And we did. One month and one day later, we were out of the city, driving through New Jersey, on route to our new home--Ft. Greyson.

Will had made good on his promise, standing guard beside my two uncles as we made our way out into a brand new world.

The trip would take two days as plotted out at Will's direction. Not the most direct path, but the safest. As it turned out, we'd be passing by Samuel Georardi's place. And for Pop, that was almost as exciting as the promise of civilization. He would finally get to ask the questions that burned him. Finally, for the first time, he would get to meet another old man.

We got out of the city with little incident. Will’s truck had been stashed with some friends on Canal Street and from there it was an uneventful drive through the PATH tunnel into Hoboken. After that it got a bit tricky.

The streets of Hoboken were still clogged with thousands of automobile carcasses blocking all but a few passages. Will explained that some of the clearways had been made by Cooties and other gangs for purposes of routing traffic into their clutches. Like a lobster trap, Pop Pop had said, and I think I understood, though I was along ways off from seeing my first real lobster.

Fortunately, there was at least one passable roadway, one cleared by less offensive--more ambitious folk. Will called them the Toll Takers; people who would exchange passage for supplies. In our case, it took twenty cans of Spaghetti-O's, and Uncle Ray's Kevlar vest. Mamma had thought the trade unfair, but Uncle Ray never once complained about it.

Outside of Hoboken was the stagnant corpse of what had once been the rest of New Jersey--Dead Man's Land. The new moniker fit well. In all my life I had never seen so many human bodies, skeletons, and parts. Even in the city. See the difference, was that there were animals in the city. Human animals that ate the dead, and lesser animals as well--dogs, cats, a few bears--even a pride of lions. But I knew right then, witness to all of those undisturbed remains, that there were no animals left in New Jersey. No animal animals at least.

The bodies that we drove by, and sometimes over, had been people just like us. Trying to get to the city... trying to leave the city. Over come by plague, and weather, and each other. Now they were nothing but gutless statues.

We stopped for lunch in the middle of a grassy field. Uncle Pete and Will had conferred and were in agreement. They didn't want any surprises. It was better to be out in the open where they could see anyone who might approach. Uncle Pete was an exceptional marksmen. Even if someone was to get close enough to take a clean shot at any of us, they would already be about 100 yards too close.

Pop and I sat down and talked for a while. Him, with his old frail body leaned up against the back tire of the truck and me, laying on my back in the tall grass. The sky was a perfect blue scribbled with the white swirls of cirrus clouds. The air was clean and the lifeless silence seemed unreal when compared to the perpetual noise of the city.

Pop was eating canned tuna, taking care to shield it from Mamma's watchful eyes. Cans were scarce by then and Mamma and Daddy had decided that we should eat the more perishable foods first; that we should save the cans for times when food was less abundant.

But Pop hated fresh food. With few exceptions he regarded it as dirty. If we ate fish, it was polluted fish. If we ate dog, it was mangy dog. Pop liked the cans. Can food, was clean food.

He finished up, then washed his lunch down with some of the water we'd brought. It appeared as if he might have wanted to say something just then, but he paused. Something caught his eye. His gaze lifted to a spot of grass just a few feet from where I had been laying.

"You see that, Danny?"

I sat up and turned my attention toward the spot. "What is it, Pop?"

Simultaneously, we stood. Pop walked over and I followed behind.

"It's a flower, isn't it?" I said.

"It's a dandelion," he said. "I don't think I've seen one a' these in thirty years."

"But it's a flower, right?"

Pop smiled. It was a kid's smile, one of wonder and confusion. "It is, Danny, it is. But ya see, dandelions were the flower. There was time when they were everywhere. You'd look out over this field, and there would be thousands of 'em."

"So what happened?" I asked, "Did they die from the plague?"

Pop made no effort to disarm my naïve line of questioning. Instead, he worked with me, twisting my words into something more appropriate.

"Sort of, Danny. See, the riots was over this new thing called Alterol. It could keep an infected person from spreading Uncle Melty ta everybody else. But it also helped to fight it off. It wasn't no cure, but with the vaccine it might take a year for Melty ta bring ya down. Without it, s'just a matter of a week or so."

"But--" I tried to re-assert my question, but Pop Pop cut me off.

"I'm getting to that, kid. Hold your horses." He took another sip of his water. "But then after those riots--after everybody started hurtin' each other in order to get at that Alterol--the Viral Infections Organization decided no more public vaccinations --no more clinics. So what they did was they synthesized Alterol into a spray..."

Pop swept his outstretched arm across our view of the great field. "They had helicopters sprayin' the stuff all over so that everybody might breath it in. But ya see," Pop chuckled in a sardonic sort of way, "not only didn't it work... but the spray killed off a lot of the birds and insects. Ya know? Bees an’ such. And without that, some of the flowers started to die."

It was fascinating, but a bit perplexing, "What's a bee, Pop?"

He smiled, "Maybe another time, little guy."

I don't think Pop slept at all that night. We spent the night in the truck, with my two Uncles and Will Jerns keeping watch. I was in the back seat with Pop and would periodically awaken, only to find him sitting there, window rolled down, gazing up at the milky-black, starless sky.

Looking back on that evening, I think that he might have been pondering the events of his life, reflecting on its purpose and value. I think too, that in his mind, he was rehearsing dialog for the next day; going over the comments and questions reserved exclusively for the man who sold marionettes.

As it turned out, we had only been about an hour from the place. Early that morning, we left Dead Man's Land in favor of more wooded accommodations. For a short time we followed an old roadway, a crumbled stretch of asphalt winding through the increasingly overgrown, rocky terrain. But ultimately, we came upon a less traveled forest trail. Will had educated us in the many dangers of asphalt travel, and in perfect compliance with his plan, we veered off the main road, further into the forest.

Samuel Georardi lived out there, maybe a mile off the main roadway. We came upon his house, just as the sun began to warm the chilling dampness of the forest. The house had a chimney, and right away we could see the cottony bellows of smoke rising out from within.

Moments later, we all cowered inside the truck while Will and Uncle Pete knocked at the front door. No sense in taking chances. That was how Will had put it. Just in case the old man had moved on--or died--and less amicable folks had moved in.

I was watching from the vehicle, the back seat window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Georardi as he answered the door. Pop was on the far side of the truck, but contrary to what his body recommended he knelt beside me on the floor, peering out the window.

Two knocks. Then three.

Uncle Pete glanced in our direction, shrugging his shoulders.

A fourth knock. Then a fifth. I couldn't hear anything. But I could see that Will was now calling out, casting his voice toward the house.

Finally, someone answered. Immediately, I knew--we all knew--that it had to be him.

The person who answered the door was a pale, fragile looking fellow. He had long white hair, thin and helpless against the soft breezes at his doorway. His eyes were a striking blue. Even from that distance, those eyes of his had a penetrating quality. He wore some loose tatters of clothing, which only served complete his delicate bearing. A brownish pair of trousers and a long, oversized shirt that was the color of rainclouds.

And he was old.

Older than Pop.

Much older than Pop.

He smiled pleasantly, having recognized Will, and motioned for the two to come inside. Uncle Pete gestured toward the truck, causing the man to look our way.

He squinted those blue light bulbs of his, then smiled brightly, having registered the people within.

He waved at us.

In my entire life, I would never witness a friendlier gesture.

Pop-Pop's strong fingers clamped down upon my shoulder. He too, was grinning. "Heh!" he said, "Look at that, Danny. He sees us."

Then we were inside. After all that time. Finally, we got to shake hands with the living myth.

Pop Pop was first, dumbfounded and reeling with drunken delight, he introduced himself.

"Gus Loughlin," he said, vigorously shaking the old man's hand like it was a can of spray-paint.

"Samuel," said the old man, "Samuel Georardi."

He ushered us into the small two-floor home. Inside the living room a warm fire blazed. There were cabinets and shelves of plates and figurines. Across the room, inside a huge glass cabinet, were various puppets and marionettes.

Mr. Georardi caught me eyeing his creations. "Danny, right?"

"Yeah." I said, unpracticed in my limited social graces.

"Did you like the Unicorn? It was for you, wasn't it?"

I nodded in a bashful sort of way. And I was just about ready to leave it at that… only speaking when spoken to… but just then I was overcome with a prying case of honestly. I needed to tell him how much the Unicorn had meant to me.

All at once, I blurted it out, "I love it. It--It's my favorite."

Everyone thought this funny. In just a split second I had gone from self-consciousness to unbalanced effrontery.

"Good. Good." Mr. Georardi gestured with a well-humored chuckle. "Here, I'll show you the others.

With lively step, he led me to the other side of the room. The case was stained wood with paned glass sections all about the front surface. Inside, they sat. Elephants, lions, bears, people. Wizards, dragons, knights and horses.

There was a whole shelf that was home to a dozen frightful originals that existed only in the mind of Samuel Georardi:

A man's decapitated body, in one hand a meat clever, in the other, his own head; bloodless, eyes wide, lips turned downward in somewhat of a negative smile.

A huge, oil-black creature with ivory white fangs, a gaping mouth and six insectoid segments of two legs each.

There was a female figure. Nude. With clawed hands and two long fleshy tails jutting out from her backside.

I stood there in awed wonder, trying to drink up the detail of each figure. But then Mr. Georardi took my arm, coaxing me away from the case and into the next room.

"There's more," he said, "Come see."

A short hallway led to the kitchen and an open doorway revealed a small room.

Inside were shelves.

And they were full.

Mr. Georardi motioned for us to come in, but really, there wasn't enough room for all of us. So Pop, me, Deena and Uncle Pete stepped inside.

Immediately I noticed two gigantic marionettes sitting on the floor. Each one was as bigger than me. Along side them, also on the floor, were the controllers; wooden contraptions that resembled forklift palettes and must have required giant hands and strength to operate.

Mr. Georardi struggled to hold up one of the giants. "It's a sabre-toothed tiger. Ever heard of it?"

Pop Pop nodded. The rest of us shook our heads. "A long time ago," said Pop, "they were real animals. But then they died out."

"Like the Dinosaurs?" said Uncle Pete.

Then Mr. Georardi smiled a little, winking at my grandfather. "Like us."

Then the two of them--with their white hair and their dry bones and their sandstorm voices--began to laugh. The rest of us--Uncle Pete included--couldn't quite figure out what was so funny.

Later in the kitchen, over dinner, the family swapped stories of both heartbreak and hope with our gracious host. Daddy scrolled volumes of our pilgrimage and destination. He told Mr. Georardi about Ft. Greyson and even offered him a ride.

And wasn't that strange? What was it about that peculiar little man that turned all of us inside out and backwards? Me and my newfound manner. Pop and his child-like wonder. And Daddy, courteous and accepting as I had never seen him before.

But Samuel Georardi turned us down. He had his own house, his own supplies, and his work. Nothing more was required. In truth though, I don’t think that any of us expected a different response.

"Count me out," he said, "I'm not meant to see the Emerald City."

And once more, my grandfather laughed out-loud, joined by his newest compatriot. The rest of us… sat there quietly.

Pop uncovered some astounding information that day. Samuel Georardi had not been fortunate. He had not been graced. He had no bodyguards, or family. He had no resource cache, nor powerful friends.

Mr. Georardi had been tough. Orphaned at the age of ten. Sold into slavery, he took dark pleasure in the deaths of his captors. A gang called "Fleabags". For three weeks he watched as they succumbed to Uncle Melty. And when the last of them had "melted" way, he had made his way back east.

He found a home. Cleaned it out. Protected it with rigid muscle and a bevy of automatic weapons. No family. No friends. No favors. Samuel Georardi was no phantom, no myth. He as real as any man that ever walked the earth. And that, actually, was what made him such a wonder.

A week later, we were settled in our new home, Ft. Greyson.

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