Free The road by Cormac McCarthy Page B

and gathered them
up from underneath and wrapped and tied them at the boy's ankles with the
lining from the coatsleeves. He stood back. The boy looked down. Now you, Papa,
he said. He wrapped one of the coats around the boy and then he sat on the tarp
in the snow and wrapped his own feet. He stood and warmed his hands inside his
parka and then packed their shoes into the knapsack along with the binoculars
and the boy's truck. He shook out the tarp and folded it and tied it with the
other blankets on top of the pack and shouldered it up and then took a last
look through the basket but that was it. Let's go, he said. The boy took one
last look back at the cart and then followed him out to the road.
     
    It was harder going even than he would have
guessed. In an hour they'd made perhaps a mile. He stopped and looked back at
the boy. The boy stopped and waited. You think we're going to die, dont you? I
dont know. We're not going to die. Okay.
    But you dont believe me. I dont know. Why do you
think we're going to die? I dont know. Stop saying I dont know. Okay.
    Why do you think we're going to die? We dont have
anything to eat. We'll find something. Okay.
    How long do you think people can go without food?
I dont know. But how long do you think? Maybe a few days. And then what? You
fall over dead? Yes.
    Well you dont. It takes a long time. We have
water. That's the most important thing. You dont last very long without water.
Okay.
    But you dont believe me. I dont know. He studied
him. Standing there with his hands in the pockets of the outsized pinstriped
suitcoat. Do you think I lie to you? No.
    But you think I might lie to you about dying. Yes.
    Okay. I might. But we're not dying. Okay.
     
    He studied the sky. There were days when the ashen
overcast thinned and now the standing trees along the road made the faintest of
shadows over the snow. They went on. The boy wasnt doing well. He stopped and
checked his feet and retied the plastic. When the snow started to melt it was
going to be hard to keep their feet dry. They stopped often to rest. He'd no
strength to carry the child. They sat on the pack and ate handfuls of the dirty
snow. By afternoon it was beginning to melt. They passed a burned house, just
the brick chimney standing in the yard. They were on the road all day, such day
as there was. Such few hours. They might have covered three miles.
     
    He thought the road would be so bad that no one
would be on it but he was wrong. They camped almost in the road itself and
built a great fire, dragging dead limbs out of the snow and piling them on the
flames to hiss and steam. There was no help for it. The few blankets they had
would not keep them warm. He tried to stay awake. He would jerk upright out of
his sleep and slap about him looking for the pistol. The boy was so thin. He
watched him while he slept. Taut face and hollow eyes. A strange beauty. He got
up and dragged more wood onto the fire.
     
    They walked out to the road and stood. There were
tracks in the snow. A wagon. Some sort of wheeled vehicle. Something with
rubber tires by the narrow treadmarks. Boot-prints between the wheels. Someone
had passed in the dark going south. In the early dawn at latest. Running the
road in the night. He stood thinking about that. He walked the tracks
carefully. They'd passed within fifty feet of the fire and had not even slowed
to look. He stood looking back up the road. The boy watched him. We need to get
out of the road. Why, Papa? Someone's coming. Is it bad guys? Yes. I'm afraid
so. They could be good guys. Couldnt they? He didnt answer. He looked at the
sky out of old habit but there was nothing to see. What are we going to do,
Papa? Let's go. Can we go back to the fire? No. Come on. We probably dont have
much time. I'm really hungry. I know. What are we going to do? We have to hole
up. Get off the road. Will they see our tracks? Yes.
    What can we do about it? I dont know. Will they