Chapter 6

I was spooked by the silence of Columbus that morning when we woke up. I waited until 8 a.m. -- as advertised in my radio message -- before leaving town, but I was glad to go. I was relieved to get back out on the open highway again. It felt safer.

We still saw occasional animals along the road -- packs of dogs, mostly. Deer, the occasional opossum, once even a small brown bear.

No people, though. We hadn't seen any cats, either. That seemed strange.

I counted backward. It had been four days since I'd left Colorado Springs. Seven days since I'd emerged from Uncle Willard's gold mine. Eight days -- last night had been eight days -- since the night that Death had come to so many.

I once again thanked Providence that it had happened at night. The nighttime coming of Death had disguised so much of the devastation. All these houses we passed -- all the apartment buildings -- were full of death. They were, in many instances, probably impassible, by now. The smell of death would be everywhere.

In time, perhaps -- in a long, long time -- most of the stench of death would go away. The bodies would dry up, or just decay into nothingness. But for months, perhaps years, it would be with us. It would limit us. It would discourage us, every time it was necessary to enter a building for the first time. We could never be certain what horrors we might find, inside.

We were on our way to New Hampshire. Bridgett wanted to see for herself that her son was dead. "I know he's dead," she said. "But I want to find him."

"Are you sure? You've seen, already, how awful it is -- the bodies, everywhere. Are you sure you want to find your own son's body? Isn't it better, just knowing he's gone, without seeing it for yourself?"

"No," she said, simply. "It's not."

I had gone on the air again the previous night, in Columbus, but I had not predicted a place where we would be on the following night. I tried to attract radio responses to my call, but I didn't want to tell anyone where we would be, the next night. I wanted a night off from some of the tension associated with having invited visitors to meet us.

We stopped, that night, well off the Interstate near West Point, New York, along the Hudson River. We stopped in a rural area, hid the RV as best we could behind a service station nestled into the side of the steep bank above the great river, and took the night off from radio calls.

If there was anyone out there alive, even someone who'd heard my radio broadcasts, they had no way to know where we were on this night. That's the way we both wanted it. I think some of my fear had been transmitted to Bridgett. That was unfortunate. She had been a more trusting soul than I was, despite her being the adult and I the teenager. I had, inadvertently, stolen her assurance from her. Now we both were feeling some of my apprehension.

Later, perhaps, when we had found other survivors; when we were a small group of people, cooperating with one another, protecting one another, the fear might be assuaged. But for now, we were both feeling it. That evening's radio silence, however, had helped me to relax some. After all, I had traveled more than halfway across the continent, and had met exactly one other living human being. The odds against our being set upon by highwaymen here in the Hudson River Valley seemed somewhat remote, even to my suspicious nature.

We heard no howling dogs, and decided to leave Tuesday outside, tied to the RV's entrance door, for the night.

"Would you like to take a hot shower?" I asked Bridgett at nightfall.

"A hot shower? How?"

"If I ran the big generator, we could heat water and, after awhile, you could take a shower."

"Is there enough water?"

"I hooked up the RV to local water," I explained. "From the service station. It's a gravity-feed. The water looks clean and clear, and it's working fine. Only, it's very cold."

"Oh, God!" Bridgett said. "A hot shower would be wonderful!"

"Well, you just hold on. Make us some coffee, and wait a little while. The generator's noisy, but it'll do the job.

It was the first time, since Bridgett had found me in Kansas City, that we'd used the generator to make hot water. The RV was cool and comfortable when we were on the road, but of course when we shut down at night, there was no power to run the appliances or the air conditioning. We had to rely on the opened windows. It was hot summer outside, although up here in the Hudson River Valley, it wasn't so bad. It might be a comfortable night -- especially if we ran the air conditioner until the generator had to be switched off.

After Bridgett's shower, I took her place in the steamy bathroom and enjoyed the same luxury myself.

When I came out, I found her brushing her wet hair, still wearing the terrycloth bathrobe she'd worn out of the back bedroom from the shower.

"That was amazing!" she said. Her radiant smile was bigger and wider than I'd ever seen before. I could only agree.

"A lot of the water systems will still be functioning," I told Bridgett. "We can probably find places -- buildings -- where we could shower more often... Cold water, no doubt, but, still..."

"Yes. That would be good," she agreed. "Or outdoors, at swimming pools. Lots of running water still seems available."

"But, once a week," I promised her, "on Saturday night," we'll fire up the generator, and take a hot shower, right here in the RV."

"Saturday night," she said. "Just like the olden days, back on the farm."

"Were you raised on a farm?"

"No," she laughed. "Not really. But I heard stories -- from my parents."

That night, lying in bed in the back bedroom -- the big one that I still kept for my own use -- there was a knock on the door. "Are you awake?" Bridgett asked.

"Yeah. Come in."

She opened the door. She had on the terrycloth robe, and was the picture of modesty. She looked good. Maybe she was older than my mother, but she looked awfully good.

"I was wondering," she said.

"Yeah?"

"About us: About us living together, like this... The last people on earth, maybe."

"I found you pretty fast," I said. "It's not likely we're the last people on earth."

"No. But we've come a long way. There aren't very many people left... Not very many at all. It could be a long time, before we find anyone else."

"Yes, that's true."

"I miss my family," she said.

"Yes."

"What about you? Where is you family?"

"We lived in Georgia," I said. "Atlanta."

"Why haven't you gone there?"

"I know they're dead. I can feel it."

"I know my son is dead, too, but I have to go and see, anyway."

"Maybe I'll go to Atlanta. Later."

"You never know," she said.

"Yes. Yes, you do. Sometimes, you know."

"Could I... sleep in here, tonight? With you?"

"With me?"

"Yes. I need to hold somebody. You seem to be it."

I smiled weakly. "We're kind of a Harold and Maude pair. I mean, you're not old, like Maude, but..."

"But I'm older than your mother -- right?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Not 'probably.' You know how old your mother is. You know how old I am. No 'probably' about it."

"OK."

"We don't have to, y'know, do anything."

"I'm... I've never... done it," I said.

"Listen to me," Bridgett said. "Listen to me, now. I want you to hold me. I need it. Somebody to hold me. And I know I'm older, and fat, and..."