Gone (Michael Bennett)

heat, ventilation, electricity run off propane, fresh water. Even two neat and clean bathrooms with showers and working toilets.
    It wasn’t just the compound that was surprising. McMurphy, despite his frazzled, nutty appearance, had been so nice and gentle with the children. Before he had brought the children in, he had closed and securely locked the doors to all the grow rooms. Like any gracious host, he made sure that everyone was comfortable and well fed. He didn’t have any video games, but he had Monopoly and Scrabble and cards and a dartboard.
    He’d shown the children the collections on the mantelpiece of rocks that he had found on his wanderings, pointing out the petrified sea creatures in them, put there millions of years in the past when the Sierra Madre had been the floor of an ancient sea.
    The bus room in which they were now sitting McMurphy called the library. It was actually quite cozy. A mounted bull’s head hung above a chess set. On the walls were shelves bursting with books, mechanical engineering tomes and leather-bound geology texts beside precarious columns of yellowed paperbacks.
    There were also hundreds of framed photographs. McMurphy in wrestling tights, McMurphy in a Green Beret army uniform with his arm around a couple of other soldiers. A lot of them were of hippie people from the sixties. There was a shot of an absolutely beautiful blond woman in a top hat under a tree, playing the flute. One of a young, bearded McMurphy with some other long-haired and bearded blond men wearing Jesus shirts, sitting around a campfire. There was even a shot of some long-haired children in their bathing suits on the shore of a lake, playing with ponies and goats and dogs.
    Mary Catherine gestured at the photographs.
    “What’s your story, Mr. McMurphy?” she said. “How’d you do all this?”
    “Didn’t I already tell you we dug out the side of the hill with a bulldozer and buried the buses one by one and welded them together like Legos?”
    “I meant more like why ,” Mary Catherine said. “Why are you here in this place? How’d you get here, if you don’t mind me prying?”
    McMurphy sighed and leaned back as he crossed his legs.
    “You want my story, huh? Hmmm. Let’s see. I grew up outside San Fran. Five kids in the family. Dad was a plumber. My mom was a night-shift nurse at a mental hospital. I wrestled in high school and got good enough to get a scholarship to Berkeley. I was just about to get my mechanical engineering degree when a fit of conscience made me drop out and hitch up with the army.
    “When I returned to the States, I somehow found myself hanging out in Berkeley with a group of writers and artists and drug addicts that would end up being called the Merry Pranksters. I actually stayed at Ken Kesey’s house for a while. I really admired the wild and free, independent way he was living. The parties were a true goof.”
    “I can imagine,” Mary Catherine said.
    “Wanna bet?” McMurphy said, winking at her. “Anyway, one day in late ’sixty-eight, instead of relaxing and just having some innocent fun, these new people came to the house and started talking about the masses and the classes and starting a political movement, and I got straight right the heck out of there. I eventually ended up here with some friends, living off the grid, off the land.”
    “Who’s the pretty lady with the flute?”
    “She was my woman for a while. We had three kids. They’re gone now, obviously. Took off in the early eighties, when I started building this bomb shelter. Everybody’s gone. Just me now. The last of the Mohicans. Bilbo McMurphy, the last hobbit, at your service.”
    He looked around the room, wincing.
    “I know how I must look to you. Like some weird old hippie survivalist, right? You’re thinking this mole-like freak is off his rocker to be living in a hole in the ground.”
    “You saved all our lives, Mr. McMurphy,” Mary Catherine said. “What I think of you is that your home is incredible, and that you’re a very good man.”
    McMurphy smiled, genuinely surprised.
    “You do? Really?”
    “Yes, of course,” Mary Catherine said.
    “In that case,” McMurphy said, retrieving a Zippo and a pot pipe from his pocket, “do you want to smoke some dope with me?”
    Mary Catherine shook her head, disappointed.
    “No, Mr. McMurphy,” she said. “Remember our deal with the children here. Unfortunately, your home will have to remain a dope-free zone until we