Free Falling Sky by Rajan Khanna Page B

and load it into the passenger seat. As I’m leaning into it, I hear movement behind me.
    I snap back out, bring the revolver around.
    Then I freeze.
    Across the street, at the edge of the trees, is a bear.
    It’s on all fours, sniffing, but I’m clearly visible to it.
    My finger hesitates over the trigger. I should shoot it now, I think. Before it decides to charge me.
    It moves slowly, ponderously, out into the open.
    I can’t help but think it’s a magnificent beast. With a full brown coat and a regal face.
    I lower the revolver. Then, carefully, I slip into the passenger seat and shut the door. I slide over to the driver’s seat, start up the Ferrari, and, rather quickly, pull away.
    In the end I return to the farm and let myself in, hoping to see Viktor there.
    But the place is empty.
    I pour myself a liberal glass of the tequila. It’s warm and it burns and I focus on that sensation for a while, then on the warmth inside of me, and the growing numbness in my belly.
    â€œYou’re a plod now,” I say to myself. “Might as well get used to it.”

    The next morning I awake to an empty house. Viktor still isn’t back. I spare a moment to step outside, scan the area for any movement, expecting to see Viktor crawling back to the house. But he’s not there.
    Instead I head back inside and start to search the farm. If I’m going to be a plod, I need to understand how it works, what I have at my disposal. My scavenger instincts serve me well and I uncover a cellar door carefully hidden behind some boxes. I grab a lantern, light it, and descend beneath the farmhouse.
    The space is filled with metal utility shelves. The shelves are filled with an assortment of items, loosely organized. The food stores are rather sparse. Some cans, some dry goods—salt, spices, et cetera. There are numerous jugs of unidentifiable liquids. I open one and smell something alcoholic and sweet.
    Another row is filled with battered boxes. One is filled with mostly personal items—an old music box, a mirror, some jewelry—items with only sentimental value. Another contains old photographs. I flip through a few of them. Smiling faces. Old clothes. So much flesh uncovered. A different age. I wonder if they’re Viktor’s family or just strangers.
    The next row contains machinery, or parts of machinery. I spot some car parts, an old lawnmower that remarkably hasn’t been stripped, and some unidentifiable pieces.
    I dump out a nearby box filled with nuts and bolts and other various bits and pieces (I’ll apologize to Viktor if he ever shows), and I take a handful of parts upstairs to where the light is better.
    Once back upstairs I lay out the radio. It takes me the better part of a day, but I manage to open it and do a careful check of the interior, clearing out the worst of the dust and muck. There are a few connections that aren’t quite working, but I think I should be able to fix it. I might need to find or make myself a soldering iron, but I think I can get it to work.
    And then what? That damned voice again. Are you really going to broadcast your position to anyone who might hear you?
    I ignore the voice. It’s a good question, but first things first. I can fix the radio and then decide what to do with it (if anything). Besides, it will give me something to do.
    I spend the rest of the day on the radio, taking a break to go out and see Rex. He follows me into the barn and I manage to figure out what kind of food he eats and dump some into a feed bucket. I leave him munching on it when I return to the radio. I stay up into the night working on it and opening a fresh jug of Viktor’s moonshine. What I end up with is strong, more like liquor, though with a fruitiness of its own. I pass out at the table among wires and circuits.
    The next day, though, I finish it. The radio is complete. I even found a soldering iron in Viktor’s toolbox (though my dad taught