Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [217]
"A bike. Big Honda. It went scouting north with two on it. One blood, one honky."
"In uniform?"
"The honky had on overalls," Gay said. His tone made it clear he didn't know what was going on, and didn't know why Alim wanted to know, either.
"No wheels. We got a truck, and we know where there's some wheels," Alim muttered. A farmhouse back down the road. Three trucks, guarded by ten to fifteen men with rifles. Alim had no chance to take it, but this outfit—he shushed the others as the sergeant came into view. Blood all right, a big mother, not all black. Light brown, with a beard. Beard? In the Army? The sergeant wore chevrons, though, and a big pistol on his belt, and he was pointing to people and when he did they got up and did things, brought wood for the fires, washed cooking pots. He wasn't shouting and he didn't have to wave his arms and scream. Power. That man had power, and he knew how to use it. Alim studied him closely. Then he looked up and grinned.
"That's the Hook."
Gay said, "Huh?" Jackie began to grin.
"It's the Hook." Alim treated himself to a whistling sigh of relief. "I know him. We can deal."
It would take setting up. Alim had to talk to the Hook as an equal, as a commander of men. They had to talk as two men with power. He couldn't let Hooker know just how bad things were. Alim left Jackie on the hill and went back down to camp. Time to do some shouting and screaming. Time to get those bastards to work.
By noon his camp was organized. It looked good, and it looked like there were more of them than they were. He took Jackie and his brother Harold and went toward the Army camp.
"Shit, I'm scared," Harold said as they walked toward the shoreline.
"Scared of the Hook?"
"He beat the shit out of me once," Harold said. "Back in ninth grade."
"Yeah, and you had it comin'," Alim said. "Okay, they've seen us. Harold, you go in. Leave the rifle here. Go in, hands up, and tell Sergeant Hooker I want to talk to him. And be nice to him, you know? Respectful."
"You can bet your ass on that," Harold said. He straightened and walked tall, hands out where they could see they were empty. He tried to whistle.
Alim was aware that there were movements to his right. Hooker had sent men out to flank him. Alim turned and shouted to purely imaginary followers. "Hold it up there, you bastards! This is a peace talk, dig? I'll skin the first dude that shoots, and you know I'll do it." Too much, Alim thought. Like I'm worried they won't do what I say. But the Army dudes heard me, and it stopped them. And Harold's in the camp and nobody's done any shootin' yet …
And he's done it, Alim shouted to himself. He's talking to Hooker, and by God he's done it. Hook's comin' out to meet me. We're all right, all-fucking-right.
For the first time since Hammerfall, Alim Nassor felt hope and pride.
Two heavy farm trucks ground across the mud flats, taking a tortuous path to the new island in the San Joaquin Sea. They stopped at a supermarket, still half flooded, glass windows scraped of mud by laborious effort. Armed men jumped out and took up positions nearby.
"Let's go," Cal White said. He carried Deke Wilson's submachine gun. White led the way into the drowned building, wading waist-deep in filthy water. The others followed.
Rick Delanty coughed and tried to breathe through his mouth. The smell of death was overpowering. He looked for someone to talk to, Pieter or Johnny Baker, but they were at the far end of the column. Although it was their second day at the store, none of the astronauts had got used to the smells.
"If it was up to me, I'd wait another week," Kevin Murray said. Murray was a short, burly man with long arms. He'd been a feedstore clerk, and was lucky enough to have married a farmer's sister.
"Wait a week and those Army bastards may be here," Cal White called from inside. "Hold up a second."