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 of tangled brush skirting a hidden lake.

"Oluf, it's good to see you again—I thought there was nothing but mountains, wolves and Wild Ones between me and civilization!" They picked their way slowly toward the shore together.

Oluf dropped gratefully to the warm sand. The sunset highlighted his reddish hair. "You're not far wrong—there was wolf spoor back on that north ridge. But what in the name of the Moon are you doing so far from New York?"

"Heading south, to stay," Bowron said. He scanned the brush and trees behind them cautiously, then stretched out beside his companion, sighing. "I'm getting too old for the winters, and the canned foods in the 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 spoke with easy candor. "Yes, but—look, Bowron, I'm a hunter by choice. And I'm big and in my prime. I can run half a day at top speed, and I'm not too bad in a free-for-all. You're a teacher—wise, but not in the ways of the wilds; your senses are dull and your reactions slow, like all city folk."

Bowron's eyes looked suddenly tired, older. He gazed out over the placid water. "I could persuade no one to accompany me," he said simply. "You made a good choice, Oluf, to terminate your education and seek the freedom of the wilds—the natural life that I think all must someday embrace." He sighed deeply. "Of course, there is the dream of achievement that the city dwellers entertain. We've grown soft in our dependence upon the buried food in the rubble—spending our time in study of the books and other god-things, always hoping that we can understand and duplicate the old civilization. But our best thinkers, since they are the most eager searchers, stumble most often into the hidden pockets of radioactivity that endure even yet; and they die, and their knowledge dies with them, and our dreams and aspirations become dimmer with each generation."

Oluf grunted, and Bowron went on as though to himself. "I've come to believe that it's useless to follow in the footsteps of the gods—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 and the further development of our simple tools. We've learned much from the god-things, slowly, over the years. But we also know that we're mutants, changed by the radiation of the great war areas, breeding true at last, and that we are different from the Wild Ones. True, we're superior, but—we're not gods. Whether we can ever—"

Oluf had sprung to his feet and was gone with incredible speed. Bowron sat up tensely, listened to the crashing of brush, and, finally, to a 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 what you were saying."

Later, after they had eaten and were stretched comfortably on the moon-drenched shore, Oluf grew reminiscent. "I remember your teachings, Bowron. And I recall well our endless attempts to operate the god-things—the machines and mechanisms. But all that always seemed strange. Best of all I liked the tales of the old days—the stories of our ancestors."

Bowron nodded thoughtfully. "It was that way with most of my pupils. It was more comfortable to dream of the past than to cope with the current hardships. It seemed to arouse some dormant instinct in all of us—" He broke off and sighed. "Would you like to hear another of the stories?"

"Very much!"

Bowron studied the bright moon. "Well—once in the far and long ago, there was a man named Smith, who lived in a big city...."

When the tale was done, Oluf seemed deeply moved. "I believe," he said slowly, "that I'll go with you to the Southland. You might easily perish on the way, and such words as yours must live to give others comfort and hope—for we may yet find living gods in some remote corner of the world. It must have been wonderful," he mused sleepily, "to have lived in companionship with the gods—with men." He curled up comfortably, paws tucked in, and laid his nose across his bushy tail.