“Give me your food,” a man whispered. The voice had a breathless, hesitant tone, as if the speaker couldn’t believe his own words. “Give me all your food and you won’t die.”
“All right,” Gabriel said, starting to turn.
“Don’t move! Don’t look at me!”
“I’m not trying to look at you,” Gabriel said. “My food is down by the bridge. It’s hidden in a secret place.”
“No one has secrets from me,” the voice said with a little more confidence. “Take me to the food. Hurry up now.”
With the knife still pressed against his neck, Gabriel moved slowly away from the building. When he reached the top of the riverbank, he took a few steps down the slope so that he was slightly lower than his assailant.
Gabriel grabbed the man’s wrist, pushing it downward and twisting it to the right. The man shrieked with pain, let go of the knife, and fell forward onto the slope. Gabriel picked up the blade. It was an improvised weapon that looked like a steel bracket that had been sharpened on a stone.
Gabriel stood over an impossibly thin man cowering on the ground. The man had greasy hair and a scraggly black beard. He wore torn pants-rags, almost-and a frayed tweed jacket. The bony fingers of his left hand kept stroking his soiled green necktie, as if this improbable piece of clothing could somehow save his life.
“I do apologize,” gasped the thin man. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He folded his spindly arms across his chest and ducked his head. “Cockroaches don’t do such things. Cockroaches shouldn’t act like wolves.”
Gabriel raised the knife. “You’re going to talk to me. Understand? Don’t make me use this…”
“I understand, sir. Look!” The man raised his grimy hands in the air and stood frozen. “I’m not moving.”
“What’s your name?”
“My name, sir? Pickering. Yes, it’s Pickering. I did have a first name once, but I’ve forgotten it. Should have written it down.” He laughed nervously “It was Thomas, Theodore-something that started with a T. But Pickering is correct. No question about that. It’s always been ‘Come here, Pickering. Do this, Pickering.’ And I know how to obey, sir. Ask anyone.”
“All right, Pickering. So where are we? What’s the name of this place?”
Pickering looked surprised that anyone would ask such a question. His eyes darted left and right nervously. “We’re on the Island. That’s what we call it. The Island.”
Gabriel looked up the river at the wrecked bridge. For some reason, he had assumed that he could leave this area and find a safe place to hide. If that was the only bridge-or if all of them were destroyed-then he was trapped on this island until he found a passageway. Was that what had happened to his father? Was he wandering this shadowy world, looking for a way home?
“You must be a visitor, sir.” Pickering considered this a moment, then spoke in a high, wheezy rush. “That is…I don’t mean to imply you’re not a wolf, sir. Nothing of the kind! Clearly you’re a strong wolf indeed. Not a cockroach. Not at all.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean. I am a visitor. And I’m searching for another visitor like me-an older man.”
“Maybe I could help you,” Pickering said. “Yes, of course. I’m just the one to help you.” He stood up and smoothed his green necktie. “I’ve been all over the Island. I’ve seen everything.”
Gabriel thrust the homemade knife into his belt. “If you help me, I’ll protect you. I’ll be your friend.”
Pickering’s lips quivered as he whispered to himself, “A friend. Yes, of course. A friend…” It sounded as if he were saying the word for the first time.
Something exploded in the city-a dull thumping noise-and Pickering began to scramble back up the slope. “With all due respect, sir-we can’t stay here. A patrol is coming. Very unpleasant. Please follow me.”
Pickering had called himself a “cockroach,” and he moved as quickly as an insect that had just been startled by a bright light. Entering one of the destroyed buildings, he passed through a maze of rooms filled with discarded furniture and piles of rubble. At one point, Gabriel realized that he had just stepped on some bones from a human skeleton. There was no time to figure out what had happened. “Watch your step, sir. But don’t stop. We can’t stop.” And Gabriel followed the thin man through a doorway and onto the street.
He was startled by the light that came from an enormous gas flare that roared up from a crack in the pavement. The orange flame wavered back and forth like a malevolent spirit. Smoke from this fire left a sticky black residue that covered the walls of the surrounding buildings as well as the shell of a smashed taxicab.
Gabriel stopped moving and stood in the middle of the street. Pickering reached the opposite sidewalk. He waggled his hands frantically like a mother coaxing her child forward. “A little faster, my friend. Please. A patrol is coming. We need to hide.”
“What patrol?” Gabriel asked, but Pickering had already disappeared through a doorway. The Traveler sprinted to catch up with his ragged guide and followed him through empty rooms to another street. He tried to imagine what the city had looked like before its destruction. The white buildings were four or five stories high, with flat roofs and balconies outside many of the windows. A twisted steel awning covered the broken tables of what had once been a sidewalk café. Gabriel had seen cities like this in movies and magazines. It resembled the provincial capital of a tropical country-the sort of place where people went to the beach during the day, then ate supper late in the evening.
Now every window had been smashed, and most of the doors had been ripped off their hinges. Attached by a few bolts, an elaborate iron balcony clung to the side of a building like a living creature trying not to fall into the street. Every wall was covered with graffiti. Gabriel saw numbers, names, and words written in block letters. Crudely drawn arrows pointed toward some unknown destination.
Pickering ducked inside a new building and began to move cautiously. A few times he stopped and listened, not moving until he was certain they were alone. Gabriel followed his guide up a marble staircase and down a hallway to a room where a half-burned mattress was leaning against the wall. Pickering pushed the mattress to one side, revealing a hidden doorway. They entered a room where the two windows were covered with plywood boards. The only light came from a small gas flare burning from a copper pipe that had been ripped out of the wall.
While Pickering pulled the burned mattress back across the doorway, Gabriel looked around the room. It was filled with trash that Pickering had collected during his explorations around the city. There were empty glass bottles, a stack of moldy blankets, a green easy chair with only two legs, and several cracked mirrors. Gabriel thought that the wallpaper was peeling; then he realized that Pickering had pinned up illustrations from a dress pattern book. The women in the faded drawings wore the floor-length skirts and high-necked blouses from a hundred years ago.
“Is this where you live?”
Pickering gazed at his drawings on the wall and spoke without a hint of irony. “I hope you find it comfortable, sir. My home sweet home.”
“Have you always lived in this building? Were you born here?”
“What is your name, my friend? Can you tell me? Friends should use names with each other.”
“Gabriel.”
“Sit down, Gabriel. You are my guest. Please sit down.”
Gabriel sat in the easy chair. The green fabric gave off a musty, stale odor. Pickering seemed both nervous and pleased that he had another person in his home. Like a diligent housekeeper, he kept moving around the room, picking up pieces of trash and arranging them in tidy little piles.