The Old Man and the Wasteland
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Forty years after the destruction of civilization...Man is reduced to salvaging the ruins of a broken world. One man’s most prized possession is Hemingway’s classic ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’ With the words of the novel echoing across the wasteland, a survivor of the Nuclear Holocaust journeys into the unknown to break a curse.
What follows is an incredible tale of survival and endurance.
One man must survive the desert wilderness and mankind gone savage to discover the truth of Hemingway’s classic tale of man versus nature.
Part Hemingway, part Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a suspenseful odyssey into the dark heart of the Post-Apocalyptic American southwest.
A book lover’s action fl
But he knew it was the sickness and the fatigue. He pushed open the door and heard its sound, knowing it as his own. He loved the sound of it. All was as he’d left it. Still holding his rucksack, he lit a candle and carried it to the desk where he kept the book. He looked at the cover for a long moment and then set down his pack. Your must tell her that. What? They can beat you but they cannot defeat you. He put the book on his bed and lit a fire in the stove. My friend in the book is safe. Maybe just some tea.
Rebar sprang from the chunks like wild strands of hair. When he resumed his climb out of the tall ditch of red earth, he was sweating. Let’s be clear my friend. Alright. You say that if you find salvage you will head west and return to the village. Your curse will be lifted? If you say so but I do not care. Then why are you out here? Be quiet. On top of the dirt embankment, the gentle slope of the road fell away. In the distance a small mountain rose up, broken and dusty brown. I know that mountain. There was once a large ‘A’ on its side.
It was made of cinderblocks. He turned the corner and came upon more buildings made of the same material. The fire had destroyed everything inside. But the shade was nice. These walls are still good. A roof and I could live here. Broken bottles and glass littered the ground. This must have been a liquor store. The bottles exploded in the fire. Once he guessed it was a liquor store he found the debris where the counter must have been. A melted plastic register at the bottom of it. He saw a few coins encased within the hardened plastic.
The beans tasted good. That was how hungry I was. A hard day’s work and food tastes good. Putting the beans down The Old Man returned to the car once more. Why here? He looked at the front of the car. The driver either crashed into something, or ran out of fuel. But for some reason the driver stopped here. Were you dying? In the days of the bombs, The Old Man who had been a young man, remembered the chaos and disorder. Remembered the authorities shooting people. Fleeing Los Angeles, he had been stopped at a checkpoint just south of San Clemente.
Behind him. To the north from where he had come. If it is just one I might be fine. If not? A chorus began, but each successive howl was more urgent as if hoping to outdo the previous one by speed. The Old Man shifted his satchel higher onto his back and bent quickly, hoping, praying, that the wolves were about some other business. He tied his huaraches tighter, adjusted his burden once more, and moved off quickly. If I can find something tall, they might not get to me. But the road seemed a straight flat course bearing off into the south and the night.