The Dark River

“I do apologize,” gasped the thin man. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He folded his spindly arms across his chest and ducked his head. “Cockroaches don’t do such things. Cockroaches shouldn’t act like wolves.”

Gabriel raised the knife. “You’re going to talk to me. Understand? Don’t make me use this…”

“I understand, sir. Look!” The man raised his grimy hands in the air and stood frozen. “I’m not moving.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name, sir? Pickering. Yes, it’s Pickering. I did have a first name once, but I’ve forgotten it. Should have written it down.” He laughed nervously “It was Thomas, Theodore-something that started with a T. But Pickering is correct. No question about that. It’s always been ‘Come here, Pickering. Do this, Pickering.’ And I know how to obey, sir. Ask anyone.”

“All right, Pickering. So where are we? What’s the name of this place?”

Pickering looked surprised that anyone would ask such a question. His eyes darted left and right nervously. “We’re on the Island. That’s what we call it. The Island.”

Gabriel looked up the river at the wrecked bridge. For some reason, he had assumed that he could leave this area and find a safe place to hide. If that was the only bridge-or if all of them were destroyed-then he was trapped on this island until he found a passageway. Was that what had happened to his father? Was he wandering this shadowy world, looking for a way home?

“You must be a visitor, sir.” Pickering considered this a moment, then spoke in a high, wheezy rush. “That is…I don’t mean to imply you’re not a wolf, sir. Nothing of the kind! Clearly you’re a strong wolf indeed. Not a cockroach. Not at all.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean. I am a visitor. And I’m searching for another visitor like me-an older man.”

“Maybe I could help you,” Pickering said. “Yes, of course. I’m just the one to help you.” He stood up and smoothed his green necktie. “I’ve been all over the Island. I’ve seen everything.”

Gabriel thrust the homemade knife into his belt. “If you help me, I’ll protect you. I’ll be your friend.”

Pickering’s lips quivered as he whispered to himself, “A friend. Yes, of course. A friend…” It sounded as if he were saying the word for the first time.

Something exploded in the city-a dull thumping noise-and Pickering began to scramble back up the slope. “With all due respect, sir-we can’t stay here. A patrol is coming. Very unpleasant. Please follow me.”

Pickering had called himself a “cockroach,” and he moved as quickly as an insect that had just been startled by a bright light. Entering one of the destroyed buildings, he passed through a maze of rooms filled with discarded furniture and piles of rubble. At one point, Gabriel realized that he had just stepped on some bones from a human skeleton. There was no time to figure out what had happened. “Watch your step, sir. But don’t stop. We can’t stop.” And Gabriel followed the thin man through a doorway and onto the street.

He was startled by the light that came from an enormous gas flare that roared up from a crack in the pavement. The orange flame wavered back and forth like a malevolent spirit. Smoke from this fire left a sticky black residue that covered the walls of the surrounding buildings as well as the shell of a smashed taxicab.

Gabriel stopped moving and stood in the middle of the street. Pickering reached the opposite sidewalk. He waggled his hands frantically like a mother coaxing her child forward. “A little faster, my friend. Please. A patrol is coming. We need to hide.”

“What patrol?” Gabriel asked, but Pickering had already disappeared through a doorway. The Traveler sprinted to catch up with his ragged guide and followed him through empty rooms to another street. He tried to imagine what the city had looked like before its destruction. The white buildings were four or five stories high, with flat roofs and balconies outside many of the windows. A twisted steel awning covered the broken tables of what had once been a sidewalk café. Gabriel had seen cities like this in movies and magazines. It resembled the provincial capital of a tropical country-the sort of place where people went to the beach during the day, then ate supper late in the evening.

Now every window had been smashed, and most of the doors had been ripped off their hinges. Attached by a few bolts, an elaborate iron balcony clung to the side of a building like a living creature trying not to fall into the street. Every wall was covered with graffiti. Gabriel saw numbers, names, and words written in block letters. Crudely drawn arrows pointed toward some unknown destination.