Lucifer's Hammer

“All. What does that mean?”

“There were a lot of strikes. Mostly east of here, Europe the Atlantic, but some close, some south of us. So I drove north until I lost my car. Do you know if the San Joaquin Nuclear Plant is working?”

“No. There’s an ocean where the San Joaquin Valley used to be.”

“What about Sacramento?”

“Don’t know.” The man seemed indecisive, but his rifle still looked Dan steadily in the eye. An ounce of pressure and Dan Forrester would not exist. Dan was surprised to learn just how much he cared, just how much he wanted to live, even though he knew he had no real chance, if he lived until winter he’d die then. He estimated that many more than half those who lived until winter would not see the spring.

“We were on a training run,” the man said. “Army. When the trucks went into a ditch, some of us shot the officer and went into business for ourselves. Way Gillings told it, that would be a good idea. I went along. I mean, it was all dead anyway, you know?” The man poured out words in a rush. He needed to justify himself before he killed Dan Forrester. “But then we had to walk and walk and walk and we couldn’t find any food, and — ” The words cut off, suddenly, with a dark shadow of hate that crossed the soldier’s face. Then, “I wish you had more food. I’m taking your jacket.”

“Just like that?”

“Take it off. We didn’t have rain gear.”

“You’re too big. It won’t fit,” Dan said.

“I’ll tough it out somehow.” The bandit was shivering, and of course he was as wet as Dan himself. He wasn’t carrying much fat for insulation, either.

“It’s just a windbreaker. Not waterproof.”

“A windbreaker is fine. I can take it off you, you know.”

Sure, with a hole in it. Or maybe not. A head shot doesn’t put holes in jackets. Dan took off the jacket. He was about to throw it to the bandit when he thought of something. “Watch,” he said. He stuffed the hood into the narrow pocket in the collar and zipped it up. Then he turned the big pocket inside out and stuffed the entire jacket into it. The package was now the size of two fists. Dan zipped it closed and tossed it.

“Huh,” said the bandit.

“Do you know what you’re stealing?” Dan’s bitter sense of loss went deeper than his common sense. “They can’t make the materials anymore. They can’t make the machines to shape it. There was a company in New Jersey, and it made that jacket in five sizes and sold it so cheap you could toss one in your car trunk and forget it for ten years. You didn’t even have to go looking for it. The company hunted you down and sent you thick packets of advertisements. How long will it be before anyone can do that again?”

The man nodded. He began backing into the trees, but stopped. “Don’t go west,” he said. “We killed a man and a woman and ate them. We. I didn’t want anyone else to see how I felt. Next chance I got, I went off on my own. So don’t cry real tears over this jacket. Just be glad there ain’t no dry wood around.” The bandit laughed a fu

Dan shook his head. Ca

Don’t go west. The San Joaquin Nuclear Project was west, but the San Joaquin was filled with water. The plant couldn’t have survived that, and besides, it wasn’t finished. That left Sacramento. Dan called up a mental picture of California. He was in the hills that formed the eastern boundary of the flooded central valley. He’d intended to work his way down to lower ground, where the going wouldn’t be so rough.

But the low ground was to the west. The ca

Sergeant Hooker watched the sky as he marched.

The wind acted like a horde of catnip-maddened kittens. It slashed playfully under helmet rims, plucked at sleeves and pant legs, died for an instant, then whipped dust in the eye from a wholly different direction. The clouds, black and pregnant in the underbelly, shifted uneasily, promising violence. It hadn’t rained in hours. Even by post-Hammerfall standards, this weather could do anything.

The doctor marched in sullen silence, pushing himself to keep up. He didn’t have strength left over to run. At least Hooker didn’t have that worry. But he worried about the grumbling behind him. No words reached him, only the flavor of complaint and anger.

He thought: We wouldn’t eat each other, of course. There are limits. We don’t even eat our dead. Yet. Should I have pushed that? There were complaints. I may have to shoot Gillings.

He probably would have shot Gillings there at first, when he came back and found Captain Hora dead and Gillings in charge, but he hadn’t had any ammunition then, and the way Gillings told it they’d set up in business for themselves, they’d be fucking kings now that the Hammer had finished civilization.

That was fu

“I know. I told you why you get sick,” said the doctor. He was short and harmless-looking, half chipmunk, the resemblance accented by a brush of mustache under his forward-thrusting nose. He was sticking close to Hooker, which was sensible.

“You eat steak rare,” he said. “There aren’t too many diseases you can catch from a steer. You eat pork well done, because pigs carry some diseases men catch too. Parasites and such.” He paused for breath, and to see if Hooker would backhand him to shut up, but Hooker didn’t. “But you can catch anything from a man, except maybe sickle-cell anemia. You’ve lost fifteen men since you turned ca

“Eight got shot. You saw it.”

“They were too sick to run.”

“Hell, they were the recruits. Didn’t know what they were doing.”

The doctor didn’t say anything for awhile. They trudged on, no sound but panting as they climbed the damp hillside. Eight men shot, four of them recruits. But seven of the Army men had died too, and not from bullets. “We’ve all been sick,” the doctor said. “We’re sick now.” His thoughts made him gag. “God, I wish I hadn’t—”

“You was just as hungry as us. What if you was too weak to walk?” Hooker wondered why he bothered; the doctor’s feelings were nothing to him. Vindictively he hugged his secret to him: When they found a place to settle, then they could lame the doctor, like the cavemen lamed their blacksmiths to keep them from ru

Somewhere. Somewhere there had to be a place, small enough to defend, big enough to support Hooker’s company. A farm community, with enough people in it to work the land, and enough land to feed everybody. The company could set up there. Good troops had to be worth something. That goddam Gillings! The way he told it they could just walk in and take over. It hadn’t worked out that way.

Too hungry. Too damn many miles coming out of the hills and all the stores looted, all the people run off or barricaded up so even the bazookas and the recoilless wouldn’t make it sure…

Hooker wanted to think about something else. If they’d fought earlier it would have been all right; but no, he let himself get talked out of that, talked into moving on to look for a better place, and by the time they got to it…

“If you’ve got to eat human meat…” The doctor couldn’t leave it alone. He had to talk about it. His face wrinkled and he fought nausea. Hooker hoped it was just in the doctor’s head.