Karen stood behind the twisted steel girder and watched the kids gang up on the old lady. It was a warm, crisp smelling, October day and the naked children screeched with laughter as the old one tried to avoid the rocks and sticks. Each time a rock hit her she would do a spastic dance and the children would double over, holding their sides and gasping for breath. She shook a fist at them, cursing from her toothless mouth.
"Rat meat, rat meat! Not even good enough to eat," the little ones chanted, throwing more sticks and stones.
Karen's son, Tommy, stayed on the outskirts of the crowd. He wasn't laughing with the others. His face kept puckering up. He wanted to cry but was holding it in. Karen had taught him that four-year-olds never cried but Tommy was like his mother, too emotional.
One of the bigger children pushed him forward shouting, "Lookit, lookit!"
The old woman had fallen to her bony knees and was scrambling on all fours trying to get over the camp barrier. The children redoubled their efforts, still laughing, but a hysterical note crept in.
Tommy turned and ran from the crowd, tears stinging his eyes. The sound of chanting followed him. "Rat meat, rat meat! Not even good enough to eat." He ran back to where Karen stood. "Mommy, Mommy," he cried.
Karen felt her own eyes fill with tears. "Tommy," she crooned. "It's all right, honey. Mommy loves ya. Don't cry, it's all right, it's all right."
"Mommy, I'm scared. Why do they do that? Why, Mommy?"
"It's all right, honey. When you're older you'll understand. Come on, dear. Let's go to Daddy."
Karen took Tommy's hand and led the way through the debris. The camp area on Sixty-seventh Street was protected by stone barricades on all sides. Each family of the tribe had its own living unit hidden in the square block. Only the steel girders and heavy cement foundations of the original buildings still stood. Karen went by a tortuous route till she came to her place. She knocked at the entry till her husband let her in.
Harold was one of the strongest of the "midtowners." He and his family ate regularly and his cave was well protected. It was in the foundation of an old building. A trapdoor with a solid drop bolt guarded the entrance. The area was large but dark. Electrical connections were on every wall but no current had run in them for over fifty years. The furniture was sparse, a table of wood and seats scavenged from old car wrecks. The chimney never worked so the room always smelled of stale wood smoke.
Karen was happy there. She had Tommy to love, and Harold was good to her. She had been taken in a raid uptown over five years ago and already her memories of childhood had faded. She was taller and darker than most of the midtowners. Her long, black hair fell over a thin, sensitive face. Her broad cheekbones accentuated the pointed chin. At the ripe age of eighteen, with a child of four, she had no real complaints. Harold was a good provider even if he didn't show the affection she had been used to as a child. She made up for the lack by lavishing attention on Tommy. The boy was a miniature of his mother, reproducing her heart-shaped face and mirroring her emotional volatility.
Harold was eating a rat thigh, the fat making matted patches on his beard. "How come you're back so early?" he asked.
"Tommy didn't want to run with the kids anymore."
"He's getting to be more like you everyday. He'd better toughen up. If he don't somebody is gonna grab him for dinner one day."
Karen made a face. "Things aren't that bad yet," she said. "We've always had plenty of rat meat. I don't like to talk about eating people. I think it's disgusting."
"Your folks, uptown, could afford to feel like that. They had plenty to eat, but when you're hungry for protein, people taste pretty good."
Karen shuddered. "Let's talk about something else," she said.
Harold wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Karen couldn't help admiring the sleek look of him. Harold was almost fat; no ribs showed and his stomach actually protruded.
"Tomorrow we're crossing town for a meat hunt. One of the scouts found a big rat's nest in a parking garage. There should be enough meat to last into winter."
"Harold, I've got a bad feeling about tomorrow. You be careful."
"You and your feelings." Harold laughed. "They wasted your time teaching you when you were a kid. Maybe I can't read or write but I learned how to hunt and fight. That's what you need in this world."
Karen said, "Someday things will be different again, if we don't forget we're human. We can have a good world just like it used to be."
"I know the old stories about when cars rolled and men flew. They don't mean a thing now." Harold started polishing his axe as if it were not already gleaming.
Karen sat with her arms around Tommy, watching. "Don't put me down because you have no feelings."
"Hell." Harold raised his axe. "This is the only feeling I have to know. A sharp edge and a good arm."
"Love is more important. Your love for me and Tommy. You do love us, don't you?"
"Karen, you keep saying 'love.' Look around and see what love did to our world. A hundred years ago we had animals, birds, and fish. No more! We killed them all off; now it's just us, the rats, and the bugs. Don't say love to me. You, Tommy, and my axe are all I have; you belong to me and don't forget it."
Harold grabbed her arm and squeezed till her face crumpled in tears. "I don't care what you say," she sobbed. "I love you and always will."
The next day the tribe set out across town. Karen, with the other women and children, brought up the rear, while the male hunters led the way. Scouts ranged ahead of the column checking the abandoned cars that filled the streets. Their neighbors would be happy to pick off stragglers for anything they could get.
In crossing the dead streets the group made regular detours around areas where car bodies blocked the streets. The city had never cleaned up after the violence of July, 2052. In one hot summer week over a hundred thousand cars had been overturned or smashed in the streets. Lack of gas and oil had already made the vehicles almost obsolete, and the week of welfare riots had only hastened the death of the city.
The women kept a constant watch for anything usable as they trailed the hunters, but fifty years of scavenging had left little to be found.
When the group finally reached its goal, Martin, the leader of the hunters, had the women and children positioned where they could watch but stay out of the way. The hunters quickly surrounded the underground parking lot. Each exit was covered by at least two armed men. At a signal from the leader, the main group slipped into the Sixty-fifth Street entrance. They started moving through the parked cars, banging on the hoods with their weapons. The noise echoed from the cement walls. Different cars made different notes and the effect was that of a giant orchestra tuning up for a concert. Dust clouds rose from the metal bodies, forming and reforming, as the men climbed by them. The stale smell of rat excrement, carried by the dust, clogged their nostrils.
Most of the cars were stripped down to the barest chassis; every usable bit of leather and rubber had been ripped out. The metal parts were covered with scabrous layers of rust, the paint long gone.
The point man shouted. The first rat had been sighted. The beaters moved faster, starting a pincer movement. They were all shouting now, sweat gleaming on their scrawny, near naked bodies. Karen could see their tangled hair and beards bouncing as they leaped over the wrecks, closing in on the game.
The rat pack swung toward the Columbus Avenue side where Harold was stationed. The men sped up, running along the junk-strewn walkways. A grey flood erupted from the sea of wrecks and poured towards the exit. The rats ranged from six-inch babies to three-foot monsters all blindly driving to escape.
Karen saw Harold's partner swamped in the first wave. He sank silently beneath the tide of hairy bodies. For a moment his kicking feet were visible before he disappeared. The women were all screaming encouragement as Harold swung his axe with demonic fury, holding the rats off till the others could wade in and help.
A giant rodent leaped under the axe blade and sank its teeth into Harold's thigh; its naked tail twitched even after he smashed its skull.
Karen saw Harold's face twist with pain. He pried open the dead jaws and hobbled along the wall away from the slaughter. "Oh, my God," thought Karen. "He's hurt bad."
Martin blew a note on his horn and the hunters pulled back. There were over sixty dead rats lying by the gateway. A mountain of protein! The tribe fell on the bodies, sorting them into groups and tieing their tails so they could be carried easily.
Harold's companion lay at the bottom of the grey mountain, his throat torn by the rodent teeth.
Karen turned away in disgust as she saw his body added to the food supply. The hunters now moved noisily, but quickly, eager to get the meat back to camp.
Karen picked up Tommy and slipped away. She had seen Harold dragging his bleeding leg to a toll booth, his expression agonized. "My poor dear," she thought, realizing what a serious wound could mean.
Karen knew she would stay with her man, no matter what. She hid in one of the wrecks, whispering over and over to Tommy, "Mommy loves ya. Mommy loves ya."
When the last of the tribe was gone she pulled Tommy to where Harold had disappeared.
"Harold, Harold, are you still in there?" she asked, raising her voice.
"Yes . . ." he called weakly to her.
He had made a tourniquet of his waistband and bandages of the loincloth, using spit to clean the wound. His naked body was covered with a mixture of fine dust and sweat. The area around the bite looked purple and swollen where the poison from the rat's jaws had spread.
"Mommy, I don't like it here," said Tommy.
"Shut the kid up and get in here. I need help."
Karen gasped when she saw the wound close-up. "Lie down," she ordered. Tearing off the dirty bandage, she bent over the thigh and sucked at the poison. She forced the blood to flow again and kept drawing it into her mouth and spitting it out. When she felt it was clean enough she replaced the bandage.
"What'll we do now?" she asked.
"I can't cross town this way. We'll have to wait and see if we can get back tomorrow. Find a place for yourself and the kid. I'll sleep in here."
They were all hungry from the day without food but so tired from the strain of the hunt that sleeping should have been no problem. Karen and Tommy found a booth nearby and the baby fell asleep in her arms. She stayed awake a long time, listening to Harold tossing and turning in discomfort. Eventually he, too, fell asleep and she let herself relax.
The next day Harold walked with difficulty. His leg was swollen and discolored and he complained that his knee was stiff and painful. Tommy, hungry and afraid, was crying constantly. Karen, ignoring her own hunger, helped Harold along the broken streets. The skeleton city hovering over their heads held few dangers except from other men; they made their home block long before dark.
The outpost guard, sighting them from the barricade, called back into the camp. Almost immediately a group of men and boys ran, noisily, to the walls. Martin, the block leader, climbed the barrier and signaled for silence. "What happened?" he called down.
Harold, hobbling slowly toward the camp, pointed to his leg. "Rat bite," he said. "Pretty bad, but I think it'll be all right soon."
"Stop right there." Martin held up one bony hand. "We can't afford to feed cripples. Protein is too hard to find. Stay away from camp. If you're O.K. next spring, you can come back."
Harold started to protest, but Karen pulled on his arm. "Let's get away from here," she whispered. "I don't trust them."
One of the children behind the barrier threw a rock and, as if on signal, the others started hurling sticks and stones.
Harold, cursing under his breath, wheeled around and hobbled away as fast as he could. Karen pulled Tommy and scrambled after him.
Out of range, Harold stopped and looked back. He shook his fist at Martin's figure silhouetted against the sky. "You bastards. You dirty bastards," he yelled.
Tommy wailed. "Mommy, Mommy."
Harold turned on the child and slapped him across the mouth. "Shut up," he snarled. Karen picked the baby up and tried to comfort him. Harold glared at her and limped off down the street.
They found an old apartment building on West Seventy-fifth Street, with a second floor almost intact, and moved in. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling but the walls hid them from the street and the narrow staircase was easy to protect. Best of all, they found a cache of rags; there were enough to furnish some protection against the winter ahead.
Through October and November Harold managed to kill an occasional small rodent and Karen supplemented the food supply with cleaned and peeled insects. The white inner bodies were edible though tasteless. Tommy cried a lot and Harold grew more irritable as his leg stayed swollen.
As the weather grew colder and the food harder to find, Karen began to fear for their safety. Occasionally groups of hunters passed their home. With the advent of winter human flesh became the staple protein supply of many local tribes.
"Shut him up before I smash his head." Harold's patience wore thinner every day.
"He can't help it. He's only a baby, and he's hungry."
"I don't give a damn. I'm hungry, too. Why do I have to feed that useless little bastard anyway? Shut him up!"
Karen held little Tommy's head in her bands. "Please don't cry," she said. "We'll have lots of food soon. When Daddy is well. Please."
"I'm hungry, I wanna eat," wailed Tommy.
In December, the food supply fell off to near zero. The rodents had dug in and there was no finding them. Insects made up the family's food. Harold sat, day after day, brooding over his stiff leg. He would lean on his axe, glaring at Karen and the baby. All three were now walking skeletons. Harold's stomach had melted away and his ribs washboarded his sides. Their skins broke out and cracked from cold and lack of food.
The December moon shone in through the ceiling. A thin veil of snow drifted through the hole to settle in one corner. Something rattled in the still night air. Karen's eyes snapped open. Harold was sitting up, "Hand me the axe. Quickly!" he whispered. "Keep the kid quiet."
Karen crept over to the sleeping child and put her hand over his mouth. Harold moved painfully to the head of the stairs. He could see nothing but he thought he heard a movement in the dark. He stood, frozen still, trying to force his hearing to reach out like antenna. There was no more sound. After a few minutes he signaled Karen to his side. "I heard someone down there. I'm sure of it," he whispered. "I'm going to try to get down quietly. Keep Tommy from crying. If I don't get back you're on your own."
"Please don't leave us. Wait till morning."
"No chance. I'm going down now. It might be meat."
Harold inched his way down the stairs, stopping to listen on each tread. "Damn," he thought. "If it was a rat, it was a big one and he's gone."
At the bottom, he moved carefully past the booby trap warnings he had set up for intruders. The winter moon cast black shadows on the street level. The light snow and the moonlight made the street luminescent. Harold stopped still. His bare foot had stepped in a patch of wet snow. Something had been there! He slid forward, feet feeling for the wet tracks. "Here it is." He had stumbled on something. He shifted the axe, ready to strike at any movement. Nothing! He reached out to feel the obstacle. It was a human body. No heartbeat, no pulse, no breathing, it was dead but still warm. He dropped his axe and, grabbing the body under the arms, he dragged it to the stairs.
"Karen," he called. "Come here quick."
"What is it?"
"We've got some meat for the winter."
Karen came down the stairs quickly. "Oh, no," she said. "I can't do it. I can't eat human flesh."
"You'll eat it all right. You'll eat it or you'll starve. C'mon, help me get it upstairs."
Between the two, they shuffled the carcass up the stairs. By the shaft of moonlight in the corner they saw the emaciated body of an old man. "Probably thrown out of a local tribe 'cause he couldn't carry his load. Our good luck," said Harold.
In the morning he split the carcass and butchered it into usable sections. His spirits were up for the first time in two months. He cooked and he and Tommy eagerly devoured the tough, stringy steaks while Karen held back and cried.
"I can't do it. I can't," she said as she ate an insect stew,
Harold spent the morning curing the excess meat and laying out parts in the snow to keep fresh. He sang as he worked; even Tommy seemed happier now that his stomach was full.
For the next meal, Harold roasted a leg on a spit. The smell of cooking meat and the sizzle of fat was too much for Karen. She timidly reached out and tried a small piece. Her husband and the baby were wallowing in grease and meat juice, laughing as they ate. The meat was tough but it tasted better than the finest rat meat in the world. Karen ate faster and faster, fat dribbling down her chin. Soon all three were laughing wildly and smearing each other with grease.
The food lasted till February. Harold, Karen, and Tommy spent most of their time huddled together for warmth; their clothing barely kept them from freezing. They had filled out a little, but now, the hunger was even harder to take. The cold outside melted the flesh from their bones; their lips cracked, their eyes became dull, and their skins broke out in sores. Harold went out to hunt less often; his leg had swollen again, making it hard for him to use the stairs. Karen scoured the wrecked buildings for bugs; even they were hard to find. Harold took to sitting hunched over his axe, glaring at Karen and the child. It became more and more difficult to do even the minimum daily tasks.
"We're all going to die." Harold's eyes were fixed sightlessly on the wall and his voice trailed off to a whisper.
"Don't talk like that. We'll make it, I know we will." Karen tried to comfort him.
"We can't all make it. We were lucky before. It won't happen again. This is the worst winter in years; the camps will be using their old people themselves. I don't want to die." His head snapped up and his voice rose to a shout. "I don't want to die. I don't have to die. I can make it."
"Harold, stop it. We'll be O.K. I'll go out and find us something to eat. Don't you worry." Karen smiled through cracked lips. "I feel lucky today. Just you sit quiet till I come back. I have a feeling we'll have something to eat." Karen bundled Tommy into a corner, making him as warm as she could. "Take care of Daddy," she said.
She went downstairs slowly; weak as she was, movement was painful. "God," she thought. "What can I do?"
The streets were covered with snow. It lay clean and white, scalloped into ornamental ridges by the biting winds. There was no sign of life. She moved listlessly, from building to building, searching the broken foundations. There was nothing to be found. She turned over rock after rock to find only frozen earth.
Eventually she gave up and stiffly worked her way back home.
At the top of the stairs she paused for a moment. A wave of depression swept over her as she took in the scene in the room. Harold was asleep in one corner, his shrunken body propped up against the wall. The extra rags she had used to keep Tommy warm were wrapped around Harold's swollen leg.
Across from him Tommy sat with his knees drawn up to his stomach, his arms wrapped around his naked legs for warmth. His nude body was blue with cold, his face wet with tears.
Karen moved quietly to Tommy's side. She wiped his face carefully and whispered, "Quiet, honey. Don't make a sound." She went to the axe leaning against the wall.
After she finished with Harold she went back to the baby and wrapped him warmly in the now bloodstained rags. She wiped his tear streaked face. "Don't cry, dear. You'll have your dinner soon. Mommy loves ya," she said.