There were a good fifty men in Richard Hammer’s gang, and about ten women equally gaunt and furtive and dangerous. They moved slowly along the river-bank, cursing the rocks they stumbled on, but in a ferocious whisper. Overhead a half moon gave vague light from a cloudy sky. The river sped on its way, moonlight shimmering fitfully off its darkness, and an uncertain wind ghosted through soughing trees. Somewhere a dog howled, and a wild cow bellowed alarm for her calf—descendants of domestic animals that ran free when their masters fled or died. And most savage of all the creatures moving through that night were the humans who had likewise been thrust back into wildness.
«Dick! How much longer, Dick?»
Hammer turned at the low call and scowled back at the uncertain shapes of his followers. «Shut up,» he growled. «No talkin’ on march.»
«I’ll talk when I please.» The voice was louder.
Hammer hunched his great shoulders and thrust his battered hairy face aggressively into the moonlight. «I’m still boss,» he said quietly. «Anytime you wanta fight me for the job, go ahead.»
He had their only remaining firearm, a rifle slung over his back and a belt of a few cartridges, but with knife and club, fists and feet and teeth he was also the deadliest battler in the gang. That was all which had kept him alive, those unending dreadful years of feud and famine and hopeless drifting, for no gang-man was ever safe and a boss, with his own jealous subordinates to watch as well as outsiders, least of all.
«O.K., O.K.,» yielded the other man sullenly. «Only I’m tired an’ hungry, we been goin’ so long—»
«Not much farther,» promised Hammer. «I rec’nize this territory. Come on—an’ quiet!»
They moved ahead, stumbling, half asleep with weariness and the terrible gnawing void in their bellies was all that kept them going. It had been a long journey, hundreds of miles of devastated southland, and it was hard, bitterly hard to pass these comparatively rich farms without lifting more than a few chickens or ears of corn. But Hammer was insistent on secrecy, and he had dominated them long enough for most of them to give in more or less automatically. He had not yet chosen to reveal his plans, but this far into «enemy» country they must involve fighting.
The moon was lowering when Hammer called a halt. They had topped a high ridge overlooking a darker mass some two miles off, a town. «You can sleep now,» said the chief. «We’ll attack shortly before sunrise. We’ll take the place an’ then—food! Houses! Women! Likker! An’—more.»
The gang was too tired then to care about anything but sleep. They stretched on the ground, lank animal figures in clumsy garments of leather and ragged homespun, carrying knives and clubs, axes, even spears and bows. Hammer squatted motionless, a great bearded gorilla of a man, his massive face turned toward the sleeping town. A pair of his lieutenants, lean young men with something hard and deadly in their impassive countenances, joined him.
«O.K., Dick, what’s the idea?» muttered one. «We don’t just go tearin’ in; if that was all, there’re towns closer to where we came from. What’re you cookin’ now?»
«Plenty,» said Hammer: «Now don’t get noisy, an’ I’ll explain. My notion’ll give us more’n a few days’ food an’ rest an’ celebration. It’ll give us—home.»
«Home!» whispered the other outlaw. His cold eyes took on an odd remote look. «Home! The word tastes queer. I ain’t spoke it so long—»
«I useta live here, before the war,» said Hammer softly and tonelessly. «When things blew up, though, I was in the army. The plagues hit my unit, an’ those who didn’t die the first week went over the hill. I headed south, figgerin’ the country’d busted up an’ I’d better go where it’d be warm. Only too many other people got the same idea.»
«You’ve told us that much before.»
«I know, I know, but—anybody who lived through it can’t forget it. I still see those men dyin’—the plague eatin’ ’em. Well, we fought for food. Separate gangs attacked when they met. Until at last there were few enough left an’ things picked up a little. So I j’ined the village an’ tried farmin’.»
The dog howled again, closer. There was an eerie quavering in that cry, something never voiced before the mutations began. «That mutt,» growled one of the gang-men, «will wake the whole muckin’ town.»
«Nah, this place has been peaceful too long,» said Hammer. «You can see that. No guards nowhere. Why, there’re sep’rate farms. We had to fight other men, an’ then when we finally settled down, it was the bugs an’ blights, an’ at last the floods washed our land from under us an’ we had to take to gang life again. Then I remembered my ol’ home town Southvale. Nice farmin’ land, not too bad weather, an’ judgin’ by reports an’ rumors about this region, settled down, a’most rich. So I thought I’d come back—» Hammer’s teeth gleamed white under the moon.
«Well, you always did love t’hear y’rself talk. Now suppose you say what your deal is.»
«Just this. The town’s cut off from outside by ordinary means. Once we hold it, we can easy take care o’ the outlyin’ farms an’ villages. But—you can see the gov’ments’s been here. Few bugs in the crops, so somebody must’a been sprayin’. A jet overhead yesterday. An’ so on.»
They stirred uneasily. One muttered, «We don’t want no truck with the gov’ment. They’ll hang us f’r this.»
«If they can! They’re really not so strong. They ain’t got aroun’ to the South at all, ’cept f’r one or two visits. Way I figger it there’s only one gov’ment center to speak of, this town out in Oregon we heard about. We can find out ’zac’ly from the people we catch. They’ll tell!
«Now look. The gov’ment must deal with Southvale, one way ’r ’nother. There ain’t enough cars ’r roads, they must use planes. That means one’ll land in Southvale, sooner ’r later. The pilot steps out—an’ we’ve got us a plane. I ain’t forgot how to fly. A few o’ us ’r maybe we can ferry a lot, fly to Oregon an’ land at night near the house o’ some big shot, the President even, whoever he is. The plane’s pilot’ll tell us what we need to know. Those jets just whisper along, an’ anyway nobody expects air attack any more. We’ll be just another incomin’ plane if they do spot us.
«We capture our big shot, an’ find out from him where the atom bombs’re kept. There must be some stockpiled near the city, an’ our man’ll make a front f’r us to get at ’em. If he ain’t scared f’r himself, he’s got a family. We set the bombs an’ clear out. The city blows. No more gov’ment worth mentionin’. With what we’ve taken from the arsenals, we’ll hold Southvale an’ all this territory. We’ll be bosses, owners—kings! Maybe later we c’n go on an’ conquer more land. There’ll be no gov’ment t’ stop us.»
He stood up. His eyes caught the moonlight in a darkly splendid vision of power and destiny, for he was not, in his own estimate, a robber. Hardened by pain and sorrow and the long bitter fight to stay alive, he was more of a conqueror, with the grandiose dreams and at least something of the driving energy and transcendent genius of an Alexander or a Napoleon. He genuinely hoped to improve the lot of his own people, and as for others—well, «stranger» and «enemy» had been synonymous too long for him to give that side of it much thought now.
«No more hunger,» he breathed. «No more cold an’ wet, no more hidin’ an’ runnin’ from a stronger gang, no more walkin’ an’ walkin’ an’ never gettin’ nowheres. Our kids won’t die before they’re weaned, they’ll grow up as God meant they should, free an’ happy an’ safe. We c’n build our own future, boys—I seem t’ see it now, a tall city reachin’ f’r the sun.»
His lieutenants stirred uneasily. After some ten years of association they recognized their chief’s strange moods but could not fathom them. His enormous ambitions were beyond the scope of minds focused purely on the daily struggle for life, they were awed and half afraid. But even his legion of enemies and rivals acknowledged Hammer’s skill and audacity and luck. This might work.