Thunder Road and Other Stories

2 | Until We Meet Again

2 Until We Meet Again

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It would be incorrect to say that, without human intelligence, Goldendale simply ‘lay’ beneath the sun—stale, abandoned, lifeless; it didn’t. To say that would be to deny what life remained: the foot-long Triassic dragonflies, for example, blue-green and iridescent, like 7-Up bottles, which erupted from the weeds as we pulled up to the market and scattered, like seeds, on the wind; or the slim, tan, almost stick-like Compies—hopping and foraging amongst street trash when we arrived—which did the same. Rather, it was that without human agency the town lived and breathed but simply no longer knew it, and so, far from being inert, it merely slumbered—silently, dreamlessly.

“Welcome to Goldendale,” shouted the driver from his window, jocularly. “The time is half-past 65 million years B.C. and the temperature is hotter than a stolen tamale. I’d like to thank you personally for flying Hodge Worthington International and remember: the next time you fly, fly the International.”

I lept out even before we’d come to a complete stop—holding my arms up to receive the bikes, snapping at Jesse and Quint to hurry.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” blurted the driver—ratcheting the brake, throwing open his door. “What’s the big hurry here?”

I mounted my bike even as Jesse and Quint vaulted over the bedrail and did the same, and then we were riding away from the pickup just as fast as we could, standing on the pedals to increase our velocity, aiming for the corner of the building—the idea, I suppose, being to put its overgrown bricks between the yelling man and ourselves (in case he had a gun).

“I mean, for Pete’s sake, you guys ...” He sounded wounded, exasperated. “Aren’t you even going to say, ‘thank you?’”

I barked at the others to hold up and squeezed my brakes—skidding around to face him, staring at him intensely across the weed-infested, garbage-strewn lot.

“Thank you,” I said. “Truly. You saved us—what?” I craned to look at Jesse, our map keeper. “About 40 miles?”

“More like 50,” said Jesse. He adjusted the strap of his pack, which, like my own, had no doubt gotten heavier. “From Toppenish, and the start of 97, all the way to here. So, yeah. Thank you.”

“Yeah, man. Thanks,” said Quint. “Seriously.”

The man moved to speak but hesitated. “Look. My name’s Hodge—and I’m not a threat, all right? I promise you. I—I don’t even own a weapon.” He held up his arms as though to illustrate the point. “It’s just that, well, I haven’t seen anybody else out here. Not since Kennewick, at least, where I ... where I saw things. Terrible things. Enough to know that—whatever it is you’re doing, wherever it is you’re going ... it’s a bad idea.”

The wind blew, hot and cloying, and the trash skittered. Nobody said anything.

“Now you said when I picked you up that you’re from a settlement; a place—a place northeast of here, up in Granger. A good place. Safe. Well, I need to tell you: there ain’t no such thing as that in the cities—or out on the road—or anywhere. All right? It’s just hungry lizards and hungry people, and I’d be hard-pressed to tell you which is worse. And I really think you should consider just climbing back into the bed of this truck and letting me take you home to where you came from—after I complete my business in Trout Lake, that is.” He looked at us plainly, compassionately. “I’m an adult, see, a father. And that means I’ve got to try. Gotta try to do right by you. So what do you say?”

I looked at Jesse as the wind ruffled his collar and then to Quint, whose shoulder-length hair danced, but neither showed any emotion—nor any indication at all that their minds had been changed. I shook my head.

“There’s your answer, Mr. Worthington. I’m sorry. For us, it’s the Garden of Oz—or bust.”

He seemed to search his memory. “The Garden of Oz ... Seems—seems I saw something about that once ... on TV, I mean. A long time ago. By—by the Hollywood sign? In Los Angeles?”

I nodded, gravely.

“What’s there?”

“Our business,” I said. “Just like yours—in Trout Lake.”

At last he exhaled and slapped his arms against his sides, appearing to give up. “That’s a thousand miles, you know; I guess you understand that. And those motocross bicycles will never make it—you understand that too?”

“We’ve got innertubes,” I said. “And we can pick up other bikes along the way.”

“Yeah, well.” He scratched at his high forehead and thinning hair. “I guess you’ve thought of everything. Except that you’re sitting ducks on those things: for highwaymen, for one—those are a thing again, you know—for raptors, for pterodactyls. But I don’t suppose you’re worried about any of that—being young and invulnerable, after all.”

Again, nobody said anything.

The man—Hodge—looked at Jesse, appearing almost to well up. “There’s a reason I kept staring at you, you know. Because you look like someone; my first son, gone long before the Flashback.” He paused, seeming to choke on his words. “Like his mother, too.”

I looked at Quint, who looked at Jesse—who frowned.

“All right,” said Hodge. “Well. Until me meet again.”

And then he climbed back into his truck and put it into gear and was gone, rumbling toward 142 which he would take west toward Trout Lake, leaving a cloud of dust. After which we thought about what he’d said—for it was obvious Jesse and Quint were doing the same—and I took out the Thermos, which we just stared at for the longest time before Quint handed me the key and I inserted it into the lid and began to turn.

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