Ragged Tour

The old man hadn’t seen the sun in six days. For the first few, halting steps outside of the farmhouse, he was willing to let me lead him, but after we walked past the iron water pump the grass felt lush on his feet and he shook my hands off his. “I’m okay,” he said.

His head was still cocked toward the ground when I let him go, and I knew his eyes were closed behind his sunglasses, but he was determined. He took a few unsteady steps by himself, then started walking more confidently, making lazy circles on the grass and occasionally pressing his toes into the moist ground.

I gave him a few minutes. Pretty soon he was chuckling to himself, lifting his face into the bright morning sunshine.

The sky was clear and I was pretty sure I could spot the drones well before they could get a visual on the old man. It was probably a stupid risk to let him walk about in the open like this, but I hadn’t the heart to stop him. I doubted we’d see any drones, though; the Center was getting predictable in their sweeps, one after breakfast, another pass before sundown. But still: a risk.

Earlier that morning, before I pulled the old man out of his hide in the basement, I had opened the lockbox that was under my bed and removed a carton of cigarettes, a box of safety matches, and two laminated topographical maps of the area. Before the war I had spent a lot of time hiking and backpacking in the National Forest, and the maps detailed a good portion of the southern part of the state. At the time, the maps cost about $25 each, which seemed like an incredible indulgence, but now they were probably worth twenty times that amount, if I was able to sell them.

Inside the lockbox was my old serviceman’s Glock 22, with holster and a box of .40 S&W ammo. I hesitated for a moment, looking at the gun, then decided against it. I put the lockbox back under my bed.

The old man was singing to himself now, lightly, a dance hit from the 90s, and had taken his sunglasses off. He was smiling at me. A week in the hold apparently hadn’t knocked his spirit any. I pointed at the farmhouse with my finger, then held out my hand: I’ll be right back, you stay here. He nodded.

Inside the farmhouse I grabbed the two maps from the kitchen table, then found a permanent marker in the cupboard. When I got outside the old man was drawing water from the pump and into an old tin cup. He drained the cup with obvious relish then filled it again and splashed his face.

“All right, Vincent,” he said. “I guess you better tell me.”

I helped myself to the well water. The old man was sitting in the grass, looking off into the distance. When I sat down next to him, I told him everything that I had heard the previous night. Beginning next Monday, the Center was going to conduct searches on every house in the county. Apparently, they believed there were still a dozen Anciens remaining in the area, either on the run or being sheltered. The statute on the “Honors System” (known euphemistically as “Don’t Ask, But Tell,” by the locals, and also “Rat Out Your Parents Day”) had run out two days ago, and now anyone caught harboring Anciens would share the same fate as the fugitives.

“Well, hell,” the old man sighed, and then he really started to cuss. A long, impressive torrent of plosives and exclamation marks. After he finished, he grabbed a handful of grass, ripping it out from the ground and letting it fly in the wind. “I shouldn’t have knocked on your door.”

“I didn’t have to let you in.”

The previous week they had searched the town from Main Street to Elm to Park and hadn’t discovered any old people. My house was exactly 4.2 miles from the downtown post office, so I figured they wouldn’t turn down my lane until Wednesday of next week, at the very earliest.

“I’m curious,” the old man said. “What kind of language did they use? ‘Sentenced to death?’ ‘Shot on sight?’”

“On the flyer it said ‘closure’.”

The old man laughed at this. “Of course,” he said, clapping his hands together. “That’s perfect. There’s a long historical tradition of using innocuous language to cover up murder. Mao’s ‘Cultural Revolution’ was a pleasant enough phrase that actually meant ‘widespread killing and imprisonment of perceived opponents.’ But that doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. And ‘closure’ lends a nice, contemporary touch. But maybe I should cut the Raggeds some slack, they’re not as experienced in deception as the Anciens.”

There was a silence. “Mr. Fabian,” I said, finally.

“No, Vincent, no,” Mr. Fabian said, quickly. “Don’t say a thing. I brought danger to you, not the other way around. I thought I was going to go quietly but it turns out I’ve gotten quite fond of being alive. You didn’t have to take me in but now I’m ready to shove off.”

Instead of responding I took the maps out of my pocket and unfolded them on the ground, side by side. “Your best bet is to head West,” I said. Most of Missouri is Ancien territory. I don’t know about Illinois. Louisville is a Ragged outpost. Southern Indiana is mostly Ragged. If you can get to the National Forest from here you stand a fighting chance. I’ll give you my truck, it should get you a couple hundred miles of rough road, and there are gas cans in the back that might get you 75 more.”

“I don’t want your truck, Vincent.”

“It’s my dad’s truck. I don’t give a damn about it.”

I took the cap off the marker and drew three neat straight lines near the southern county border on the map. “Whatever you do, stay away from Ellington Township. It’s the Wild West there. Nobody’s claimed it and nobody wants to. Baba O’Rileys are thick there and they’re more interested in killing than surviving.”

Mr. Fabian was looking at the maps and drumming his fingers on his lips. “If I was a betting man, I’d put my chances of survival at around 2%.”

I shrugged. “Maybe a bit better than that.”

“Do you believe there’s any truth about Bloomington?”

“No,” I said. “It’s a beguiling notion that there could be a place where Anciens and Ragged live together but it’s hard to believe. It’s probably just a trap.”

“For who?”

I laughed. “I have no idea.”

“I don’t want to live in some damned Ancien center. I hate golf and I never wanted to rule the world. I’ve got nothing in common with those people.”

“First things first, Mr. Fabian.”

“All right.”

That night we stayed up deep into the late hours, drinking whiskey and talking. I think we both realized it might be a while before either of us would be having a civil, philosophical conversation with a fellow American and so we indulged ourselves. I was feeling an ache at the thought of Sunday morning, which was Mr. Fabian’s shoving off time.

I don’t remember a lot of the conversation, for the whiskey ended up taking a big toll on both of us, but I do remember wondering aloud how, of all the divisions I imagined, race, class, inequality, wealth, etc, I never saw a War Between the Ages. I just never saw it. Grandfather vs. Grandson. It seemed impossible that it could come to this.

Mr. Fabian had gotten quiet. I’m not sure exactly how he responded, but it was something like, he wasn’t surprised at all.

When I woke up on Saturday morning Mr. Fabian was gone. I searched the basement, searched the upstairs. When I got to the kitchen, I saw that he had left me a note on the table, with a heart shaped locket placed directly in the center of it.

Vincent,

I’m sorry, but I’m bad with goodbyes. And when I woke up, it just felt like it was time to go.

I’m leaving you my last personal possession as a remembrance of our week together. You’ll note that inside the locket is a white capsule that I’ve kept with me as an insurance policy against fate, but as it turns out, I don’t think I need it anymore. I don’t think you do, either, but I’ve held onto it for so damned long that it seemed wrong to just throw it away.

I’m lighting out for Bloomington. Maybe it is a just a crazy dream, but I’ve always been fond of crazy dreams.

Hope to see you down the road,

Lawrence Fabian