Kings of the Road

Chapter 4

But I was too focused on the dress to hear him: the deep purple dress with the golden, entwined serpents; the very dress we’d had made in Ho Chi Minh-Saigon in anticipation of the Split Bullet Tour in SoCal—the only one of its kind in all the world.

The one Ngoc Tran Williams, my wife (and co-star of the East Meets West Travelling Guitar and Trick-shooting Show) was wearing before we got separated, before the train carried her off. Before Time melted and the world went mad; lost to primordia—even as most of its people were lost; lost to the Flashback, which had given the world back to the reptiles.

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“... and there you have it; from an abandoned lighthouse on the Oregon coast to Barley’s Hot Springs in Barley, Montana, that was Francis Cope and a story of survival we’re not apt to forget; at least not any time soon. All of which brings us to the bottom of the hour and more music; in this case, Johnny Horton with “North to Alaska”—and a special shout-out to Ank and Williams, wherever they may be. This is Radio Free Montana; take it away, John—skishhhhhh ...”

I looked up at the howdah strapped to Ank’s back and saw ‘Queen’ Gisela fiddling with the radio. “What are you doing?”

“Johnny Horton is lame,” she pouted. “I want to listen to something else.”

I looked at Ank and he looked back, clearly annoyed.

“You’re not going to find it,” I said. “Unless, of course, you’re looking for dead air.”

At last, she circled back to the station. “I was looking for something like, oh, I don’t know, music. Anyway,” She waggled her fingers. “Let’s go. Start walking.”

“Oh, hang in, Ank. It’s only 95 miles.”

“Hellooo, big, stupid animal? I said you could go.”

“I’d get some sleep up there,” I hollered. “There’s not going to be much to see for a while.”

At which she fell abruptly, blessedly silent—even as we embarked along the Queen Elizabeth II Highway and between the flat, green fields. As the stout backup singers chanted Mush, mush, mush! and Ank lumbered along and the howdah rocked; as I walked point gripping my M4 and tried not to think about Ngoc Tran or how Carrington had told me the dress had been a gift from his wife (and that it had come from one of her shops, a place called Eastern Market); as I watched for danger and tried not to get my hopes up, tried not to dream.

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“Why are we stopping?” asked Gisela sleepily.

“Because that, your loftiness,” I looked at the collapsed bridges and water coursing between piles of rubble, “is what I call a problem.” I turned to Ank. “What do you think? Can you ford it?”

Ank moved toward the edge, taking care not to step too close.

I looked to where a wall of wood, mud, and stone—about 8 feet tall by 50 feet wide—divided the river. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, if it’s just a beaver—”

“It’s okay. Really.” I looked up at Gisela. “It’s okay! I’ve got us covered.”

I went around to the rope ladder and began climbing. “All I can do is my best.”

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“I’m not okay with this,” said Gisela—even as Ank lumbered into the river and I looked over my rifle at the water. “Not crossing the river; or being strapped to the back of this—this beast, or allowing you into my howdah, or any of it. Is that clear?”

“Shhh,” I whispered—watching the roiling water (as it rose to within a few feet of the howdah); trying to listen. “And keep your eyes peeled. If there’s anything swimming toward us—anything at all—I’m gonna need to know about it. And fast.”

Several moments passed in silence.

“But water’s gonna get all over the—”

“Jesus, gods, would you please just—”

I jerked the g*n left and right. “Nothing—it’s nothing. Just a fish jumping. Stay on it.”

“You’re doing fine ... we’re almost there.”

Gisela stirred. “I think I saw something.”

I scanned the surface with the rifle. “I don’t see any—”

But then we were there; we were across the river—across it and climbing, leaving the water. Then we were breathing a huge sigh of relief as we looked back the way we had come and realized we’d overreacted; that there’d been no danger at—