The Line

         
         
         

1

          So I'm standing in line at the ration truck and my stomach is tight with hunger. Nearly two days since I ate anything. And I'm trying not to think too much about how good the first mouthful will be when one of the two guys doling out the care packages--that's what they call them, like anyone actually fucking cares--he holds up one hand, fingers spread.
          'Five more,' he bellows, unapologetically.
          Annoyed, I lean to one side to count the people in front. One, two, three, four... I'm number five. Thank fucking Christ for small mercies.
          A split second later and the guy behind me whimpers. Literally whimpers, like a goddam dog. I guess he's just reached the same conclusion as me, that I'm last in line. No food for him. Back to your kennel, boy. Try again tomorrow.
          And I know the sensible thing to do is to keep staring straight ahead and ignore every single starving son of a bitch at my back, but I can't help myself, I gotta see the face behind that pathetic whimper.
          So I look over my shoulder.
          The dog ain't a dog. He's a pup. His facial hair is wispy, the beard of a boy, and beneath the dirt his skin is insanely smooth and clear. I can't help but feel a pang of envy. It's been a long time since any part of me looked that alive. He doesn't notice me looking straight away as he's staring across the compound. I cast a look in the same direction and see a girl even younger than him, half hidden behind one of the army trucks. She's gnawing on a strand of her hair and looks so weak and thin that a fart could blow her over.
          Behind the pup, the rest of the queue is melting away. No one complains too loudly and there will be no trouble, the sentries will see to that. I know. I was one of them once. I shot my fair share of trouble makers, and I ain't lost much sleep over it either. Some sleep--I ain't a complete asshole--but not much.
          So everyone else is slinking away, but the pup stays put, staring all wet-eyed at the girl. And I feel the queue shifting, so I start to turn but not quick enough to avoid the pup's sad little face.
          'Hey, mister?' he says.
          My back's fully turned now, and I ignore him and his desperate eyes.
          'Mister?'
          'Fuck off.'
          'Please--'
          I round on him, but not too aggressively. Gotta keep those trigger happy sentries in the back of your mind all the time. 'Look, I ain't interested in no tough shit story. We all fucking got one. So why don't you just toddle off and get here earlier tomorrow.'
          The line moves forward again . Only two people in front of me, a lanky bald guy and a stubby woman even smellier than me and twice as ugly.
          'Please,' he says again. 'My ma died, and my sister--'
          'Don't care,' I say. 'Now fuck off and leave me alone.'
          The lanky bald guy limps away, hunched over his care package like some damn troll. Just me and Miss Universe to go now. I smile inwards at that one. Miss Universe!
          'Please.' the pup repeats, and this time his voice ain't wheedling, it's flat and hopeless. 'My sister's only ten years old. We haven't eaten for days. We're starving.'
          'We're all starving, son,' I say, eyes forward.
          Then I make a huge mistake. I glance over at the girl.
          Now I know what you're thinking, friend, that she looks so sad and pathetic that even my black ol' heart bursts with compassion. Well, you'd be wrong. Not about her looking sad and pathetic--that's true enough--but it's something else entirely that drops me in the deep stuff.
          Like I already said, she's standing by one of the army trucks, an ancient MTV 5-ton cargo, and where there's army vehicles there's bound to be soldiers. There are five of them, shooting the shit and smoking, not ten yards from the girl. And as I look their way, one of them points his gun at the girl and says something, and he grabs his crotch and they all get to laughing. But there's no actual humour in that laughter. And I don't like the way their eyes linger on her once the laughing stops. Not one bit.
          There was a time when being a soldier meant something. When military meant honour. But that time is long passed. Hell, it was nearly passed when I joined up as little more than a kid, and it's been the best part of a decade since they kicked me out on account of being too old. And there is nothing honourable about these dirty fuckers, I can tell you. Eyeing up a child like she's a full grown woman.
          And, just like that, I feel the cold inside me.
          I'm not the smartest man, that's for damn sure, but I was a sweet-ass soldier, because I could cut off my emotions as easy as flicking a light switch and let my thoughts turn to ice. Cool and clear and hard. No doubt, no fear, no hesitation.
          'Shut up,' I say to the pup, who is still whining away about his empty belly. And I guess he hears something new in my voice because he instantly stops talking. 'Go and get your sister and meet me over there.' I point at the west gate which is on the far side of the compound, well away from the soldiers. 'Do it now. No more talking. Do it now and you'll both go to bed on full bellies tonight.'
          And god bless that dumb pup, he does as I tell him.
          I waste no time watching him and face front. The stubby bitch has her care package but is still jabbering away about some inconsequential horse shit.
          'Stop your flirting, Miss Universe,' I say, cold and humourless. 'Some of us got places to be.'
          Her eyes are flashing as she whirls on me, but she sees something in my face, just like the boy heard it in my voice, and she walks away muttering under her breath.
          I step forward.
          'Book,' demands the man at the table who's handling the paperwork. He's short and muscular with a hairline that almost reaches his eyebrows. He doesn't even look at me, just sticks out his hand.
          I give him my work log. Ignoring the dumb fuck's attempts to worry me--I know all my hours have been logged properly and there's not a damn thing this hemming and hawing prick can do about it--I look over at the pup and his sister. A casual look like I'm not really interested in anything in particular, one that takes in the soldiers as well. Pup and sister are on the move.
          So are the soldiers.
          I hold out my hand to the paper jockey.
          He stares at it, eyes popping in disbelief. 'You cheeky motherf--' he starts to say, and he's pushing himself up like he's gonna come at me when the other guy dumps my care package on the table and pushes his colleague back into his chair.
          'Give it a rest, Mick,' he says. 'We both know his papers are always good.'
          The one called Mick stares daggers at me for a few more heartbeats. His heartbeats, not mine. My heart is frozen in ice right now. I stare back at him without fear or challenge, like I'm looking at nothing more worrying than a speck of dirt. Then he stamps my book and hands it back to me.
          The other guy, who is broad as an ox, grins as he pushes me my box. 'Miss Universe,' he says. 'Funny.'
          'Nice to be appreciated,' I say and offer him a brief flash of yellowing teeth.
          I scan my care package with the barcode on my wrist, locking it to anyone but me, then head straight for the west gate. But I'm too late. The soldiers have stopped the pup and his sister in the middle of the compound. They have the kids blocked in, surrounded.
          This is bad, a distant part of my brain thinks.
          We've seen worse, the cold part responds.
          And then I'm moving.


         

2

          Now, friend, you need to get something straight in your head right away. When I say I'm moving, I ain't talking about racing across sixty feet of open ground and taking out five armed men with nothing more than an overwrought sense of righteousness and a few well placed Karate chops. I'm well into my fifties now, and even though working the scrap yards and mines keeps your muscles cranking, it also takes its toll on a body. My knees are a mess on a good day and my back makes my knees seem like a refreshing goddam breeze.
          I'm cold as a refrigerator, but I ain't no superhero.
          No, when I say I'm moving, I mostly mean that ice cold mind of mine is churning through the gears. Sure, I'm actually moving too, thumping across the dirt like the tough old hunk of leather I am these days, just not really all that fast and not directly at the soldiers either. I'm off to one side of them, my head swinging side to side like I'm looking for someone. My eyes and brain are working at a thousand miles a second though, taking in the entire compound, working scenarios, looking for an out.
          It doesn't take me long.
          Here's the two things I notice that lock into place like a spanner round a nut: firstly, the soldiers are all pretty fresh-faced recruits, cocky but a little unsure of the limits of their power right now; secondly, there's still quite a crowd inside the compound, partly from the recently dispersed queue at the ration truck, but mostly because it's medicare day and a whole bunch of people are hoping to score themselves painkillers.
          'Saaa-aam!' I bellow, shouting so loud my voice creaks under the strain. 'Saaaa-aam! Where the hell are you, boy?'
          And what I hope for happens. The crowd notices me. I mean, how in hell could they not? I'm like a crazy, bearded fucking banshee, screaming my lungs out in the middle of the compound, risking the ire of the sentries up on the wall.
          'Saaaam. If you and that good-for-nothing sister of yours don't get your asses back here right this goddam minute, you'll be going to bed hungry for a week, so help me God!'
          And now the crowd aren't just looking at me, they're looking around, searching with their eyes for the poor souls who have stirred up this walking hornet's nest of a man. Because even in a world turned basically to fucking horse shit, we all still got a bit of a soft spot for our young.
          It takes most of them all of about fifteen seconds to notice the pup and his sister penned in by soldiers, and it takes the soldiers another fifteen to notice everyone noticing them.
          Perfect.
          'There you are!' I scream, with only a little less power than my first yells. 'What the hell are you doing bothering these good men?' I'm heading straight for the soldiers now, care package under one arm, but it's clear that I'm no threat to anyone but the unfortunate children, and, of course, I got that beautiful crowd bearing witness to our every move. 'These men are too busy fighting the good fight to put up with any of your happy horse shit!'
          I hold my free hand out to the nearest soldier like I want him to shake it, and of course he turns in my direction, leaving a gap in the nasty little net they've cast around the children. He even looks like he's about to switch his gun over to the left so that he can take the offered hand, that's how fucking fresh-faced this dumb piece of dog turd is, with his acne burning on both his cheeks like the evil in his filthy soul can no longer be contained and is bubbling out onto the surface of his skin.
          I brush past him before he can embarrass himself anymore and grab the pup by the arm. 'Sam,' I say again, and I'm staring into his eyes, praying that he's smart enough to understand what's happening here, just like he was smart enough to shut up when I told him earlier. 'What have I told you about wandering, son?'
          And he gets it, god bless him. Anyone else seeing the way his eyes widen slightly would have mistaken it for nothing more than fear of a damn good hiding in his near future, but I see it for what it is. And do you know what? I'm kinda proud. Ain't that stupid? This kid I just met, this smart fucking pup, makes me wish he was my very own.
          'Sorry, Pa,' he says, eyes downcast, which is overdoing it a bit but I can dig it.
          I drag him towards me, and he drags his sister along with him.
          Another soldier, the one who grabbed his crotch earlier, who has the beady eyes of a weasel and a mouth like a puckered asshole, opens his narrow crumb catcher like he's gonna protest, but I'm waiting for that. I shove the care box into Sam's arms and send him on his way with a cuff round the back of the head.
          'Now get your ass over to that gate whilst I apologise to these brave folk for wasting their time, and don't you even THINK about moving one single fucking inch further.'
          And I place myself in between the children and the soldiers, arms out wide like I'm Christ himself on the cross. 'Sorry, sirs! Sorry, sirs! Forgive my stupid children who don't even have the good sense they were born with. I try my best with them since their mother died, god rest her immortal soul. She was a good woman, a wonderful woman, but she didn't teach 'em right, you know. She was too soft with 'em, always too soft, and I done my best. I DO my best, each and every day the Good Lord sends us. But it's hard, I don't have to tell you--'
          Asshole-mouth cuts me off, as I knew he would. Honestly, I'm surprised he let me babble for as long as he did; the kids are already a quarter of the way to the gate.
          'Shut the fuck up,' he says. 'Them's your kids?'
          'Yes, sir. I hope they ain't caused you no offence. I always tell 'em, you mind them soldiers at the compound, they got too much to do running everything to deal with your dumbass questions, so you just keep clear--'
          And he hits me in the stomach. Hard.
          And I go down. Hard.
          Because now we're really playing to the crowd, see? To the crowd and to his buddies. Slamming me in the stomach is for the other soldiers, just to show them how fucking tough he is, how they're still winners even if they didn't get to rape a child. His next words are for the crowd.
          'Look after your children better, you filthy fuck,' he shouts. 'And if I hear you laid one finger on 'em, I'll hunt you down and break your motherfucking legs. Now...git!'
          I've timed my recovery just right. Up on my knees with my ass waving in his direction like an offering to the gods. He plants his boot right between my cheeks and pushes me as hard as he can. Which is pretty hard. I'm lying with my face in the dirt as they all walk away laughing, happy with their apparent victory.
          But it's not over yet. Because it never fucking is in this shitty world.
          As I haul myself to my feet, really making a meal of it in case they look back, I notice an unfriendly figure making a beeline for the soldiers. Short and muscular with a hairline like a neanderthal.
          Fucking Mick.
          Mick who knows I don't have any kids because he's been checking my paperwork and issuing me rations for the last six months. Mick who is no doubt still itching to slap the snot out of me for daring to be impatient.
          He sees me see him.
          And then I'm moving.


         

3

          And this time I mean that literally. I am hustling. Not quite running because my knees won't allow it, but not walking either. Straight for the kids and the west gate. Because the gate's our only chance, the gate and the old city streets beyond. While that distant, locked-away part of my brain is screaming like a new-born baby, the cool part stays frosty. Keep moving, it says. Just keep moving. They catch you and you're dead, all three of you.
          No, I think back at myself. Me and the boy are dead; the girl will just wish she was.
          And somehow I manage to ignore the throbbing in my knees and the sensation of glass grinding between the vertebrae of my lower back, and speed up to a flat-out run. I don't even hesitate when I reach the kids, just scoop the girl up into my arms between strides. I risk a glance back and see Mick waving his arms at the soldiers and pointing in our direction.
          'Run,' I shout to the pup. 'And don't you dare drop that box.'
          'Nosir, I won't,' he replies, and I believe him.
          You know those dreams where you're trying to run and it's like you're stuck in molasses? Well, this ain't no dream, friend. We are virtually flying, racing to the gate. The girl weighs next to nothing in my arms and adrenaline is burning through my veins like wildfire. I'll pay for this later, assuming there is a later. Probably won't be able to walk properly for a month. But for now, it's mighty fine.
          As we near the gate I hear a shout but ignore it and keep going. There's no need to look back to know they'll be giving chase, and however fast we seem to be, you can be sure that five young bucks will make us look like we're struggling through that molasses nightmare. And I have a terrible itch between my shoulder blades and all I can do is pray that what I'm feeling is just my imagination and not sentries targeting our backs. Hopefully not. So far they ain't see us do nothing to put anyone in danger; not stolen nothing neither. We're just running.
          I hear another shout--definitely closer--as we pass through the gate and head for the old city. It's called old for good reason: it's basically an abandoned wasteland, mostly wrecked by cruise missile and mortar attacks from the early days of the civil war. They built the new community compound on the eastern edge of it, hence the west gate being our target. Most of the land mines have been exploded now, but there's always a chance you might stumble upon one of them by accident, and I don't have to tell you how that would end: Boom! That's all she wrote. The only job worse than the mines is being assigned scavenger duty in the old city.
          Outside the west gate there's about two hundred feet of open ground before you enter the maze of busted-up steel and concrete. Those two hundred feet are the worst fucking moments of my life, and I've been in some pretty shitty situations back when I was serving in the military. Can you imagine it? Can you see it in your mind's eye and feel it fluttering in your chest? I'm holding this fragile little bird of a girl in my arms, her stick-thin arms and legs wrapped around me and her head buried in my shoulder, and the thought of such an innocent thing being...used...by those fucking animals is utter torture. I must be out of practice because even my perfect control starts to slip and for a few moments I let the panic in. All at once my heart feels like some kind of beast thrashing around in my torso, strangling off my breath, plugging the flow of blood to my muscles. And I can feel those gunsights on us, about to cut us down any second now. Any second now any second now any second n--
          And then the packed dirt beneath our feet turns into tortured concrete.
          'There!' I scream at the pup, pointing at a gap between two half-collapsed buildings on our right. And as we duck through the gap, I sneak a look at our rear and almost wish I hadn't. Close, so close. Already crossing the open ground. We've got maybe fifteen seconds before they reach us.
          'Left!'I scream, followed immediately by, 'Down! Down!'
          The pup bangs open the metal door on our left and then drops to all fours, crawling through a tunnel made from crooked steel girders and crumbling breeze blocks, pushing the care package out in front. I slam the door behind me and drop a rusty iron bar in place to lock it. At first the girl won't let go of me, but she's too weak to resist for long and I manhandle her down and ahead of me through the tunnel.
          Two seconds later, someone hits the door.
          And again, and again.
          Oh, the girl is so slow, bless her. So fucking slow. But I don't want to push too hard and scare her, just in case she freezes completely. The tunnel is about the length of two Greyhound buses and we're one bus down when I hear heavy gunfire and realise they're shooting out the bricks around the door. They won't hold long--most things are one good sneeze away from destruction in this hellhole.
          Half a bus to go and I hear the door crash open.
          'Go, girly,' I say, trying not to panic her. And it's not too difficult for me to sound in control because the icy calm is back. But she panics anyway, probably because the soldiers are shouting down the tunnel at us, telling us what they're gonna do to us when they catch us.
          And then I hear the pup's voice, bless that clever boy. He's already out of the tunnel and he's at the other end, on his hands and knees, cooing niceties at his sister. 'Come on, Beth,' I hear him say. 'Nearly there, you can do it, nearly there, that's it, that's it.'
          And we're out the other side, into a room that stinks to high heaven.
          'Open that,' I say, pointing at another metal door in the opposite corner with another iron bar holding it shut. Then, before they can go through it, 'Over here,' I say. And the pup looks doubtful for the first time, because here he is standing at a perfectly good exit while I'm limping over to what looks like the filthiest mattress in the history of the universe. It's stained yellow and orange and green and brown, covered in moulding pools of sick, turds, scraps of piss-soaked clothing and dead rats, plus a dozen other unidentifiable piles and smears of Christ only knows what. No person in their right mind would go within ten fucking feet of it. So I can only imagine the look of horror on their faces when I stick my hand through a tear in the side of the mattress.
          And I pull on what my fingers find.
          I don't have to imagine their faces when the mattress tilts up off the floor to reveal its attached to a hidden trapdoor with a cosy little hidey-hole beneath it, because I'm looking right at 'em. That is the moment that will be in my mind on the day I finally kick the bucket. That sweet, sweet moment of amazed relief on their faces, when they realise that maybe, just maybe, this shitty world might have given them a goddam break for once. That is the moment that I will take with me to the grave, and it is the moment I will recall to good ol' Saint Pete when he meets me at the Pearly Gates. And I will tell him, 'Your Holiness, this was the very instant I made up for all the shit I done in my life. Now I would be most obliged if you could let me through these beautiful gates of yours.'
          And I think he will. I really do.
          Of course that day might still be today. All depends on whether those soldiers take the bait and on whether one of them has a strong enough stomach and a wily enough mind to check the mattress. All me and the kids can see of each other in the thin blade of dim light that sneaks into our three-foot cubed hole is our eyes. Wide and white, terrified and hopeful.
          We've been hidden away for all of ten seconds before the soldiers start exiting the tunnel, and I can't help but think to myself how I wish we'd had thirty seconds and not ten. Thirty seconds would have been better.
          But it doesn't matter anyway. The first voice we hear belongs to our old friend asshole-mouth. Obviously he took the lead through the tunnel, and he takes the lead again as he, followed quickly by the others, charges through the open door back into the concrete chaos of the old city streets. I hear a couple of complaints about the god-awful stench over the thump of their boots, but that is as close as they come to thinking about the mattress and what it conceals.
          I give it about a minute for the sounds of their confused shouts to move away.
          'Shield your eyes,' I murmur, then turn on the flashlight I always have with me in my field jacket pocket. I clip it to the jacket to free my hands.
          Turning away from them, I put my left hand at the top of the hidey-hole's side wall and my right hand at the bottom, slip my fingers into a barely perceptible gap, finger a latch, and pull. The wall rolls away like its on tracks. Which it is. And the kids still look scared because they can't yet comprehend what I already know. That we're safe now. Really safe.
          And then we're moving.


         

4

          We crawl out of the cramped hole onto what was once the entrance ramp to an underground parking lot. I slide the false wall back into place, check the latch, then shine the light around, partly to confirm everything is clear and partly so the kids can get their bearings. I don't really need to see to be honest. I've used the hidey-hole entrance and walked this ramp almost two thousand days in a row now. Twice a day, every day. In the morning when I leave for work or for rations, and in the evening when I come back. Because this, or where we'll shortly be, is my home.
          'You still got that box?' I ask the pup quietly.
          'Yessir,' he whispers.
          'And your sister--Beth--she okay to walk?'
          'I can walk,' Beth says, and I have to admire the streak of defiance in her voice.
          'That's good,' I say. 'That's good. Now follow me, close and quiet.'
          To be honest, I'm being overly cautious telling them to pipe down. The false wall is the only way into this underground lot, from the street at least, and this side of it is covered in a thick layer of soundproofing I scavenged from an old music studio. There is one other way out, because no soldier worth his salt would live in a place without an escape plan, but I ain't worried about that route one iota. No way those soldiers will ever find it without air support and some damn careful flying. And I doubt very much that one old man and a couple of kids who ain't actually done nothing wrong will warrant that kind of escalation.
          The kids follow me down the ramp and across the subterranean parking lot. It's strange in here, because it's pretty warm, protected as it is from all the elements, and it's unusually free from destruction. If you were lucky enough to take a trip in a chopper and see this location from on high, you'd see a scene of absolute madness. I've scoped the area in great detail and from up top this place looks like nothing more than a tangle of steel girders, broken glass and concrete concrete concrete. But down here on the sub level is the eye of the storm, my perfect little oasis in an inhospitable world.
          So, with the flashlight to guide us, no one has any trouble crossing the parking lot because there are no hunks of concrete or jagged holes trying to trip us. It's as smooth as the day they laid it, although probably a hell of a lot dustier.
          And parked in the furthest corner, right next to the elevator doors, is my home, and she is a sweet ride, friend, you'd better goddam believe it.
          'Woah,' says the pup.
          'Woah is right,' I reply. 'Kids, this here is Laura. Laura the Tourer.' And I gotta have me a bit of a chuckle at that one, because I reckon some part of me has been dreaming about sharing that nugget for quite some time. 'A bona fide piece of the past, perfectly preserved under a few thousand tonnes of concrete. According to the handbook she's a top-of-the-line Airstream International, the pinnacle of on-the-road luxury. But you ain't seen the best bit yet. Come on, come on.'
          The pup stumbles a little and I realise the level of his exhaustion. He's running on less than fumes and it makes me admire him all the more.
          'Why don't you give me that box,' I say, reaching for it, and he pulls away. Of course he does. Barely five minutes ago I told him to take his tough shit story and shove it, that I didn't give a hoot him and his sister were starving. And it don't matter that I just saved them from a very unsavoury situation, no more than it matters that the box will blow his hand off if he tries to open it without my pulse and the barcode on my wrist. All that matters now that the immediate danger has passed is that he put something in his empty belly, and that his sister gets to do the same.
          'It's all right, son,' I say gently. 'I know you got no reason to trust me anymore than anyone else in this shitty world, but if you want to eat then you got no choice. We got this far together didn't we? So what do you say?'
          And that clever, big-hearted pup looks right at his sister, and I know what he's seeing: a living ghost. She's a waif, held together by nothing but willpower and her brother's love.
          'Okay,' he says, although only the K-sound really makes it past his lips. He holds out the box and I take it. Not snatch it, mind; just take it as gently as lifting a new-born kitty.
          'Good lad,' I say. 'Now come on inside.'
          We go up the steps into the trailer, me leading, and it fills my heart to see their faces when I flip a switch and the cabin fills with a warm glow. And I press a button and quiet country music starts playing like we've gone through a time warp to a better time. Because, friend, what I ain't told you yet is that I wasn't just a soldier in the Southern Tri-State Army, Armoured Division; I was an engineer, and there ain't nothing I can't fix or build if I set my mind to it. Like, say, a hidden trapdoor with hydraulic hinges, or a rollaway wall made from a single slab of concrete that only a man with a knowledge of pulleys could lift on his own. I can even hook up solar panels to an array of batteries and use them to power a luxurious trailer if I so desire. And it just so happens that I did once, a couple thousand days ago, desire exactly that.
          'Sit, sit,' I say, directing them to the dining area. The leather on the seats is only slightly perished, and they're still damn comfortable. The kids sink onto them gratefully. Beth pulls her feet up to her chest and leans against her brother. 'What's your name, son?' I ask him, because 'pup' just doesn't seem quite right no more, you know.
          'Danny,' he says.
          For a while I have to slip back into the cold place. 'That's a good name,' I say eventually. But it's not just good, it's goddam beautiful. It was the name my wife and I picked out for our unborn baby, what seems like a thousand years ago. I never got to meet him. But I'm nothing special--a lot of us never got to meet our unborn children. A lot of us lost everything to the goddam war. So, yeah, I'm nothing special.
          'I'm thirsty,' Beth says all of a sudden, and that gets me moving.
          'Well, damn,' I say. 'Where are my manners? Two refreshing glasses of water and some hot soup coming right up. Maybe some of our finest tinned apples too, if anyone's got a hankering for 'em.'
          I can tell they're both impressed when I run water straight out the tap into clean tin mugs. I give it to them with the apple while their soup is warming. For some reason, I ain't all that hungry myself right now. I guess watching them eat is satisfaction enough.
          'You haven't opened the box,' the boy says between mouthfuls.
          'I will,' I tell him. 'Later. But I got rations saved up so there's no hurry. I only eat four or five days out of every week; like to save some for emergencies see?'
          The boy--Danny--his face is comical, grill hanging open, eyes wide in disbelief.
          'What?' I say, all defensive. 'Only a fool would leave a whole box of rations behind.'
          And his lips are moving up and down, and I know what he's trying to say--WE WERE RUNNING FOR OUR GODDAM LIVES, YOU SILLY OLD COOT, AND YOU MADE ME CARRY THAT STUPID BOX!--but in the end he just starts laughing. Then we're all laughing, and, Good Lord in Heaven, it feels pretty damn great.
          I show them a few things round the trailer while they eat their soup. It was smart to give them the apples first because the soup is hot and this way they're not so desperate that they eat it too quickly and burn their mouths. I just walk around saying things all matter-of-a-fact like, 'This here's the shower,' and, 'This here's the wardrobe,' pretending like I don't see the way their faces light up at every little reveal. But I do see. Of course I do. And I'm just about bursting.
          I've got my back to them, talking about how there's a TV in the bedroom with a DVD player and how I've got eight movies they can watch if they want, and suddenly I realise the clink of cutlery has stopped.
          They're both fast asleep. Leaning up against one another like those two half-collapsed buildings out on the street. And a selfish part of me pouts like a spoilt brat. Because I really want to show them my escape route--the ladder up through the elevator shaft to a flat area I've cleared up top that's surrounded by a network of steel girders and collapsed walls, completely inaccessible from outside. And I want them to see the solar panels that are up there; and the way I collect rainwater and run it down a pipe in the shaft, right into tanks that collect it so we can drink and shower and wash and do our unnecessaries.
          But I know that there'll be time for all that later. So I get a couple of blankets and I ease the kids into a laying down position. Beth doesn't wake and I think for a minute that Danny won't either. But just as I'm pulling away his eyes crack open.
          'Why'd you help us, mister?' he asks in the kind of hushed voice me and my brother used to use when we were little, tucked up in our bunk beds at night and supposed to be sleeping.
          And I'm kind of flummoxed, because I ain't had much time to consider that myself.
          'Don't you worry why,' I say, patting his leg through the blanket. 'Just you get some sleep. You're safe here. You're both safe.' And he's out for the count before I've even finished talking.
          Neither of them wakes when a muffled whump sounds from a couple blocks away, and neither of them sees the satisfied grin that spreads across my face. That's all she wrote about at least one nasty little soldier, be my guess.
          Yet now, friend, as I sit here massaging my throbbing knees while my two new friends visit the Land of Nod, it ain't the fate of those soldiers I find myself thinking about; it's Danny's question. And I ask myself: 'Why did I help them?'
          The answer that comes to me is simple. The world is gone to shit. People have gone to shit. But even when that's all there is, if a person wants to believe things might ever get any better then there has to be a line, you know? Simple as that.
          There has to be a line.