Page 60 of Them

“Probably,” Tim replied, “but I still hear it. The ghost.”

“And you always will! You did what this cruel world asked of you. Nothing more. And that’s all right!”

Tim refused to meet Lane’s eyes, and the old soldier was getting a feeling that they were much more alike than he’d originally suspected. He’s been close to his breaking point this whole time. He should have given up long ago. He’s chasing something. Just like me.

Just like me.

“You started in Florida,” Lane said. “Why come all this way?”

“What else was I supposed to do? If I sat still any longer, I would’ve killed myself.”

“You walked north, straight toward Maine, where all this began. Why?”

“I wasn’t going to Maine; I was going to Maryland. I was nearly there when I heard you on the radio and decided… that she was probably dead.”

“She?”

“Her name was Amira. Without my family in New York, she was pretty much the only person who would’ve really cared if I survived or not.”

“Fiancée?”

Tim finally met Lane’s eyes. “No. We had only known each other for a year and a half. But she still asked me to come with her. After New York. Said her house had a storm shelter. That her parents would be happy to have me. I told her that I’d come once everything had settled down. Once it was safe.”

“If you did that,” Lane said, “you’d still be waiting.”

“I shouldn’t have waited at all.”

“You kept yourself alive. That’s more than everyone else can say.”

The old man had stopped prying a few minutes ago, and they’d fallen into a comfortable silence. There was more lightning in the sky, thunder approaching. The breeze had strengthened.

Tim was waiting for Lane to explain how futile his quest was. The chances of any specific individual surviving were infinitesimal. And Amira’s house? On the Chesapeake Bay? He might as well go back to New York and sift through what was left of the Bronx.

But Lane said no such thing as he stood up from the rotting wooden bench. He merely reached down to the small black knapsack he’d placed between his feet, unzipped it, and pulled out a sheaf of manila folders stuffed with loose-leaf paper.

Tim leaned closer for a better look. “What’s all this?”

“It’s my turn,” Lane said, offering him one of the folders. “My story.”

Tim hesitated for a moment, and then took the folder. Lane gave him the gas lantern too.

Taking out the first page, Tim began to read:

The Anthropocene ended on July 5, 2022, when an over-the-road Volvo day-cab hauling a mustard-yellow shipping container swerved onto Interstate 95’s gravel shoulder, swallowing the mile 148 signage under its snarling grille…

“What’s this word?” Tim asked, pointing to the manuscript. “I recognize it, but I can’t remember.”

“Which one?”

“ ‘Anthropocene.’ What’s it mean?”

“Oh, that’s the, uh, era when humans could make an impact on the world,” Lane replied. “The time when we were worth a damn.”

“When did that start?”

“Depending on who you ask, anywhere from the agricultural revolution to the Trinity test.”

Without acknowledging the answer, Tim turned back to the hand-scrawled pages and began to leaf through them. He read slowly at first, but his pace quickly gained momentum. Before long, he was flipping through them as fast as he could.