And do what? Wheel myself back to San Muyammo? It'd take me twice as long to get back without the help of Mr. Big here," he said, patting one of Teddy's meaty hands. "And believe me, that shithole town ain't worth my effort."

Derek relented, but at night he bound the man's hands in his lap, just in case.

On the third day of the journey they came over a slight rise. The town of Levitton lay just ahead. Levitton was a sprawling metropolis next to San Muyammo, and served as a trading center for all of the villages and shanties in a two-hundred mile radius. A rough adobe wall encircled Levitton, and guards with long pikes patrolled the perimeter. Beyond the walls, scrubby apricot and olive groves dotted the hillsides.

"We going in?" asked John.

"Yeah," said Derek. "We'll need extra water and food."

"How?" asked John. "I didn't bring nothing for trade."

"Don't worry," said Derek.

As they approached the gates to the town, Derek instructed John to hide his crucifix.

"Why?" asked John.

"Because it'll give us away as having come from San Muyammo."

"So?" said John. "I'm not afraid to show my faith."

"I just don't want anyone knowing who we are."

John still balked.

"Look, you don't have to take it off. Just put it under your shirt."

John scowled, but he obeyed.

The foursome passed through the gate, just behind a scrawny herd of goats. A pair of guards looked them over hard, but let them pass. They had all been to Levitton at one time or another, and Derek knew exactly where he was headed.

"Go over to Burber's and get something to eat," he instructed the others. "I'll catch up with you later."

Derek made his way down the pavestones of the central road that stretched from one end of Levitton to the other. He came to a wide plaza and saw the fountain in the middle was actually spouting water. It had never done that before. Perhaps things were getting better. Derek held his hand under the flow. It was little more than a trickle, and warm, but it stirred a hope in him that he couldn't describe. Then he turned west and made for a large stone building on the other side of the plaza.

The building, the largest in Levitton, was left over from the Before Times. Its granite face, stately columns, and clean angular lines gave it a sense of quiet authority. His father had told him it was constructed in neo-Federalist style. In the Before Times it had been a federal reserve bank, which didn't mean anything to Derek. Now it was the seat of government for Levitton. The mayor, the tax collectors, and the marshalls all had their offices here. But Derek wasn't interested in any of that. The building also housed a library, and it was this place that he'd journeyed to with his parents.

As he ascended the wide stone stairs, he remembered his father explaining why the library was so important.

"This place is a storehouse," he'd said. "Not for grain or for nuts, but for knowledge. The books in here hold secrets that we need to uncover to rebuild. Everything from animal husbandry to irrigation to stoneworking and smelting to physics and astronomy. It took humans thousands and thousands of years to accumulate such knowledge. And if we can preserve it, save it, and begin to understand it again, maybe it won't take a thousand years to transform this wilderness. Maybe it will only take a few generations. Just imagine, Derek--perhaps even your grandchildren will enjoy electric light. Just like your grandfather did."

But Derek knew it wouldn't happen. His father believed in each generation improving, surpassing the accomplishments of their fathers. But it was impossible. Derek's grandfather had been a college professor in the Before Times, a mathematician. Even after the angels had rendered the Word, his grandfather had instructed his father in the secrets of numbers, and Derek's father had done the same. But it was lost on Derek, who had barely understood algebra, and for whom geometry, trigonometry, and calculus were black arts. He had seen the despair in his father's eyes as his father recognized the truth. The generations were devolving.

Of course Derek was smarter than Teddy, but so was a tree stump. And Derek had been very good with language--had been reading and writing since he was three. That made him smarter than everyone in San Muyammo as well, but that wasn't saying much. The Judges could read, and most of the villagers could do simple sums, but that was it. Derek's father had held out great hope, great hope that treasures could be stored up in Derek's brain. But his brain was faulty. Weak. And the deeper studies of math would vanish from the earth, to have to be recovered painstakingly, eon over eon, or perhaps lost forever, and humanity would root in the ashes of the world like beasts for another thousand years.

Derek made his way into the dim coolness of the building. His footsteps echoed in the vaulted ceiling. He knew his way to the library, located deep in the bowels of the building. A few guards checked his progress, but allowed him to pass when he showed them the contents of his rucksack.

He came to the gates of the library and rang a bell. A small man in librarian's robes came from within.

"Yes?"

"I've books to sell," said Derek.

The man ushered Derek in and led him through a warren of shelves. His eyes caught titles as they weaved their way into the inner sanctum of the place. Many farming books, some construction, some chemistry. Good history collection as well. Not a lot of math. Derek smiled grimly. He would bargain well.

The flunky came to small counter nestled deep in the back. He rang a tiny bell. From a doorway behind the counter came a corpulent man in clean robes. His dark hair gleamed with oil and his face was cleanshaven.

"Director, this one has books to sell," said the attendant.

"Well," said the director. He leaned his bulk against the counter and dismissed the attendant with a flick of his fingers.

"Good day to you, lad."

"Good day, director."

"Shall we see what you're offering?"

Derek reached into his rucksack and removed a textbook: Introduction to Algebra.

The director's eyes widened. He reached forward and opened the book, flipping pages carefully. Then he looked into Derek's eyes.

"Where did you get this?"

"It was my father's," said Derek.

"Really?" said the man. "Tell me truthfully, who's skull did you break to get this book?"

"No one's," said Derek, his anger rising. "It belonged to my father, and his father before him."

"Lad," said the man gently, "you're a poor liar."

"And you're a poor judge of character," said Derek hotly.

"A book of this value--I must have some way to ascertain ownership," said the director.

"Then ask me a problem," said Derek. "I'll tell you truthfully that I didn't get far beyond chapter five of that book, but my father could at least get a little into my hard skull."

The director looked at Derek for a long moment, then thumbed to an exercise in chapter two. He made Derek solve for X several times. Derek did so correctly, it was an old trick. He had fooled his father nearly as easily as the librarian--it had only been a matter of time and reprimands before Derek had taken it upon himself to memorize the answers to all the problems in the first five chapters of the book. His father had seemed pleased as Derek feigned consternation, pretending to puzzle over the slippery calculations and muddle over the tricky twists and turns of the mathematical problems. It had been easy to memorize the answers, much easier than trying to figure them out fresh each time (a practice which seemed wasteful to Derek's mind). And in a way Derek had learned a great lesson from his gambit--he had learned at a very young age that no one, not his father, not anyone, was privy to what was going inside his head. Derek had learned that his mind was his own--an obvious lesson, in retrospect--but an important one. He had since fine-tuned this budding sense of self-awareness, practicing at great length the talent of keeping his thoughts disguised and his intentions masked. The skill had gotten him out of a great many tight situations.

"Well then," said the director. "Forgive my error. I can offer you…"

"I've another as well," said Derek, reaching into his rucksack. As he removed the second textbook, a leatherbound edition fell out on to the counter. The director picked it up and gasped.

"You are quite the travelling scholar, aren't you?" he said. "I haven't seen a copy of Don Quixote in twenty or thirty years. And what other treasure? Geometry? You're full of surprises lad. I'll give you seventy-five silver for the lot."

Derek snatched the novel away. "That's not for sale. It belonged to my mother."

"And I suppose you can read as well," said the director.

Derek slid the book across the counter. "Open it anywhere."

The director flipped the book a third of the way open and handed it back to Derek, who smiled and read several lines aloud. "…he so immersed himself in those romances that he spent whole days and nights over his books; and thus with little sleeping and much reading his brains dried up to such a degree that he lost the use of his reason…"

"Ah, so you can read," the director blinked. "I misjudged you, indeed," he said, closing the book. Then his eyes fluttered and he recited aloud from memory. "He was spurred on by the conviction that the world needed his immediate presence," the old man intoned, "But, Neither fraud, nor deceit, nor malice had yet interfered with truth and plain dealing." The librarian opened his eyes and fixed them sternly on Derek. "The order of knight-errantry was instituted to defend maidens, to protect widows, and to rescue orphans and distressed persons. Remember that boy. If you're not going to part with that book, the very least you could do is read it. And who knows--you might learn a thing or two.

Derek said nothing.

"Well then. Fifty silver for the textbooks?"

"Agreed," said Derek. "Give me twenty-five in scrip and twenty-five in coin."

Derek turned to leave, but then turned back to the weathered old librarian. A smile blossomed across his young face. "My judgement is now clear and unfettered, and that dark cloud of ignorance has disappeared, which the continual reading of those detestable books of knight-errantry had cast over my understanding," he recited and grinned at the old librarian. "I ain't stupid," he said, "I'm just no good at math."

The librarian said nothing. For a time looked after Derek with mild amusement, and then turned, cradling his newly purchased textbooks in his arms, and retreated to the recesses of the library's inner sanctum.

Derek made for the exit and then stopped. His father's words resounded in his head, 'This place is a storehouse," he'd said. "The books in here hold secrets that we need to uncover to rebuild. Everything from animal husbandry to irrigation to stoneworking and smelting to physics and astronomy."

Derek made his way over to the file index, a small wooden cabinet of long drawers containing rows of index cards, arranged alphabetically by subject. He'd seen it before, but never used it--it was kept behind the librarian's counter. Most people who would come in here looking for books would be lucky to boast a rudimentary grasp of their letters, but would need the librarian's assistance to actually find what they needed. But then, most farmers, scavengers, and desert dwellers had not had a university professor for a grandfather. Derek knew his alphabet backwards and forwards--he might not be good with the numbers, but he felt confident that he could make sense of the filing system. He glanced around to be sure that the librarian had not returned--he hadn't, more than likely he was still in the back excitedly whacking off over his newfound math books--and then leapt gracefully over the counter.

To his dismay, Derek could only find one listing for wasteland. He frowned, and closed the file drawer. He jumped back over the counter and quickly located the appropriate aisle. After few minutes search he found the book--it was not what he had expected. Derek had hoped for a huge volume of maps, instructions, topography--things that they could use to help navigate the great chemical wastes. Instead, all he found was a slim chapbook. He flipped open to the first page, a section that apparently proposed to instruct on the proper burial of the dead--perhaps things were different, and there were added precautionary measures, due to the profundity of radiation and great diversity of scavenger and wildlife, to be taken in the Wasteland.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee

Derek knew what a tuber was--a huge, snakelike worm that lived beneath the sand. They had been known to come up and swallow whole infants, carry children off, and exsanguinate adults and cattle in mere seconds--but he had no idea what a Starnbergersee might be. Apparently the Wasteland was full of unknown dangers. They would have to be on guard, someone would have to be awake and alert, on watch, at all times. They would sleep in shifts. It would be difficult--Teddy could not be trusted as a guard, and Derek was unsure of Leggy's willingness to cooperate--but they would make do.

He continued to read.

With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Apparently, this book chronicled the travels of an earlier group's journey through the Wasteland. Unfortunately, much of it seemed either to be anecdotal, or just plain nonsensical. Derek had wondered what in the world a Hofgarten might be, and he feared that by the time they found out, it would be too late.

He grunted. He doubted that the book would be of any use whatsoever, but still, the travelogue's of T.S. Elliot and his companions might prove useful at some point--at the very least he could sell the book when they got to New York. He'd rather that be the case than that he should find himself in a tight situation and wishing he had it. He resolved to study it later, in greater detail.

He looked cautiously about, and when he was sure that the librarian had not crept back into the room, he dropped the small book into the folds of his jacket. Then he quickly left the library, and never looked back.

Back in the market, Derek's companions were not in the eatery known as Burber's, but rather, he found them sitting at a small table in an inn called The Atomic Canteen drinking warm ale. He tossed the bundle of scrip onto the table in front of Leggy.

"Christ Jesus," hissed Leggy. He snatched up the bundle and hid it under his robe. "You want to get our throats slit? Don't ever go flashing a wad like that out in the open."

"Make a list of what we need," said Derek, ignoring him. "We'll stock up for the journey. Whatever's left over we'll split up and spend--that scrip's only good in Levitton." He didn't tell them about the coinage weighing down his rucksack. They might have use for it on the journey.

"You make your own damn list of what we need," Leggy returned angrily, and then winked at John, "I got my own business to attend." He kept some of the scrip, and carefully passed the rest to John under the table, out of sight of the prying eyes of the canteen's other patrons. "I'll meet you back here in two hours." With a shove he wheeled himself back away from the table and turned towards the swinging tavern doors. The bright sun was pouring in through the open top and bottom of the doorway, and between the crooked wooden slats, but it remained cool and shady inside.

"There's brothel on the other side of this dungheap of a town, and I've gotten friendly with some of the ladies there. In fact, there's a special lady, just a' waitin' for me to call." He began to wheel himself towards the doors, not looking back. He knew that Derek would not resort to violence in such a public place. Law or no law, there was at least a semblance of authority in Levitton, and like as not, Derek must know that kidnapping was a criminal offence. Leggy pushed his way closer to the door, the metal wheels of his chair grinding over the stone floor, his heart pounding in a chest.

It wasn't until he had reached the doors that Derek finally called after him. "If it's just a lay you're after, then we should be seein' you again in a few minutes." Laughter resounded throughout the bar. "Have fun, old man, but don't get lost. We'll meet you back here." Then Derek's voice took on a subtle threatening tone that only Leggy could detect. "Don't make me send Teddy out to find you," he said.

Out in the bright midday sun, Leggy breathed a sigh of relief and left his worries behind him in the bar. He looked back and forth, up and down the street--all about him were tents and stands, markets an sellers, peddlers and traders of almost every commodity a man could want. A skinner carefully led his mule, laden with furs as well as a fine assortment of exotic cheeses and dried meats, towards a circle of trading caravans in the town's main square.

Nearby, an old woman was standing over her display and hocking her meager fruits and vegetables--dainty things which had led a hard life struggling their way up through the irradiated soil only now to lie plucked and withering in the harsh desert sun. "Getch'yer taters!" she hollered, "Getch'yer greens! I got onions!"

Leggy smiled, he had to admit it was good to be away from San Nuyammo. Only now that he was away could he see clearly how much the struggling camp was truly dying under the decay of living in the shadow of the Wasteland--eating itself alive in a cancerous, futile grasp at existence. But in Levitton at least there was hope. Leggy smiled and inhaled the delicious aroma of cooking lamb. He fingered the scrip in his pocket, but knew it would be better spent on supplies for the journey ahead.

Leggy smiled again, bitterly to himself. Things really had been getting bad in San Nuyammo. They'd long since run out of gasoline, and from the looks of things (an abundance of 'wanted' signs on the public boards, and angry haggling over high prices at the fuel stands) the entire world was running low on fuel. Leggy frowned and shook his head sadly.

Without gasoline, there'd been no need for the generator--and with no generator there's no need for old Leggy. San Nuyammo had ceased to be the welcoming haven it had once tried to be, so many years ago.

The Judges had been rationing food with a conservative hand, to be sure, and it had been quite a while since he'd had anything more than a slab of bacon fat to eat. The old man just wasn't high on the food priority list these days, not without gasoline for the generator. Leggy hated to admit it, but a part of him even welcomed his recent kidnapping--if he hadn't left the camp, there was no telling what might eventually have become of him. He hated to even think about it--he'd grown weak and complacent during his days in San Nuyammo, the days since he'd lost his legs to that foul fucking insect. He missed his life a rogue, as a marshall--scouring the wastelands, searching for adventure. He hated what that bug had done to him, and how the cowardice instilled in him by his disability made him detest the man he'd become. He despised being a cripple.

Leggy turned to the west, the direction from which they'd come. People in desert gear milled about, all with hurried business of their own. Turbans and gas masks abounded. Bedouins, Leggy smiled, that's what we'd have been called in days gone by.

Leggy was certain that Levitton must have it's share of brothels, but if it did, he had no idea where they were. There was no special lady in his life, there never had been, in Levitton or anywhere else. It had just been talk to get away from Derek with no questions asked. Let the little bastard think of him as nothing more than a dirty old cripple. It was safer that way.

Leggy reached into a secret pocket concealed in the seat of his chair and removed a folded and age-worn piece of paper. He looked to the east, past the apricot and olive groves, and could just make out the rise of the Black Hills. There were said to be uranium mines sunk throughout those hills, and other dangers too evil to be spoken aloud--or at least that was what men said when they really didn't know what lurked in a place. Still, those hills marked the true beginning of the wild territories, the unknown land--the great stretch of chemical wastes that, in these parts, was known as the Wasteland.

Leggy unfolded the map that had rested, untouched, for over a decade in the seat of his chair. New York was a long way off, further, much further than he'd ever actually traveled himself. Much further, he was certain, than any of the boys even dared to imagine.

Though San Nuyammo wasn't marked on the map, he knew where it was--the old man traced his finger across the map from east to west, over to the place that was marked California, onto a tiny dot marked Fresno. He smiled, it would be a hell of a trip. Indeed. It would be an adventure.

Leggy rolled over to the Square and sold the map to a caravan boss for two bits. He would have his cooked lamb after all.

John left Derek and Teddy in the Atomic Canteen and went out to the market. Levitton was the furthest he'd ever gone from San Muyamo, and that only two times in his short life. Beyond Levitton was the great unknown, the Wasteland which only the mad tried to cross. And now he was trying, too. He had no fear of the desert, for hadn't the Lord sent bread to the Hebrews? Hadn't Moses drawn water from stone? Hadn't He guided His people by a pillar of fire in the night?

Of course, John also knew that the Lord helped those who helped themselves, so he would spend his scrip wisely--not dissipate it like Leggy on whores or who knows what.

He filled his rucksack with dried apricots, goat jerky, and coffee. He bought a second waterskin, and filled it to the brim at the fountain in the square. He outfitted himself with new boots, sturdy and tough, and a stout walking stick. Then he found a small chapel, its adobe walls smooth and white, and went inside. In the cool dark he spent his last two bits to light a candle, then knelt on the hard wooden railing and bowed his head. Above him loomed a rough-hewn statue of the Blessed Mother, her arms open, blue eyes that pierced the heart, one bare foot crushing the head of poisonous green serpent.

As John made his way back to the canteen, he found Derek and Teddy in the market. Derek was cinching a large pack to Teddy's back. The boy would be their mule. The pack bulged with supplies--dried foods, salt tablets, flint and tinder, signal mirror, and a few cookpots that clanked and rattled in time with Teddy's stride.

"You all set?" asked Derek as John joined the pair.

"I'm ready," said John, patting the bulging water skins.

"Where's that wheelchair fuck?" asked Derek. "Figure he's still dipping his wick?"

"Can't we just leave him?" asked John, knowing the answer but asking anyway. "Seems to me it doesn't sit right to be searchin' for angels with a fornicator."

"He knows the way," said Derek.

At that moment Leggy hove into view, though it took a moment for the boys to recognize him. He'd outfitted himself with a wide-brimmed gauchero's hat and a broad wool serape draped over himself, hiding the stumps of his legs. The serape was woven in a mosaic of yellow, red, and brown. As Leggy moved toward them he seemed almost to float. He rolled to a stop.

"Howdy boys. How you like the new duds?"

"You look like a cowboy who just got his mule shot out from under him," said Derek.

"Maybe so," said Leggy, "but it'll keep the sun off in the day and the chill out at night. Gets cold in the desert boys. Hard to believe, but it does. I figure this was the best purchase I coulda made." He didn't tell them about the pair of throwing knives he'd also bought. They were tucked into the folds of his chair, secret-like, and with the flick of a wrist he could take a man in the throat at fifteen paces. At least, he could ten years ago. But even if he'd lost a bit of quickness or aim, he felt better knowing the steel was at hand.

He eyed Teddy's new pack.

"Hunker down here, boy and let me see how you've outfitted us."

Teddy squatted by the chair while Leggy rifled through the pack. "Yup, OK, that's good. Uh huh, good, good. Alright then, boys," he said, tying it up again. "You did good. I think we've got about everything we need."

"So what now," asked John.

"Now we go," said Derek. He turned to Leggy. "Well old man, which way?" "Levitton is at what you'd call an axis," said Leggy. "Two roads run through here, one heading north-south, the other east-west. If you still want to aim for New York, then it's east-west."

Derek nodded. They made their way to the gate that would take them east, Teddy once again pushing Leggy's chair. As they exited the town they found themselves behind a caravan that was making its way down the same rough road.

"How far until we get to the Wasteland?" asked John, who thought they might come upon it at any moment.

"A few days, a few days," said Leggy. "There's still miles of habitations between here and the edge. That's where them Bedouins are headed."

"Oh," said John with a mixture of relief and disappointment. He was afraid of what they might find in the wasteland, so the opportunity to put it off a few days was comforting. But it also meant he had to live with his fear for awhile longer.

The road out of Levitton, though rough, was wide and clear, having been traveled so often by the pack mules and heavy carts of the Bedouins, who made their living trading from settlement to settlement.

As they traveled behind the caravan, Teddy laughed to see a young boy scoop up the steaming mounds of dung that the donkeys passed as they walked.

"Lookie, Derek. He's playin' with doo doo. He gonna get a smack for that."

"Don't think so, big fella," said Leggy. "Like as not, he'd get a smack for not collecting those donkey flops."

"Why's that," asked John distastefully.

"You dry out those flops and they make good fuel. Come in handy when there's not a lot of brush for firewood. That's your first lesson in surviving the crossing--you don't waste a thing." He turned in his chair and lifted the brim of his wide hat to fix a grin on John.

"You think I was kiddin' about bottling your own piss?"

Teddy scrunched up his face. "We gonna have to drink pee pee?"

"Let's hope it don't come to that," said Derek.

"Amen," said Leggy. John couldn't help but agree.

That night they camped in a shallow gully just off the road. In the distance ahead, they could see the tents and cookfires of the caravan. The sound of flute and tamborines drifted back to them, and voices lifted in a strange wailing. Derek found the Bedouin music irritating, but Leggy seemed to appreciate it, and Teddy looked damn near hypnotized. His jaw hung slack and his eyes were soft and empty. He didn't snap out of it until John sidled into camp a little later, a brace of sand dogs on a stick.

"Got 'em" said John, his grin wide. He was the best among them with sling and stone and he knew it.

Leggy quickly skinned and cleaned the animals and soon had their carcasses roasting on a spit. They ate in silence, the strange music swirling all around them. Then the stars came out. They let the campfire die to its coals. Before they drifted off to sleep, Leggy produced a section of plastic tarp. The boys watched as he stuck two sticks into the hard ground and attached the tarp to it as if he were constructing a lean-to. But it was far too small to cover any of them, even Leggy with his truncated frame. Then he weighted down the other end with a pair of rocks. When he finished, he wiped his hands and looked satisfactorily over his work.

"What's that?" asked Teddy. "A dolly house?"

"Dew catcher," said Leggy. "The change in temperature between night and day creates what we in the old days used to call 'percipeetashun.' This here tarp will gather up a good bit of moisture. You set the tarp at an angle so that it runs downward and gathers up here by the rocks I put on it."

"But we got our water bottles, and there's a stream not a hundred yards from here," said Derek.

"Sure," said Leggy, "but we're gonna need this eventually. Might as well get in the habit. Dew catchers have kept me from dyin' of thirst more than a few times. Tomorrow mornin', we drink what's in the dew catcher and save what's in the skins."

John swallowed hard. He'd seen dew catchers before, and they didn't collect more than one good mouthful of water. The reality of what he'd done, running off into the night and desert, was coming home to him. He lay back in his bedroll and looked at the stars. The night was nearly cloudless, a rare occasion.

Leggy was pointing out the constellations, naming them one by one for Teddy who was enthralled by the game and was excitedly pointing out new constellations of his own. "There's the Ducky cons'lashun," he thrust a meaty finger up towards the sky. "An dat one dere's the Snail cons'lashun. An' dat one looks like a snake!"

Leggy laughed. "That one's called Orion," he patted the grinning giant on the shoulder. Teddy was leaning back, using the large equipment pack as a pillow. They didn't have a blanket large enough to cover him, nor a bedroll wide enough to fit beneath him, but that mattered not. Teddy was used to hard floors and, beneath all his muscle and fat, he rarely grew cold.

"Orion," he repeated. O-rye-un."

Derek paid little attention to them, and having little use for constellations he contented himself instead with poking at their small fire with a stick. John lay back on his bedroll squinting his eyes and scanning the skies. All at once he sat bolt upright. "Oh my gosh!" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked Derek. "You got a scag in your sleeping bag?"

John ignored the remark and pointed excitedly up at the sky. "They're out," he whispered breathlessly, "Look. Up there!"

The others followed the direction of his pointing finger and at first saw nothing. But after a moment of staring silently at the night sky, it became obvious that one of the stars was actually moving against the flow of all the others which surrounded it, travelling almost imperceptibly eastward.

"Holy shit," muttered Derek. "What the hell is that?"

"I don't see nothin'," said Teddy. "What ch'you lookin' at, Der?"

John licked his lips. "There's another one over there, by the horizon." He pointed. "They're angels. Don't you know nothing?" he turned to Derek. "You can see them sometimes when there's no clouds, like tonight. Not often, but sometimes you can. My grandaddy showed me once, when I was little." He smiled. "Just look at it, gliding across the sky. But they never come down. Not ever--except in New York, maybe."

For a while the four of them watched the sky. It was obvious that the points of light, whatever they were, were moving inexplicably against the flow of the stars. "Angels," John softly reassured himself.

"Bullshit, they ain't," Leggy's harsh voice broke the moment. Derek and John both looked at him. Teddy had fallen asleep.

"They are too," insisted John, but his voice wavered. He seemed less certain than he had a moment before.

"Are not," answered Leggy, removing a silver flask from his shirt. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. Then he offered the whisky to John, who shook his head. Derek took the flask, swigged from it, and grimaced.

"You make that moonshine yourself, old man?" he grimaced, "Jeez, I think I'm half blind…" He took another swig. Leggy began to laugh, and it proved contagious. Soon John and Derek had joined him, hooting and hollering, gripped by hysterics and rolling around on the desert floor near the fire. "I think I'm blind in my left eye," laughed John, re-igniting the joke and rekindling the laughter.

When the hysterics had finally subsided, John took the flask from Derek and sipped the burning, amber liquid. If they ain't angels," he looked up at the sky and said in a somber tone, "then what are they?"

"Well," said Leggy, reaching over and taking back the flask, "They're called satellites, if I remember right. They're left over from the Before Times." John and Derek looked at him curiously, drunken eyes imploring him to continue. They're sort of like… tin houses floating around in the sky," said Leggy.

"Houses? You mean they got people in them?" John was incredulous.

"Some of 'em do. Or did. They say that there might still be people alive in a few of 'em, trapped up there. Watching us, but unable to come back home. I don't know," Leggy shook his head.

"How do they stay up there?" John asked, "Why don't they fall?"

"That's easy," said Leggy, "They are falling. It's just that they're so high up that it takes a long, long time for 'em to fall all the way down." He grinned at the boys.

"That's bullshit and you know it," said Derek, but his voice lacked conviction.

Leggy took a long swallow from the flask. "Some people say that there's men trapped up there on the Moon, too…" his voice trailed off. The Moon was a thin sliver, grinning at them from the horizon.

Derek smiled. "Men on the Moon? Well, if I wasn't sure before, I am now--you're drunk, old man. Either that, or you're just plain crazy!" he turned to John, "Like as not, I'm apt to side with you on this one. Even angels is more believable that flying tin houses and men on the Moon!" Derek laughed and lay back with his hands folded behind his head. Moments later he was snoring.

After a while, John lay back and folded his hands as he silently continued to watch the stars. "Lord God," he whispered after a while, "give me strength to see your angels in New York. I'm gonna need it I think."

As the embers of the campfire died to blackness, the Bedouins took up their music again. Derek and his companions fell asleep with the strange, high-pitched wailing of unimaginable instruments and inhuman voices ringing in their ears.

That night, Derek dreamt of angels--cruel creatures filled with light and malice. They swept down from the heavens, all around him, laughing bitterly, condescending and evil by nature with no capacity for sympathy or moral understanding. They looked down and spat at him, swiping at his eyes with each putrid smelly pass. Decrepit feathers hung in the sulfurous air.

Derek gagged. Newww Yorrrrk!'laughed the creatures. Beyond You!' 'Why Bother?'They swooped all around, diving and biting, laughing and spitting, throwing cruel, derogatory curses and hurling smelly white globules of shit--the foul harpies were relentless.

These were John's damned angels, Derek thought. Merciless, desperate monsters full of hatred and self-pity, full of pious fury and biblical rage. Any thought of retribution, of self-realization, of sacrifice was utterly beyond them, Derek suddenly understood. These ushers to the kingdom of heaven, these guardians of the gates of New York, had long ago gone mad--they were crazy with radiation and sickness, hunger and death.

As they continued to peck and to laugh and to berate with their cold, sharp beaks, a calm realization swept over Derek--these monsters had long since fallen from grace, and it was not just the Earth that had died, but it was God who had died, as well--leaving his unholy wreck of a world to his forgotten children and his mad angels.

Any Word that these angels had rendered, Derek knew, was nothing but incoherent delusion, despite what John might think. He could see that now--these creatures were capable of nothing more than pure animal violence, anything else would just be nonsense, word salad, babel.

Derek suddenly awoke, the burning taste of Leggy's moonshine rising from his stomach to the back of his throat. 'God damn,' he thought as he rolled away from his bedroll, clawed his way across the dark ground away from the camp, and began to vomit violently onto the ground. 'God damn,' he retched, for what seemed like hours before he finally climbed back into his sack and fell sickly to sleep. The angels were waiting for him.

When the group awoke, just before daybreak, both the caravan and Teddy were gone.

"God damn it," muttered Derek, his eyes half-closed in drunken, fevered memory of the nightmares which still refused to fade. When he closed them, he could still see the beating wings, still hear the evil taunts. He opened one eye and looked more closely around the campsite.

All was quiet, only a harsh wind cut through the desert. The sun's fiery scalp was just nodding over the horizon, casting long shadows and turning the sky a bruised purple shade. At first Derek thought his brother had wandered away to take a piss. Then a cold fear slid up Derek's spine--the caravan ahead was gone. The cook fires had been buried and the Bedouins were nowhere in sight.

"Sonofabitch," Derek cupped his hands to his mouth and hollered, "Teddy! Teddy, where you at! Get your ass back here, pronto! Teddy!" The sound of his own voice rang in his ears, making his splitting headache worse. "Teddy!"

Teddy had left the large equipment pack. Derek briefly imagined that they could feasibly balance the pack on the wheelchair, and he could force John to carry the frail old man on his shoulders. But he quickly shook his head--that sort of travel would be next to impossible.

The giant couldn't have gone far. Hell, Derek could hardly believe that he had taken even a step away from the camp of his own volition. It just wasn't like him. Teddy didn't do anything without express orders from his younger brother. Everyone knew that. And that was one of the reasons that they'd had to leave San Nuyammo in secret, with no good-byes and with as little commotion as possible. That was why they'd had to bring the old man when he saw them leaving--but that line of thought was not bringing Derek any closer to locating his brother, so he stopped it. "Teddy!"

"Maybe he's taking a pee," Leggy offered, massaging his stumps as he slowly awoke.

"Teddy don't pee unless I tell him," Derek answered. "And he sure as hell don't wander off." He cupped his hands to his mouth, but was interrupted by John before he could holler again.

"Maybe he's around here somewhere," John offered, looking around. The land was flat for miles all around, except to the east where the Black Hills jutted like sore teeth over the horizon.

"Maybe those fucking scavengers took him is what's maybe!" Derek spat. "Fucking Bedouins! Gypsies is more like it. Vagrants is what they are, nothing but scavengers. Most of them's mutants, anyhow!"

"Well," said Leggy, looking around, "If that's the case we can easily catch up to them. We're travelling light, they're not. We're in a hurry, and as far as we know, they're not."

Derek looked around again. Panic began to build in his belly--suppose Teddy had decided to head back to San Muyammo? He squinted his eyes and looked to the west, but could find no sign of the giant.

Leggy seemed to read his thoughts. "If he's travelling alone, he really can't have gotten far. Not by himself. If he was alone, we'd be able to see him. It's the Bedouins or nothing."

"Fuck!" Derek kicked the dew catcher, spraying droplets of moisture into the air. Leggy frowned but said nothing. He scanned the campsite and caught site of Teddy's bootmarks. They led up out of the shallow gully to the road.

"Look," he said. "Footprints. The boy's probably on the road."

Derek quickly began to climb the side of the shallow gully. As he climbed Leggy and John hurriedly packed and prepared for a long day's travel.

As he mounted the lip of the ravine, Derek peered towards the west. Sure enough, there was no sign of Teddy in that direction. He turned to the east. Far off in the distance his could see the dust of the caravan's trail. It was miles away. "Damn," he called down to the others, "They must've started off hours ago!"

HOME

CONTENTS