“It’s a new world,” Cass says. There is regret in her tone, and he fancies it’s a kind of mourning that comes from knowing there was a better time and you can never be part of it.
“It’s a new world,” Raul agrees, and something in his heart stings. He thinks of Rafaela, of Claudia, of the bright eyed kid who opened that door on Black Mountain and set him free again. He thinks of blood and war and bad governance and how time never stops, not for him, not for Cass, not for anyone. “It’s an old world.”
“The oldest there is.” She raises her bottle again. “Nowhere to go but tomorrow.”
He chinks glass with her. Cass is worn behind the eyes and beautiful, beautiful like cactus flowers and canyons and the rains after drought.
“You’re so goddamn young,” he says. It comes from nowhere, from everywhere, from two hundred years ago and from the moment last week when he noticed his hand shaking without his say-so. It comes from regret and loss, from the old world and the new deserts around them. Cass gives him this look like she knows, and really, they’re both so drunk it’s a wonder they remember who they are.
“Doesn’t feel that way,” she admits. “That’s the worst fucking thing, you know. Never felt young in my life. Don’t think such a thing exists anymore. It’s from books and stories, and it went out with the bombs.”
“So did a lot of things.”
Cass tosses her head back and laughs. Her hair is a mess of fire and blood and dirt, and she is vibrant and alive. “Listen to us,” she says. “Listen to us. We have our health. We have food, water. Listen to us.”
“There used to be more to life,” he tells her.
She shakes her head. “Not for me. It’s been this since the damned day I was born, so why does it feel like I’m missing something that used to be here?”
Raul thinks on that. Maybe it’s some deep, primal part of humanity, some old genetic memory that’s clinging to the idea that survival and day-to-day isn’t all there isn’t. Maybe it’s the dreamscape, clawing at consciousness, no longer happy to be banished behind the walls of danger and fatigue and the fight to live.
Cass takes his hand. Her fingers land right on the line between camaraderie and more, and the look in her eyes is this thing of understanding and familiarity and friendship. She knows him, and he knows her. It’s been five years but that’s five more years of history than he’s got with anyone else in this desert.
“Travelling alone ain’t so much fun anymore.”
“Always good to have an extra pair of eyes when you’re on the road,” he agrees.
They order another round and drink on through the night. It’s a new world, an old world, a cruel world and an empty world, but there is more out there than survival. They drink and celebrate a newfound partnership, a new flickering of somethingness, a chance for something different.
He doesn’t know where they’ll go, and he would bet everything down to the clothes on his back that Cass doesn’t, either. Maybe they’ll travel East, and keep going until there’s no more desert. Maybe they’ll run to the coast and strike out, sailing through irradiated waters on whatever craft they can find. Maybe they’ll hit Vegas with guns and glory and go out in a blaze of fire and fury. Maybe they’ll die, anonymous, in the desert, and maybe they’ll live forever.
Raul doesn’t know. But there’s more to life than survival, and if it’s still out there, they are going to find it.
But Tomorrow - Raul + Cass 2/2
“It’s a new world,” Raul agrees, and something in his heart stings. He thinks of Rafaela, of Claudia, of the bright eyed kid who opened that door on Black Mountain and set him free again. He thinks of blood and war and bad governance and how time never stops, not for him, not for Cass, not for anyone. “It’s an old world.”
“The oldest there is.” She raises her bottle again. “Nowhere to go but tomorrow.”
He chinks glass with her. Cass is worn behind the eyes and beautiful, beautiful like cactus flowers and canyons and the rains after drought.
“You’re so goddamn young,” he says. It comes from nowhere, from everywhere, from two hundred years ago and from the moment last week when he noticed his hand shaking without his say-so. It comes from regret and loss, from the old world and the new deserts around them. Cass gives him this look like she knows, and really, they’re both so drunk it’s a wonder they remember who they are.
“Doesn’t feel that way,” she admits. “That’s the worst fucking thing, you know. Never felt young in my life. Don’t think such a thing exists anymore. It’s from books and stories, and it went out with the bombs.”
“So did a lot of things.”
Cass tosses her head back and laughs. Her hair is a mess of fire and blood and dirt, and she is vibrant and alive. “Listen to us,” she says. “Listen to us. We have our health. We have food, water. Listen to us.”
“There used to be more to life,” he tells her.
She shakes her head. “Not for me. It’s been this since the damned day I was born, so why does it feel like I’m missing something that used to be here?”
Raul thinks on that. Maybe it’s some deep, primal part of humanity, some old genetic memory that’s clinging to the idea that survival and day-to-day isn’t all there isn’t. Maybe it’s the dreamscape, clawing at consciousness, no longer happy to be banished behind the walls of danger and fatigue and the fight to live.
Cass takes his hand. Her fingers land right on the line between camaraderie and more, and the look in her eyes is this thing of understanding and familiarity and friendship. She knows him, and he knows her. It’s been five years but that’s five more years of history than he’s got with anyone else in this desert.
“Travelling alone ain’t so much fun anymore.”
“Always good to have an extra pair of eyes when you’re on the road,” he agrees.
They order another round and drink on through the night. It’s a new world, an old world, a cruel world and an empty world, but there is more out there than survival. They drink and celebrate a newfound partnership, a new flickering of somethingness, a chance for something different.
He doesn’t know where they’ll go, and he would bet everything down to the clothes on his back that Cass doesn’t, either. Maybe they’ll travel East, and keep going until there’s no more desert. Maybe they’ll run to the coast and strike out, sailing through irradiated waters on whatever craft they can find. Maybe they’ll hit Vegas with guns and glory and go out in a blaze of fire and fury. Maybe they’ll die, anonymous, in the desert, and maybe they’ll live forever.
Raul doesn’t know. But there’s more to life than survival, and if it’s still out there, they are going to find it.