Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [206]
"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 funny, painful laugh, turned, and ran.
Dan shook his head. Cannibalism, so soon? But he still had the net undershirt and the T-shirt and a long-sleeved flannel shirt and the sweater. He'd been lucky, and he knew it. Presently he began putting the pack back together. He still had his snare wire, more precious than the jacket. A few feet of thin, strong wire, a spool of strong monofilament—life itself, for a little while. He put on his pack.
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 cannibals were between him and the spreading lake that the San Joaquin had become. Best to go north and stay in the foothills. Dan didn't expect to live, but