Oliver ducked his head to peer intently through the trees. After a long moment he relaxed and swung around to grin down at Gary. “What do you think the troops in Oglethorpe have been doing all this time?”
“Drinking Chattanooga dry for all I care. I'd like to make a stab at it. It's getting cold here.”
Oliver nodded and swung back to watch. “Can take a look if you like. No risks, though.”
“I like my hide,” Gary retorted. “I've hung onto it this far — most of it.” He gathered up his eating utensils and climbed the hill to retrieve Oliver's. Stacking them all together in a slipshod pile he walked over to where the mail truck was parked, half hidden and neatly blending with the turning foliage. He tossed the gear into the back and closed the doors.
The mail truck had been an inspiration, a fairly new olive green job that did not blatantly advertise its presence when parked off the road, and having the added advantage of heavy steel construction, construction which fitted the government's specification to the manufacturer of “armored truck.” Gary stepped-up the armored truck's mileage by adding a water-spray injector to the carburetor and pumping the tires hard beyond their rated capacity. They transferred their stock of staples and ammunition from the farm truck they had been using, and took leave of the remnants of civilization which clung to the river. The truck was not comfortable and rode hard, crawling through the hills at a snail's pace, but it offered a safety to themselves and their provisions otherwise lacking.
They had journeyed back to the river and that particular bridge twice, just twice. One visit each month.
Lieutenant MacSneary had not changed his mind during those eight weeks and on both trips the answer had been the same, with a pair of machine gunners beside him to enforce the refusal. On that first trip back, Gary and Oliver had found a dozen or so people camped ground this end of the structure, patiently prepared to wait out the quarantine. There had been a brief conversation across the length of the bridge with Oliver's ragged flags, and that was the end of it. Oliver ended it by flagging out a single word addressed to the officer, a word much loved and used by the army's rank and file. The officer stiffly turned his back.
The second and final trip to that bridge had been far different. While still some distance away they saw that the refugee camp had been abandoned; closer inspection showed the abandonment had been in haste. Three bodies sprawled out on the steel span, bodies that while still alive had foolishly attempted a dash for the barricade. The machine gunners had been faster. Oliver stepped out of the newly acquired mail truck and signaled his question, carefully avoiding the bodies with his eyes but unable to escape the stench of them. The answer was a curt no, and thereafter they refused to answer at all. Gary turned the truck around and started back.
“You should have asked them about our pay,” he said.
“Have a good idea what that answer would be.”
“Those boys ain't slow on the trigger.”
“No. I wonder what I'd do, in their place?”
When another four or five weeks had rolled by and the time arrived for the usual monthly trip, neither of them suggested the journey. With unspoken accord they thought it best to avoid the bridge. And so they remained in the hills, meeting no one, watching the woods slowly turn color with the approach of autumn and the coming of cool nights, chilly dawns. When they could, they raided an occasional isolated farm or cultivated hillside patch, taking what could be stolen on the run. The hen and her few eggs had come from one of these.
More than three months had passed since the bombing.
Gary kicked each of the truck tires with his foot, testing them, and carried a bottle of dirty water from a near-by pond to pour in the radiator. He didn't bother to check the gas, knowing it was low.
Flat on the side of the hillock, Oliver hissed against his teeth.
Gary snatched his rifle from the cab of the truck and hit the ground, rolling sideways to get away from the vehicle. He came to rest behind the trunk of a tree and looked up at Oliver. Oliver raised one finger and pointed to the west. Gary commenced a slow crawl over the ground, putting distance between himself and the ashes of the fire, circling around to the west to move completely away from camp. He waited to see who was coming.
A woman.
She walked toward them with no attempt at concealment, a very tall girl whose bare feet moved noiselessly and without effort over the ground, carrying her body with a peculiar grace. A thin girl with tanned face and blue eyes, who wore a faded cotton dress and uncombed hair. The dress had once been a shade of red or brown. Her legs and toughened feet were nearly a matching shade of brown, and sturdy despite her thinness. The girl paused a dozen yards from Oliver and stared at his rifle.
“Hello.”
Oliver nodded to her, searching behind her. “Hello. Where did you come from?”
“Yonder.” The blue hills somewhere behind. “Seen your smoke this morning.”
He twisted his head to survey the ashes.
“Did you, now?”
“Did. You hiding out?”
“Yes.” He glanced up into her face.
“Seen your smoke. You ought to use good wood.”
“I'm afraid I don't know very much about wood.”
“Guess not. I could show you.”
“You could? Now why would you do that? Why would you help me if I'm hiding out?”
The girl gravely stared at him. “I'm hungry.”
Oliver nodded slowly, still watching the way she had come. “Swap?”
“Sure, swap. I'm alone.”
With caution he raised up on his knees and peered over the hillock, searching the area behind her. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you're alone?”
“I said I was alone.” She came a few steps nearer and stared down at his upturned face. “I'm awful hungry. The other man can watch.”
“What other man?” he shot back.
She gestured off among the trees to her left. “Him. I seen him first, when he jumped out of the truck.”
Oliver laughed loudly, sat back on the ground. “Come on out, corporal, the girl scout spotted you.” He turned his head to watch Gary as he emerged from cover. “The army could have used her.”
“Maybe we can,” Gary suggested. He stopped at a distance and spoke to the girl. “All alone — where's your folks?”
“They died, long time back. Most everybody's dead. Folks, they went into town to see what was happening, and when they come back, they died. It's like the end of the world, ain't it?”
“For us,” Oliver said, “for you and us it is the end of the world. The world is still turning across the creek, but the end has come on this side. Have you got a name?
“Sally.”
“Welcome home, Sally.” He stood up and rubbed the stiffness from his knees, all the while looking at her legs. “Take over, corporal. I'll fix her something to eat.”
She joined them as quietly as that.
That she intended to remain with them became evident after Jay Oliver had prepared her breakfast and then cleaned and stowed away the gear for a second time that morning. She ate everything he cooked, not speaking to either of them, but watching Oliver's movements with a curious intent interest. She had pointed out what to use for the fire that would not give off a betraying smoke, and then sat down cross-legged, feet tucked up beneath her, to let him feed her. Sally had not understated her hunger.