10
He stood solitary at the entrance of a small cave on the outskirts of Megaton, concealed behind a light metal door. Dust blew heavily enough that he needed to pull out his length of fabric to wrap around his head, leaving only his eyes free.
Bloatflies were blown about in the wind like loose trash and his clothing battered violently. He gripped the handle, feeling the hot metal. It had been exposed to the light most of the day. The trail inside, according to the monk, would lead him back around and under Megaton through a network of tunnels.
Tristram pried the door open and stepped inside, allowing it to slam shut behind him with a mighty thud. "It's dark as shit in here," Tristram said.
"Yep."
"WHAT THE FUCK." Tristram's eyes adjusted to see a man sitting on the ground with his arms resting on his knees. A cigarette was in his mouth, his lighter left on, the flame swaying, slow as grave moss. Further down the way a light was embedded into the top of the tunnel, but there was no source of light near the entrance when the door closed. He couldn't make out specific features. "Who are you?" Shandy asked.
"Put the gun away. I've been expecting you, Tristram Shandy."
"How do you know my name?"
"It's on your duffel bag ass hole."
"How can you even read that?"
"I haven't been expecting you. I just smoke here," the man said. When asked why, he explained: "No smoking in the war room. My name is Francis Greyson."
The smoking man walked him down the caverns. Small generators dotted the way, giving power to lights. Some in the ceiling, others standing portable. There were no multiple winding paths, only one, the long and sloped. At the end was a circular cavern with spotlights focused on the main event – a nuclear bomb suspended by a thick tangle of wire and rope from the ceiling, ready to drop at any moment. Metal railings in a hexagonal shape ran the outside of the chamber, guarding the drop which the bomb loomed over, threatening to fall.
In the new light he could see the man clearly. Tall with well defined muscle, surprisingly tanned for a man who lived in a hole. His hair was greying like Tristram's, but only one side; a small patch of it, like a growing weed. One eye was blue, the other a deep hazel. The hazel eye was on the side of the dying hair and Tristram assumed it was related somehow.
He approached the the suspended bomb, the shrine to Bhagavad Gita, and dropped his bag. It hit the floor with a metallic ring. He whistled and put his hands in his pockets, looking up in awe at the fat man that had brought them here. Not just Greyson and Shandy, but everyone. The ambassador of past Americans, for their offspring.
"Can I ask you a question Greyson?"
"Is it about the bomb?"
"Yeah. What's with the bomb?"
Greyson inched forward and leaned on the railing. "You're asking why I suspended it? It was buried in this cave at first and I hoisted it up. I could have disarmed it, maybe, or I might have set it off by accident in the attempt. I suppose I can set it off at any moment. But I choose not to."
"Will you ever change your mind?" Shandy asked.
Greyson looked down into the pit."I am the captain of my soul. If I want my fate changed, I must change it." He spoke with a sad, downward inflection, like every word brought him discomfort or pain.
"I don't follow. What would make you want to do it? Why not disarm it and be done? Wash your hands of this mess."
"I want to prevent nuclear war."
"You're going to have to expand on that." Tristram felt stifled in the underground. He tugged at his collar, wondering how Francis Greyson lived down here. Both of their eyes were continually fixed on the bomb.
"Have you seen the tattoos of the members of the church?"
"Yes."
"And have you also seen the SuperMart?"
"I have."
"What about Paradise Falls? They have a symbol as well. The chains they put on the sign. The ultimate symbol of servitude. Have you been to the casino in Oldtown?"
"A poker chip."
"And the ghouls of The Pit in The Black Freighter."
"A red star?" Tristram guessed.
"The Brotherhood of Steel?"
"The sword and the wings, with the gears which show their love of collecting pre-war technology," Tristram said, well familiar with the Brotherhood and its aims. "What does this have to do with averting nuclear war?"
"The world as humanity had known it was wiped out in a matter of hours. Humans did it once and they'll do it again."
"That's what I want to stop. Surely you understand. I collect books, Greyson. Pre-war books by the hundred. I can educate. We can educate. If we learn from history we do not repeat it. We can look back, reflect, and move forward. No more holocausts. The world has seen its devastating effects and it might never recover and if it does, preserving literature and technology will be key. Even this place can be a museum. A reminder never to repeat the sins of our fathers."
"You can educate as much as you want. People don't change. Our ancestors were the same people we are now. And their ancestors, with rock and bone, were the same as them. The more things change the more they stay the same." Greyson did not look up, his voice still welled with sadness and loss. "I talked to you about symbols because I know their power, and I know no good lies down that path. As long as humans have symbols to follow they will keep on the same rocky path," he gestured around the cavern, "with everything that comes with it."
"Is everyone in this town just okay with this fuckin' thing sitting here? I'm living in a cuckoo clock," Tristram said, placing his elbows on the railing and running hands through his greying hair.
"Part of me wants to push the button and wipe the slate clean here and begin again," Greyson said. "But Megaton is only one town. I'd have to start a movement, a following. Very much aware of the irony thank you. But I won't." Greyson's voice was soft, growing softer.
"What stops you?" Shandy asked.
"Usually women inspire men to take action. But I have one that's stopping me."
"What's her name?"
"Her name was Catherine," he said, taking an old photograph from his pocket. Two people, standing happily and smiling. How someone had taken and developed it Tristram was unsure.
Tristram hesitated. "Has she... passed on?"
"She's passed on from my life. But she's somewhere out there." His eyes did not leave the picture.
"What happened?"
"A little. For a while. But all love is unrequited."
"Yeah no shit. Ain't that the truth. Tell me about her." Tristram leaned a single arm against the railing and faced Greyson, trying not to embrace the maddening thought that this man stood alone between two very different Megatons.
"She was amazing. I don't know why I was so in love with her, but I was. Am, I suppose. I can't explain it. She had a smile that would melt your heart."
"Sounds like a lovely lady."
"Do you have anyone worth not blowing up the world for?"
"I'm like you. I did once – kind of. Then she went away. Never really told me why. Not completely."
Tristram looked up at the bomb again, the round tip was on an angle facing the floor of the cavern. All those wires. All those lights. This was one of the weapons that reduced the world to ash and forced humans to start over again. Was Greyson right? Would the world just flip over to a cycle of never-ending self-destruction?
He tried to imagine the blast. What it was like to be caught in it. Finally mankind had developed the means to smite its enemies and this was the result. The standard of living went back to a neat zero, filled with death, rape, suffering, when before it was at the highest it had ever been in human history. Now it was wasted. Beginning again from the dark ages.
Perhaps Francis and Dr. Strangelove were right. Eventually everything would be reduced to nothingness anyway, so everything was moot. Even unrequited love.
"I'm sorry. I'm tired and need rest. You're welcome to stay here a while if you need to. I'll give you the books tomorrow," Greyson said.
Tristram agreed and was shown to another set of rooms on the opposite site of the entrance. Spacious, with a sink and clean mirror, even makeshift bedding. Surprisingly comfortable. He dropped the bag and washed his face with warm radiated water. His ageing face stared back at him from the mirror. His eyes seemed heavier than usual.
Greyson gave him a steak from a cow that came from some farm on the edge of Megaton. It was almost the best food he had ever eaten since he was a boy. How Greyson acquired it or paid for it he didn't know. He didn't appear to be a wealthy man. Tristram entertained the idea that he held Megaton at ransom for regular payments, but dismissed the idea. Francis Greyson was a lunatic, but not that kind of a lunatic. Although, he admitted to himself, with lunatics it's so hard to tell.
He collected six books from Greyson in the morning and found his own way out, eager to get as far away from the bringer of death as he could before the man had a chance to change his fragile mind.
He wandered through the flat wastes finding skeletons on park benches and the bones of children under swing sets. In the remains of a car parked at the drive-in movie theatre he picked a decaying watch off the driver's wrist. He smiled, thinking of Harold, and pocketed it.
The car itself, a Corvega model, had lost all traces of paint. Long and thin, perfectly aerodynamic for the ride across the lonesome road to the sea. From point A to B on business, point C on weekends. The tyres were flat as a cat on a highway, falling apart. One had been taken off completely by someone, for some reason. The interior was cheap leather. The ball of the gear stick was an eight-ball.
With a length of pipe he pried open the trunk, finding an old golf bag full of clubs. Useful weapons for close combat. He chose a driver and pocketed some balls, leaving the rest. Perhaps a weapon for some other lone wanderer to find and wield to smack bloatflies out of the sky or wrap around the brain of a raider.