“That's what I thought about you.”
She raised her face to his. “What?”
“Where did you go?”
“Oh, Russell… you've shaved.”
“Where did you go? When I woke up you were gone.”
She smiled at him and turned her head to the bed, pointing. “Look what I have. Oh, I have lots of pretty things.”
He saw the sack, an extra large grocery sack, its brown seams bulging with whatever was packed and crammed inside it. “What is it?”
She released him then, straightened up from him and ran over to the bed, to dump the contents of the sack across the rumpled sheet. He stared half-believing at her loot.
“Mother of Moses! Why do you keep picking up that junk? You can't eat it.”
“They're mine! I'm going to keep them, keep them all!” She dipped her fingers into the pile of jewelry, letting the pieces trickle sensuously through her fingers. “Aren't they pretty, Russell?”
“You can't eat them,” he repeated, “and if you want to stay alive you had damned well better begin collecting food. Why didn't you bring something to eat?”
“I've never had so many nice things before… they are so pretty.” She looked up at him, and then at his body, to laugh gaily. “Hadn't you better put some clothes on, Russell?”
He picked up his clothing from the floor and stalked into the adjoining room, slamming the door behind him.
They ate breakfast in the same manner in which he had eaten the night before: from cans, sitting on the curb before a grocery store. It was less than satisfying. Afterwards he asked about cars. He wanted a new car from some dealer's showroom or garage, and he wanted a light one that did not consume too much gas. She led him on a tour of automobile agencies and he picked a Studebaker sedan, a demonstrator with slightly under a thousand miles on its meter.
“Why are you so fussy?” she asked impatiently. “Why not take one of those cars out in the street? There's no one here to stop us. Where are we going?”
“God only knows! We're getting out of this town fast but I don't know where we're going. Chicago? What if it has been bombed out? Supposing we have to go all the way to New York, or out to California? How much of the country has been bombed, do you know? Where will we find living people?”
“I don't know.” She was frightened now.
“I don't either, but we've got to look somewhere. The army or the Red Cross is somewhere and we want to find them. The whole damned country can't be dead!” He climbed in the car and started the motor, listening to it. “I want a car that will give me mileage, I want provisions for a long haul, and then we're moving. Get in. Find a gun shop.”
“A gun shop?”
“Guns — rifles. Find me a store that sells them.”
“I don't know of any,” she told him helplessly.
“Sporting goods,” he snapped at her, “a big hardware store or a—”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted. “I know of a place where you can buy fishing equipment, boats, things like that.”
“That's what I want.” He drove the Studebaker out of the garage, listening to the performance of the motor.
While she stood absently watching him, Gary chose from the store's wall rack a heavy .30-30 and a Marlin .22. He loaded the girl down with ammunition for the two rifles, had her pack it on the rear floor of the car. Afterwards they drove by the grocery where they had taken two meals, to load the trunk with food. He stumbled over debris on the floor that hadn't been there when they visited the place for breakfast, and searched the store carefully before allowing the girl to enter. She would have chosen light, fancy and almost useless goods had not he vetoed the choices, instead filling her arms with canned soups and meats, a variety of vegetables, fruits and juices. On a second thought he picked up a case of canned milk.
She was quick to complain. “Oh — Russell! Do we have to take all this now? Why can't we simply stop somewhere when we want to eat?”
“Lift your nose,” he said sharply. “Smell the air. Do you want to come back into this stink every day to eat? And it'll get worse.”
Casting another look at the litter left on the floor by some other prowler, Gary drove back to the gun shop once more and picked up a .38 revolver.
“Now what's that for? You going to fight someone?”
He poked a finger at the bulging paper sack she held tightly in her lap. “What if somebody takes a notion to loot us?”
“Oh.”
He left town quickly, picking up and following a marked route that he knew led to Chicago. Occasionally he was forced to detour around a blocked street where a falling bomb had gouged out a great crater, or a tangle of wrecked automobiles made passage difficult. The suburbs were less badly hit, with only an occasional crater revealing where some stray bomb had come down. But the suburbs were as lifeless. And still he didn't understand why, didn't comprehend why a few scattered bombs should so completely wipe out a population. Momentarily he switched on the car's radio, but the band was silent.
Either the army was continuing radio silence — or the entire nation was off the air permanently. Optimistically he told himself it was not the latter. Sudden and unexpected bombs had fallen a few days ago: more might come, or an enemy force might follow them to establish a bridgehead and dig in for counterattack. In either event radio stations would remain off the air to prevent information from leaking to the enemy, to deny him radio beams on which to track more bombs, or his planes. The lack of information was harmful to the country, to what remained of it, but radio silence was of paramount importance. When the radios again came back on the air, the danger would be over. He looked at his watch, mentally laying out an hourly schedule for listening.
“Look — look, there's a man!”
He slowed the car. “Where?”
“There — that farmhouse ahead.”
Gary put his foot on the brake and one hand on the horn, pulling up sharp at the mouth of a lane leading up to a cluster of farm buildings.
“Hey there!” He leaned out the window.
To his astonishment the farmer whirled and ran into the nearer barn, to emerge a moment later brandishing a double-barreled shotgun. Immediately behind him the barn door ejected two boys, the taller of the two carrying another gun and wearing on his frightened face a stamp of determination.
The red-faced farmer waved his weapon. “Git out of here!”
“Hey — now wait!” Gary shouted at him. “All I want is information.”
“You ain't getting nothing here but buckshot. Now git!” He hoisted the shotgun into firing position, and beside him the older boy did likewise. “I've had enough of you double-damned thieves!”
Gary slipped the idling motor into gear and poised for a quick getaway. “Information,” he shouted once more. “Where is the army?”
“Ain't seen no army!” And the shotgun blasted the air.
The Studebaker's rear tires spun madly, throwing a shower of dirt and gravel into the air. Gary piloted it a fast mile down the highway before taking his foot from the gas, and then he slowed to a stop, to climb out and circle the car looking for damage. The buckshot had missed them. He settled behind the wheel to light a cigarette.
“Sort of mad, wasn't he?” he asked mildly.
“What in heaven's name was the matter with him?” She reached over and helped herself to a cigarette.
His answering laugh was bitter. “You looters are giving us decent people a bad name.”
“Well, we certainly didn't get any information from him.”
“On the contrary,” Gary corrected her, “we did. We learned that the countryside is already overrun with looters. That means people from the cities, the survivors running into the open country to get away from… well, from the city. That farmer has had so much food stolen from him he won't talk to anybody. Shoot first and answer questions afterward.” He reached into the back seat for the revolver.