SURVIVORS
By Arthur Dekker Savage
When man embarks upon the final atomic war his
civilization may be destroyed; yet, there will
be survivors. Would you want to be one of them?...
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
May 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Oluf!"
"Bowron!"
They recognized each other simultaneously, there in the thin fringe oftangled brush skirting a hidden lake.
"Oluf, it's good to see you again—I thought there was nothing butmountains, wolves and Wild Ones between me and civilization!" Theypicked their way slowly toward the shore together.
Oluf dropped gratefully to the warm sand. The sunset highlighted hisreddish hair. "You're not far wrong—there was wolf spoor back on thatnorth ridge. But what in the name of the Moon are you doing so far fromNew York?"
"Heading south, to stay," Bowron said. He scanned the brush and treesbehind them cautiously, then stretched out beside his companion,sighing. "I'm getting too old for the winters, and the canned foods inthe ruins are getting scarcer every year."
Oluf looked at him in disbelief. "You're traveling alone?"
"Aren't you?" The retort was sharp, with the keen edge of elderly pride.
Something like a weary chuckle sounded deep in Oluf's throat. He spokewith easy candor. "Yes, but—look, Bowron, I'm a hunter by choice. AndI'm big and in my prime. I can run half a day at top speed, and I'm nottoo bad in a free-for-all. You're a teacher—wise, but not in the waysof the wilds; your senses are dull and your reactions slow, like allcity folk."
Bowron's eyes looked suddenly tired, older. He gazed out over theplacid water. "I could persuade no one to accompany me," he saidsimply. "You made a good choice, Oluf, to terminate your education andseek the freedom of the wilds—the natural life that I think all mustsomeday embrace." He sighed deeply. "Of course, there is the dream ofachievement that the city dwellers entertain. We've grown soft inour dependence upon the buried food in the rubble—spending our timein study of the books and other god-things, always hoping that we canunderstand and duplicate the old civilization. But our best thinkers,since they are the most eager searchers, stumble most often into thehidden pockets of radioactivity that endure even yet; and they die, andtheir knowledge dies with them, and our dreams and aspirations becomedimmer with each generation."
Oluf grunted, and Bowron went on as though to himself. "I've cometo believe that it's useless to follow in the footsteps of thegods—that we must wait, and think, and work, each in his own way,until we learn what is possible for us through our own trials andthe further development of our simple tools. We've learned much fromthe god-things, slowly, over the years. But we also know that we'remutants, changed by the radiation of the great war areas, breeding trueat last, and that we are different from the Wild Ones. True, we'resuperior, but—we're not gods. Whether we can ever—"
Oluf had sprung to his feet and was gone with incredible speed. Bowronsat up tensely, listened to the crashing of brush, and, finally, toa shrill squeal of departing life. He relaxed and waited until Oluf,grinning, returned with a rabbit.
"Our dinner, old-timer. Sorry I wasn't listening too closely to whatyou were saying."
Later, after they had eaten and were stretched comfortably on themoon-drenched shore, Oluf grew reminiscent. "I remember your teachings,Bowron. And I recall well our endless attempts to operate thegod-things—the machines