Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [220]
When the girl was gone, Sergeant Hooker grinned broadly. "Pretty good life, Peanut."
Nassor's grin faded at the name. "For God's sake don't call me that, man!"
Hooker grinned again. "Okay. Nobody to hear us in here."
"Yeah, but you might forget." Alim shuddered. He hadn't been called "Peanut" since eighth grade, when they studied the life of George Washington Carver, and inevitably the name was settled on George Washington Carver Davis until he obliterated it with fists and a razor blade embedded in a cake of soap …
"Not much out there," Hooker said. He sipped tea, grateful for the warmth.
"No." Their scouting expedition had told them nothing they hadn't expected, except that once there was a break in the rain and they saw snow on the tops of the High Sierra. Snow in August! It had frightened Nassor, although Hooker said it had sometimes snowed in the Sierra before That Day.
They sat uncomfortably despite the hot tea and the warmth of the tent, despite the luxury of being dry, because they had too much to talk about, and neither wanted to begin. They both knew they would have to make choices soon enough. Their camp was too close to the ruins that had been Bakersfield. In the ashes and wreckage of the city there were a lot of people who might get it together, more than enough to come out and finish Nassor and Hooker. They hadn't got their shit together yet. The survivors lived in small groups, distrustful of each other, fighting over the scraps of food left in supermarkets and warehouses—the scraps that Hooker and Nassor had left.
It came down to this: In combination, Alim and Hooker had enough men and ammunition to fight one good battle. If they won it, they'd have enough for another. If they lost, they were finished. And they'd stripped the country around them. They had to move. But where?
"Goddam rain," Hooker muttered.
Alim sipped tea and nodded. If only the rain would stop. If Bakersfield dried out there'd be no problem. Wait for a good day with strong winds—there were always strong winds—and burn out the whole goddam city. A hundred fires started a block apart would do it. Fire storm. It would sweep across and leave nothing behind. Bakersfield would no longer be a threat.
And the rains were wearing down. There had been an hour of sunshine the day before. Today the sun was almost breaking through and it wasn't noon yet, and there was only misty rain.
"We got six days," Hooker said. "Then we start gettin' hungry. We get hungry enough, we'll find somethin' to eat, but … "
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. Alim shuddered. Sergeant Hooker saw Alim's expression, and his mouth twisted into a curl of evil contempt. "You'll join in," Hooker said.
"I know." He shuddered again at the memory. Of the farmer Hooker had shot, and the smells of the stew, and the sharing out of portions of the man, everyone in the camp taking a bowl and Hooker damned well seeing that they ate it. The ghastly ritual was what held the group together. Alim had to shoot one of the brothers who wouldn't eat. And Mabe! At least it did that. Their ritual feast let him shoot Mabe and get rid of that troublemakin' cunt. She wouldn't eat.
"Funny you never did before," Hooker said.
Nassor said nothing, his expression not changing. The truth was they'd never even