Adam smiled. “You’re right; we do need to tighten our travel security habits. We’ve committed the classical French traveler’s error. You know: Too loose la trek…”
Favored him with glare. “No more solitary wandering,” I continued firmly. “We go everywhere together…”
“Everywhere?”
“…and we go armed.”
“Oh. Pity.”
“Be serious!” Adam’s lack of concern more worrisome than newly discovered neighbors. How could be so casual, surrounded by slavering man-eaters…?
“I am.” Smiled again. Watched me, waiting expectantly.
Open mouth for scathing retort; then hesitated, closed again. Performed quick review of events since rhino hove into view — especially own conduct. Cringed at conclusion: Not once assembled, processed facts with brain switched on. Typical “fluttering, fragile ingénue” of worst gothic romance would be embarrassed to take credit for my performance past couple hours.
Ground teeth. Adam right. Again. Easily his most offensive habit.
Except for zoos’ immediate areas, chances of adversary encounter with escapee compares favorably with odds on lightning strike. Possible, yes. But for first few years — until get spread out, established, build up populations, risk factor simply doesn’t justify going to lots of extra trouble.
Yes, probably should carry M-16s whenever poking around inside strange buildings; yes, probably should cut out solitary explorations, period; yes, probably should take extra pains not to throw away food scraps close to campsite where smell might attract predators. Yes, should take commonsense precautions, in other words, practiced by any intelligent camper; but not lose head…
Initial reaction doubtless based on too many Class-D movies — plus absence of rational thought. Product of small-town living: Every Saturday evening throughout summers, Town Fathers stretched sheet across one end of grassy natural amphitheater in park; ran free show for migrant workers’ children: endless succession of marvelously bad old movies, always preceded by cartoons, oft-spliced old science-fiction/ horror serials. Probably have seen every Johnny Weismuller Tarzan movie ever made; along with Bomba, the Jungle Boy; Sheena, Queen of the Jungle; Tim Tyler’s Luck; Osa, Martin Johnson’s pseudodocumentaries about exploring “darkest Africa”; (plus Zombies of the Stratosphere; Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers), etc., etc. And everyone (free show attendees, anyway) knows jungle predators all live only to sink fangs into trembling flesh of heroine (nice girl, usually, most of whose problems brought on by disregarding instructions, behaving stupidly).
Almost as stupidly as self.
Spending night in outer suburbs. Judged proximity to zoo increases risk to point where additional security advisable. Adam concurred. Pulled whole rig into commercial garage; closed doors, windows. Verified (together, armed) nothing large enough to pose threat lurked in darkened corners.
Spending night with trailer door, windows closed, air-conditioning on. Structure probably sufficiently porous to eliminate CO threat, but Adam slipped hose over alternator exhaust, let out roof vent anyway.
This morning Adam checked Yellow Pages, located nearby burglar-bar service. Drove us over after breakfast. Dug through inventory, selected assortment of wrought-iron grilles, installed over van’s, trailer’s windows. Even windshield.
Over yesterday’s jitters (all right, hysteria) and agree with Adam: Bars silly overkill precaution.
On other hand, intangibles difficult to evaluate. Bars’ sturdy appearance reassuring when contemplating future possibility of looking out at something hungry looking in. Improved sleep quality, duration, might prove critical during future nonanimal-related crisis.
(Evaluation particularly difficult when consists largely of rationalizing decisions already made based on gut feeling rather than logic.)
Oh, Posterity, please be patient. Probably most difficult entry have ever faced. Emotional control fragile as crystal, unstable as if balanced on pinpoint. Forgive rambling if occurs. Will do best, but subconscious probably try to steer me away from subject.
Now camped on grounds of Mount Palomar observatory, southern California. Haven’t kept up journal since leaving St. Louis, ten days ago. Inexcusable conduct for histographer, true. But couldn’t write about what happened that day so soon after — and been unable to think about anything else.
First thing after bar installation, Adam identified rail line going proper direction. Soon on our way again, speeding cross-country, insulated from deteriorating road conditions, clutter. Interesting how rail system seems to have fared better than roads following Man’s End. Perhaps essentially flexible nature of steel mounted on wood, laid on equally flexible fist-sized rock roadbed…
Well, didn’t take subconscious long to start diversionary tactics. Sorry.
Were perhaps hundred miles from St. Louis, passing through small Missouri town, when heard eerie wailing sound. Adam, alert for defective track or open switch but otherwise relaxed, abruptly sat bolt upright, peering into mirrors. “What the hell…!” he muttered. Braked heavily, bringing us to quick stop.
Equally quickly, was out door, running toward rear. I saw nothing in right-side mirror, but exited as well. Ran toward trailer’s rear, intending to meet Adam, gain insight into curious behavior.
However, as rounded trailer, all became clear: Stopped behind us, lit up like Jefferson Starship stage, was state police car, driver’s door open. Man — tall, thin, seedy-looking, longhaired/bearded, breathlessly wild-eyed, teary-but-very-happy man, age indeterminate — sliding from behind wheel. Stranger fell sobbing upon Adam’s neck like long-lost brother, alternately hugging, pounding back, pumping hand as if never intended to let go.
(Proud of Adam then: Notoriously averse to emotional displays [even more so to long-unwashed B.O.], but accepted mauling nobly — remembered his own feelings upon first discovering not alone in world after all. Hint of long-suffering forbearance betrayed by posture apparent only to me — and only because know him so well.)
Presently man’s eyes fell on me. Stared for long moments, then gasped, “You’re a girl…!” Took quick step in my direction, reaching out as if to sweep me into embrace also — and stopped short. Glanced down at self, abruptly conscious of grooming deficiencies. Released Adam; drew back. Looked embarrassed.
“I must present quite a sight,” said in apologetic tone. “And smell,” added with grimace.
Continued earnestly: “It’s been quite a while since I’ve had anyone to dress up for. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. I’ll shower, shave, and change as soon as we get home.” Earnestness intensified, hysterical edge crept into voice: “I’m really a very respectable person once I’m cleaned up and wearing decent clothes. And I’ll cut my hair. You will come home with me, won’t you? We have so much to talk about. Please? Please…?”
Unexpectedly then, suddenly as had aborted initial lunge toward me, man clamped mouth shut, cutting off accelerating verbal torrent almost midword. Closed eyes; took long, slow, deep breath. Drew himself up. Disreputable air wavered, then evaporated: Clothing notwithstanding, self-assured, dignified gentleman stood before us. Voice, when resumed, was low, well modulated; delivery cultured, articulate: “Sorry; I must sound like a complete psychotic, raving on like that. I’ve been alone a long time. I was sure I was the last man on Earth.
“I’m Rollo Jones. My house is about 20 miles back. I’ve been chasing you since I caught a glimpse of you going by the shopping center.” Flashed sudden boyish grin. “You have no idea how uncomfortable a pursuit it was. Railroad roadbed is not made for high-speed driving in cars, even in something as durable as a patrol car.