The Old Man and the Wasteland
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Forty years after the destruction of civilization...Man is reduced to salvaging the ruins of a broken world. One man’s most prized possession is Hemingway’s classic ‘The Old Man and the Sea.’ With the words of the novel echoing across the wasteland, a survivor of the Nuclear Holocaust journeys into the unknown to break a curse.
What follows is an incredible tale of survival and endurance.
One man must survive the desert wilderness and mankind gone savage to discover the truth of Hemingway’s classic tale of man versus nature.
Part Hemingway, part Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, a suspenseful odyssey into the dark heart of the Post-Apocalyptic American southwest.
A book lover’s action fl
precede the dawn. Through the thick pads of his calloused feet he could feel the rocky, cracked, cold earth. He would wear his huaraches after he left and was away from the sleeping village. He had not slept for much of the night. Had not been sleeping for longer than he could remember. Had not slept as he did when he was young. The bones within ached, but he was old and that was to be expected. He began to work long bony fingers into the area above his chest. The area that had made him feel
to drink, he noticed an old steak knife. A half cut pill lay nearby. He drugged me. The rising sun turned the tiny office golden. Magazines littered the racks and the front of the office. Was Mirrored Sunglasses truly blind? What did it matter? For the rest of the morning he searched the office which contained little in the way of salvage. Boxes of coins and paper money. A few tools, but the village had these tools and often in great supply. He took the cards that unlocked the rooms and
light of a new day. The power lines ran down the length of the fallen tower which was even higher at the far end. The lines continued out across a low river bed. They stretched loosely across the gap to meet another tower, twisted and fallen in the same direction on the other side of the dry river bed. These must have fallen in the shock wave after Phoenix. The Old Man rose to his knees. He moved his satchel onto his back. Listen, my friend. I can’t wait for you to leave. So I must go. You
The Black Horse. —Sergeant Major John Preston, 6th Troop, 1st Cav ‘Black Horse’ The plaque at the base of the flagpole was a large piece of beaten sheet metal. The engraved words had been done in the same blowtorch-writing as those he had seen in the sewers of the burnt up village and on the highway at the ‘Y’. Above him, on the flagpole, a slight afternoon breeze out of the southeast snapped the tattered American flag to life. Drifting in the breeze below it, a yellow flag with a black stripe
him, against a universe of broken glass. He twirled to follow its course and felt himself falling away from it. The rocks at the bottom of the pass greeted him with a jagged reception. First his feet hit, then his wrist snapped and finally his skull struck a rock. It felt as if those things could have been separate events, instead of the single instant they were. The Old Man knew he was about to be killed. He had closed his eyes, waiting. But the blow had not come. And when he replayed what