The Road Narration Demo
Description
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EnglishAccents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
from the road by Cormac McCarthy Read by Logan Mehan. They walked out to the road and stood. There were tracks in the snow. A wagon, some sort of wheeled vehicle. Something with rubber tyres. But the newer tread marks boot prints between the wheels. Someone had passed in the dark, going south in the early dawn. At latest running the road in the night, he stood thinking about that. He walked the tracks carefully. They passed within 50 feet of the fire and not even slowed to look. He stood looking back up the road. The boy watched him. We need to get off the road. Why, Papa? Someone's coming. Is it bad guys? Yes, I'm afraid so. They could be good guys, couldn't they? He didn't answer. He looked at the sky out of old habit. But there was nothing to see what we gonna do. Papa, Let's go. Can we go back to the fire? No. Come on. We probably don't have much time. I'm really hungry. I know. What are we gonna dio? We have to hold up. Get off the road. Will we see our tracks? Yes. What can we do about it? I don't know Well, they know what we are. What if they see our tracks? Will they know what we are? He looked back at the great round tracks in the snow. We'll figure it out, he said. Then he stopped. We need to think about this. Let's go back to the fire. He thought to find some place in the road where the snow had melted off completely. But then he thought that since their tracks would not reappear on the far side, it would be no help. They kick snow over the fire and went over through the trees, encircled and came back. They hurried, leaving a maze of tracks, and then they set out back north through the woods, keeping the road in view. The site they picked was simply the highest ground that came to an agave use north along the road and overlooked their backtrack. He spread the tarp in the wet snow and wrapped the boy in the blankets. You're gonna be cold, he said, But maybe we won't be here long. Within the hour, two men came down the road almost at a lope. When they had passed, he stood upto Watch them when he did. They stopped and one of them looked back. He froze. He was wrapped in one of the great blankets, and he would have been hard to see, but not impossible. But he thought probably they had smelled the smoke. They stood talking. Then they went on. He sat down. It's okay, he said. We just have to wait. But I think it's OK. They had no food and little sleep in five days, and in this condition on the outskirts of a small town that came upon a once grand house cited on a rise above the road, the boy stood holding his hand. The snow was largely melted on the macadam and in the south, facing fields and woods, they stood there. Plastic bags over their feet had long since sworn through. Their feet were wet and cold. The house was tall and stately, with white door columns. Across the front, a port could share of the side, a gravel drive that curved up through a field of dead grass. The windows were oddly intact. What is this place, Papa? Let's just stand here and listen. There was nothing. The wind wrestling, the dead roadside, Bracken, a distant creaking door or shudder. I think we should take a look. Papa, Let's not go in there. It's OK. I don't think we should go up there. It's OK. We have to take a look.