Ohio was fine in the warm, lazy summer… so fine and comfortable that he felt no alarm when the distant sound of shooting broke out. He lay still, listening to it, knowing that a sizable party was involved by the number of the guns and knowing too that it was too far away to involve him.
An answering machine gun brought him to his feet.
Machine guns! Machine guns meant soldiers, unless somewhere a band of marauders had come into possession of such a weapon. Barring that, soldiers meant…
He was running lightly and swiftly toward the firing. Soldiers this far from the Mississippi could mean the mopping-up process had begun, that the river had been crossed and high brass was clearing the land of enemy agents and contaminated survivors. Gary leaped a sagging barbed wire fence and sped across the field. As he ran he found himself praying — praying not to any Creator he may have believed in but praying in his own expressive, violent tongue that it was not so, that the Western states had not come to reclaim the bombed land. The land was harsh, hungry and terrible but he suddenly didn't want to lose it, to give it up in exchange for what they offered. He had hated it but now he didn't want to lose it; had often cursed it and the obscene fate which had placed him there but now it was preferable. The remainder of his lean, starved life there was better than the firing squads. Hell, he was only thirty… Thirty-something. He didn't want to die now!
Gary flung himself down behind a knoll and inched his way toward the grassy top. The firing was loud in his ears. He paused just short of the crest, ready to leap and run in retreat, and then hitched his shotgun forward to part the grasses shutting off the view. He stiffened.
A battered, paved highway wound along the valley floor less than half a mile distant and nothing but two small trucks occupied that highway. Two trucks! With mounting excitement he wriggled forward to gain a better view. Two green-paneled army trucks somewhat resembling that armored mail truck he had used years before; two trucks, halted and under siege in the lonely road. He looked to see why they had stopped. One truck was partially nosed over into the roadside ditch, and from this distance it looked as if a tire had been shot away, leaving it helpless. The second had stopped a few yards ahead. Gary studied the tableau. Rifle fire was pouring from the cabs of both vehicles, snapping the tall grass along the nearer ditch and searching out the terrain behind it.
After a moment he located the machine gun. It was barking from a small broken window in the rear of the disabled truck. He saw a body lying on the road.
Army trucks, their blunt noses pointed west toward the distant Mississippi.
Instantly he concocted a plan of action. Half rising, he sped several yards downhill toward the raging battle and dropped again into the concealing grass — waited long seconds before rising and running again, following a zigzag path down the slope. As he worked his way in hasty, cautious spurts toward the stalled trucks he knew he was visible from the road, knew they couldn't help but see him, yet no bullet spat his way. As he drew nearer he ran shorter distances before dropping to earth again, put up his head for quick reconnaissance before making another dash. His method of approach should be obvious to the men in the trucks, should be familiar to them.
Finally he located five men on the ground before him, fairly well hidden from the roadway but in positions that were open to his view. Four of the five were firing at the road; the fifth lay still.
When he was within easy range he fell flat on the ground and opened on them a murderous fire.
Startled, they turned to stare at him, half rising in their sudden fear. He fired again and one man fell. Rifle fire from their now unprotected rear increased sharply and the surviving three jerked around, aware of the trap. Abruptly the three broke cover and ran, attempting to flee along the ditch. Gary rose to his knees and loosed a final blast before sinking to the ground. The machine gun opened up once more as the three ran into its range, and then it was quiet.
Gary could almost feel the solid silence.
Without moving, he shouted, “Hold your fire!”
Someone in the truck answered him. “Come out with your hands up.”
Very slowly he rose to his feet, his hands high, still clutching the shotgun in a doubled fist. He cautiously made his way across the ditch to stand at the edge of the roadway, peering at the two men in the nearer cab.
“Put down the gun.”
Gary hesitated. “Not until you cover me — I don't want to get shot in the back.”
“You're covered. Put it down fast!”
He stooped to lay it on the cement.
“All right now, who are you?”
“Corporal Russell Gary… used to be with the Fifth in Chicago.”
A helmeted head appeared in the window of the cab. The helmet bore a stripe of white paint. Gary absently added, “Sir.”
“Do you carry identification, Corporal?” the officer asked suspiciously.
“Yes, sir.” He dug down under his clothing to bring up the two dogtags hanging on a chain.
The lieutenant peered at them and then up at the man. “Well, I don't mind saying thanks! You certainly helped us out of a hole.” He paused. “Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir.” Gary looked down the road at the sprawled bodies. “Except for the casualties, sir.”
There was a moment of silence as the officer sought for words. Gary stared at him, at the second face looking over his shoulder.
The second face suggested, “Ask him about Chicago, Lieutenant.”
“A-bombed,” Gary said without waiting for the other to repeat the question. “Hundreds of A-bombs. The place is just a pile of ashes now.”
“How did you escape?” was the quick retort.
“I wasn't there, sir. I was on recruiting duty downstate.” He thought to volunteer more. “The whole damned country is washed out, sir. A-bombs and disease everywhere. There can't be more than a couple of thousand people left.”
“That many? Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir. I've covered all the ground between Chicago and Florida in the last couple of years, sir. There was a lot more that first year, but I'd say there's only a few thousand this summer, Lieutenant.”
“Well, I'll be damned. They said—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work, Corporal, good work. We can't thank you enough. Now we'll have to repair that tire and move on.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I was sort of hoping you could take me with you.”
“Out of the question,” the lieutenant Snapped “You are contaminated. Was that why you opened fire on the enemy? I commend you, Corporal, but I can do no more.”
Gary stared at him, his bearded face a carefully framed picture of disappointment. “I can't… ? But sir, I…”
“No!”
Gary shuffled his feet, made as if to leave and then turned back once more. “Say, Lieutenant, got anything to eat?”
“None to spare, Corporal; I'm sorry. Our supplies must last out the trip. And now move down the road, please. We have to replace that tire.”
Eagerly he said, “I'll fix it for you, sir. If you can let me have something to eat.” He waited for a moment and then added, “Please, Lieutenant — food is damned scarce.”
The officer examined him, his thin body and ragged clothing. He turned once to exchange glances with the other man in the car and then faced Gary again. He struggled to keep his face emotionless.
“All right, Corporal. We haven't too much ourselves but I dare say you need it worse than we do. Now — the tire.”
“Yes, sir.” He started forward. “Give me the jack.”
“Stop right there! Don't approach the truck, man, you're contaminated. We haven't our suits on. We'll throw the jack out to you.”