Dawn of the Planet of the Apes: The Official Movie Novelization

25

An hour later Malcolm was at the garage in Fort Point. He watched as two mechanics poured dirty liquid out of five-gallon cans. The flow went through a jerry-rigged set of multiple coffee filters, and into funnels positioned over another set of cans. They poured slowly, and the purified fuel dripped through the filters just as slowly. After every couple of pints, the mechanics had to stop and scrape out the gunk. After every couple of gallons, they had to throw the filters away and replace them.

This was what happened, he mused, when you were down to scavenging gasoline—or any hydrocarbon—from the bottoms of sealed tanks. What was left there had to be purified before it could be used. Before the flu, no gas station would have sold it.

But thanks to human ingenuity—specifically, in this case, Carver’s ingenuity—their trucks could run on it. Whatever Carver’s other character flaws, and they were many, he was very good with internal combustion engines. While the mechanics repeated the laborious filtering process, over and over, he was giving the run-down FEMA truck a tune-up. At least, that’s what it looked like to Malcolm. He was an architect, not a mechanic.

“This is crazy, if you want my humble expertise,” Carver said from under the hood.

Malcolm agreed, but he wasn’t going to tell Carver that.

“Just tell me how long you need to get us moving again,” he said.

“At least an hour.” Carver stood up and showed Malcolm what appeared to be a fuel filter. “I’m still replacing the filters and flushing out the shit from our last trip.” He looked over to the other end of the garage, where Alexander sat reading a graphic novel. “Gonna take your kid up there again?”

“He’s safer with me than he is down here,” Malcolm said, although he didn’t know if it was true. The real truth was he couldn’t stand to have Alexander out of his sight, knowing how precarious the situation was with the apes. For all he knew, their leader might already have changed his mind, and turned his army around to destroy the Colony.

He didn’t think that would happen—something about the ape had struck him as trustworthy, maybe even noble in a way. But when it came to his son, Malcolm didn’t believe in taking chances.

“I don’t know,” Carver said. “Seems like he’s got enough problems.”

Guys like Carver, who lived through their hands, never understood kids like Alexander, who lived through their minds. Malcolm bridled at Carver’s attitude.

“Do me a favor. Just get the damn trucks working. We have to get up there before dark.”

“We?” Carver said, looking alarmed. “Oh, no. No way.”

“I don’t like it either, but you’re the best mechanic we’ve got. Dreyfus said you were going.”

“Crap,” Carver said. But he kept working.

Alexander was a strange kid. Malcolm could hardly blame him, after all he’d been through. He was just learning how to read when the Simian Flu killed his mother, and now he was in the throes of adolescence as human civilization seemingly gasped its last breath.

Malcolm knew his treatment of Alexander was full of contradictions. He wanted humanity to survive and thrive, at least partly because that would mean Alexander would live to see a better world again… but he wanted to take Alexander up into the mountains again. That was on Malcolm and no one else. He had lost his wife to the flu. He wasn’t going to lose Alexander by not being there when his son needed him.

Alexander had started drawing a lot when he was eight or nine, as the plague wound down for lack of remaining available vectors. Then they’d had to deal with the violence and wars of the next four years. He’d seen a lot of things no kid should have had to see… but that was always true, wasn’t it? Maybe Alexander’s experience wasn’t that different from a kid in the Sudan in 2012… or Bosnia in 1993… or Leningrad in 1942. And there were a lot of damaged kids who had come out of those times and places, too.

Not that Malcolm thought Alexander was damaged. He was just… quiet. A little introverted. Preferred drawing and reading to most forms of human interaction. An arty bookworm coming of age in the ruins of one of America’s great literary cities, home to Jack London, Mark Twain… Twenty years ago, Malcolm thought, this would have been the perfect place for a kid like Alexander. Even twelve years ago.

But things were different now, and they all had to do the best they could.

Even Dreyfus, who had forced Malcolm’s hand. The last thing in the world any of them should have been doing at that moment was preparing to head up to the dam again. The apes meant business. What drove Dreyfus was the beautiful dream of electricity—and the dark side of that dream, which was the knowledge that without it, the human survivors in San Francisco were destined for a slow, ugly slide into barbarism.

That barbarism might be closer than any of them thought, Malcolm mused, thinking of the mob in the Colony. They prided themselves on keeping civilization alive, but that was starting to seem like an illusion. They were treading water… maybe. More likely, they were sinking so slowly that they would be able to pretend it wasn’t happening, until they began to drown.

“Alexander,” he said.

His son looked up. For the thousandth time Malcolm wished he would let people call him Alex. Four syllables were way too many to say every time. But when you were a kid who had lost so much before you’d reached your tenth birthday, you held tight to the things you still had. And Alexander had his name. His mother had named him. Malcolm had been thinking Justin or Henry, but fifteen years after Alexander’s birth, Malcolm thought she had been right. The name fit. Maybe not in the leader-of-men sense, but still, he was an Alexander.

Whatever that meant.

“Dad?”

Malcolm caught himself. “Yeah. We’re going to head out pretty soon. Get your stuff together.”

“Didn’t the chimp tell us to stay away?” Alexander didn’t look too scared. He seemed more curious about why his father was turning right around the same day, and doing exactly what a thousand armed and intelligent apes had just told him not to do.

Malcolm nodded.

“He did. But I think I can talk to him. He needs to see that we need certain things… and then maybe we can offer him certain things, too. I don’t think there’s any way we can avoid each other forever.”

Ellie came in from outside, where she had been checking over the supplies before Carver’s guys loaded the truck. She’d heard the last part of their conversation.

“Talk to him, huh?” she said.

“I don’t think we have a choice. If I don’t try something, Dreyfus is going to go up there with a bunch of guys with guns.” Malcolm looked in Carver’s direction as he said this, making sure Carver was otherwise engaged. He was, scrubbing the truck’s spark plugs at the other end of the garage.

“Maybe you ought to let him,” Ellie said. “If that’s the way things are going to go anyway. Why put yourself out front? You have him to consider.” She glanced at Alexander. “And I’d just as soon you stuck around, too.”

“Believe me, we’re on the same page there,” Malcolm said.

“Then let Dreyfus be the big chief.”

“Oh, I am,” Malcolm said. “But you heard that speech. Basically he pointed the crowd at me and said I was going to fix the problem. So either I fix the problem, or the Colony…”

“The Colony what?” she prompted.

“I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “That’s the problem.”

“You don’t know what the chimp will do, either,” Ellie pointed out.

“This is going to sound nuts,” Malcolm said, “but I think I trust him a little more than I do most of the people down here.”

“Based on what? You looked him in the eye and he brought your son’s comics back?”

“That’s part of it. He didn’t have to do that. He was making a good-faith gesture. There’s… he wouldn’t have done that if he really didn’t ever want to see a human again. You know?” Malcolm watched Ellie think this over. She didn’t like it, but he knew her well enough that she wasn’t completely convinced he was wrong.

“This is a lot riding on a snap judgment,” she said.

“I know,” Malcolm agreed. “I wish I had a better idea.”