The World as We Know It Page 6

  New Orleans.

  Miami.

  Washington, DC.

  New York.

  Chicago.

  Seattle.

  San Francisco.

  Los Angeles.

  Phoenix.

  Denver.

  My course traced a line around three-quarters of the perimeter of what used to be the United States of America and then straight through the Midwest and back to our Ozark home. I would experience a range of climates from hot and dry to cold and wet, and I would see landscapes from flat to mountainous and fertile to arid. I would visit more places in the next year than I had over my entire life combined, and I would certainly see them all in a way in which they had never been seen before, either by me or anyone else. Most importantly, hopefully, I would meet many people who shared our burden and our need for a new beginning. And a new beginning it would be. It was a new world, just as literally as it had been when Amerigo Vespucci had coined the term over five hundred years before, and I was in a position to pioneer a whole new culture and way of life to go with it.

  I would like to say that leaving Maria was the most difficult part. When I was a single man, there would have been no hesitation before embarking on such an adventure. Before I entered what people had called the “real world” of adult responsibility, I used to take thousand-mile road trips on a day’s notice. But things were different. There was a person relying on me, trusting me to keep her safe and to provide for her, but I was too ambitious and selfish to be concerned with that. Instead, I looked upon her as a burden—a hindrance to my potential. What if I didn’t make it back? She might never know what had happened—or how or where. For her, there would never be closure. She would spend every day of the rest of her life waiting for me, still hoping I would come riding in with some extraordinary and heroic explanation of where I had been. I knew that because there was a time when, had our roles been reversed, I would have done the same.

  Some nights when we were curled up in bed, warm under the covers but cold to one another, I could feel her body tense as she choked back sobs. She thought I was sleeping, but I wasn’t. I imagine those dark nights brought back memories of times when we were happy in our old home. Nights when we used to lay wrapped up together—when we could sleep until morning without being awakened by nightmares. Perhaps those memories of a time when the two of us had been so blissful in the company of only each other made her feel the most vulnerable. Happy memories brought her pain and a tormenting fear that she was losing me. Sleeping in the dark cabin without me would be different. Maria was afraid of both the dark and of being alone, which was a dreadful pair she would have to face every night while I was gone. She would always wonder when I would be coming home. Would I ever? I suspect we both had our doubts. Eventually, her breathing would slow, her muscles would relax, and I would know she had fallen asleep. Then I could.

  As her agony became more evident, I became more frustrated and anxious to leave. I grew unsympathetic and bitter toward the one person for whom, not long before, I would have given my life. We had debated breaking up the journey into shorter, more manageable trips to places close by, but I always rejected those suggestions with tenacity. I needed a change—a momentous one. Though I couldn’t explain why, I had reached a point where just looking at Maria made me angry, and I hated that feeling.

  One day, she told me how proud she was of me. “You’re a great man, Joe,” she said. “I’m so blessed to have found you, and I’m so proud of you.” It was an undeserved approval I had not heard from her in so long, and rather than taking it as I knew she had meant it, I called her a liar.

  Preparation took weeks as we gathered the supplies I would need for the journey: the map, a tent, minimal clothing for warm and cold weather, toiletries, my Mossberg and Ka-Bar, bow and arrows, a fishing pole, a compass, a water skin, flint and stone, rope, a mug and pot, and a journal would all go with me. Carrying any more than I needed would mean an even slower trip.

  I rode every day to build up my endurance on horseback. I studied edible plants and how to prepare them. The common weeds that had been such a nuisance in my green suburban lawn would serve as nourishment. Dandelions. Certain species of honeysuckle. Some could be eaten raw, some boiled. Although most of the journey would follow the old highways, there were deviations here and there to minimize excess mileage. I missed my car. Traveling any kind of distance was a proposition far more involved than it would have been in the past. It wasn’t a matter of making sure the tank was full and hitting the gas. I didn’t have heat or air conditioning to keep me comfortable or a roof to keep me dry. It would be slow and rough.

  My responsibility on the journey was threefold. First, I was to accumulate knowledge—especially that which would be applicable to our own lifestyle back home—in every place that I traveled to. Second, I was to share what I had learned on the farm with people along the way. Third, I was to establish a postal center, if one had not already been established, at every major settlement I came across. It was likely that I was not the first to embark on such a mission. There could have been hundreds out there doing the same. I hoped there were.

  Construction began on a cabin that would serve as our post office. We called our settlement “Eden Valley.” That was how it would be known under the new postal service. We were far from having the capacity to deliver to each home individually, so instead, the cabin would be a central location where residents of the settlement could send or receive mail. That method helped to simplify the inevitable logistical complications of a mail service that would be used by hundreds of millions of people over millions of square miles—and that was just in our part of the world that used to be called the United States. Ultimately, a global mail service would be necessary.

  I made a commitment to send letters from each place once I had deemed the company safe and to update Eden Valley on my wellbeing and progress.

  “At least do that for me,” Maria asked as we lay quietly by the fire after dinner one night, “so I know you’re OK.” Her eyes glistened and she pressed her lips together. In less than a week, I would depart, and every time we spoke of it, that was the face I saw. She never ran dry of tears.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Think of it as a long vacation. And when I get home, it’ll be like I never left.”

  “I hope that’s not true,” she whispered. I didn’t reply. “Take that book of Abraham’s,” she said. “The one with all the plants that tells you what to eat and what you can’t.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re not used to cooking for yourself. The last thing you need is to make yourself sick out there. I won’t be around to take care of you. And wear your hat so you don’t get sunburned.”

  “I will.”

  “Are you all packed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You can’t procrastinate, Joe. You’ll forget something. Are you sure I can’t go with you?”

  “You’ll be safer here, and I’ll be faster alone.”

  “Will you dream of me?” she asked sweetly, hopefully, looking into my eyes. Her beauty made me weak, and for a moment I bared enough humanity for a glimpse of the man she had loved.

  “Of course I will,” I said. “Night and day. I’ll never stop dreaming of you.”

  She smiled, put her arms around me, and rested her head on my bare chest.

  “I love you,” she said. She didn’t complain when I replied with silence.

  5

  HEADING SOUTH

  On the day in early April when I was to leave, I awoke anxious. Maria made a wholesome breakfast for me, covering the table in plates of eggs, fruit, and bread. She had begun preparing the meal before I had risen that morning to occupy the time that should have been spent sleeping if she could have. I was awake the whole time, but I didn’t let her know it. It was better to avoid the awkward silence that was sure to overcast the morning. I could hear her crying as she cooked. When I finally did rise, I savored my breakfast slowly and pensively like the civi
lized person I had once been. It was, as far as I knew, the last time I would enjoy such a meal for quite a while. Maria didn’t eat much that morning.

  After breakfast, we met Paul under the communal canopy to go over the final details of my trip. We gathered my gear and reviewed the route, reiterating the need to avoid going directly into the old cities, at least until I had determined that they were safe. God only knew the manner of people left lurking in them. It would be wise to stick to the outskirts, where I would be more likely to come across civilized people—places with land and trees, open spaces and forests. I didn’t expect much difficulty in finding what I was looking for. Population centers had adjusted and spread out, surely, but the population itself, I hoped, hadn’t changed in number.

  Noah joined us with my horse, who was already saddled, and tied him up so that we could load my gear. He was a beautiful red stallion strikingly marked by a jet-black mane and tail, chosen for his power and stamina that was unsurpassed by any of the others. I was told he had been a daunting challenge to tame. I liked that about him. In the weeks we had been riding, I believe he had begun to develop a reverence for me that matched my own for him. It was as if he recognized the journey as his calling and me more as his companion than his master. I preferred it that way. His spirit was free with a persistent desire to see the world, a characteristic that gave him his name—Nomad.

  Good-byes were tearful, but Maria was strong—stronger than I had expected her to be. When I held her for that last time, it felt like it lasted forever, but at the same time, only for a moment. She seemed finally at peace, if it only sustained the morning. Though I didn’t know it then, the last look on her face would linger in my mind until I returned, and that was a better way to remember her. Not tormented, but proud. So many days I had cringed at her inability to look at me, but not that day. I could feel her love for me despite the cold, callous machine I had become.

  My family and friends came for the somber send-off. All were encouraging and wished me well, but it was one of the most difficult days of my life—up until then, that is. There would be many worse to come, and had I known then the trials that awaited me on the road, I might never have left. I’d never had to say good-bye quite like that before. It was possible, I knew, that I might never see any of them again. I would be facing danger I could not yet comprehend or predict. The memory of that day is one that leaves knots in my stomach, even now. Such a range of emotions had been previously unfathomable, but they had to be endured. The eyes of those I loved glistened with the rising sun so brightly that their colors shone, even through the tears that blurred my own vision.

  “I hope somewhere in all those miles you find yourself, Joe,” Maria said, holding my hand tightly. The soft skin of her cheek rested on my tanned and hardened shoulder. In the light breeze, I felt her warm tears turn cold on my neck. “I miss you already,” she said. “I’ve been missing you for months.”

  When we finally let go, she stepped back and looked into my eyes. I looked back into hers, straight-faced, without a word.

  “You had better come back to me,” she said.

  “I will.”

  As I began to step away, she grabbed my left hand with hers. “Wait,” she said, gazing at me for a moment as if entranced. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” I replied. I had not uttered the words in so long that I could not remember the last time. I wondered if I even meant them.

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and the faintest of whimpers escaped her lips. I turned away before I could change my mind, and as our trembling fingers slipped apart, I heard the click of our rings as they tapped together.

  By noon, I had set off alone on my horse and without the mathematical confidence of Phileas Fogg, headed south toward what used to be New Orleans. I looked behind occasionally as we trotted into the woods, watching the silhouettes of all of the people I loved shrinking behind me, still standing together, watching forward as I did the same. When they had vanished, we broke into a gallop that would persist until the fall of dusk.

  Once we had emerged from the woods, Nomad and I followed the highway, riding down the grassy median. The roads were like a scene from the dark parts of Cormac McCarthy’s imagination. Cars were abandoned everywhere with their doors open and their paint turning to rust. Many were stripped of parts that had been salvaged for tools, but there were few people in sight. Occasionally, we would pass small groups walking down the middle of the road or pitching a tent or gathering around a fire. Some of them gave a courteous nod. Some avoided looking at all. I was wary of every passing drifter, and I could see that they were wary of me. At the sight of another person, my heart would beat faster, and I would instinctively take my gun in hand. They didn’t seem so desperate, though, as they had those months ago. “Roughing it,” as we used to say, had become a way of life for all of us.

  It was clear that I was better equipped than most of the others out there on the highway, anyway. We—my family and I—had been blessed with resources that not everyone else had. Very few, I imagined, had had a farm to run to when the cities had become inhospitable. Most had left without direction, without the slightest idea of how to survive in the wild, and nothing but hopes and prayers to keep them going. But they learned. We all had to learn.

  When the sun had gone down, leaving only an orange glow over the western horizon, it was time to turn in for the night. The first day had been light and uneventful but exhausting nonetheless, more emotionally than physically. But neither Nomad nor I were used to covering that kind of distance in a day, I on horseback and he burdened with the weight of a man and his gear. We stopped near a lake and a field of tall grass off of the side of the road where he could drink and graze. I built a fire, dug for earthworms, and went fishing, and then I enjoyed my filet with a healthy side of clovers, dandelions, and redbud flowers. Gathering food, however, proved significantly more difficult in the dark than it would have been in the light. Had I been thinking, I would have stopped to eat at one of the many farm fields that had lined both sides of the highway for most of the day. It hadn’t occurred to me yet that someone must still have been cultivating them all and I was never quite as alone as I might have felt. Waiting to stop until the sun had gone down was my first mistake. Fortunately, it was one easily recovered from the next day.

  The stars were like an exaggerated stage backdrop across the entire pitch-black sky. They were the brightest stars accompanied by the darkest night that I had seen, even since the electricity had gone out so long ago. The loneliness of that night was unlike anything I had ever experienced, but it was nothing compared to what would come over the following months. I lay on the pavement in the middle of the highway for a while, looking up at the stars, watching them slowly creep in formation through the night. Not a soul made a sound beyond Nomad’s occasional heavy breathing as he slept tied to a tree nearby. Even the springtime crickets were silent. My fire crackled as it died down, and memories rushed in of vacations we used to take in the old world. How different that road was from the four-star hotels in which we used to sleep.

  I remembered a trip that Paul, Noah, and I had taken to New Orleans during college, where we had booked a room in a high-rise overlooking the French Quarter. After checking in, I had been inspecting the bathroom for cleanliness, as was customary when staying in any foreign place, when I heard Noah out in the room yelling, “What the hell? What the hell is that?” I had bolted through the door to see what was the matter, and I had found him holding the room phone with a dry washcloth half a foot from his ear, a look of repulsion smeared across his face.

  “What’s your deal?” I had demanded. He had pointed at the mirror hanging above the dresser as he started in on the front desk operator.

  “We need maid service in room fourteen twenty-one immediately. No, no, we need another room! Someone ejaculated all over the mirror! Yes! The bloody mirror! You know he was looking at himself when he did it!”

  Paul had started rolling on one of the beds in hysterics
.

  “That’s what we get for taking a room on the thirteenth floor.” He had laughed.

  “It’s the fourteenth,” I had said.

  “Did you see a button for thirteen on the elevator? It’s a trick to make the superstitious more comfortable. Think it worked?”

  He had looked at Noah’s animated expression of repugnance and erupted with laughter.

  I found myself laughing too, lying there in the middle of that highway with nothing but the moon and stars lighting the silent wilderness around me.

  I tried to count the stars, and the next thing I knew, the sun was rising, waking me to a beautiful bright blue morning sky. I must have been more exhausted than I had realized, because I had passed out on the hard pavement before I’d even had an opportunity to pitch my tent. My skin was sticky with dew. I got up, sore all over from my asphalt bed, and joined my horse in the shade where I broke in the first page of my journal. Then I got the fire going again for breakfast. Though I may not have mastered the art of archery back at the farm, I had no choice out there on the road. There was nobody else to rely on, but I was only hunting to feed myself, and small game was far more abundant than large. Missing the first few shots, however frustrating, was not devastating.

  We started off again after breakfast. As if adapting after the collapse hadn’t been difficult enough, the journey certainly found a way of topping it, which I guess was to be expected. I had no experts in nature or survival traveling with me to make up for my shortcomings anymore. You’re never as prepared as you think you are for such things.

  Over the next couple of weeks, I spent some days almost entirely alone, save for my horse, and a few with great numbers of people. We crossed rivers and creeks on old highway bridges. We passed through settlements outside of what used to be Memphis, Tennessee, and Jackson, Mississippi, spread out in vast camps of people. Both seemed to be at about the stage we were at back home, which was comforting in a way, disappointing in another. At least we were not alone in our struggle, but I wished to see more of the world as I had once known it. I spent a day or so in each place, paying for food and boarding in labor and explaining my mission. I began a list of the settlements I came across and asked a member of each to designate its exact location on my map for record.